Get an arse on, Mary, before he comes round.
Seven gins gives us thirty minutes.
Get the car keys and his wallet and let's scarper.
At University, I had a boyfriend with a family house in Cornwall and an Alfa Romeo. It was a silly relationship, based on drama and mutual disappointment, the sort you can only indulge in when you are young and have the hours to fritter. Blinded by my love for Daphne Du Maurier, I accepted an invitation for a few days in Cornwall.
I did not drive and he thought I should. On the way, we stopped half-way across Bodmin Moor at a deserted airfield, for me to take the wheel of his pride and joy.
More fool him.
After the lesson, which left us both shaking and hissing in inaudible fury, we stopped at Jamaica Inn. It's a low stone building that appears unexpectedly at the side of the road and had, to my imaginative eye, a brooding and ominous air.
It was empty apart from a parrot, a perfect authentic touch. The fog rolled in, the gin glasses emptied, the arguments grew more circular and obtuse and we were forced to stay the night. I thought it would be an adventure.
More fool me.
I didn't sleep a wink. The lightbulb in the bedside lamp flickered on and off; everything creaked or moaned or slammed. I sat up trying to start more debate so I would have company; he snored on. I was probably a fanciful young lady, but I did feel chilled and afraid and was very pleased to leave the next day. We broke up soon after. I still miss that car.
The BBC have just done an adaptation of Jamaica Inn. It has been slated by viewers unable to follow the plot; it is apparently full of indistinct mumbling and bad diction. Reviews are full of irritated complaint at the way the incoherent muttering ruins the storyline and alienates the characters. I remember the feeling well.