Frankie, my dear, I don’t give a Sam
So help me, Cat McKenzie, but I have a right mind to bate ya with a gate.
You “love” Sam Murray. But do you? Do you??
The dilemma: Sam or Frankie. Much like: strawberries or a plate of vomit. Or: jazz tootlings or Justin Beiber. (They do look similar, don’t they?) Or: a hot cop or a feckin’ feck-up.
Here’s some Lip Service from yours truly: Sort yerself out, woman! If you can’t see how fantastically fantastic Officer McDreamy is (and don’t forget, your words: “I’m too old to be dating fuck ups!”), then there’s just no helping you.
Let us compare and contrast:
- Is really rather tall, actually.
- Doesn’t mind being called “a moose”.
- Can be brave.
- Copes well with stress.
- Has perspective. Helped by seeing corpses.
- Copes well with shirts. And trouser suits. And waistcoats.
- Doesn’t shag boys.
- Can be a bit scary. In a good way.
- Thoroughly attends to her “desk duties” whenever required.
- Mopes with unnecessary camera appendage.
- Is unable to not shag every woman she passes.
- Shags kleptomaniacs.
- Shags in morgues next to corpses.
- Has hair that’s almost as bad as Shane McCutcheon’s. Or Justin Bieber’s.
- Lacks perspective. (Shagging next to corpses doesn’t seem to help.)
- Stirs shit. At every possible opportunity.
- Might possibly not actually be Francesca Alan.
I think, therefore, we can scientifically conclude that Detective Sergeant Sam Murray is your only woman.
Oh and Cat, no thanks is needed. ‘Tis nay bother, hen.
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