Finger Fucked

I’m all revised out. Everything I’ve ever learned about history is written on a series of postcards in different coloured felt tips depending on whether it’s a fact, quote, reference or theme. I can pick one at random and recite what’s on it without looking, like a sort of non-magic magic trick, and I’ve got a new pencil case (a Pingu one). My first exam is on Monday and I’m ready.

Some slight awkwardness on the train today when I bumped into a man who once finger fucked me at a teenage party, and who was with, presumably, his girlfriend. I couldn’t remember his name but after many hours frowning and saying to myself, “I know it began with a J”, I’ve now recalled that it’s Sam. Though I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that I’ve also been finger fucked at a teenage party by someone whose name did begin with a J – cider and blackcurrant does terribly things to the memory.