Sign of the Times by Susan Buchanan Page B

Tigger would be like if he took speed.   So full of energy, Maggie envied him sometimes.   This was his final year, being a conventional student and not a lifer , as Maggie called herself.   He specifically chose all the supposedly easy courses, Psychology, Philosophy and History of Art so he could concentrate on his principal reason for going to university, getting laid.   He seemed to have accomplished his objective, too, as he was often found with some gorgeous male wrapped around him.   The tales of his sexual exploits were endless, but Maggie knew it was all true.   Occasionally she felt jealous of her friend, simply because his sex life was so hip and happening and although her own wasn’t drought-like, Josh did tend to end up with the finer specimens.

    “Well, what do you think?” Josh asked.
    “There were a couple of Renaissance questions which took me by surprise,” Maggie admitted, “but otherwise it was all right.”
    “I only knew the Impressionists and Renaissance ones,” Josh responded, “but who cares?   We’re frrreeeee!!! Let’s go celebrate.”   Linking arms with Maggie, loudly murdering the tune to Celebration , Josh dragged her to the student union, where a bevy of students exhibited various stages of inebriation.
    “Hic, hic, hic, Maggie, hic, how many, hic, of these, hic, bloody, hic, Marys, have we had, hic?”
    “In your case too many by the sounds of it,” Maggie admonished. “Same again?” she grinned.
    “Play it again Sam,” drawled Josh.   Maggie laughed at Josh’s gobbledygook.   She’d slag him tomorrow about being so drunk he was talking absolute drivel.   No change there then.
    “Maggie. Look at me!” Josh shouted.
    Turning, Maggie groaned as she saw Josh somersaulting between couches, spilling drinks and attracting as many jeers as applause.   He always did this when he was plastered.   Apparently the gay kingdom loved his acrobatics.   She bet they did.  
    Maggie accepted her latest round of Bloody Marys from the barman and dashed off to turn Josh upright, as he’d crashed into a speaker.   She was surprised he hadn’t ever been barred.   She reckoned the manager fancied Josh and often wondered if they had some secret liaison, which meant the poor manager couldn’t bar him, especially since he was newly married and his wife six months pregnant.   Propping Josh up on the seat opposite, she said firmly, “This is your last one.”
    She’d had to fork out a tenner to the table whose drinks he’d spilt and she’d never see that again. Josh was always broke.   She wasn’t flush, but she didn’t plead continual poverty.   She supposed all the Paul Smith and Ralph Lauren gear had to be paid for somehow, although he did receive lots of presents from his beaus.   For someone with no cash he had expensive tastes.   Maggie had never cared much about clothes, particularly not in the last thirteen years.   You were more likely to find her gracing Oxfam, than Karen Millen.   Her thinking was, if it was in good nick, you could wash it and it was as good as new.   If it was in a poor condition, you didn’t buy it.   Simple.   What she couldn’t buy in charity shops, she bought off Ebay.   Thank God for the internet.   She flipped open her phone and called a taxi.
    “I’ll call you,” Maggie told Josh, as she dumped him on his bed.   The taxi sat outside waiting for her.

    Maggie awoke the next morning with a resounding headache.   Why, oh why did she do this?   Straining to open her eyes, she searched for the light switch and suddenly everything was illuminated.    She hoped she had some headache tablets.   After a reviving shower, she sat on the sofa, with a towel atop her head and a cup of tea in hand.   A slice of toast and a glass of water containing soluble aspirin lay on the table.   She was free, at least until September.   She still had to work of course.   Usually she did bar work or waitressing to keep her solvent during