28 Feb 2003

Sophia arrived this morning looking as glorious as ever. I’ve known her for over a decade and have never felt anything towards her but desire. I desire her, I desire her to desire me. We’ve always been friends since we met in Seattle all those years ago. She was the public defendant for holidaying immigrants who had run afoul of the US legal system. Purely by accident I had attempted to defraud the Treasury out of about 20 million dollars but the hooker I had been with during the night ratted me out to her favourite client during the day, who turned out to be a FBI agent. So there I was with no fiscal resource and relying on Sophia, this dark skinned Mexican fresh out of some dubious Law School south of the border. She looked the part all right, curvaceous legs and hips, a dark tangle of black hair, brown eyes that raised your heartbeat as they swept across you and a wit and intelligence that could draw blood. However, despite how much I wanted to leave myself in her handsome hands, I just couldn’t condone the risk of twenty plus years inside purely for a few days spent in the pleasing company of Sophia, that duskiest of maidens.

Thankfully I had plans afoot even before our first appearance in court when it transpired that Sophia was perhaps the worst lawyer I have ever heard. To start with, her English, which at the best of times was rather more comical than correct, fell to pieces when she was performing under the scrutiny of the wizened old judge. She kept losing pens and evidence bags and vital bits of paper at all the wrong times. Normally a defendant in my position would have been sweating buckets and vowing revenge on this disastrous lawyer. Rather, as I knew I wouldn’t even be in court the next day, I was able to sit back and coolly enjoy Sophia’s performance. I had to stifle my laughter frequently as she did little to win my case but everything to win my heart. Needless to say, the first thing I did when I was comfortably settled in my Venezuelan Hacienda with Colonel Cortez as a dinner guest the next evening was to drop her a line and thank her for her efforts. Since then she has never been far from my thoughts and I was overjoyed to see her in the flesh once again. I decided to introduce her to the local folk band, mysteriously named “Three in a Bush” when there are always at least seven performers, who were playing in my local last night. Cornish folk music always get my toes a’tapping and I was sure that Sophia would lap it up, and perhaps, later, me. This is what happened. Things unfolded thus:

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