Dear Happy Days
Three weeks ago I was strong-armed into coming to frozen Fallowfield for a drink, when all I wanted to do was stay indoors, in my dressing gown, watching Living TV (there was a Ghost Whisperer marathon on, I'm sure you understand). I'm not gonna lie to you, Happy Days, I was not looking forward to this visit.
The visit was made even less appetising by the fact that we were forced by Trof's closure into drinking at the Cheshire Cat, which I am sure, Happy Days, you know all about. That's right, it's not the best place. Anyway, I had a little too much to drink, I'm not too proud to admit, and then when closing time came, we wended our way to Vodka Revs where I ravenously eyed the cupcakes but was told I was not allowed one (probably because I had run out of money, had just called the boyf a tit and then fell over). Sulking proved futile so I hatched a plan. Once we were kicked out of Vodka Revs, and Medic Friend was unexpectedly ambushed by some nasty boys who hit him in the arm, I had made up my mind. I strode confidently, purposefully, wonkily, to you, Happy Days.
Once inside, the boyf and I were greeted by friendly faces, the faces of the happy Happy Days team. We were positively alight with joy when we heard the stereo blasting out Bonnie Tyler (the boyf, however, refused to dance) and we ordered chips. Oh, Happy Days, your chips are lovely! And mango chutney too! And those weird green pickled jalapenos! What a feast, for only £1.50!
Unfortunately I fell asleep in the taxi home, awaking to find the boyf had eaten them all. Still, the few I managed were lovely. Thank you, Happy Days, for not minding that I don't know all the words to Total Eclipse of the Heart, and for giving me a free can of coke and a Vimto lolly because I complimented your sign. You're lovely, Happy Days. I like you.
Love, B xxx read more