On the night in question, your correspondent was on a date – a first date, in fact – with the Sprinkler herself. I was the Sprinklee (self-appointed). Collingwood, Sprink’s neighbourhood. Deep North.
‘You’re the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met,’ she told me, repeatedly. That was something, coming from an expert in Maddawgs.
Sprink stopped outside a narrow tavern, lively, commotion seeping onto the street. ‘Let’s go in here,’ she said. Apparently, staff from some hospital, their end-of-year do.
One demanded to know where we’d come from. Sprink told him that she was an OT. I was an anaesthetist, I said.
‘You’re such an anaesthetist,’ he said.
Now, Sprink wasn’t up for a big night. But the hospital people gave her a second wind. ‘Let us make party,’ she said. We did.
I can’t tell you more as Sprink gave me a 150-word limit.
