Due to popular demand (OK, one faithful reader's request, but I don't need encouraging!) here is a little tid-bit of FiFi Jo's history;
Straight out of High School, I scored the dream job every parent hopes for their child - a lucrative modelling contract. The fact that, in my case, it was with a mafia run 'dance hall' in Tokyo, Japan, did little to worry my mother. Apart from any real modelling, I learnt how to unlock the door of my tiny one room 'apartment' and make it look like I was always there. The nice men also helped me with my drug smuggling skills, enlisting me as a 'mule' to pay them back the exorbitant rent on said apartment. I did get to see the world as a fresh-faced teen though. I saw Russian airports, Asian airports, and even the inside of a hotel room in Cambodia once. Things were great - I couldn't wait for the losers I went to school with to find out what a success I'd become!
Things got out of hand though, when I met the future father of my children on an overnight flight from Grozny to Belfast. Upon finding myself seated next to a delightful stranger, I couldn't help but feel attracted to his Irish accent, thick beard and red eyes. He told me he was an airline security guard and demand he 'frisk' me in the toilets. Since I was always up for an adventure, I let his hands search my every cavity somewhere over Moldova. By the time we disembarked the flight we were in love. My previously caring and understanding employers were not at all impressed with this turn of events, and demanded my return to the Land of The Rising Sun immediately. Never one for taking kindly to rude, verging on obscene, phone calls (unless one of us is naked), I hung up on my boss mid rant and ran for my life. Fleeing Belfast with my lover, we made it to Berlin where we hid out for a century, drinking vodka, knocking over walls and having babies. Of course, there were many adventures in between - but these will have to wait to be told another day.
Like all loves, we lost out lustre for each other when he began getting itchy feet and I just wanted to start shagging whom ever I wanted, when I wanted. Men with itchy feet are a permanent turn off in my books. So, I returned to my homeland, slightly soiled and worse for wear, but with a hardened heart and a notebook full of Ajax with a street value of nil, which I managed to sell to over-eager teens on the Gold Coast during schoolies week. My Irish Ex followed the children and I, where we have now settled (apart) somewhere quite close to where you are probably dear reader!
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