The Nottingham Conspiracy !

Or, if you did as a kid, change your phone number when you leave home. So, I got a call from my best friend and ex’s mother the other day, inviting me over for lunch – yesterday, actually. See, Little John and I haven’t spoken in about two years, not face to face anyway, not since the schism, and I never told him where my new apartment was when I moved in – for obvious reasons, so far as I’m concerned. So why his mother still has my number is beyond me… Probably because I spent more time in his house when I was growing up than my own and can’t be assed changing my number… She also has so far as I know no idea what we do in our ‘spare time’. But yeah, Little John’s mum invited me for lunch, a sort of pre-Easter thing, which is kind of nice since my parents seem to have forgotten they have a daughter which is fine by me. Free ham and I brought the rum I owed Little John, call it a peace gift.

Problem is, I’m a little fuzzy on what happened. I called him the night before, or rather the morning before – I think I woke him up before his team brought him the usual cup of coffee the size of his head. I can’t say he was too pleased to hear from me, but I don’t think him seeing me at home without any warning was going to go so well. Even still, Little John and I didn’t speak all through the meal, or the polite chat; why would we? I mean, the only times we’d been alone in the last two years were a matter, mostly, of Little John trying to beat me at my own game, and vice versa. I’ve been locked in closets, had a gun pointed at me, and sprained my ankle running from the cops because of him. Then again, I’ve returned the favour, and because of me he’s gotta a pretty damn big scar that I’m NOT going to go into detail about… Besides, if The Merry Men knew I saw him at all then he’d be getting a buggering – I’m not so popular with my old teammates, to say the least.

But cracking the rum open, well, take a wild guess. Let’s just say I brought one bottle, he brought one bottle, and his sister pulled a bottle of something strong out of nowhere, and the two of us drunk most of it all. I remember a very dramatic game of Uno and then very little, and I left his apartment at 4am this morning after being unable to find my trousers. So I borrowed a pair of his, which him being at least half a foot taller than me meant I looked pretty stupid. Thanks, Little John. ¬_¬; If you find my trousers, post them to my work please?

And that is why I’m thinking about changing my number, and my address. Just in case. So what do you think – difficult love/hate relationship or what? Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make a bacon sandwich and pour a very tall glass of water.

- yours, a hung over Robin Hood