It had been two weeks.
Junax was still in his chair but this time he was musing...
He was musing about the stylist and her wee porridgey bit o' pussy fungus, known to his parents (for they knew not better or, sadly, they knew not Durex) as David Dodds.
Perchance... thought Junax, imagined he...what he should have done was to say to her that he wanted to sever all contact with her while she was knocking around with this numb-nuts. Then if, by some chance, Dumb Dodds had not impregnated her and she'd come to her senses and realised that there were tins of Dulux emulsion with more personality and interest about them than this pile of dried Dodds diarrhoea she'd settled for (and boy had she just SETTLED for it) Junax would consider resuming some form of contact. On a trial basis, a kind of probation, so she could be trusted again.
He rubbed his chin a moment or so at this consideration. Ah fuck it! That was what he realised after. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. Best to not observe the pregnancy announcements in the breeding section of the Mid Ulster News, (a paper whose editions were ritually burnt before they could get past Lisburn) and instead draw a line on the sand and say farewell to the whole sick affair. Yes that was better Junax reckoned. Then again Junax was a complete arsehole so it perhaps was not in her interest.
And with that situation successfully reviewed, he went to sleep :)
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