This is how it goes. This is how it stops. This is a piano and her name is Trudy. I feed her on tinned mackerel and pineapple chunks. We have been happily married for 32 seconds, and our wedding was consummated in the centre of a traffic island just outside Bromsgrove.
Back then, though, it could have - so easily - been just another love story. In those days I was young, slim, good-looking. She was everything a young man desires: young, blonde, large-breasted, slim-hipped, rich, a heiress to a brewery chain with a very relaxed attitude to nudity and an eager interest in exploring the wilder shores of sexual perversity. She spent money as if there were no tomorrow and drank as if she would never have a hangover.
After our wedding, I could have danced all night, but my wooden leg kept falling off. Then, when I was doing the can-can on the bar, my wooden leg - somehow - flew backward and smashed all the bottles behind the bar.
The barman was, fairly, relaxed about it. But, I now wish I'd refused when he insisted on re-attaching my leg. I think he had rather a hazy grasp of anatomy, as my wooden leg didn't fit where he forced it, especially not foot first. Still, on the bright side, afterwards I was never short of a seat.
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