So it’s summer, 1978.  I'm 16, but, partly because I’ve got a job with a road gang, I look at least 19.  Saturday night I’m in the disco [see, it was 1978] and doing nicely.  
 
As an already-accomplished liar, I mention to her that I work in an office and you can tell she’s impressed.  

Tuesday afternoon, I'm towing my rocks off with a bucketful of tar, down a side street near Hemsworth.  
 
Then, the situation starts to unravel like Bob Dylan’s Shelter From The Storm; 

“Suddenly, I turned around and she was standing there...,” but the scenario doesn't continue to unfold in the same way as the song.  Because the song goes; 

"..with silver bracelets on her wrists and flowers in her hair…"  Alas, here, she's got some two-bob Woolworth's jewellery on her wrists and the remains of badly-rinsed, Co-Op Wild Apple shampoo in her hair.  

And her screams, threats, fists, are everywhere.  Crazy, yet somehow careful.  She wants to kill me, but doesn’t want filthy grime transferring from my clothes onto hers. 

"You - lying - bastard - you- said - you - worked - in - an – OFFICE!"  

"I do; It’s my turn for the ink.”

Martin C