I sipped my drink and stood by the fire, enjoying the heat on this cold night. I hadn't seen most of the crowd for a good few months so there was much catching up to be done.
"So, how are you?"
"In a bit of pain, actually. I saw the physio earlier and - "
"Oooh, do you need a massage?"
"No. So, I saw the physio and - "
He ran his hand up my thigh and grabbed my arse.
How can I adequately convey the fury I felt at this juncture? I could see little fireworks of red light exploding, and they weren't sparks from the fire.
Firstly, I hurt. I am in pain. I don't want a "massage" from anyone (though a clumsy squeeze from thick sausage-like fingers does not count as a massage in my book) let alone from some bloated, red-faced, lecherous beer swilling, inconsiderate cunt.
Secondly, I hate the fact that he obviously didn't give a flying fuck about how I was or how I felt, he just wanted to cop a feel.
Thirdly, how dare he think he could touch me? Me!
A wounded bear is a dangerous animal.
Luckily I had my physiotherapist's card to hand so I could pass on the number.