My friend Poppy Fairweather has the gift of the gab like no other. She’s striking, sharp as a tack, and knows how to work a room. But then she’ll turn on the doe-eyed innocence—suddenly you just want to scoop her up and cuddle her. She’s got that down to an art.
I remember this one time we were on a coach trip. The bus was packed with tourists. The driver was this stern bloke named Dave. A long overnight journey lay ahead, and Dave had no relief driver. He glanced back at our rowdy bunch and said,
“Got a fair stretch ahead of me. Wouldn’t want to doze off at the wheel, God forbid. Any ladies fancy keeping me company? Sit up front, have a chinwag? I’ll owe you one.”
Everyone pulled faces—felt bad for the guy, but no one fancied staying awake to chat. They just wanted to sack out in their seats and wake up at the destination.
Enter Fairweather. She volunteered to keep Dave entertained while the rest snoozed. She flounced up front, smoothed her skirt, batted her lashes—playing the shy little thing.
“I’m not much of a talker, honestly, but I’ll give it a go.”
Passengers settled in, Dave barrelled down the motorway, and Poppy began:
“What shall we natter about, skipper? Fancy a story about my first love? Back when I was nineteen, a lifetime ago…”
“Now we’re talking!” Dave grinned. “I remember being nineteen—last century, that was. Fire away, love!”
“Well, back in the dark ages, I had my first proper romance,” Poppy began. “Or maybe second or third—who’s counting? Let’s just say top ten. I’ll keep the lad’s name to myself—call him… Bunny.”
Dave kept his eyes on the road, nodding along. Poppy spun a tender tale of how she and Bunny met, how passion struck them like lightning—right there on the high street at dusk.
“We just knew we’d been made for each other!” she gushed, eyes twinkling. “We took one look and just—click! Found each other at the crossroads under the evening stars, just as the pubs were starting to get lively…”
“Proper romantic, you are!” Dave chuckled. “So what happened? Sparks fly? Love at first sight?”
“Oh, it was all going grand, till we realised—nowhere to go!” Poppy sighed. “My place was out, his was out. All our mates had flats full to bursting, and we were skint for a hotel.”
“Classic!” Dave nodded. “Been there. Young, stupid, hormones raging—but nowhere to lay your head. Might as well just kip in the middle of the road!”
“We hunted for a spot, but no luck,” Poppy went on. “Got desperate enough to try the park benches—but even those were taken! Love was in the air, apparently. Then Bunny goes, ‘Alright, sweetheart, maybe another time?’”
Dave nearly swerved off the road.
“WHAT? ‘Another time’? That useless prat! If it were me, I’d—where’d you dig up that wet lettuce?”
Poppy let out this mystical, tinkling laugh.
“Only joking, Dave! Clever Bunny had a plan. He knew a block of flats with an unlocked roof access…”
“Ah, now we’re talking!” Dave relaxed. “Roof’ll do, so long as the girl’s keen and the night’s dark enough. Stars, clouds, bit of poetry… Reminds me of this one time in the depot attic—but never mind. Go on, Pop.”
When Poppy gets going, she could out-talk Shakespeare. She spun a yarn about how tiny they felt under that vast midnight sky, just two specks on a towering rooftop beneath the ancient universe.
“…slipping out of my clothes, all breathless and eager,” she murmured. “I had this lacy top with impossible little hooks down the back. Tore my nails trying to undo them! And my skirt—light as a feather—just slid right off. The wind caught my curls—oh, I had proper mermaid hair back then!”
Dave was wheezing, gripping the wheel. No chance of nodding off now. Poppy’s a knockout even today—imagine her as a lithe little uni student? Whole coach would’ve been drooling.
“I shed every last stitch, ready to lose myself in passion!” she sighed. “There I was, nothing but a scrap of silk in the moonlight… the heat between us, the ache of wanting… and then Bunny says—”
“Yes? What’d he say?” Dave leaned in.
“He said, ‘You look smashing, Poppy! Fancy doing that again?’”
Poor Dave nearly crashed the bus all over again.
“Bird’s standing there starkers, and he says ‘do it again’?” he roared. “What sort of daft pillock—I’d have throttled him! But you tell a cracking story, I’ll give you that. Proper vivid. You ought to be on one of them phone lines!”
The coach raced on, streetlights flickering past. Poppy, voice like honey, launched into the next bit—bodies entwined, hearts pounding like church bells, every touch setting off fireworks…
“And then?” Dave urged. “Don’t leave us hanging!”
“…and then Bunny goes, ‘Missed!’” Poppy finished.
She dissolved into giggles. Dave howled, thumping the wheel. Needless to say, not a soul on that bus caught a wink. The journey was sleepless, but unforgettable. Later, the devious minx told me:
“Serves them right! Think they’d nap on my watch? Not a chance. If I’m awake, everyone’s awake.”
And there’s the lesson—never trust a storyteller who’s running on no sleep. Mischief always follows.
