Voices, voices.

There are voices in my head.
They speak to me.
Telling me to say inappropriate things.
At unsuitable times.

I was in the Mojave Desert branch of Morrisons today. Checking out the very large eggs to ensure that all six in the box were unbroken. Alongside me, similarly engaged, was a lady who I took to be somewhat older than me. Very elegant in general manner, handkerchief/Liberty/Tana lawn cotton shirtwaist dress, sensible shoes, pearl necklace. I had a bad box, she replaced two boxes. As she started to move away I said, “Better times when the little girl assistant in Liptons checked things” She smiled and answered, “You are showing your age” My inner voice said out loud, “I’d show my bum if it got me better service” She burst into giggles, tapped me on the arm and toddled off. Doubtless the bridge club will hear of it tonight.
I used to play bridge when I had a brain. It was consigned to ‘used’ as I got fed up with the post-mortem after every hand and I came to the conclusion that the attraction was the debate and chat. Same thing put me off golf. I was taken to a very posh club as part of some corporate hostility day. I lasted as far as the sixth hole before I was forced to declare that an old whore wound was being aggravated by the swinging. There was no way I could have continued listening to the faux compliments and debate on shots taken. I don’t think I could ever get into something played in what I considered to be a quasi-religious manner. The only time I took part in team sports involved rowing and cycling. Both very much spit and sawdust activities where the post-race festivities are confined to wine, women and song.