“Lovie” he said to me.
“You only call me Lovie when
you want a fight to be over,” I snapped. We’d been having a go at each other
for a couple of hours. It started with something his mother said about “not
needing no fancy education,” which devolved into track one side one of our
greatest arguments hits.
“What? I’ve never called you Lovie,
what am I in the theatre? Chookas out there tonight lovie!”
“You just did!”
“What? No! It’s that thing, you know
that thing that people do when life is bad you say lovie and move
on.”
“You say lovie?”
“Yes.”
"Are you sure you don’t mean to say
c’est la vie?”
“Say say lovie? No you are just
meant to say lovie.”
“Listen to what I say… c’est la vie”
“Lovie.”
“You are so completely wrong I
don’t even know where to start.”
“That’s life!”
“YES! In French?”
“What’s French got to do with it?”
“You said that’s life which is c’est la vie in French.”
“Look I didn’t finished school like you but I’m pretty sure love is armour in French because it makes you strong..”
“This is your fucking mother’s fault.”
“Kay Sarah Sarah!”
“You said that’s life which is c’est la vie in French.”
“Look I didn’t finished school like you but I’m pretty sure love is armour in French because it makes you strong..”
“This is your fucking mother’s fault.”
“Kay Sarah Sarah!”
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