The Depositions of Exchange


Tablo reader up chevron

The Depositions of Exchange



Late naughties.

St. Kilda, Melbourne. OZ.

And someone needed to be reprimanded.

The flat was the night’s final resort of choice.

Acland Street had been abuzz with pre Formula One excitement as an excuse to party. Late March and the atmosphere was balmy descending into a precursor to a high octane fuelled bacchanal down along the esplanade and foreshore.

The Albert Park circuit couldn’t have been more removed from the festivities.
 As close as it was geographically, the spirit had moved on down the road to the party precinct, passing in and out of renewable venues’ vogue, if not consciousness, to vie for pole position.

A bite to eat at Chinta Ria Soul had revivified the means to withstand the hubbub and lay plans for a retreat out of earshot of the Grand Prix.

Staying put would mean having to endure the crowds that would only get worse over the long weekend and the sound of automotive chasey would only serve to drive the residents around the bend.

An ‘out’ was the only option.
 And anyway, the two bedroom flat was more than simply intimately cosy when Kat and Liz were both at home.
 Liz wasn’t home until the weekend, so the time had been of the essence to make the most of the location before the madness set in.
 (Such was the curse of working her weekend shifts that she would have to endure the assault on the senses or impose on Roy to stay longer with him; except hehad his son staying for a ‘visit’, so she would be reluctant to spoil their male bonding sessions in front of the plasma screen, hypnotised by the gaming marathon, which sound effects of repetitive gunfire she would find far more traumatising than the dull rev and afterburn from the track buffered by her earplugs.)

Kat was more than happy to return for one more night in the flat before decamping to go and stay at Brent’s place over in leafy suburban Auburn.
 He had to get back anyway to feed little Ms Feisty the cat, who would no doubt start to take her feeling ignored out on the furniture and other personal items left carelessly out to attract her spiteful claws and bladder.

The after work bite and a couple of drinks had worked a treat. They had stopped off on the walk back from Acland Street to get a few things from the supermarket and take-away bottle shop, before they returned to the flat and the incomparable ease of being alone, to be themselves in the compulsive abandon of the first flush of romance.

“Thank god it’s Friday, eh Brent?”

“For once I was glad to be at work. Not that the trials today will be anything as bad as over the weekend.”

Brent had assumed his quasi guru pose on the couch after re-emerging from the bedroom in one of Kat’s dressing gowns.

“I am convinced it’s a reversal of gender stereotypes.”

“What’s that, Brent?”

(It was a pretty cute trait that persisted with her residual Kiwi accent that Kat insisted on calling Bent by name in casual conversation. Not that he dared to make such an observation just yet – at least it reassured him that she knew who she was with and wasn’t thinking of him as her ‘ex’.)

“I’m always the first to get out of my work clothes and slip into something more comfortable. You seem to have a thingfor staying in your work garb, after work, even when you’re home and doing a tidy-up around the place.”

“Old habits, eh Brent?”

Kat busied herself at the kitchen bench, as she put away a few of her groceries and cleared up the dishes from the previous night’ dinner and that day’s breakfast.

“All I can say is I’m glad you have such a selection of dressing gowns. Although I have to say I feel like a cult leader in this. I can’t tell if it’s Indian or Japanese.”

“It’s Indian. From my last trip.”

“Why don’t you leave that and go and get changed. I’ll wash up in the morning before we go. It’s still early. Why don’t we open a bottle of wine and watch a DVD”?

Kat removed the apron from over her coat and ditched the washing up gloves on the dish rack.

“Your wish is my command.”

She disappeared into the bedroom, four steps off the kitchen tiles and through the carpeted living room. It was a small place – two bedrooms, shared living room, kitchen and bathroom.
 You had to do your washing in the communal laundry.

Brent swapped places and assumed his role on the other side of the kitchen bench, in search of glasses, the recently purchased bottle of Barossa Shiraz and a corkscrew. The temptation of the soft cheese with some crackers, which he had dropped into the shopping basket, proved another distraction. The chocolate could wait until later.

He placed the goodies on the coffee table and set about looking at the viewing options they had hired on the way to eat.

That was another reason he enjoyed visiting this side of town.
 There was a great little independent ‘video hire’ place, not to mention a book shop that always seemed to have a sale on of really decent authors.

Kat was always partial to the ‘entertainment’ options offered by the area, especially the cafes, restaurants and bars.
 The sea baths were another treat, as was the idea to book themselves a session in a floatation tank at one of the alternative therapy outlets that seemed to have sprung up.

Tonight’s options: a movie Kat had never seen before (Jaws) and one Brent had only caught fragments of on TV (E.T.), or something they both shared childhood memories of – Wonder Woman.

Kat emerged in her trusty red terry-towelling dressing gown, complete with hood.
 She could’ve passed as a Druid, but Brent thought she rocked it more like a boxer – Rocky Balboa meets Magenta from the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

“The boxer!”

Kat immediately went into her shadow boxing routine, feigning jabs and feints as she skirted the coffee table.

“Katty, Katty, Katty…”

She quickly tired and collapsed beside Brent on the couch to regain her breath.

“Forget smelling salts. Can I tempt you with a glass of red?”

“Only if we can watch Wonder Woman.”

Brent poured a couple of generous glasses.

“Aw, you drive a hard bargain. Given your form though, I would hate to be on the receiving end of an upper-cut. OK. OK. You win. Linda Carter it is.”

Incredibly, they managed to get through the entire series of episodes in a single sitting. As well as a whole bottle. And then some.
 Thereafter, talk revolved around the immutability of the Lasso of Truth versus the versatility of the Bracelets of Submission.

“I reckon you could use them as horse d’oeuvres platters or napkin rings for a picnic floating down the Amazon. Cruising down the river on a Sunday Afternoon…”

“Now that’s an idea for two peas in a pod, Brent.”

“Or maybe a Kayak. Or would you prefer a row boat?”

“Just don’t get me singing, Brent.”

Brent was beginning to really wonder about when he should mention the first name basis hierarchy of every utterance he was on the receiving end of. This was forming a kind of knot, albeit soft-centred, in his solar plexus. He really had to come to terms with the name his father had lumped him with.

“Well, you are in a choir, aren’t you?”

“That’s different. I can hide up the back. I could’ve been a Spice Girl, you know.’

“Hah-ha! And which one would you be. Sporty?”

Kat snorted and a trickle of her remaining wine ran down her robe front.

“I could be all five of them if you wanted me to be.”

“Now that is a scaryprospect, Kat.”

He was being won over against his immutable will. She apparently didn’t need a lasso.

“I vote for the row boat. I can sit in the prow and look back at you as you do all the hard work. Stroke! Stroke!”

“How do you know the terminology then, Kat?”

“Dad rowed for his uni in New Zealand. More than that, I don’t know. Although it would be more pleasant than car racing. The weather’s too nice for a start.”

Brent couldn’t argue that score.

“Ok. A rowing we will go. But, we had better get back to my place sooner rather than later tomorrow. Or a certain cat will be making her jealousy felt along the fault lines of my couch.”

“So long as it’s not along your crotch eh, Brent?”

That was the cue to call it a night.

They had pressed all the right buttons by remote and the room was plunged into darkness.

Kat groped after Brent as he fumbled his own way from the couch the several paces through the bedroom door, which he habitually closed behind them.

Anything ‘extra-terrestrial’ would have to wait until the ensuing weekend.




First the footsteps returning sluggishly well after midnight.

Murmurs and giggles.

Jangled and dropped keys.

Next door’s front door pulled decisively closed against the world.

Low throb of music from beyond the wall behind the bedhead.

Kat and Brent had dozed off at about 1 a.m.

He rolled over but kept his eyes shut tight against the digital confirmation of the remaining hours, and hoped his dream would readmit him.

The low throb soon gave way to raised voices engaged in dispute over untenable details. Untenable to others, perhaps, but certainly knowable.

At first sound, despair and pleading. How many chances?
 Played out…

Kat swam with the current of the bassline.
 Was it The Church?

She listened for the sake of least resistance.

They faced away from each other in the foetal position, but shared the same vision being played out on the other side of the wall. Grown up, yet retarded by desperation and recrimination.
 Shadows filled the gaps of unwanted concern.

The voices brimmed with manoeuvrings, the heartfelt metallurgy of compromise and counter compromise.
 A counterbalance of yearning. A turning point.

A changing of the guard in sleep, as positioning is tossed and turned in the flicker of a rapid eye movement without being able to see yourself unless part of a program for insomnia, caught on film.
 Played out…

In time to capture the fracture and split, like a cell dividing.

Woe Division would be more appropriate

Thoughts crossed Brent’s mind like the contrails from a plane.

Kat sensed his application to the stimulus and rolled over to spoon him.

Fork that for a joke

And she nestled in to absorb and quivered to reassure his droll subliminal interest.

Pangs of regret rang out from the neighbouring flat.

Then there was silence.

A closed door.

More music chimed in to fill the void.

Building to a crescendo of sorrow.

Bittersweet memories
 That is all I'm taking with me
 So, goodbye
 Please, don't cry
 We both know I'm not what you, you need

And I will always love you
 I will always love you

I hope life treats you kind
 And I hope you have all you've dreamed of
 And I wish to you joy and happiness
 But above all this, I wish you love


And I will always love you
 I will always love you
 I will always love you
 I will always love you
 I will always love you
 I, I will always love you

You, darling, I love you
 Oh, I'll always, I'll always love you


Brent and Kat both stared blindly into the dark, only briefly illuminated by the lights from a passing car.

Whitney’s breakup heartache was followed by deep draughts of lamentation.
The sobbing resounded through the wall to equate with the shuddering that grew from the bed.
 Whispered intercessions of sympathy gave way to sniggering snatches of despair at the choice of song.

“It’s tragic. The poor guy. What did he do wrong?”

“Or, what didn’t he do right?”

“I just hope he didn’t call her by a different nickname.”

“As if. I’d let him off. It’s one way to get her attention.”

“Provided she’s in another room…”

“You’re terrible, Brent!”

“Not as bad as his CD collection.”

“They must have seen the movie together. The Bodyguard.”

“Come here. I’ll protect you.”

“Will you now?”

“Just don’t ask me to catch you like in Dirty Dancing.”

“Baby wouldn’t dream of it.”

“So what would your song be?”

“Crowded House. Don’t Dream It’s Over.”

“That was quick. Must come with the territory of shared houses.”

“That was a long time ago now, Brent. What about you?”

“Um, let me think…”

“Don’t tell me…”

“But, you asked, Kat. Rain in My Heart, Weddings, Parties, Anything.”

“Oh, that’s sweet.”

“Yeah, right. Now that I’ve heard Mr Lonesome Tonight next door, I’m not so sure sweet is what I’d want.”

“And what would you have?”

“Something a little more upbeat. Blame it on the Boogie by Whacko Jacko, before all the work, or Please Don’t Go, by KC and the Sunshine Band.”

Kat had begun to rock back and forth trying to supress her spasm of hilarity, before she caught her breath.

“Do you hear that?”


“Exactly. Listen. Nothing.”

“Oh, he’s cried himself to sleep.”

“And who’s in the foetal position now?”

“At least he’ll be able to drown out all vroom vroom the noise without anyone complaining.”

“Would we do that?”

“Only by proxy.”




The 51st anniversary of the UK release of Sgt Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

Melbourne. The worlds’ most enviable countable noun.

A college study space.

Where reverie is rudely a token.

A stepping stone or launching pad? Take your pick.

When encryption should be a byword for intimate conversation.

A future fully stacked in anticipation of itself and encoded to guarantee every chance of success.

“I feel like we’ve stalled.”

“I know what you mean. It feels like the project’s on hold.”

“It’s not the project I’m talking about.”

It was mid-morning and the smell of coffee permeated the campus.

The couple had secreted themselves away in a conference cubicle with laptops and notes.

The technician sat at his workstation where he thought everyone could see him in passing, as he plugged away at indecipherable documents and spreadsheets. He looked preoccupied with either himself or what he was plugged in to listen to on a pair of headphones in an attempt to block out the rest of the world.

“You’ve seemed so far away recently. So preoccupied. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know if this is the time or place.”

“What do you mean? No time like the present. Besides, you were the one who stood me up and left me hanging last time. I think it’s only fair to open up.”

“Open up? What do you mean? I’m neither a toilet cubicle that says ‘occupied’ nor a closed shop. I didn’t mean to keep you waiting. I thought you got my message and I didn’t think you’d be alone.”

“That’s not the point.”

“And what is the point on this occasion?”

“Etiquette and your word.”

“My word is my bond, if that’s the saying. Anyway, civility isn’t a high priority in social media forums. Don’t mistake an emoji for the real me.”

“Cute. As if you needed an avatar. I wouldn’t worry about that. At least you’re relatively unmistakable. If not entirely reliable.”

“At least that’s a concession to keeping this thing going.”

“This ‘thing’?”

“The conversation, I mean. I don’t think I was joking.”

“Careful you don’t blow a gasket.”

“Don’t think there’s a chance of that happening.”

“I just need to know that you’re there for me and that I can rely on you.”

“Well, I’m here now. We’ve got time before the others arrive. We can talk about the presentation then.”

“I couldn’t really give a fuck about the presentation at the moment. I kept up my end of the bargain and know my end of the contribution.”

“Don’t worry, I never would have thought otherwise. We’ll sail through this thing.”

“There’s that word again. I hope you don’t mean the conversation.”

“Don’t upset yourself, Angela. It’s just a word.”

“Yeah, and words have a tendency to be misconstrued. I can be upset if I want to. You’re not my emotional keel, if you insist on using a sailing analogy.”

“Hah! Nice. Let’s just not touch on anyone’s Achilles heel. I’m not so cruel to zero in on anyone’s weakness, especially if they’re important to me.”

“Important? Don’t tell me you only put a value on a relationship if it can help you in your odyssey of purpose. People aren’t stepping stones, you know, Markus.”

“Wow! The Homeric references are piling up today.”

“Homeric? Oh, yeah, right. Nice observation.”

Markus resisted the urge to condescend any further than he might have done already.

“So, is a missed voicemail or SMS going to get in the way?”

Angela unconsciously looked at her phone beside the laptop.

“Expecting a call?”

“Don’t be smart. You can be better than that.”

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t feel like going out. I was tired after work and had to get in here early. You’re not going to crucify me for that?”

“You could at least answer your phone.”

“OK. OK. I turned the ringer down. I needed an early night. Guilty as charged.”

“Self-righteous doesn’t suit you.”

Markus rolled his shoulders and manipulated his neck.

Angela didn’t skip a beat.

“I need to know you want the same as me.”

“And what exactly do you want?”

“I don’t want something casual. I’m serious about this. We can’t take it like a simple fling.”

“Nothing is that simple.”

“For you, maybe.”

“You’re the one complicating things.”

“Oh, really? Be careful.”

“If ever we needed a safety word it would be ‘eggshells’. Know what I mean?”

“Clever. And yes.”

“Now that is succinct. Don’t worry, I won’t even suggest you suck an egg.”

The morning classes had filtered through to the break-out space just beyond the limits of immediate fascination.

“Do you want to go and grab a coffee?”

“I really think we need to have this out. I can’t let things stew and worry me while everyone else just carries on as normal. Or pretends to.”

“Fine. What more can I give you than an apology?”

“Your commitment. I don’t want to be strung along.”

“I’m not pulling any strings. What do you think I am, a puppet master?”

“Very funny.”

“No holds barred.”


“I didn’t intend on wrestling you into submission.”

“And I don’t have to submit to anything. You’re the one who has to admit he’s in the wrong.”

“I’m in the wrong?” Where do you get off lumping all the blame with me? I hate to use the expression, but it takes two to tango.”

Their voices had progressively risen to more than merely an overly conscientious muted take on perceptibly congenial conversation, and the expansive articulation was like the prompt curt cues given from off-stage to actors who had forgotten their lines – for their ears only, but audible to the entire theatre. 
An ill-concealed rasping desperation to avoid humiliation in the glare of the footlights, as barbs were traded until the reaction was a stilted stillness of recognition in the face of their pared down existence.

The technician adjusted the volume at his honorary audience consul accordingly and continued as default witness.

“So long as it’s not interpretative dance.”

“And what do we have to interpret?”

“My therapist says we all have a motive for our actions. Some are clear and applicable, while others are…”

“Clear and applicable!? Jesus, please don’t tell me you’re a Scientologist.”

“This is not a cult. It’s a pure Jungian approach. But you have to agree that a relationship can be a cult all its own.”

“Yeah, right. That’s news to me. And just like in a dance, who leads who?”

“We can take turns, but ideally in a traditional cisgender world or orientation it’s the man who leads by example and the female follows with advice to advance the movement in the optimum direction.”

“So, is this therapist actually a psychoanalyst or a dance instructor?”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.”

“I’m not really the type. Wastes too much emotional energy.”

“It’s more the emotional intelligence I’m worried about.”

“Oh, come on. Not the old wax on, wax off empathy routine!”

“I’m not asking for telepathy, but if you train your mind to react to a situation you find yourself in with another, you won’t have to even think before you are in synch.”

“Alright. OK. So, what, is this an ‘actions speak louder than words’ lesson?”

“I’m really sensing some resistance from you right now. Your antagonism levels have shot right up. Are you burning the candle at both ends or something?”

“My antagonism levels? You must be dreaming!”

“Funny you should mention that. I had a weird dream last night that I was in an elevator and it went crashing to the ground. I got in the elevator this morning and thought, ‘Oh my god, the universe is trying to tell me to take the stairs.’ And if you’re wondering about my hair, my umbrella broke.”

“So, did you take the stairs?”

“What do you think?”

“I thought you must have a way of elevating yourself. You know, like levitation or something.”

“Very funny. I think you’re trying to up the ante.”

“Not at all. I’m just trying to make sure you’re OK. By the way, while we’re on the topic of analysis, have you read I’m OK - You’re OK? Maybe your therapist has heard of it.”

“And he might even remember life before Google. You know he said something to me last time that has stuck in my mind.”

“What’s that?”

“He said that it is safer for a person to believe a lie than to acknowledge the evidence in front of them.”

“Sounds just about right for these times of alternative facts. So, what does that make me – an outright lie or evidence of something else?”

“I wish I knew. I can see you and feel you, but don’t know if I can believe you.”

“Well, you can believe I’m real, with all the flaws and misgivings that come with the condition. If it’s unconditional surrender you want, then I don’t know if I’m the best person for you. All I want are equal terms of engagement. Not rules binding one to another.”

“You make it sound like war. And don’t say all’s fair or I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?”

“Careful what you wish for. Just remember we still have a presentation to get through.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t think I’d sabotage our efforts. I’m in it too, remember, and it’s too late to change sides. Our team is going to nail it!”

“Alright, then. Let’s keep it together for our pitch and we can have it out afterwards.”

“Sounds like something I can live with. What are the chances you’re free tonight? “

“Free as I’ll ever be I suppose.”

“And I guessed you’d be playing hard to get.”

“And I thought that was your self-appointed role.”

“Guys, guys. What’s with all the angst?”

The technician had swivelled his office chair around to angle his attention in towards the couple’s conference zone.

Markus and Angela froze and stared inquisitively at each other as if they sought confirmation from the other that it was them who had spoken.

“Hello? I’m over here.”

The couple turned to face the source of the disembodied voice.

“Hey. I’m Karl. You’ll have to excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear things.”

Angela stared daggers at their uninvited guest.

“What do you mean, you were listening?!”

Karl shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

“Well, I must have been invisible when you walked in here. I suppose I do tend to blend in with the scenery. Part of the gig. Who knows?”

Markus gestured for Angela to cool it.

“I thought you were just another student here. You look the part.”

“Hah! Glad to know I fit in. You mean you didn’t notice the passes on my lanyard?”


Kirk held up the swipe access cards that hung from around his neck on a generic, non-branded tie.

“This thing. My noose. What I could so easily hang myself with. But, then, I suppose they would confiscate it before I had a chance.”

Angela brightened.

“Trust them to deny you the chance to decide for yourself.”

“Yeah, I know. But there is a difference between being fired and quitting, and suicide would be a HUGE OH&S issue. Corporate reputation for morale and all that.”

Angela emitted a chirrup of a laugh.

“At least you’ve got a sense of humour in the face of the inevitable. Not that I’m saying you’ll kill yourself or anything, but one way or the other you’ll either resign, get the boot or retire. Unless you choose to ‘work’ on a commune or something.”

“Job satisfaction, eh? I hear they take of the business themselves and do the killing for you. Like the whole Jonestown thing and spiked Kool-Aid.”

The couple looked perplexed.

“Oh, right. I’m showing my age again aren’t I. It was a cult that ended in what appeared to be a mass suicide but was actually murder of the followers at the hands of their leader. Noble stuff.”

The couple exchanged furtive glances of uncertainty.

“Anyway, don’t mind me. I’m just doing my job. But it is a public space, so you might want to have your D&M sessions somewhere more private if you don’t want people knowing all your business.”

Markus twigged to what he suspected as subterfuge.

“But you were wearing headphones and seemed engrossed in whatever you’re doing.”

“Hah! Yeah. Gross. That’s me. Only joking. Like ‘gross’ versus ‘net’ on your pay advice. That’s a laugh. ‘Advice’. As if. My statement is like a sieve. Then again, maybe I should start calling myself GDP as a nickname – Gee Disappointing Prospects.”

Markus chuckled nervously under his breath.

“Don’t worry. What goes down in the resource and research room stays in the R&R&R, as I like to call it.”

“So, what were you listening to, if not us?”

“Relax. I couldn’t ignore you, that’s all. Hard not to overhear when the conversation is so spirited. Anyway, it’s a mate’s new demo of instrumental ambient stuff. Perfect background music. Have to be careful of my ears. I can’t imagine any kind of sensory deprivation as I get older. Don’t know how these young guys can crank up their cans so everybody else can hear the deep vein thrombosis forming in their inner-ear. Especially on public transport. It’s a real invasion of personal space. Besides, I don’t want everyone to know what I’m streaming on Spotify or what my podcast preferences are.”

Markus and Angela were agog with due vigilance at Kirk’s recitation.

A newfound silence momentarily fell upon the room. And was duly redirected.

“DVT? DVT? Don’t Vouchsafe Treason? Dinner Vat Time? Dinner Vat Thermostat? Debt Vented Treacle? Douche Vanity Tantalus? Err, sorry. Where was I?”

“The invasion of personal space?”

“Oh, yeah. Right. Sorry, I didn’t catch your names.”



“I’m Angela. We didn’t mean to interrupt your work.”

“No, no. That’s fine. It’s only an EP. My listening work is done. Now I can offer a critique. You by all means keep doing what you’re doing. You seem like a good match. Consider me a mediator of sorts. Or a love mentor. God knows I’ve been through the wringer myself. You know, just as we have ourselves as our own therapeutic touchstone, I always say that another pair of ears can make all the difference. I have always considered myself a good listener. Which is a funny thing when you consider that that’s what all the so-called ‘romance professionals’ reckon a woman looks for in a man. Well, it’s one quality for sure. Then again, I don’t just mean a hetero relationship. Could also be something you value in a friend. We all have something to say, but who’s going to take the time to really understand. Paying attention is one thing, but getting it all down in mental shorthand isn’t something we’re all gifted with. You should consider yourselves lucky. As I said, a match made in heaven. Neither of you seems like a pushover, which is crucial because you don’t really want things to be one-sided. Fine to fall for someone, but these days we can all wear the pants in a relationship. Unless it’s summer of course. Or if you’re a Scot. I digress.

Markus and Angela had begun to pack up their notebooks and laptops and assemble their belongings.

“Now you know where to find me. If you ever feel the need for a natter or a pair of ears in true caesarean fashion, although I can’t promise a toga, I’ll be happy to oblige. I reckon you guys seem to almost have it sorted anyway, but if you ever need some positive reinforcement therapy then I’m your man.”

“Ah, thanks a lot. That’s really generous. We wouldn’t want to take up too much of your time. Don’t want to get in the way of your busy workload.”

“Hah! Good one. That’ll be the day. Anyway, don’t be strangers, if you know what I mean.”

Markus and Angela collected themselves and made ready to exit their scene.

“No worries. Will do. We have to make tracks as we have a presentation to get ready for. Don’t want to be late.”

“Good to see you’re prepared and raring to go. Don’t want to let a good thing go to waste. Good luck with it all. See ya.”

Kirk found himself at a loss for diversionary tactics. He hoped he had at least taken their minds off themselves.

He swivelled his chair back around to dock with his workstation and replaced his headphones, before selecting a new song to stream.

It’s getting better all the time, he hummed to himself as he scanned for a track.

Nah. Not in the mood. Calls for something a little bit more upbeat.

Playing with the Queen of Hearts, 
Knowing it ain't really smart 
 The Joker ain't the only fool 
 Who'll do anything for you…

What kind of a name is Juice Newton, anyway?


He paused for self-satisfaction.

Cause and effect, really, when it all boils down to it.

That’s it!

Kirk selected the track in question and sat back to revel in his role as arbitrary intermediary.

I gotta be cool, relax, get hip
 And get on my track's
 Take a back seat, hitch-hike
 And take a long ride on my motorbike
 Until I'm ready
 Crazy little thing called love

I gotta be cool, relax, get hip
 And get on my track's
 Take a back seat (ah hum), hitch-hike (ah hum)
 And take a long ride on my motorbike
 Until I'm ready (ready Freddie)
 Crazy little thing called love


This thing called love, I just can't handle it
 This thing called love, I must get round to it
 I ain't ready
 Ooh ooh ooh ooh

Michael Haward.

Comment Log in or Join Tablo to comment on this chapter...

You might like Michael Haward's other books...