Sugar Mummy

Last night, I had a dream about Victoria Beckham. She was sitting on a stool at her breakfast bar, in her kitchen. (No idea if she has one of these in real life). She was in her scruff, un-straightened hair, baggy black t-shirt, the lot.  Although she still looked nice. Vicky would look good dragged through a hedge backwards, wearing a bin bag. She wasn’t with David though, which upset me. She was with some bruiser.

Later on, still in my dream, I was in some nightclub thingy and she’s scrubbed up and walked in there with him.  They began to have a tiff and it turned into a mega argument and I was tiptoeing around them.  When people are having an argument in public, we pretend it’s not happening, suddenly, we become deaf, dumb and blind.

So, anyway, I left the nightclub thingy, as unobtrusively as possible, secretly bemoaning the fact that Vicky had split from David and was now with some sexist, gold-digging thug.

And then I woke up.

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