The Chocolate Prince

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2019 is not quite half an hour old when I get my first Uber fare of the year. I am relatively refreshed after a break spent watching Sydney’s impressive fireworks on TV (though my teenage son was underwhelmed – “So overdone”). I’ve already had a busy and profitable night getting people to their respective NYE locations. But now, the other side of midnight, I expect things to kick up a gear or two. My first pick up is only a matter of blocks away from our place in Bondi. After a brief wait, two women clamour into the back. I smell them more than see them, alcohol fumes filling my Mazda. “Hello driver! Happy New Year!” I wish them both a happy new year and head off towards Chippendale. My passengers are loud, animated and, one of them, a bit touchy-feely. She repeatedly puts her hand on my shoulder to emphasise a point. I consider asking her not to but remain silent. She claims to have a boyfriend whose twenty years younger. “Really? What – is he still in school?” She chortles. “Oh – stop!” Her hand thumps my shoulder. I ask the other one – “What about you? Your boyfriend also a lot younger?” Before she can reply, Touchy-Feely jumps in: “Her – she’s dating the Chocolate Prince!” “Say what now?” The friend replies: “Dated – not dating. One date. And yes – he calls himself the Chocolate Prince.” “Really? Is he American?” I imagine a swaggering black yank – thinking he’s God’s gift to the ladies. “Nah – he’s African.” Touchy-Feely adds, “And he’s actually a real prince!” “What – no way?” My image now changes to a brightly dressed, tunic clad Ghanaian – perhaps one whose family has actually made a fortune from chocolate. TF asks her friend, “So are you going to see him again?” “No way!” “Why not? Anyone who calls himself the Chocolate Prince must have a pretty big dick. Does he?” “I don’t know! I haven’t seen it. I’m not going to bed with any loser who calls himself the Chocolate Bloody Prince!” I smile. An amusing start to a new year.

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