He tried not to believe in Sunday at all. He tried to fool himself into thinking it was any other day of the week. But it was impossible. On a desert island, stranded there for the rest of his life, he would always know what day was Sunday. The stench of it. The holy ferocity and superiourness of it would beat him into a ping-pong ball for ever. But he was 32. And he was trying to get the chords right. Chords. Not cords. Not cords you can use to hang on drapes or cords you can use as tassels on lampshades. But cords you could use to kill yourself with. Your own private garrote. Your own private false fantasy world comes true. But the music he made, he had to keep that in mind. So he pressed the Chords. And he tried to think what he had said before. He tried to think the long silences were his chord strokes having an effect. Not that he particularly wanted to have an effect. It was just his way of saving face, of pretending the chord listener was not up in the belfry looking down. ........voluptuous lingerie.............voluptuous lingerieI got to the school and I had a free period 10-11, so jsut before then I CALLED the number from which the messagehad originated."H-Hello" answered a voice, both hushed (as evidently in a lesson) and trembling!!"This is Miss B***e. IN MY OFFICE NOW" I barked.I heard him gasp. "Five minutes!" he croakedFour and a half minutes later he was knocking on my door. I didn't even know who it would be, my suspicions were that it could have been any of about five of the bolder, older lads. Year 13 pupils, so in the second year of "6th form" and 17 or 18 years old. It turned out to be Cristian, the most "buff" of the five, actually the best looking student in the whole school which wasn't to sayhe didn't have his 'tail between his legs' so to speak. It certainly wasn't in that photograph !!He was scarlet, sweating, and shaking in his boots in my doorway. I stood to one side"IN HERE" I orderedI was dressed for the occasion, as I.
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