In my circle of friends, I am famous for (amongst other things) having hiccoughs. I really would prefer to write this as hiccups but the pedant inside me won’t let me. The hiccoughs are loud, and usually twice a week. At weddings? Yes, interviews? Yes, Dramatic pauses? Check check check!
Today I was walking along after rather worrying 4 hour library stint hiccoughing, iPoding (Oh, did I tell you I bought an iPod? No? Perhaps I thought you would judge me for so blatantly spending the last £136 of my overdraft) and generally trying not to let the constant drizzel of Birmingham anger my hair.
I rounded the corner and an old, red man stumbled out of the pub. “Ew,” one of the legwarmers-and-tights-coupled-with-mini-skirt girls said. Can I just say that the former two items ARE FOR BALLET CLASS ONLY and the latter IS FOR WHEN IT IS NOT TEN DEGREES AND RAINING.
The two girls looked in disgust at the blatantly drunk man. “What is Birmingham like,” one of them said.
I decided to speed up and walked past them. I hiccoughed.
“God this place is full of freaks,” the other said, giggling.