It had been the perfect Friday afternoon, 
 the job was almost done.
 The house we were decorating was owned by a little old man,
 forever in the same three piece suit he'd probabbly had since he was demobbed.
 He seemed to be forever on his way to the post office,
 carrying brown paper ansd string wrapped parcels under his arm.
 He'd bring us out china cups of camp coffee and plates of custard cream biscuits.
 The house had belonged to his parents who had both passed away within weeks of each other, a few years back.
 They were the only people he had ever lived with, this was the only house he had ever lived in.
 I wondered what would happen to the house when he's gone.

 It was a short walk to my bedsit, once a similar house to the old man's, now broken into lots of single room [bad word] 
 It also once had a great garden like his, now occupied by one-storey modern block building, containing the dentist and chiropodist.

 In my room was an electric cooker, which I only used in winter to keep warm,
 next to that was a sink with a glass shelf above it, on which was a [bad word] and carton of marlboro's.
 There was a table with a chair in one corner, a single bed in the other, and about four sq ft in the middle.
 There was a wooden drawer under the bed with most of my clothes in, the rest was over the back of the chair.
 I had a record player on a table and boxes of records underneath.
 The bathroom for the first and the second floor was opposite my room,
 it had a meter for the water which took two 50pence pieces, you'd have to wait half an hour for the water to heat up, and keep an eye on the door in case some sod pinched your bath.
 There was one toilet upstairs and one outside, but no one used the outside one anymore, so it was where the local prostitutes would take their clients for a quickie.
 I'd spend as little time as I could in my room, my skin was still warm and soft from the bath as I walked into town.

 So I was sat on my usual bar stool in my usual pub by 6.30, the usual twelve or so regulars in at this time of the evening, nice and relaxed before the post 8.00 [bad word]  we'd crowd around the tiny bar then pool tables, the [bad word] for fool was winner stays on, you'd chalk your name on the balckboard, and wait your turn. The challenger would pay for the game, so if you were good, you 'd play all night.Tonight I was great.
 She walked into the pool room just as I potted the black, the next name on the list, bent down to the slot on the table and put coins in.
 I was used to seeing her surrounded by burgundy flocked wallpaper and red velvet upholstery in the sunday night pub around the corner; she looked different stood here in the pool room, she looked good, she was looking at me.
 I ended the game as quickly as I could, without losing badly and stood near her.
 "Would you like a drink?", she asked. "I get them. What do you want?" I replied. "The same as you're having", she said.
 The great thing about being a regular when the bars turned deep is it only takes a raised eyebrow and a couple of nods, and two bottles of Holster Pils had been passed over people's heads to you. We did the pool room dance for a while, moving to" excuse me"'s bending around elbows and pool cues until we decided to move on
 It was too early to go to the club, so we went around the corner to the Sunday night pub. It was still quite busy on a Friday night, full of couples and students. It had a reputation as a [bad word] bar, probably why the students came in, to feel safe.
 She was my dream, we drank pernod and blacks, talked about John Barry, Ford Cortinas (she preferred the Mark 3), what was best: gel or Brylcream? I preferred the Brylcream.
 She even agreed On Her Majesty's Secret Service was the best Bond film, if you accept it as a whole and not just get hung up about George Lazenby.
 She smoked Silkcuts, she didn't mind Marlboros, but we b