Stories of the Cellar Door

The fifth time was like a dream. The butterflies had died down right before the rendezvous. Now I know I can do this whenever, and wherever, possibly with whoever, I want. If I have enough time to get ready. A first-class lady-killer! I can charm them, unsuspecting, into my arms. Or into a restaurant, cinema, pub. . . alleyway. Wherever we start off, I’ll get my satisfaction by the end of the night in that final, tight, embrace. I have no doubt. By the fourth time, freshly showered and shaved, I was starting to develop a style of my own. A self-assured approach towards the woman in question resulted in a better level of trust from the outset, which always helps in these matters. I put in the leg work at dusk, small talk and finding common ground, as always, but rewards tend to come towards the close of an evening. The casual offer of a lift home, and a little mood music on the radio, was all it took to secure some late-night action. I was not disappointed. The third time wasn’t the

Billy Blue Heart can’t lose, not this time, grand old nag. I say nag, he’s a chestnut four year old with clean legs and near perfect thoroughbred conformation. He’s also got the best jockey of the decade on his back and 200 quid of my hard-earned cash in an each-way bet on his 3 o’clock at Kempton. But just to be sure. . . “Alright Charlie, lager top and a packet o’ pork scratchin’s?” I shout over the crowd to the corner table. “You know it.” Charlie winks at me and flashes that gold tooth he knows I’m here for. Big Roy, the landlord, meets my eye as I join the jostling three-deep bar queue. He waves me through. “Usual for you two?” “Cheers, Roy.” I pass him a tenner. I’ve been a regular here since I turned sixteen. Roy looks after the dedicated few. “Got a bet on?” he asks as he leaves my pint to settle and reaches up for the scratchings. “Have I ever.” “Your luck’s changed recently. Spotted you celebrating the last few weeks. What’s the secret?” I tap my finger to my nose. “Good thin