I’m having lunch with my dear friend A, with whom I go back years. We haven’t seen each other for a little while and so this is part of a catch up before we go on to meet mutual friends later.
“So how’s the book coming along – am I in it?” she asks with an ‘I’d better not be’ look on her face. I smile a half smile. “It’s still in the planning stages at the moment. There maybe a version of you in it, or someone loosely based on you anyway.” “Hmmm...” she says with her eyes narrowed. “So what did you think of the latest blogs?” I ask.
“Honestly?” She asks “Of course” I say. ‘Ah - she didn’t like them’ I think.”They were cool, and funny dating blogs. I agree with G2 that you’re too nice, but I think the blogs missed the reason why you are too nice.” At this point, my phone rings. It’s a female friend who has recently split from her boyfriend and is a bit down and wants to talk. “Hi.. yes, ok, listen can I call you back, I’m with a friend right now”.
“Who was that?” she asks. “Oh that was just C. She split up with some accountant a couple of weeks back and is a bit down.” She looks at me knowingly and shakes her head. “That’s what was missing from your blog and is the reason that you’re too nice.” “What?” I say defensively. She continues “When was the last time C phoned you to see how you are, or to say let’s have a catch up?” I want to say two weeks ago, or was it four... “Er..” “And what about the SA – when did she last call you?” I know the answer to this one “A couple of months ago. She wanted to say hi after...” “..after some guy broke her heart wasn’t it? And have you heard from her since you fluffed her little ego?” “Well er..” “And when was the last time that your mate P ever put himself out for you?” I’m feeling slightly under attack. However, as she continues, it starts to dawn on me that she might just have a point.
She explains “When I first moved into London, the people I hung out with then weren’t the same people I spend my time with now. Over the last nine or so years, I’ve kind of weeded my social garden and the friends I spend time with are the ones who have earned the right to be in my life – that includes you by the way” she says, pointing a spoon in my direction after stirring her tea. I smile at the corner of my mouth as I sip my coffee. She takes one of my hands in hers as she looks at me in earnest “You’re a lovely wonderful guy honey, but you have too many people in your life who are undeserving of your time.” I concede to her that she may have a point. “Don’t get me wrong” she says “I’m not saying ditch them, not entirely anyway, but just be more aware of who you invest your time in. That’s all I’m saying”
She gets up to go to the ladies, leaving me to contemplate what she has said. A part of me wants to protest and tell her that she’s wrong – that she doesn’t know some of the people in my life quite like I do. But I have to be honest with myself and as I sip my coffee and gaze out of the window at nothing, I know she is right.
I take my phone out and scroll down the contacts until I reach someone who has sprung to mind. I look at the contact details as I reflect on the friendship and contemplate the one sided nature that it has become. My thumb hovers over the delete icon. ‘Sod it’ I think as I hit ‘Delete Contact’. My phone isn’t happy with this decision however. ‘Are You Sure You Want To Delete Contact?’ ‘Hmm.. am I sure?’ I gaze out of the window and ponder. ‘Yes, sod it – time to look out for one’s self a bit more’ I confirm the decision and the phone advises ‘Contact Deleted’.
At that moment, A walks back from the ladies “What are you doing?” she asks as I put my phone away. I pick up my coffee and look at her resignedly “Gardening”.
Sunday 27 November 2011
Friday 11 November 2011
My Nice Guy - Part 3
“Fucking hell, why don’t you listen to me!!??” “What? I was hungry and needed to eat” I say. “No” says G2, “you liked her too much. You were over eager. She may have liked you at the start, but you did and said everything to ensure that she didn’t like you by the end!!”
She’s right of course, and I don’t really have much of a come back to that one. I should have left when I originally planned to. “NEVER change your plans because of a date. YOU are more important!!” she says. “Yes okay, I know you’re right” I say, and it’s a lesson to take on board for date number 4 who I am meeting for coffee at midday.
I arrange to meet her at the same place I met the turnip girl two days earlier on date one and for once I am on time and I don’t even walk around the block. She phones me because she can’t find the place and so I ask her to describe where she is and I go and meet her halfway. And then I see her, and I’m slightly disappointed, and reflect that some people are obviously more photogenic that others. She has hunched shoulders and walks with a stoop in a way that makes her look fifteen years older than she actually is.
We get inside and order coffee and she talks about her life and how she’s only recently moved to London from the Midlands. And then she talks about her job and she talks about where she lives and then she talks about her job again. And after twenty minutes of this I reflect on how she hasn’t asked me a single question about myself.
I am due to visit family later today in Hertfordshire and so I know I have to escape after two hours max. We have another drink and talk some more. “So shall we grab something to eat” she says. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to be somewhere this afternoon.” I tell her. “What? You said let’s meet for brunch. That’s why I haven’t eaten today!” “Er, no I didn’t, I said let’s meet for coffee” I assure her. “No, you said brunch. If I had known you only meant coffee for what (looks at watch) only two hours then I wouldn’t have bothered! Now what am I going to do with the rest of the afternoon!?” Oh god, she’s crazy! Now, there is a slim possibility that I may have said brunch, although there’s no way that I’m going to admit it now. We say goodbye outside the bar and walk in different directions. 'Jesus, what a waste of time' I muse. Four dates and all I have to show for it is a slightly deflated ego.
I’m under strict instructions not to be late to Hertfordshire as dinner is being served promptly at 5pm. It should take me about an hour to get there and so I leave my place at 4pm and get to my car to find that the tyres are low on air and the engine is running on fumes. I head to the petrol station and fill the tank before heading in to get a token for the airline. Time is short and I really need to get moving if I am going to be on time. I am in the queue to be served, when a girl walks in and asks “Does anyone know how to use the airline?” My mind is on the time as one of the guys behind the counter goes out to help. I pay for my petrol and go out and wait for the girl to finish with her tyre.
I lean by my car and check the time as I wonder what’s going on. They seem to be taking ages and I have only 50 minutes to drive a one hour journey. I walk over to see what they’re up to and find the shop assistant looking helpless and the girl looking confused. “Here, let me try” I say as I put the airline against the valve on her tyre. She clearly has a puncture as I can hear the air coming out just as quickly as is goes in. “You need to change the wheel” I say. I want to offer to help, but I really don’t have time. It’s at this point where I look at her properly. She’s about 24 and is quite gorgeous with big brown eyes and long wavy dark hair that cascades down over her shoulders. She’s wearing a fitted black sweater over tight jeans and black knee length boots.
I help her get the wheel out of the back of her car. “I’d change it for you but I’m running stupidly late as it is.” “That’s ok” she says. She’s very cute though. ‘I wonder...’ “Do know anyone who can help you change it – a boyfriend or husband?” “No” she says, looking a little lost. ‘Cool, she’s single’ She walks off to make a phone call and I back my car in behind hers and fill my tyres ready for the drive to Hertfordshire. I now have 45 minutes and I might just be able to make it if I drive fast.
I make a fake telephone call to bide time until she walks back over to the car. “You ok?” I say as I finish the call. “I’ve been trying to think of anyone I know locally who might be able to help.” “Aw thanks” she says “but my brother’s going to come and help me, I hope he can sort it.” “Cool” I say as I look at her. ‘Now, say something’ “How about you give me your number and you can let me know how you get on” I say confidently. She looks at me and I hold her stare. “Ok” she says with a grin. I hand her my phone and she types in the number. “Drop me a missed call” she says, which I do before heading on my way - my ego newly restored.
“So let me get this right” says G2 when I tell her the next day, “You got a gorgeous girl with a puncture to give you her number and you left her there without changing her wheel?” “Pretty much” I say. She shakes her head, and looks at me with a half smile “You’re a bad bad man – but still a nice guy.”
She’s right of course, and I don’t really have much of a come back to that one. I should have left when I originally planned to. “NEVER change your plans because of a date. YOU are more important!!” she says. “Yes okay, I know you’re right” I say, and it’s a lesson to take on board for date number 4 who I am meeting for coffee at midday.
I arrange to meet her at the same place I met the turnip girl two days earlier on date one and for once I am on time and I don’t even walk around the block. She phones me because she can’t find the place and so I ask her to describe where she is and I go and meet her halfway. And then I see her, and I’m slightly disappointed, and reflect that some people are obviously more photogenic that others. She has hunched shoulders and walks with a stoop in a way that makes her look fifteen years older than she actually is.
We get inside and order coffee and she talks about her life and how she’s only recently moved to London from the Midlands. And then she talks about her job and she talks about where she lives and then she talks about her job again. And after twenty minutes of this I reflect on how she hasn’t asked me a single question about myself.
I am due to visit family later today in Hertfordshire and so I know I have to escape after two hours max. We have another drink and talk some more. “So shall we grab something to eat” she says. “I’d love to, but I’m afraid I have to be somewhere this afternoon.” I tell her. “What? You said let’s meet for brunch. That’s why I haven’t eaten today!” “Er, no I didn’t, I said let’s meet for coffee” I assure her. “No, you said brunch. If I had known you only meant coffee for what (looks at watch) only two hours then I wouldn’t have bothered! Now what am I going to do with the rest of the afternoon!?” Oh god, she’s crazy! Now, there is a slim possibility that I may have said brunch, although there’s no way that I’m going to admit it now. We say goodbye outside the bar and walk in different directions. 'Jesus, what a waste of time' I muse. Four dates and all I have to show for it is a slightly deflated ego.
I’m under strict instructions not to be late to Hertfordshire as dinner is being served promptly at 5pm. It should take me about an hour to get there and so I leave my place at 4pm and get to my car to find that the tyres are low on air and the engine is running on fumes. I head to the petrol station and fill the tank before heading in to get a token for the airline. Time is short and I really need to get moving if I am going to be on time. I am in the queue to be served, when a girl walks in and asks “Does anyone know how to use the airline?” My mind is on the time as one of the guys behind the counter goes out to help. I pay for my petrol and go out and wait for the girl to finish with her tyre.
I lean by my car and check the time as I wonder what’s going on. They seem to be taking ages and I have only 50 minutes to drive a one hour journey. I walk over to see what they’re up to and find the shop assistant looking helpless and the girl looking confused. “Here, let me try” I say as I put the airline against the valve on her tyre. She clearly has a puncture as I can hear the air coming out just as quickly as is goes in. “You need to change the wheel” I say. I want to offer to help, but I really don’t have time. It’s at this point where I look at her properly. She’s about 24 and is quite gorgeous with big brown eyes and long wavy dark hair that cascades down over her shoulders. She’s wearing a fitted black sweater over tight jeans and black knee length boots.
I help her get the wheel out of the back of her car. “I’d change it for you but I’m running stupidly late as it is.” “That’s ok” she says. She’s very cute though. ‘I wonder...’ “Do know anyone who can help you change it – a boyfriend or husband?” “No” she says, looking a little lost. ‘Cool, she’s single’ She walks off to make a phone call and I back my car in behind hers and fill my tyres ready for the drive to Hertfordshire. I now have 45 minutes and I might just be able to make it if I drive fast.
I make a fake telephone call to bide time until she walks back over to the car. “You ok?” I say as I finish the call. “I’ve been trying to think of anyone I know locally who might be able to help.” “Aw thanks” she says “but my brother’s going to come and help me, I hope he can sort it.” “Cool” I say as I look at her. ‘Now, say something’ “How about you give me your number and you can let me know how you get on” I say confidently. She looks at me and I hold her stare. “Ok” she says with a grin. I hand her my phone and she types in the number. “Drop me a missed call” she says, which I do before heading on my way - my ego newly restored.
“So let me get this right” says G2 when I tell her the next day, “You got a gorgeous girl with a puncture to give you her number and you left her there without changing her wheel?” “Pretty much” I say. She shakes her head, and looks at me with a half smile “You’re a bad bad man – but still a nice guy.”
Tuesday 8 November 2011
Mr Nice Guy - Part 2
I arrive at the train station but have a bit of a walk to get to the cafe bar where we are meeting. It is a beautiful day, as I text her to say that I’m running a few minutes late. My phone beeps as I hurriedly walk.
"No worries, I’m enjoying the sunshine on the green opposite the cafe. See you soon"
I relax and slow up a bit. It’s sunny and warm and probably the last weekend of the year when it will be so, and I don’t want to be sweating when I arrive.
Finally I arrive at the green. I know what she looks like, but look in all directions at once to try and ensure that I haven’t missed her. I look down at one of the benches and see petite pretty brunette wearing sunglasses and reading a book - it’s her. She looks up at me with a smile “Hello”. Immediately I am filled with a greater expectation than I did with the turnip girl with the Ronnie Corbett specs from the night before.
We walk to the cafe and sit outside, ordering coffees and croissants. She is sweet and interesting and quite fun, if a little reserved, which is only natural, considering we are relative strangers. We talk about where she’s from and what she does and she asks questions about me. We discuss food and note that we both get bad food envy and we could both be better cooks than we are.
After a couple of hours I steal a glance at my watch. It’s 3 pm and I’m seeing date number three in two hours. She sees me check the time. “Oh, do you have to be somewhere?” she asks. “No, it’s ok. I’m just meeting a mate for a coffee a bit later.” We talk some more, and after another fifteen minutes or so she checks her watch. “I hate to do this, but I wasn’t checking the time and I’m meeting a friend.” Damn it, why didn’t I say I had to leave fifteen minutes ago!? “That’s cool, I’ve got to meet my friend anyway.” She smiles, “Thanks” and we leave and walk together in the same direction, talking more as we do. I kiss her on both cheeks at the station and tell her it’s been fun and that I’ll call her, and I mean it too.
I have an hour and a half before I have to meet the next girl and I need to head home and change. I am going out after the date and so I need to be dressed accordingly. As per usual, I can’t find any of the things that I want to wear and end up ironing two different shirts that I’m having trouble choosing between. It’s ok though because I’ve still got time. My phone beeps:
“Hey, I am early. Are you able to meet sooner?”
Typical - I have enough trouble just being on time, without girls turning up early. Or is this a hoop that some use to test guys and see if we’ll jump through? I’m seeing other friends later and I want to get ready and get to her feeling chilled and relaxed. If she’s early, then she’s early and she’ll just have to wait. I text her back:
“I’m just saying goodbye to a friend at the moment. See you at 5”
I arrive at the bar on time and see her drinking a beer and looking out of the window. She sees me and smiles a big smile. And she’s good looking – much prettier than in her pictures. And she’s fun too and I enjoy the time with her as we cover a range of subjects. I have only intended to stay a couple of hours because I have somewhere else to go and also because in the back of my mind I hadn’t expected a lot from this date. But now I am on it, I find that I am quite enjoying it. So much so, that when it gets to the end of the two hours that I had originally envisaged, I want to carry on. I haven’t eaten since the croissant earlier in the day and I am hungry. I will need to eat before I go onto the where I am going to later. I should just leave now and grab something to eat en route. That would be sensible, that’s what G2 would suggest. But maybe if I ate something at the Cafe Rouge next door and took this girl with me, then maybe, seeing as I like her, I could get to know her better. And this is what we do.
The dinner is pleasant and the conversation fun – up to a point. We’ve been out for twice as long as I’d envisaged. The gap between conversations gets longer and the wine ensures that subject matter is more open that it probably should be on a first date. I check my watch and realise that I am going to be late. I pay the bill and we leave. I’m about to say goodbye, when she smiles and says “Would you like to walk me across the bridge?” “Of course” I say with a smile – well I can’t say “No” can I.
Her hands are in her pockets as we walk and talk. ‘Is she interested?’ I wonder. I mean she’s asked if I’d like to walk her across the bridge, which is surely an indicator of interest. Then again though, her hands are firmly in her pockets and if she was interested, then she’d take my arm – wouldn’t she?
We pause at the end of the bridge and engage in chit chat. We are talking closely and I’m wondering if I should kiss her. ‘Should I or shouldn’t I?’ I umm and ahh in my mind as we talk. “I suppose, I’d better get going” I say before moving closer kiss her. My lips more are less than an inch from hers as she turns her face and offers me her cheek. The movement feels like the physical version of the “let’s just be friends conversation”. “Nice to meet you” she says. “Likewise” I say, frustrated at myself a number of reasons. I should have left on a high, after drinks. Now it feels like it has gone flat and I am late to meet friends.
Onwards and upwards though. There is something to be taken from this as I go into date number four tomorrow. Right now though, it’s 9.30pm on a Saturday night – I have a party to get to!!
"No worries, I’m enjoying the sunshine on the green opposite the cafe. See you soon"
I relax and slow up a bit. It’s sunny and warm and probably the last weekend of the year when it will be so, and I don’t want to be sweating when I arrive.
Finally I arrive at the green. I know what she looks like, but look in all directions at once to try and ensure that I haven’t missed her. I look down at one of the benches and see petite pretty brunette wearing sunglasses and reading a book - it’s her. She looks up at me with a smile “Hello”. Immediately I am filled with a greater expectation than I did with the turnip girl with the Ronnie Corbett specs from the night before.
We walk to the cafe and sit outside, ordering coffees and croissants. She is sweet and interesting and quite fun, if a little reserved, which is only natural, considering we are relative strangers. We talk about where she’s from and what she does and she asks questions about me. We discuss food and note that we both get bad food envy and we could both be better cooks than we are.
After a couple of hours I steal a glance at my watch. It’s 3 pm and I’m seeing date number three in two hours. She sees me check the time. “Oh, do you have to be somewhere?” she asks. “No, it’s ok. I’m just meeting a mate for a coffee a bit later.” We talk some more, and after another fifteen minutes or so she checks her watch. “I hate to do this, but I wasn’t checking the time and I’m meeting a friend.” Damn it, why didn’t I say I had to leave fifteen minutes ago!? “That’s cool, I’ve got to meet my friend anyway.” She smiles, “Thanks” and we leave and walk together in the same direction, talking more as we do. I kiss her on both cheeks at the station and tell her it’s been fun and that I’ll call her, and I mean it too.
I have an hour and a half before I have to meet the next girl and I need to head home and change. I am going out after the date and so I need to be dressed accordingly. As per usual, I can’t find any of the things that I want to wear and end up ironing two different shirts that I’m having trouble choosing between. It’s ok though because I’ve still got time. My phone beeps:
“Hey, I am early. Are you able to meet sooner?”
Typical - I have enough trouble just being on time, without girls turning up early. Or is this a hoop that some use to test guys and see if we’ll jump through? I’m seeing other friends later and I want to get ready and get to her feeling chilled and relaxed. If she’s early, then she’s early and she’ll just have to wait. I text her back:
“I’m just saying goodbye to a friend at the moment. See you at 5”
I arrive at the bar on time and see her drinking a beer and looking out of the window. She sees me and smiles a big smile. And she’s good looking – much prettier than in her pictures. And she’s fun too and I enjoy the time with her as we cover a range of subjects. I have only intended to stay a couple of hours because I have somewhere else to go and also because in the back of my mind I hadn’t expected a lot from this date. But now I am on it, I find that I am quite enjoying it. So much so, that when it gets to the end of the two hours that I had originally envisaged, I want to carry on. I haven’t eaten since the croissant earlier in the day and I am hungry. I will need to eat before I go onto the where I am going to later. I should just leave now and grab something to eat en route. That would be sensible, that’s what G2 would suggest. But maybe if I ate something at the Cafe Rouge next door and took this girl with me, then maybe, seeing as I like her, I could get to know her better. And this is what we do.
The dinner is pleasant and the conversation fun – up to a point. We’ve been out for twice as long as I’d envisaged. The gap between conversations gets longer and the wine ensures that subject matter is more open that it probably should be on a first date. I check my watch and realise that I am going to be late. I pay the bill and we leave. I’m about to say goodbye, when she smiles and says “Would you like to walk me across the bridge?” “Of course” I say with a smile – well I can’t say “No” can I.
Her hands are in her pockets as we walk and talk. ‘Is she interested?’ I wonder. I mean she’s asked if I’d like to walk her across the bridge, which is surely an indicator of interest. Then again though, her hands are firmly in her pockets and if she was interested, then she’d take my arm – wouldn’t she?
We pause at the end of the bridge and engage in chit chat. We are talking closely and I’m wondering if I should kiss her. ‘Should I or shouldn’t I?’ I umm and ahh in my mind as we talk. “I suppose, I’d better get going” I say before moving closer kiss her. My lips more are less than an inch from hers as she turns her face and offers me her cheek. The movement feels like the physical version of the “let’s just be friends conversation”. “Nice to meet you” she says. “Likewise” I say, frustrated at myself a number of reasons. I should have left on a high, after drinks. Now it feels like it has gone flat and I am late to meet friends.
Onwards and upwards though. There is something to be taken from this as I go into date number four tomorrow. Right now though, it’s 9.30pm on a Saturday night – I have a party to get to!!
Thursday 3 November 2011
Mr Nice Guy - Part 1
“I feel bad for you. You’re such a lovely guy and yet you don’t seem to get the girls you want. You’re too nice, that’s your problem. You’re too concerned about not being a dick, that you over compensate.” I wasn’t sure how to take this verbal spanking from G2. She’s talking after reading the 3 part blog I wrote a few months ago, and she has a point. “You should have been out of her place at the crack of dawn!” I couldn’t disagree. I liked the girl though, and in my enthusiasm, I had naively assumed that we’d lie in bed together before going for breakfast somewhere.
That was then though and this is now. On a whim, and the suggestion of a friend, I have signed up to an online dating site and over the next couple of days I have dates lined up with four girls.
It’s a Friday night and for once I arrive on time at the venue for date one. So used are people to my lateness, that G2 has even texted me to ensure that I am punctual. My natural instincts tell me to walk around the block, which I do, just in time to receive a text from the girl saying that she is running late.
I order a Vodka and Tonic at the bar and wait, and as I wait, I realise that I can’t remember what she looks like. A tall brunette walks through the door. ‘Close, but I think I’d remember if it was that one.’ A few minutes later though and I get a tap on the shoulder. “Hiii...” she says as I turn around and I recognise her from her pictures, although she seems less attractive and shorter than I’d imagined. She’s also wearing thick rimmed glasses. “Sorry about the glasses”, she says “I’ve got an eye infection and I’m not allowed to wear my lenses”. “That’s alright,” I smile “they look quite cute”. The glasses do nothing for her and she knows it, and so if I can make her feel a bit better about them and be a bit charming in the process then so much the better. She smiles “Aww thanks”.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asks. ‘Yes, twenty fucking minutes’ “Only about 10 minutes” I say. “Would you like a drink? I ask with my glass in hand. “Just a diet coke thanks.” There is an awkward silence as I wait to get served. Eventually I hand her the diet coke. She asks me what I do and where I’m from and then goes into a fifteen minute monologue about what she does and how she doesn’t enjoy her job. We order more drinks, which we finish after more conversation, just as she asks “Shall we get something to eat?” I already know that this girl isn’t what I was hoping for. She speaks about herself in a flat monotone, without asking questions and I can’t get excited about her or see it going anywhere. I should say no. I should say I have somewhere to be or that it’s been a long day and I’m tired. But it’s Friday night and I don’t have plans and the thought of going home to watch crap television doesn’t fill me with joy. But for some reason, it feels like it would be rude to bale out at 9.30pm on a Friday night. Plus I haven’t eaten much, in the expectation that this might go well and we’d go somewhere for something to eat. The fact that she’s dull as a turnip has done nothing to take away my hunger pangs. “Ok sure” I say.
We pop to a local Wagamama after she has said that she doesn’t want to spend much money. “So what do you reckon to this internet dating lark then?” she says as she munches on some noodles. “It’s ok, I’m quite new to it actually” I say before ordering another drink. “I’ve got another one tomorrow” she says. ‘Yeah – well I’ve got two!’ “Good for you” I say. We finally finish and head towards Hungerford Bridge where we are to part. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you” she says “Likewise, good luck on your date tomorrow.” I say genuinely before heading to the tube so I can dissect the evening on the way home.
The next morning I get a call from G2 to ask how it went, and so I tell her. “So she was dull and you didn’t like her and yet you still went out for dinner?” she says. “What is wrong with you??” “Well I didn’t have any other Friday night plans and I was hungry” I protest. “No, that’s an excuse. What did I say about you being too nice? This was a first date and so you should have been in and out of there – two hours max!” “Okay okay” I say with an air of resignation. “So when’s your next one?” she asks. “In about...” I look at my watch “Shit! 45 minutes I’m late...”
That was then though and this is now. On a whim, and the suggestion of a friend, I have signed up to an online dating site and over the next couple of days I have dates lined up with four girls.
It’s a Friday night and for once I arrive on time at the venue for date one. So used are people to my lateness, that G2 has even texted me to ensure that I am punctual. My natural instincts tell me to walk around the block, which I do, just in time to receive a text from the girl saying that she is running late.
I order a Vodka and Tonic at the bar and wait, and as I wait, I realise that I can’t remember what she looks like. A tall brunette walks through the door. ‘Close, but I think I’d remember if it was that one.’ A few minutes later though and I get a tap on the shoulder. “Hiii...” she says as I turn around and I recognise her from her pictures, although she seems less attractive and shorter than I’d imagined. She’s also wearing thick rimmed glasses. “Sorry about the glasses”, she says “I’ve got an eye infection and I’m not allowed to wear my lenses”. “That’s alright,” I smile “they look quite cute”. The glasses do nothing for her and she knows it, and so if I can make her feel a bit better about them and be a bit charming in the process then so much the better. She smiles “Aww thanks”.
“Have you been waiting long?” she asks. ‘Yes, twenty fucking minutes’ “Only about 10 minutes” I say. “Would you like a drink? I ask with my glass in hand. “Just a diet coke thanks.” There is an awkward silence as I wait to get served. Eventually I hand her the diet coke. She asks me what I do and where I’m from and then goes into a fifteen minute monologue about what she does and how she doesn’t enjoy her job. We order more drinks, which we finish after more conversation, just as she asks “Shall we get something to eat?” I already know that this girl isn’t what I was hoping for. She speaks about herself in a flat monotone, without asking questions and I can’t get excited about her or see it going anywhere. I should say no. I should say I have somewhere to be or that it’s been a long day and I’m tired. But it’s Friday night and I don’t have plans and the thought of going home to watch crap television doesn’t fill me with joy. But for some reason, it feels like it would be rude to bale out at 9.30pm on a Friday night. Plus I haven’t eaten much, in the expectation that this might go well and we’d go somewhere for something to eat. The fact that she’s dull as a turnip has done nothing to take away my hunger pangs. “Ok sure” I say.
We pop to a local Wagamama after she has said that she doesn’t want to spend much money. “So what do you reckon to this internet dating lark then?” she says as she munches on some noodles. “It’s ok, I’m quite new to it actually” I say before ordering another drink. “I’ve got another one tomorrow” she says. ‘Yeah – well I’ve got two!’ “Good for you” I say. We finally finish and head towards Hungerford Bridge where we are to part. “Well, it’s been nice to meet you” she says “Likewise, good luck on your date tomorrow.” I say genuinely before heading to the tube so I can dissect the evening on the way home.
The next morning I get a call from G2 to ask how it went, and so I tell her. “So she was dull and you didn’t like her and yet you still went out for dinner?” she says. “What is wrong with you??” “Well I didn’t have any other Friday night plans and I was hungry” I protest. “No, that’s an excuse. What did I say about you being too nice? This was a first date and so you should have been in and out of there – two hours max!” “Okay okay” I say with an air of resignation. “So when’s your next one?” she asks. “In about...” I look at my watch “Shit! 45 minutes I’m late...”
Monday 31 October 2011
Last Day At Work
I was going to write about something else today. Someone said to me yesterday that they were looking forward to my next blog and to hear lots about what has been going on in my life – such is the fact that I haven’t blogged for ages. She’s entirely right of course, and I have lots to bring you all up to speed on. For now though, I want to talk to you about my day today, which happens to be my last day at work.
I started working at this place almost exactly a year ago. At that time, I had been out of work for a while, and so I was elated to get this position. Today though, I feel as if a weight is being lifted. I have attended project meetings this morning where people have spoken about this problem or that problem. A delay here, an issue there, and it feels so good to know that after today, it will be something that someone else will have to think about.
Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed working here and to an extent and I have gained some new experiences and learned new skill sets. I have met some terrific people and formed relationships that will go beyond my time here. But it has also feels like the last year has been a desperately long one. I haven’t had a break in over a year or taken any time off and I have woken at 6am every morning more or less and experienced a daily 3 hour commute, which has also had a knock on effect on my social life.
“I bet you’ll glad to see the end of the commute eh?” says a colleague. But the truth is that I don’t think I will. I’ve had three hours a day when I can just concentrate on the pleasure of reading a book. I have probably read more books in the last year than I have in the previous five. I have read biographies, crime thrillers, political thrillers, classics, chick lit, comic novels, self help books and more... I have met dates on the daily commute, I have bumped into friends that I haven’t seen for years, I have got blog stories and I even met John Cleese.
So whilst it’s been an interesting time, it’s going to feel good to have a little time off. Don’t get me wrong, I will not be spending my time sitting around. Life is about to get busy. I have a birthday party to organise, a CV to revise, jobs to apply for, blogs to write, a novel to start, a holiday to book and a flat that could really do with a vacuum.
Life’s interesting and right now I’m feeling pretty good. So let’s see what the next adventure has in store...
I started working at this place almost exactly a year ago. At that time, I had been out of work for a while, and so I was elated to get this position. Today though, I feel as if a weight is being lifted. I have attended project meetings this morning where people have spoken about this problem or that problem. A delay here, an issue there, and it feels so good to know that after today, it will be something that someone else will have to think about.
Don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed working here and to an extent and I have gained some new experiences and learned new skill sets. I have met some terrific people and formed relationships that will go beyond my time here. But it has also feels like the last year has been a desperately long one. I haven’t had a break in over a year or taken any time off and I have woken at 6am every morning more or less and experienced a daily 3 hour commute, which has also had a knock on effect on my social life.
“I bet you’ll glad to see the end of the commute eh?” says a colleague. But the truth is that I don’t think I will. I’ve had three hours a day when I can just concentrate on the pleasure of reading a book. I have probably read more books in the last year than I have in the previous five. I have read biographies, crime thrillers, political thrillers, classics, chick lit, comic novels, self help books and more... I have met dates on the daily commute, I have bumped into friends that I haven’t seen for years, I have got blog stories and I even met John Cleese.
So whilst it’s been an interesting time, it’s going to feel good to have a little time off. Don’t get me wrong, I will not be spending my time sitting around. Life is about to get busy. I have a birthday party to organise, a CV to revise, jobs to apply for, blogs to write, a novel to start, a holiday to book and a flat that could really do with a vacuum.
Life’s interesting and right now I’m feeling pretty good. So let’s see what the next adventure has in store...
Saturday 24 September 2011
Breaking Up
It’s a cool wet afternoon in early September as we wander past the Oxo Tower on London’s South Bank. We walk arm in arm and are dressed for a day in late October, such has been the seemingly permanent miserable nature of English summer. “Well..?” I ask. She takes a deep breath and looks at me, “You’re crazy and intense – it’s too much. I don’t want to see you anymore!” I frown as I look at her. “Well that’s not very nice is it” I say as I scratch my chin. “Well how else am I supposed to get through to him?” says G.
I haven’t heard a lot about this guy she’s seeing, and so I’m curious. “Well what’s he like - is he a dick?” I ask. “No, not really. He’s a nice guy” she says. “Okay..” I say, pondering as I take in the information. “What does he look like – is he ugly?” “Nooo” she says defensively, before smiling “In fact he’s got sort of a Bruce Willis thing going on.” “Really? Is he bald?” I ask. “No, he’s not bald” she snaps, “he’s just got a shaved head.” “Oh, you mean like Matt Lucas?” She looks at me with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “So how's your love life?” She asks. “Uh uh, don’t change the subject” I say, kicking a stray conker on the floor. “Do kids still play conkers?” asks G as she watches the conker leave my shoe. “No idea” I say “30 years ago I’d have had that one and taken it home. These days I think the little bastards either spend all day masturbating or playing with their X-boxes.” “Or masturbating WHILST playing with their X-boxes” G counters. We laugh and bump shoulders.
“So, what about this guy?” I say. “Ohh I don’t knowww...” she says, in a way that reminds of my nieces, when I ask them what they’re going to do with their lives. “Well, if he’s a nice guy, then be nice to him and let him down gently. There’s no point upsetting people needlessly. And don’t do what I did with ‘tits on a stick’.” She looks at me, puzzled. “What happened with her again?”
Tits on a stick, as the name suggests, was a girl with huge breasts and a tiny waist, who I went on a number of dates with a few years ago. She was nice and a sweet girl. She was opinionated, which I like, although her opinions tended to be a bit sanctimonious and when we met up, you kind of got the feeling that she had swallowed that days Guardian. Ultimately though, my heart wasn’t in it. I liked her, but I didn’t like her enough to want to go out with her and if I carried on seeing her, then sooner or later she would get on my nerves. As I walked her to the tube station after our last date together, I knew that it was a journey I was making with her for the last time. I looked at my shoes as we walked the last 20 or so metres as I wondered what I was going to say. So when she hung her arms around my neck and said “Ok, see you in a few days”, all I could think was ‘You won’t you know.’ In the end I took the coward’s way out – I didn’t reply to her emails or texts.
“You bastard!” says G. “I know!” I protest. Her eyes are narrowed as she spits out the words “I hope you realise that you probably made her feel like shit!?” “Yes, I know, which is why I’m telling you that if this bloke of yours is a nice guy, then to go easy on him.” I take her arm again and we carry on walking along the river, past the National Theatre. “Don’t get me wrong, I am ashamed of what I did and I wouldn’t do it again.” “Hmmm...” she says, not quite believing me. “Ok, do you know B?” I ask. “Oh I think I’ve met her a couple of times” she says, before raising her eye brows and indicating to me and an imaginary person with her index finger “you mean you and her..?” I nod “Yup” Before she prods me “Well what happened?”
I start to tell her the history. That I went on a few dates with B but that it wasn’t a good time for me. I’ve no idea why really, looking back she was great. The point, was that I didn’t want to go on seeing her just for the sake of it. She was a nice girl and so I didn’t want to hurt her, although inevitably she was bound to feel some hurt. I took her out for a drink to talk and I explained, or tried to explain, that I didn’t think it was the right time for me to be in a new relationship, and that because of that, I felt my heart just wasn’t in it. I liked her though and told her that I would like to remain friends. Yes, I know that might sound like a typical “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, but I genuinely meant every word. She had no idea it was coming as she looked at me and sighed a big sigh. “Ohh... ok.. (sigh) well.. if that’s how you feel...(sigh) I’d better go..” She picked up her coat and bag, kissed me on the cheek and walked out the pub door. As I watched her leave, I knew that I had done the right thing. However, I also felt as if I had just shot Bambi’s mother in the face and had Bambi standing in front of me, pleading, with tears in his eyes, as to how I could be so heartless.
“But she’s a good mate of yours isn’t she?” asks G quizzically. “Yup – but that’s what I’m saying. If this guy’s a nice bloke, and you’re not too harsh in how you finish it, then you might end up with a good mate.”
The clouds open as we reach the second hand book market under Waterloo Bridge. “Come on” she says, “It’s my round and I can’t think on an empty stomach.” We walk into a bar opposite and she fumbles with her bag. I put my hand on her arm “I’ll get this, you can buy the next one” I say. She smiles and turns to pop to the ladies. She’s half way there before she turns back to me. “Oh and by the way, I can be very nice. In fact that’s why you like me so much” she says and sticks her tongue out before giggling and heading to the toilets. I smile and watch her go before noticing her perfect bottom in her tight low slung jeans as she skips away. ‘Of course, that’s exactly the reason...’
I haven’t heard a lot about this guy she’s seeing, and so I’m curious. “Well what’s he like - is he a dick?” I ask. “No, not really. He’s a nice guy” she says. “Okay..” I say, pondering as I take in the information. “What does he look like – is he ugly?” “Nooo” she says defensively, before smiling “In fact he’s got sort of a Bruce Willis thing going on.” “Really? Is he bald?” I ask. “No, he’s not bald” she snaps, “he’s just got a shaved head.” “Oh, you mean like Matt Lucas?” She looks at me with her lips pursed and her eyes narrowed. “So how's your love life?” She asks. “Uh uh, don’t change the subject” I say, kicking a stray conker on the floor. “Do kids still play conkers?” asks G as she watches the conker leave my shoe. “No idea” I say “30 years ago I’d have had that one and taken it home. These days I think the little bastards either spend all day masturbating or playing with their X-boxes.” “Or masturbating WHILST playing with their X-boxes” G counters. We laugh and bump shoulders.
“So, what about this guy?” I say. “Ohh I don’t knowww...” she says, in a way that reminds of my nieces, when I ask them what they’re going to do with their lives. “Well, if he’s a nice guy, then be nice to him and let him down gently. There’s no point upsetting people needlessly. And don’t do what I did with ‘tits on a stick’.” She looks at me, puzzled. “What happened with her again?”
Tits on a stick, as the name suggests, was a girl with huge breasts and a tiny waist, who I went on a number of dates with a few years ago. She was nice and a sweet girl. She was opinionated, which I like, although her opinions tended to be a bit sanctimonious and when we met up, you kind of got the feeling that she had swallowed that days Guardian. Ultimately though, my heart wasn’t in it. I liked her, but I didn’t like her enough to want to go out with her and if I carried on seeing her, then sooner or later she would get on my nerves. As I walked her to the tube station after our last date together, I knew that it was a journey I was making with her for the last time. I looked at my shoes as we walked the last 20 or so metres as I wondered what I was going to say. So when she hung her arms around my neck and said “Ok, see you in a few days”, all I could think was ‘You won’t you know.’ In the end I took the coward’s way out – I didn’t reply to her emails or texts.
“You bastard!” says G. “I know!” I protest. Her eyes are narrowed as she spits out the words “I hope you realise that you probably made her feel like shit!?” “Yes, I know, which is why I’m telling you that if this bloke of yours is a nice guy, then to go easy on him.” I take her arm again and we carry on walking along the river, past the National Theatre. “Don’t get me wrong, I am ashamed of what I did and I wouldn’t do it again.” “Hmmm...” she says, not quite believing me. “Ok, do you know B?” I ask. “Oh I think I’ve met her a couple of times” she says, before raising her eye brows and indicating to me and an imaginary person with her index finger “you mean you and her..?” I nod “Yup” Before she prods me “Well what happened?”
I start to tell her the history. That I went on a few dates with B but that it wasn’t a good time for me. I’ve no idea why really, looking back she was great. The point, was that I didn’t want to go on seeing her just for the sake of it. She was a nice girl and so I didn’t want to hurt her, although inevitably she was bound to feel some hurt. I took her out for a drink to talk and I explained, or tried to explain, that I didn’t think it was the right time for me to be in a new relationship, and that because of that, I felt my heart just wasn’t in it. I liked her though and told her that I would like to remain friends. Yes, I know that might sound like a typical “it’s not you, it’s me” speech, but I genuinely meant every word. She had no idea it was coming as she looked at me and sighed a big sigh. “Ohh... ok.. (sigh) well.. if that’s how you feel...(sigh) I’d better go..” She picked up her coat and bag, kissed me on the cheek and walked out the pub door. As I watched her leave, I knew that I had done the right thing. However, I also felt as if I had just shot Bambi’s mother in the face and had Bambi standing in front of me, pleading, with tears in his eyes, as to how I could be so heartless.
“But she’s a good mate of yours isn’t she?” asks G quizzically. “Yup – but that’s what I’m saying. If this guy’s a nice bloke, and you’re not too harsh in how you finish it, then you might end up with a good mate.”
The clouds open as we reach the second hand book market under Waterloo Bridge. “Come on” she says, “It’s my round and I can’t think on an empty stomach.” We walk into a bar opposite and she fumbles with her bag. I put my hand on her arm “I’ll get this, you can buy the next one” I say. She smiles and turns to pop to the ladies. She’s half way there before she turns back to me. “Oh and by the way, I can be very nice. In fact that’s why you like me so much” she says and sticks her tongue out before giggling and heading to the toilets. I smile and watch her go before noticing her perfect bottom in her tight low slung jeans as she skips away. ‘Of course, that’s exactly the reason...’
Saturday 3 September 2011
A Moment of Shyness
I’m at a Jazz concert with friends, eating dinner and drinking wine, within the crypt of an old church in the West End of London. The band itself is playing quite a funky mix of covers and quite a few members of the audience are dancing around their tables – some, more embarrassingly than others it has to be said. The demographic is such that we seem to be one of the most youthful tables at the venue – although this tends to lend itself to a more relaxed and friendly atmosphere.
Out of the corner of my eye, I have seen a girl dancing alone who seems to be having a great time. She looks like she might be Spanish or Portuguese. She is about 27 or 28, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. Whether she’s alone or not, I can only guess, as I scan the area to see who she might be with.
Someone fetches another bottle of wine and we dip into more conversation. I occasionally look over to steal glances at the girl as a friend talks to me. She hasn’t stopped dancing and looks for all the world like she’s having the time of her life. I turn back to my friend to listen to the rest of what he is saying, and realise that he has stopped talking and is staring at me. “What?” I say. “Go and talk to her” he says. “No, she’s obviously having a good time and is just into her dancing. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway” I say casually. It’s true, I have a mental block about what to say. This is ridiculous. How is it that I can arrange a date with a beautiful stranger at a set of traffic lights in the pouring rain and yet I’m too shy to say hello, in a relaxed and romantic setting such as this..? “Just fucking go and say hello” says my friend, supportively. He knows the truth though - that I have been struck by a crippling shyness and can’t see a way out of it.
An older woman looks at me, and motions for me to go over to her. She has been sitting to the right of where the girl is dancing and I wonder if they’re together as part of the same group.
I walk over to her and smile. “You young people, you waste too much time” she says, shaking her head and indicating over at the girl. “You’ve been looking at her all night – go and dance with her” I look at the dancing girl, and she looks at me and she smiles and then we are dancing together and it feels so easy, and then two minutes later I hear the lead singer of the band over the speakers “Ok, this is the last song of the night”. “Oh what!!?” I’m not sure if I’ve said it aloud or in my head. I look at the older woman. “I told you” she says.
The girl and I continue to dance until the music stops and I tell her my name and ask her where she’s from. She offers me her hand. “I’m Priscilla” she says “I’m from Brazil but I’ve only been here 3 days” It turns out that she’s in town for only one more day before going to Liverpool for a few days and then going on to the Czech Republic, before heading back to Brazil. “Are you here with friends?” I ask. “No, I’m travelling alone. I love it that way and I’m having such a wonderful time. Every day I’m thinking of 5 things to do and then I discover 5 more things. It’s a wonderful city” She is full of optimism and wide eyed enthusiasm, in a way which is so unbelievably attractive. A moments silence ensues as the place starts to empty “Well, I’d better go – I need to try and call home. It was lovely to meet you though” she says, as my friends walk over. “Bye then” I say, unable to think of a way to detain her, and I watch as she turns and walks off with a wave of her hand.
“There you go mate, do you feel better for talking to her?” “No” I say, “Oh fucking hell..” I dejectedly curse under my breath. I’m annoyed at myself for faffing around and not speaking to her earlier and I tell my friend as much on our way to the exit. As I get to the bottom of the stairs though, I see her again, picking up leaflets of things to do in London. “Hello again” I say. “Oh hello” she says with a smile. We climb the stairs to the exit together and she talks more in detail about her trip and how she enjoys travelling alone to see new places, as she gets to do a lot more things and meet a lot more people. My friends walk over to say goodbye to me, and she takes this as her cue to leave, for good this time. “Oh well, it was really lovely to meet you” she says. She hugs me goodbye and we kiss on both cheeks and I watch as she joins the crowds of tourists heading towards Trafalgar Square.
“Sorry mate, we didn’t mean to interrupt. We only came over to say see you later.” I sigh and let out a deep breath before wearing a manufactured smile. “Don’t worry about it mate, my fault.” I turn back and watch, feeling impotent to the moment, as she gradually gets crowded out by the tourists before finally disappearing from view. And already the self recrimination has set in, as I torture myself with the haunting memory of yet another road not taken.
Still, I guess there’s always next time...
Out of the corner of my eye, I have seen a girl dancing alone who seems to be having a great time. She looks like she might be Spanish or Portuguese. She is about 27 or 28, with long brown hair and big brown eyes. Whether she’s alone or not, I can only guess, as I scan the area to see who she might be with.
Someone fetches another bottle of wine and we dip into more conversation. I occasionally look over to steal glances at the girl as a friend talks to me. She hasn’t stopped dancing and looks for all the world like she’s having the time of her life. I turn back to my friend to listen to the rest of what he is saying, and realise that he has stopped talking and is staring at me. “What?” I say. “Go and talk to her” he says. “No, she’s obviously having a good time and is just into her dancing. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway” I say casually. It’s true, I have a mental block about what to say. This is ridiculous. How is it that I can arrange a date with a beautiful stranger at a set of traffic lights in the pouring rain and yet I’m too shy to say hello, in a relaxed and romantic setting such as this..? “Just fucking go and say hello” says my friend, supportively. He knows the truth though - that I have been struck by a crippling shyness and can’t see a way out of it.
An older woman looks at me, and motions for me to go over to her. She has been sitting to the right of where the girl is dancing and I wonder if they’re together as part of the same group.
I walk over to her and smile. “You young people, you waste too much time” she says, shaking her head and indicating over at the girl. “You’ve been looking at her all night – go and dance with her” I look at the dancing girl, and she looks at me and she smiles and then we are dancing together and it feels so easy, and then two minutes later I hear the lead singer of the band over the speakers “Ok, this is the last song of the night”. “Oh what!!?” I’m not sure if I’ve said it aloud or in my head. I look at the older woman. “I told you” she says.
The girl and I continue to dance until the music stops and I tell her my name and ask her where she’s from. She offers me her hand. “I’m Priscilla” she says “I’m from Brazil but I’ve only been here 3 days” It turns out that she’s in town for only one more day before going to Liverpool for a few days and then going on to the Czech Republic, before heading back to Brazil. “Are you here with friends?” I ask. “No, I’m travelling alone. I love it that way and I’m having such a wonderful time. Every day I’m thinking of 5 things to do and then I discover 5 more things. It’s a wonderful city” She is full of optimism and wide eyed enthusiasm, in a way which is so unbelievably attractive. A moments silence ensues as the place starts to empty “Well, I’d better go – I need to try and call home. It was lovely to meet you though” she says, as my friends walk over. “Bye then” I say, unable to think of a way to detain her, and I watch as she turns and walks off with a wave of her hand.
“There you go mate, do you feel better for talking to her?” “No” I say, “Oh fucking hell..” I dejectedly curse under my breath. I’m annoyed at myself for faffing around and not speaking to her earlier and I tell my friend as much on our way to the exit. As I get to the bottom of the stairs though, I see her again, picking up leaflets of things to do in London. “Hello again” I say. “Oh hello” she says with a smile. We climb the stairs to the exit together and she talks more in detail about her trip and how she enjoys travelling alone to see new places, as she gets to do a lot more things and meet a lot more people. My friends walk over to say goodbye to me, and she takes this as her cue to leave, for good this time. “Oh well, it was really lovely to meet you” she says. She hugs me goodbye and we kiss on both cheeks and I watch as she joins the crowds of tourists heading towards Trafalgar Square.
“Sorry mate, we didn’t mean to interrupt. We only came over to say see you later.” I sigh and let out a deep breath before wearing a manufactured smile. “Don’t worry about it mate, my fault.” I turn back and watch, feeling impotent to the moment, as she gradually gets crowded out by the tourists before finally disappearing from view. And already the self recrimination has set in, as I torture myself with the haunting memory of yet another road not taken.
Still, I guess there’s always next time...
Monday 22 August 2011
Looking Back and Making Memories
For the past couple of weeks, I have been in contact with a close friend whose grandfather is passing away and has recently moved into a hospice. It’s the first time she has experienced anything like this so I’m checking to see that she’s ok. We have been exchanging regular texts, but it was one in particular that she sent that got me thinking.
"I don’t know how people deal with death, it’s bizarre to think that life just continues on”
I was incredibly close to my grandad and loved him dearly. I spent a week with him during the last two summers before he died. He was a huge influence on my life and his presence is still felt whenever I get together with my brothers, both in our humour and in the way we look at the world. When I cried at his funeral, it was the first time I cried in public.
In 2004 I bought an old MGB and I still have it to this day. My dad saw it for the first time when he visited at Christmas that year. “I bet that goes doesn’t it?” he said, as he walked past it on the way to his car to drive off. “Yeah it’s not bad” I replied, “I’ll bring it up one day.” Before I knew it though Easter had arrived and then it was May. I knew I had to organise a weekend to go up and see him, if only I could get around to organising a time. Then, on the Tuesday morning after the May bank holiday, the phone rang. It was my older brother and I was still in bed when I answered. “I’ve had a call from M, the old man died last night.” He said to take some time and to call him back. I ended the call. “What’s the matter?” said my girlfriend at the time. “My Dad’s dead” I replied, my bottom lip trembling and my eyes filling with tears.
I took some time off work, before going back 4 days later. On the first day back, I was due to attend a meeting in Birmingham of all places – as if I wasn’t depressed enough. As I sat at the conference table, my mind was anywhere but in the meeting. I didn’t want to be there. I couldn’t think of anything but Dad. What made it worse was that just about everyone looked at me and gave me a sympathetic “hope you’re ok” nod. All this did though was to make the golf ball sized lump in my throat swell to that of a tennis ball. I could feel my eyes, hot and damp ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it’ I thought to myself, ‘Hold it together, please don’t cry here, not in front of everyone’. I managed to get through the meeting and I caught the train back to London with a colleague. I was hoping to God that he wouldn’t ask me how I was. I didn’t want to talk about my Dad. The lump in my throat was still there and I was amazed that I’d been able to hold it as long as I had. “So mate, do you want to hear about the fit Aussie bird that I shagged on Saturday?” It was the first time I’d smiled all week. “YES!” I shouted with relief “tell me everything!!”
I went into pragmatic mode as I organised the funeral. This was itself an entertainment with it’s own comedy value. My parents were divorced and he’d been living up in the Midlands, and so we weren’t entirely sure where to bury him. He spent some happy childhood years with an Aunt in Derbyshire during the war and she had passed away only a couple of years previously. Should we bury him with her, in the same grave? Was that something he’d have wanted? I spoke to the local vicar who said, “You need to speak with Dave the gravedigger”. The next day I received a call “Hi, it’s Dave the gravedigger.” He sounded for all the world, like an east end builder looking for someone to haggle with over the price of a loft conversion. “Yeah, you can get him in there” he said, before following up with “depends how legal you want to be though.” Apparently, the necessary depth between the top of the coffin and the ground would be one inch too short. In the end, we brought him back down to Hertfordshire and he is now buried in a churchyard close to the family.
There are things I regret – conversations I wish we’d had, journeys to see him that I didn’t take and goodbyes that I wished I had been able to make – but didn’t have the chance, as he went so suddenly. But there were three things that helped me through it all. Firstly, there was the practicality of organising the funeral. Finding somewhere for him to be buried, organising flowers, deciding what sort of wood we wanted for the coffin etc – you just didn’t have time to get sad. Secondly, was the support of a loving family and my former partner. Any time I had a ‘moment’, she’d give me a hug and I’d be fine. Thirdly, I’d talk to my Dad. I thought of the things that I’d wanted to say to him and then I said them. I’d imagine that he was standing next to me – in the car park whilst I was buying a ticket, in the supermarket as I was finding a trolley, or in the petrol station as I was filling up. I’d talk to him and say what I wanted to say. Looking back on it, I must have resembled the sort of nutter that you avoid on the tube, but it helped. It still does and I talk to him at his graveside when I visit the churchyard. In some ways I talk to him more now than I did when he was here – at least I always win the argument now.
It’s this that I want to say to my friend. I would give anything to have just 5 minutes with Dad and Grandad – to tell them I loved them and to be able to say all the things that I wanted to say. And I want to remind her – to remind myself for that matter, that whilst the people we love are still with us, that we are still making memories and not just looking back on them.
"I don’t know how people deal with death, it’s bizarre to think that life just continues on”
I was incredibly close to my grandad and loved him dearly. I spent a week with him during the last two summers before he died. He was a huge influence on my life and his presence is still felt whenever I get together with my brothers, both in our humour and in the way we look at the world. When I cried at his funeral, it was the first time I cried in public.
In 2004 I bought an old MGB and I still have it to this day. My dad saw it for the first time when he visited at Christmas that year. “I bet that goes doesn’t it?” he said, as he walked past it on the way to his car to drive off. “Yeah it’s not bad” I replied, “I’ll bring it up one day.” Before I knew it though Easter had arrived and then it was May. I knew I had to organise a weekend to go up and see him, if only I could get around to organising a time. Then, on the Tuesday morning after the May bank holiday, the phone rang. It was my older brother and I was still in bed when I answered. “I’ve had a call from M, the old man died last night.” He said to take some time and to call him back. I ended the call. “What’s the matter?” said my girlfriend at the time. “My Dad’s dead” I replied, my bottom lip trembling and my eyes filling with tears.
I took some time off work, before going back 4 days later. On the first day back, I was due to attend a meeting in Birmingham of all places – as if I wasn’t depressed enough. As I sat at the conference table, my mind was anywhere but in the meeting. I didn’t want to be there. I couldn’t think of anything but Dad. What made it worse was that just about everyone looked at me and gave me a sympathetic “hope you’re ok” nod. All this did though was to make the golf ball sized lump in my throat swell to that of a tennis ball. I could feel my eyes, hot and damp ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it’ I thought to myself, ‘Hold it together, please don’t cry here, not in front of everyone’. I managed to get through the meeting and I caught the train back to London with a colleague. I was hoping to God that he wouldn’t ask me how I was. I didn’t want to talk about my Dad. The lump in my throat was still there and I was amazed that I’d been able to hold it as long as I had. “So mate, do you want to hear about the fit Aussie bird that I shagged on Saturday?” It was the first time I’d smiled all week. “YES!” I shouted with relief “tell me everything!!”
I went into pragmatic mode as I organised the funeral. This was itself an entertainment with it’s own comedy value. My parents were divorced and he’d been living up in the Midlands, and so we weren’t entirely sure where to bury him. He spent some happy childhood years with an Aunt in Derbyshire during the war and she had passed away only a couple of years previously. Should we bury him with her, in the same grave? Was that something he’d have wanted? I spoke to the local vicar who said, “You need to speak with Dave the gravedigger”. The next day I received a call “Hi, it’s Dave the gravedigger.” He sounded for all the world, like an east end builder looking for someone to haggle with over the price of a loft conversion. “Yeah, you can get him in there” he said, before following up with “depends how legal you want to be though.” Apparently, the necessary depth between the top of the coffin and the ground would be one inch too short. In the end, we brought him back down to Hertfordshire and he is now buried in a churchyard close to the family.
There are things I regret – conversations I wish we’d had, journeys to see him that I didn’t take and goodbyes that I wished I had been able to make – but didn’t have the chance, as he went so suddenly. But there were three things that helped me through it all. Firstly, there was the practicality of organising the funeral. Finding somewhere for him to be buried, organising flowers, deciding what sort of wood we wanted for the coffin etc – you just didn’t have time to get sad. Secondly, was the support of a loving family and my former partner. Any time I had a ‘moment’, she’d give me a hug and I’d be fine. Thirdly, I’d talk to my Dad. I thought of the things that I’d wanted to say to him and then I said them. I’d imagine that he was standing next to me – in the car park whilst I was buying a ticket, in the supermarket as I was finding a trolley, or in the petrol station as I was filling up. I’d talk to him and say what I wanted to say. Looking back on it, I must have resembled the sort of nutter that you avoid on the tube, but it helped. It still does and I talk to him at his graveside when I visit the churchyard. In some ways I talk to him more now than I did when he was here – at least I always win the argument now.
It’s this that I want to say to my friend. I would give anything to have just 5 minutes with Dad and Grandad – to tell them I loved them and to be able to say all the things that I wanted to say. And I want to remind her – to remind myself for that matter, that whilst the people we love are still with us, that we are still making memories and not just looking back on them.
Tuesday 9 August 2011
The Gym Class
Right, you’re up to date now on the fact that I go to the gym. I’m at the stage where I’ve been going for a few years and I really quite enjoy it. I mean it’s still been a slog and can take a monumental effort at times to get motivated, but I’m much trimmer than I used to be and, well.. yes, I’m in reasonably good shape now. The turning point for me was a few years ago and happened when I started to notice a change, which others then noticed too.
I remember walking past the mirror after showering one morning, when I caught a glimpse of a rib that I hadn’t seen before – I was elated. After what seemed like weeks of slogging my guts out, lifting weights and running on the treadmill, I was finally able to see that the hard work was starting to pay off. It was about at the same time when a work colleague said “You’re looking trim, have you been working out?” ‘YES, YES!!! Fucking yes, I have and I’m so glad you noticed!!’ I thought, as I nodded and confirmed “Yeah, a little bit”.
Anyway, I was on my way to a gym session last week when I bumped into a couple of friends who had just finished a workout and were leaving. “Hey, are you coming to do the strongman session with us next week? Come on, it’s a great workout” The strongman class is a session where a personal trainer takes a group through a number of different circuits. It’s slightly different to a regular circuit training session, using very different weights on individual stations and is designed to be that much harder. I didn’t really want to go, but they applied peer pressure and I couldn’t really think of a good reason not to. So out of ideas and seemingly cornered, I agreed to go to the next session.
On the night of the class in question, I arrive just in time, if not slightly early for once. First, the warm up. I stretch my legs, in anticipation of being sent on a run. “Right, we’ll start on the bag” says the trainer. “Oh, right” I say, scouring the floor for gloves to use on the big punch bag on the ground in front of me. “Oh, you’re not going to be punching it, you’re going to be catching it and passing it on.” ‘Oh God’ “Here” he says, catching me slightly unawares, as he tosses the dense 4 ft tall bag up in the air in my direction.
Now here I have an embarrassing confession – I can’t catch. I’m a total butter fingers and it’s the reason I tried, and failed, to avoid playing rugby and cricket at school. Surely it’s always far easier to avoid a sport you’re not very good at. Better that, than to put oneself through the humiliation of dropping the rugby ball just yards from the try line every time, whilst listening to the despairing groans of your team mates.
Well this isn’t a try line, it’s a gym. I’m now in my thirties and my teammates are the other guys in the class. The pressure I’m putting myself under though is just as intense, as almost in slow motion, the bag rotates through the air, getting closer and closer. It feels like it is heading straight for my face, as I take a step back and bend my knees slightly in anticipation.
If I drop this then I will I will hear derision from the others in the class and in an instant, I will be transported back to the rugby field in 1989. ‘Catch it, catch it, don’t fuck it up, you’ve GOT to catch this!’ I open my arms, ready to envelope the bag as it comes into contact. I’ve no idea how heavy this thing is, when suddenly it slams into my chest. ‘Arms, use your arms, clasp it!’ My right arm wraps around it, but it seems to slip from my left. The angle of my right arm won’t hold it on its own, and I feel my grip loosening. It’s going to fall, I’m going to drop it and what I feared most is about to happen. ‘No, don’t drop it you muppet!’ I lift my left knee as a counter to my right arm, which gives just enough balance for me to wrap my left arm around it again. My grip is now firm, as I realise that I have caught it and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Nice one” says the instructor, ”Now throw it over your head to the guy behind you and go to the back of the line, ready for the next catch.”
‘Oh God, here we go again...’
I remember walking past the mirror after showering one morning, when I caught a glimpse of a rib that I hadn’t seen before – I was elated. After what seemed like weeks of slogging my guts out, lifting weights and running on the treadmill, I was finally able to see that the hard work was starting to pay off. It was about at the same time when a work colleague said “You’re looking trim, have you been working out?” ‘YES, YES!!! Fucking yes, I have and I’m so glad you noticed!!’ I thought, as I nodded and confirmed “Yeah, a little bit”.
Anyway, I was on my way to a gym session last week when I bumped into a couple of friends who had just finished a workout and were leaving. “Hey, are you coming to do the strongman session with us next week? Come on, it’s a great workout” The strongman class is a session where a personal trainer takes a group through a number of different circuits. It’s slightly different to a regular circuit training session, using very different weights on individual stations and is designed to be that much harder. I didn’t really want to go, but they applied peer pressure and I couldn’t really think of a good reason not to. So out of ideas and seemingly cornered, I agreed to go to the next session.
On the night of the class in question, I arrive just in time, if not slightly early for once. First, the warm up. I stretch my legs, in anticipation of being sent on a run. “Right, we’ll start on the bag” says the trainer. “Oh, right” I say, scouring the floor for gloves to use on the big punch bag on the ground in front of me. “Oh, you’re not going to be punching it, you’re going to be catching it and passing it on.” ‘Oh God’ “Here” he says, catching me slightly unawares, as he tosses the dense 4 ft tall bag up in the air in my direction.
Now here I have an embarrassing confession – I can’t catch. I’m a total butter fingers and it’s the reason I tried, and failed, to avoid playing rugby and cricket at school. Surely it’s always far easier to avoid a sport you’re not very good at. Better that, than to put oneself through the humiliation of dropping the rugby ball just yards from the try line every time, whilst listening to the despairing groans of your team mates.
Well this isn’t a try line, it’s a gym. I’m now in my thirties and my teammates are the other guys in the class. The pressure I’m putting myself under though is just as intense, as almost in slow motion, the bag rotates through the air, getting closer and closer. It feels like it is heading straight for my face, as I take a step back and bend my knees slightly in anticipation.
If I drop this then I will I will hear derision from the others in the class and in an instant, I will be transported back to the rugby field in 1989. ‘Catch it, catch it, don’t fuck it up, you’ve GOT to catch this!’ I open my arms, ready to envelope the bag as it comes into contact. I’ve no idea how heavy this thing is, when suddenly it slams into my chest. ‘Arms, use your arms, clasp it!’ My right arm wraps around it, but it seems to slip from my left. The angle of my right arm won’t hold it on its own, and I feel my grip loosening. It’s going to fall, I’m going to drop it and what I feared most is about to happen. ‘No, don’t drop it you muppet!’ I lift my left knee as a counter to my right arm, which gives just enough balance for me to wrap my left arm around it again. My grip is now firm, as I realise that I have caught it and I breathe a sigh of relief.
“Nice one” says the instructor, ”Now throw it over your head to the guy behind you and go to the back of the line, ready for the next catch.”
‘Oh God, here we go again...’
Thursday 4 August 2011
When To Join The Gym
I was walking out of my local sports centre the other day, following a workout. I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had managed to get out of bed and be in the gym before 10am and had spent an hour running, lifting weights and stretching – not bad for a Saturday morning. As I walked towards the front door, I noticed the latest poster on a notice board, intended to attract new members. It had the name of the gym, with the words “Where The Fit People Are” in big red letters. ‘Yup’ I thought, as if I was the person they had in mind when thinking up the strap line, ‘That’s me’ and with that I held my stomach in until I was out of the front door.
I haven’t always been a member of a gym though. A few years ago it was a very different affair. Up until I was 24 years old, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted and not put on an ounce. I’d eat chicken pies and chips and desserts in the staff canteen daily, together with Mars Bars and Twix and crisps and so on and so forth, and I wouldn’t think twice about it – I didn’t need to. I was stick thin and I didn’t see any reason to imagine that that might change.
Within what seemed like a heartbeat though, I seemed to reach my late Twenties and then early Thirties and I noticed a sagging at the top of my neck. I first saw it when getting a haircut one day. I was wearing a roll neck sweater and noticed that I seemed to have two chins. I told myself that it was the sweater that gave the impression of looking slightly chunky rather than me actually being slightly chunky.
I thought I looked fine as I saw myself in the mirror every morning. But that’s the problem with looking at yourself daily – you don’t notice change. Even when I moved to a different belt notch, I didn’t give it much thought. Surely I was just filling out – the natural process that everyone goes through as a part of getting older, wasn’t I..?
Not everyone thought so. I dismissed jibes from friends as part and parcel of matey banter and general ribbing and didn’t really take any of it to heart, carrying on in blissful ignorance. I wasn’t fat exactly, but I was bigger than I used to be. And as I saw it, the last thing I wanted, or needed for that matter was gym membership and I avoided it as all cost. It took someone else to make me aware though. When it came to giving me a message, there was only one person who could shock me into seeing things differently.
Let me first say that my Mum is the sweetest, loveliest and best person I know. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body or a mean word to say about anyone. She loves meeting people and everyone who meets her, loves her. Amazing though her loveliness is however, it can also lull you into a false sense of security, and when a pertinent comment comes, the effect can be like a playground football shattering a classroom window.
I was visiting home one weekend when I made the mistake of walking downstairs to make tea in the morning with my shirt off. “Are you going to get dressed today?” asked Mum, watching me as I stirred my tea. “Yeah, of course” I said, “I’m just making a cup of tea and then I’ll go upstairs and put on a shirt” “Oh good, only...” she reached across, smiled and cupped one of my very modest moobs “...if you want to borrow one of my bras – second drawer on the left in my room.”
My gob smacked - the following day I joined the gym.
I haven’t always been a member of a gym though. A few years ago it was a very different affair. Up until I was 24 years old, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted and not put on an ounce. I’d eat chicken pies and chips and desserts in the staff canteen daily, together with Mars Bars and Twix and crisps and so on and so forth, and I wouldn’t think twice about it – I didn’t need to. I was stick thin and I didn’t see any reason to imagine that that might change.
Within what seemed like a heartbeat though, I seemed to reach my late Twenties and then early Thirties and I noticed a sagging at the top of my neck. I first saw it when getting a haircut one day. I was wearing a roll neck sweater and noticed that I seemed to have two chins. I told myself that it was the sweater that gave the impression of looking slightly chunky rather than me actually being slightly chunky.
I thought I looked fine as I saw myself in the mirror every morning. But that’s the problem with looking at yourself daily – you don’t notice change. Even when I moved to a different belt notch, I didn’t give it much thought. Surely I was just filling out – the natural process that everyone goes through as a part of getting older, wasn’t I..?
Not everyone thought so. I dismissed jibes from friends as part and parcel of matey banter and general ribbing and didn’t really take any of it to heart, carrying on in blissful ignorance. I wasn’t fat exactly, but I was bigger than I used to be. And as I saw it, the last thing I wanted, or needed for that matter was gym membership and I avoided it as all cost. It took someone else to make me aware though. When it came to giving me a message, there was only one person who could shock me into seeing things differently.
Let me first say that my Mum is the sweetest, loveliest and best person I know. She doesn’t have a bad bone in her body or a mean word to say about anyone. She loves meeting people and everyone who meets her, loves her. Amazing though her loveliness is however, it can also lull you into a false sense of security, and when a pertinent comment comes, the effect can be like a playground football shattering a classroom window.
I was visiting home one weekend when I made the mistake of walking downstairs to make tea in the morning with my shirt off. “Are you going to get dressed today?” asked Mum, watching me as I stirred my tea. “Yeah, of course” I said, “I’m just making a cup of tea and then I’ll go upstairs and put on a shirt” “Oh good, only...” she reached across, smiled and cupped one of my very modest moobs “...if you want to borrow one of my bras – second drawer on the left in my room.”
My gob smacked - the following day I joined the gym.
Saturday 30 July 2011
The Actress
I look up to see how over cast it is as I make my way home. I am feeling in good spirits, despite the low hanging grey sky, which seems to have become a permanent feature over London. The meeting I have had has gone well and I’m feeling reasonably optimistic about the potential outcomes, work wise. As I approach the traffic lights to cross the main road, the clouds give way under pressure and I feel the first scattering of rain. Luckily for me, and for what seems like the first time in my life, I am prepared and have a small umbrella under my arm. I stand at the edge of the road as the cars splash past and wait for the lights to change, and as I do so, I look around to my left, and that’s when I see her.
She stands there looking forlorn, her coat collar turned up and with her long thick dark hair cascading down over her shoulders. “Forgotten your umbrella?” I ask and immediately regret asking such a redundant question. ‘Forgotten your umbrella? Is that the best you can do?’ “Yeah, I didn’t realise it was going to rain” She says. “Where are you heading to?” I ask. “Just the supermarket, it’s down that way isn’t it?” “Yup, well I’m walking right past there, would you like to share mine?” “That’s so nice, thank you” she says, with a smile.
We walk down the main road towards the supermarket and break into conversation. “Are you from around here” she asks. “Yes, I live just down the road and I’m on my way home. How about you?” “No, I’ve just come from the estate agents back there. I’ve had a row with them about the flat they’re letting me.” “Right.” We talk more and it turns out that she’s an actress with a drama company just around the corner from where I live. Not only that, but she’s slightly bonkers too, which only serves to make me warm to her – that and the fact that she’s adorable.
We talk about job interviews and auditions and acting and then I realise that the supermarket is only 50 metres away. I slow up my speed and we talk about where she’s from and where she lives, 30 metres. We talk about the pubs we’ve been to locally as we try and compare notes, 20 metres. I start to marvel at the fact that I feel like I already know a lot about this girl and I’m wishing that the supermarket were at least another half mile away, 10 metres. And now we are edging towards the zebra crossing that leads directly to the supermarket and I realise the moment we part, that I will probably never see her again.
We pause and talk some more, before a short silence ensues. I break it by nodding my head towards the supermarket. “Well, I guess that’s you.” “Yup” she says “Well if you fancy seeing some drama sometime...” “Yeah sure” I say, “Or if you fancy going for a drink sometime...” “Yes I’d love to” she says.
I reach for my phone to take her number and immediately I’m embarrassed that I seem to have the oldest Nokia in London, and one that everyone has been ribbing me about. “Oh cool, you’ve got one of those – they’re so much easier to use.” Inside I’m beaming. Outside, I’m doing my best to maintain a cool indifference. She types in her number, attaches a girly face to it and presses save. “There” she says, as she hands me back the phone.
“So..” I say. “So..” she says
“I’d better go” she indicates, as she nods over to the supermarket, “Call me”
“I will – bye then”
“Bye”
She stands there looking forlorn, her coat collar turned up and with her long thick dark hair cascading down over her shoulders. “Forgotten your umbrella?” I ask and immediately regret asking such a redundant question. ‘Forgotten your umbrella? Is that the best you can do?’ “Yeah, I didn’t realise it was going to rain” She says. “Where are you heading to?” I ask. “Just the supermarket, it’s down that way isn’t it?” “Yup, well I’m walking right past there, would you like to share mine?” “That’s so nice, thank you” she says, with a smile.
We walk down the main road towards the supermarket and break into conversation. “Are you from around here” she asks. “Yes, I live just down the road and I’m on my way home. How about you?” “No, I’ve just come from the estate agents back there. I’ve had a row with them about the flat they’re letting me.” “Right.” We talk more and it turns out that she’s an actress with a drama company just around the corner from where I live. Not only that, but she’s slightly bonkers too, which only serves to make me warm to her – that and the fact that she’s adorable.
We talk about job interviews and auditions and acting and then I realise that the supermarket is only 50 metres away. I slow up my speed and we talk about where she’s from and where she lives, 30 metres. We talk about the pubs we’ve been to locally as we try and compare notes, 20 metres. I start to marvel at the fact that I feel like I already know a lot about this girl and I’m wishing that the supermarket were at least another half mile away, 10 metres. And now we are edging towards the zebra crossing that leads directly to the supermarket and I realise the moment we part, that I will probably never see her again.
We pause and talk some more, before a short silence ensues. I break it by nodding my head towards the supermarket. “Well, I guess that’s you.” “Yup” she says “Well if you fancy seeing some drama sometime...” “Yeah sure” I say, “Or if you fancy going for a drink sometime...” “Yes I’d love to” she says.
I reach for my phone to take her number and immediately I’m embarrassed that I seem to have the oldest Nokia in London, and one that everyone has been ribbing me about. “Oh cool, you’ve got one of those – they’re so much easier to use.” Inside I’m beaming. Outside, I’m doing my best to maintain a cool indifference. She types in her number, attaches a girly face to it and presses save. “There” she says, as she hands me back the phone.
“So..” I say. “So..” she says
“I’d better go” she indicates, as she nods over to the supermarket, “Call me”
“I will – bye then”
“Bye”
Tuesday 26 July 2011
One Night and One Morning - Part 3
“Ok, just here on the left please” she says. I look out of the rain strewn window to see that the cab driver has pulled up outside what looks like an old office block. I look up at grey facade ‘Hmm, interesting’. Two minutes later however, and we are in the hallway of a clean modern flat, and one that confirms to me that we made the right decision of whose place we ended up at this evening.
I’m in need of water after the adventure at the rear of the mini cab and I head to the kitchen and fill a glass by the sink as she pops to the bathroom. I can’t remember a time when I wanted a drink of water as much as I do now. I down it in one go and refill the glass to take another gulp, just as she appears behind me. She takes it from my hand and enjoys two big gulps herself before placing it firmly on the marble kitchen counter, spilling some as she does. With her other hand she cups the back of my head and kisses me hard on the mouth. “Come on” she says, as she leads me out of the kitchen and across the short hallway to the bedroom, flicking off the lights as we go.
The next morning I wake up to what feels like a horse stomping on my head. I am alone in a very comfortable but strange bed in a seemingly strange flat and I wonder where I am. There is movement from somewhere and I hear voices as I recount the events of last night and realise that she is talking to the postman. The front door closes and her feet pad along the wooden floor of the hallway that leads back to the bedroom. I smile inwardly and wait for her to come back to bed. I’m struck by a desire to adopt a cool nonchalance in how I look when she walks in. Should I close my eyes and feign sleep.. No stay awake and smile as she comes in.. No, lie on your side and be half awake. The door opens as I am half way between the latter two as I stretch and open my eyes with a sleepy ”Moorninggg...”
She is fully clothed. “Right” she says “I forgot that I’m meeting a friend and have to leave in 10 minutes”. “Ah, hmm, right, ok” I say, not sure of how to react, as I scratch my head and climb out of bed to wonder where I put my clothes. “Nice place” I muse, pulling on a sock. “Thanks” she says as she rushes about from room to room getting ready. I’m bleary eyed as I wipe away the fug. This feels weird.
We walk to the station and minutes later we’re on a train into London and we’re silent. The previous evening’s activities are not mentioned as we occasionally pass comment on the scenery flying past the train carriage window. Sitting opposite us is a brassy looking older woman in a leopard skin coat who looks like she may once have come third in a Bet Lynch lookalike contest. She has her arms folded as she looks at us. Any notion of talking about last night is off the agenda and I wonder if it was ever going to be there to begin with. I want to talk about it though as it feels odd not to. I’m wondering about a repeat performance under conditions of sobriety. I’m also wondering if the revelatory nature of last night’s conversations and the ensuing passion has potentially uncovered the first buds of something that could bloom into a new and beautiful relationship – or was it just a fuck?
The hard looking face on Bet Lynch seems to be staring at me as if to say “Go on, ask her I dare you.” ’Well why don’t you fuck off and sit somewhere else and I maybe I will’ I think. But she doesn’t and so I don’t and soon we are arriving at our destination. We walk through the train station to the point at which we are both due to go our own separate ways – the tube escalator for me and the station exit for her. ‘Do it now, talk to her’ I think as we get to the point of goodbye. I part my lips as my brain scrambles for the right words... “Ok, bye then.” she says, “Say hi to G for me when you next see her”.
My question answered – it was just a fuck.
I’m in need of water after the adventure at the rear of the mini cab and I head to the kitchen and fill a glass by the sink as she pops to the bathroom. I can’t remember a time when I wanted a drink of water as much as I do now. I down it in one go and refill the glass to take another gulp, just as she appears behind me. She takes it from my hand and enjoys two big gulps herself before placing it firmly on the marble kitchen counter, spilling some as she does. With her other hand she cups the back of my head and kisses me hard on the mouth. “Come on” she says, as she leads me out of the kitchen and across the short hallway to the bedroom, flicking off the lights as we go.
The next morning I wake up to what feels like a horse stomping on my head. I am alone in a very comfortable but strange bed in a seemingly strange flat and I wonder where I am. There is movement from somewhere and I hear voices as I recount the events of last night and realise that she is talking to the postman. The front door closes and her feet pad along the wooden floor of the hallway that leads back to the bedroom. I smile inwardly and wait for her to come back to bed. I’m struck by a desire to adopt a cool nonchalance in how I look when she walks in. Should I close my eyes and feign sleep.. No stay awake and smile as she comes in.. No, lie on your side and be half awake. The door opens as I am half way between the latter two as I stretch and open my eyes with a sleepy ”Moorninggg...”
She is fully clothed. “Right” she says “I forgot that I’m meeting a friend and have to leave in 10 minutes”. “Ah, hmm, right, ok” I say, not sure of how to react, as I scratch my head and climb out of bed to wonder where I put my clothes. “Nice place” I muse, pulling on a sock. “Thanks” she says as she rushes about from room to room getting ready. I’m bleary eyed as I wipe away the fug. This feels weird.
We walk to the station and minutes later we’re on a train into London and we’re silent. The previous evening’s activities are not mentioned as we occasionally pass comment on the scenery flying past the train carriage window. Sitting opposite us is a brassy looking older woman in a leopard skin coat who looks like she may once have come third in a Bet Lynch lookalike contest. She has her arms folded as she looks at us. Any notion of talking about last night is off the agenda and I wonder if it was ever going to be there to begin with. I want to talk about it though as it feels odd not to. I’m wondering about a repeat performance under conditions of sobriety. I’m also wondering if the revelatory nature of last night’s conversations and the ensuing passion has potentially uncovered the first buds of something that could bloom into a new and beautiful relationship – or was it just a fuck?
The hard looking face on Bet Lynch seems to be staring at me as if to say “Go on, ask her I dare you.” ’Well why don’t you fuck off and sit somewhere else and I maybe I will’ I think. But she doesn’t and so I don’t and soon we are arriving at our destination. We walk through the train station to the point at which we are both due to go our own separate ways – the tube escalator for me and the station exit for her. ‘Do it now, talk to her’ I think as we get to the point of goodbye. I part my lips as my brain scrambles for the right words... “Ok, bye then.” she says, “Say hi to G for me when you next see her”.
My question answered – it was just a fuck.
Tuesday 12 July 2011
One Night and One Morning - Part 2
We walk through the busy Soho nightlife, dodging the Rickshaws and street corner dealers, and head to a mini cab office. After a bit of haggling on price, we are sitting in the back of a 10 year old Toyota Corolla, listening to Magic FM. Her hand is in mine and I feel excited as she looks at me. What has happened so far was the furthest thing from my mind when I came out this evening and suddenly I am filled with thoughts of new possibilities.
The driver seems more anxious to get to our destination than we do, and heads through London like a getaway driver on speed. A sharp turn left followed by a hard right together with hard acceleration and equally forceful braking ensures that the plentiful wine in my system is mixing itself like a shaken Martini. She squeezes my hand and looks at me and kisses me again and I close my eyes. Suddenly, the inside of the car starts to spin. I open my eyes to stop the spinning and focus on her. The spinning slows but doesn’t stop as I sink lower into the back seat and try to concentrate on a fixed position in the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Focus, focus, you’ll be out soon, it’s just the motion’ I think to myself. “Are you ok?” she asks. I smile sheepishly. “Yeah fine” I say, before realising that I’m not and the inside of the car is beginning to swirl again. “Actually I think I just need to get some air.” ”Ok” she says “Can you stop the car please” she tells the driver. The driver takes a sharp turn onto the kerb and I duck out.
I stand and lean on the back of the car, taking deep breaths. ‘You’re not going to do this, you’re ok, you’re fine, breathe... breathe...’ And then it comes. I’m hoping to God that she’s not looking out the back of the car. I look like a criminal waiting to be frisked as I lean with my hands on the boot, my legs spread as I desperately try to avoid ruining my shoes and suit trousers. I’m trying to be as discrete as possible, or as discreet as a man vomiting on a busy high street in the early hours can be. ‘Oh God that must be it, no more PLEASE...’ I mutter under my breath. My stomach decides that it wants to punish me though and twists and convulses as if to make sure that there is nothing more to give.
A couple of minutes later though and I start to feel better, that last one was it. My stomach is seemingly now empty and I have a second wind. I’ve pulled it together and the world has stopped spinning. I straighten myself, take a breath and get back into the car “Sorry about that” I say. “You ok?” she says. “Yeah, just needed some air”, I say with a manufactured smile. ‘Oh God, did she see me, I hope she didn’t, I’m sure she didn’t...’ She leans over and kisses me on the lips.
I was right, she didn’t.
The driver seems more anxious to get to our destination than we do, and heads through London like a getaway driver on speed. A sharp turn left followed by a hard right together with hard acceleration and equally forceful braking ensures that the plentiful wine in my system is mixing itself like a shaken Martini. She squeezes my hand and looks at me and kisses me again and I close my eyes. Suddenly, the inside of the car starts to spin. I open my eyes to stop the spinning and focus on her. The spinning slows but doesn’t stop as I sink lower into the back seat and try to concentrate on a fixed position in the back of the driver’s seat. ‘Focus, focus, you’ll be out soon, it’s just the motion’ I think to myself. “Are you ok?” she asks. I smile sheepishly. “Yeah fine” I say, before realising that I’m not and the inside of the car is beginning to swirl again. “Actually I think I just need to get some air.” ”Ok” she says “Can you stop the car please” she tells the driver. The driver takes a sharp turn onto the kerb and I duck out.
I stand and lean on the back of the car, taking deep breaths. ‘You’re not going to do this, you’re ok, you’re fine, breathe... breathe...’ And then it comes. I’m hoping to God that she’s not looking out the back of the car. I look like a criminal waiting to be frisked as I lean with my hands on the boot, my legs spread as I desperately try to avoid ruining my shoes and suit trousers. I’m trying to be as discrete as possible, or as discreet as a man vomiting on a busy high street in the early hours can be. ‘Oh God that must be it, no more PLEASE...’ I mutter under my breath. My stomach decides that it wants to punish me though and twists and convulses as if to make sure that there is nothing more to give.
A couple of minutes later though and I start to feel better, that last one was it. My stomach is seemingly now empty and I have a second wind. I’ve pulled it together and the world has stopped spinning. I straighten myself, take a breath and get back into the car “Sorry about that” I say. “You ok?” she says. “Yeah, just needed some air”, I say with a manufactured smile. ‘Oh God, did she see me, I hope she didn’t, I’m sure she didn’t...’ She leans over and kisses me on the lips.
I was right, she didn’t.
Sunday 3 July 2011
One Night and One Morning - Part 1
It’s late and we’re on our third bottle of wine. In fairness the wine has been shared with mutual friends. She is a friend of a friend of G, who has invited me to her birthday drinks. We have met a few times over the last couple of years and are two people who think we know each other reasonably well but who are shortly to realise otherwise. We haven’t seen each other in 6 months and so the conversation initially takes the form of catch up – How was Christmas? Did you go away on holiday last year? Have you had your hair cut? “Yes, 4 months ago” to the last one. As we talk the hairdresser type chit chat, the conversation an unexpected turn upon the new discovery of mutually shared experiences. She tops up our glasses and we take this new road of discovery, empathising and comparing the places we’ve been, the restaurants we have eaten in, the relationships we’ve had. “I’ve met you a few times but I can’t believe we haven’t talked about this before” she says. Suddenly we’re aware that we’re consumed in each other’s conversation to the point where we have separated off from the rest of the group.
We’re brought back in by G and some of the others who announce that they are leaving to go to a club somewhere deep in South London and we’re welcome to join them if we would like. We politely decline as G looks at me with her eyes narrowed. She gives me a hug and kisses the girl on both cheeks, agreeing to meet for lunch in the week. And then we are alone as she empties the rest of the bottle into our glasses. We then become further absorbed in deep conversation, the wine ensuring that some revelations and reactions are seemingly on a repeat loop.
We feel surrounded as the clientele jostles for position in a scrum against the bar. The barmaid doesn’t know who to serve first as money is waved in front of her face and half the crowd is fighting for her attention. In the middle of this we are pushed more closely together than we have been all evening. The noise level of the place gets to such a point that we are forced to speak closely into one another’s ear to make sure we are heard. I feel the warmth of her cheek against my own as I take in the smell of her hair and her perfume and I realise that I’m thinking about this girl in ways that I never expected to. And then suddenly we are kissing.
I don’t know who has kissed who first, but we are consumed and oblivious to those around us. She breaks the kiss “You won’t tell G about this will you?” There is something about the question that makes it feel more like a statement. “No, course not.” I say and she smiles and takes my hand and we leave to find a cab. “My place or yours?” she asks. I think of the unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner, the washing on a line in my lounge and the pile of clothes hanging on the end of my bed.
“Yours”
We’re brought back in by G and some of the others who announce that they are leaving to go to a club somewhere deep in South London and we’re welcome to join them if we would like. We politely decline as G looks at me with her eyes narrowed. She gives me a hug and kisses the girl on both cheeks, agreeing to meet for lunch in the week. And then we are alone as she empties the rest of the bottle into our glasses. We then become further absorbed in deep conversation, the wine ensuring that some revelations and reactions are seemingly on a repeat loop.
We feel surrounded as the clientele jostles for position in a scrum against the bar. The barmaid doesn’t know who to serve first as money is waved in front of her face and half the crowd is fighting for her attention. In the middle of this we are pushed more closely together than we have been all evening. The noise level of the place gets to such a point that we are forced to speak closely into one another’s ear to make sure we are heard. I feel the warmth of her cheek against my own as I take in the smell of her hair and her perfume and I realise that I’m thinking about this girl in ways that I never expected to. And then suddenly we are kissing.
I don’t know who has kissed who first, but we are consumed and oblivious to those around us. She breaks the kiss “You won’t tell G about this will you?” There is something about the question that makes it feel more like a statement. “No, course not.” I say and she smiles and takes my hand and we leave to find a cab. “My place or yours?” she asks. I think of the unwashed dishes from last night’s dinner, the washing on a line in my lounge and the pile of clothes hanging on the end of my bed.
“Yours”
Tuesday 28 June 2011
Office B.O.
We’ve all had experiences of people with bad body odour. I mean at this time of year it’s a given that the afternoon rush hour on the tube is going to be spent in the shadow of someone else’s smell.
To an extent though, it doesn’t matter so much with the tube. You know that within a matter of stops you will be outside. No, the problem is when it’s someone you work with who sits near you and there isn’t an escape. Maybe it’s an English thing where people are afraid to say something out of fear of seeming rude. But they then get over this by telling everyone else in the office about it – a problem shared and all the rest, which passes the buck on to someone else to say something. A few years ago I was working in a temp job. One day a new girl started and was seated next to me. She seemed nice and was quite pretty, BUT, and this is a big but – she had a BO problem of the sort that Shaun Ryder in the jungle could only dream of. Other people noticed it too and it was only a brief matter of time before someone told a team leader, who then took her to one side. I imagined that he’d be discreet - that she’d get the message and the next day she’d come into work smelling of potpourri. As it turned out he told her that “People have noticed something – basically, you stink.” Needless to say, she didn’t turn up for work the next day and the rest of the office felt suitably guilty.
The memory of that time came back a little while ago. I’d been working within close proximity of a girl for a number of weeks and we got on quite well. I also happened to know one of her close friends, who was someone I’d worked with in the past. The thing was though, that the girl had a bit of a BO problem. Not all the time, but one day she came in and it was very strong. At first, I thought ‘Ok it’s just a bit of BO, long day and she was a bit off target this morning with the Right Guard’. But then day 2 came along and it’s the same story and then day 3 and day 4, before I had stop and think ‘Shit, I’m going to have to say something.’ What could I say though? The memory of the poor girl in the temp office was all I could think of.
Then, I remembered her friend. Maybe I could suggest that she speak to her in a quiet girly one on one. Maybe if I could arrange that then there would be every reason to imagine that the girl would be fresh as a daisy and ignorant to the fact that anyone else had noticed.
Sure enough, a few days later, it happened. She came into work looking fresh and smelling lovely and carried on looking fresh and smelling lovely. At the time, we had a lot on at work, which is why I initially put her slight aloofness down to stress. But the quieter she was around me, the more curious I grew about the change in her and wondered what it was that her friend had said. After all, she was a nice girl and I would have hated for her to feel embarrassed in anyway. I took her friend out for lunch and asked her what she had said in her girly chat to make such a change. Had it been the quiet ‘look I’ve just noticed something’ whisper in the ear, that I’d hoped?
“I told her that you said she stank” she said. “Ha ha” I said, “very funny, what did you really say?”
Sadly, that was what she had really said. She didn’t get my reasons for asking her to speak to the girl in the first place and the girl, rather predictably was annoyed at me for having talked about her, albeit with good intentions. I learned my lesson though. Next time, don’t faff, just come out and say what’s on your mind. And the silver lining – well, these days the only thing she smells of is Chanel.
To an extent though, it doesn’t matter so much with the tube. You know that within a matter of stops you will be outside. No, the problem is when it’s someone you work with who sits near you and there isn’t an escape. Maybe it’s an English thing where people are afraid to say something out of fear of seeming rude. But they then get over this by telling everyone else in the office about it – a problem shared and all the rest, which passes the buck on to someone else to say something. A few years ago I was working in a temp job. One day a new girl started and was seated next to me. She seemed nice and was quite pretty, BUT, and this is a big but – she had a BO problem of the sort that Shaun Ryder in the jungle could only dream of. Other people noticed it too and it was only a brief matter of time before someone told a team leader, who then took her to one side. I imagined that he’d be discreet - that she’d get the message and the next day she’d come into work smelling of potpourri. As it turned out he told her that “People have noticed something – basically, you stink.” Needless to say, she didn’t turn up for work the next day and the rest of the office felt suitably guilty.
The memory of that time came back a little while ago. I’d been working within close proximity of a girl for a number of weeks and we got on quite well. I also happened to know one of her close friends, who was someone I’d worked with in the past. The thing was though, that the girl had a bit of a BO problem. Not all the time, but one day she came in and it was very strong. At first, I thought ‘Ok it’s just a bit of BO, long day and she was a bit off target this morning with the Right Guard’. But then day 2 came along and it’s the same story and then day 3 and day 4, before I had stop and think ‘Shit, I’m going to have to say something.’ What could I say though? The memory of the poor girl in the temp office was all I could think of.
Then, I remembered her friend. Maybe I could suggest that she speak to her in a quiet girly one on one. Maybe if I could arrange that then there would be every reason to imagine that the girl would be fresh as a daisy and ignorant to the fact that anyone else had noticed.
Sure enough, a few days later, it happened. She came into work looking fresh and smelling lovely and carried on looking fresh and smelling lovely. At the time, we had a lot on at work, which is why I initially put her slight aloofness down to stress. But the quieter she was around me, the more curious I grew about the change in her and wondered what it was that her friend had said. After all, she was a nice girl and I would have hated for her to feel embarrassed in anyway. I took her friend out for lunch and asked her what she had said in her girly chat to make such a change. Had it been the quiet ‘look I’ve just noticed something’ whisper in the ear, that I’d hoped?
“I told her that you said she stank” she said. “Ha ha” I said, “very funny, what did you really say?”
Sadly, that was what she had really said. She didn’t get my reasons for asking her to speak to the girl in the first place and the girl, rather predictably was annoyed at me for having talked about her, albeit with good intentions. I learned my lesson though. Next time, don’t faff, just come out and say what’s on your mind. And the silver lining – well, these days the only thing she smells of is Chanel.
Monday 20 June 2011
Kindle
I’m sitting on the tube, reading a book. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time is written by Mark Haddon. It’s the story of a boy who has Aspergers syndrome and who one day discovers that the dog belonging to the next door neighbour has been killed with a garden fork. He decides to turn detective and during the quest to find out who did it, finds his life taking a dramatic turn. It’s a remarkable book, written in the first person and is littered with illustrations from the boy as he articulates his story.
I look up from the book as the tube train pulls into Earls Court station. The doors open and two ladies walk on. One looks to be in her late 60’s and the other in her early 40’s. They are in mid conversation as the older lady takes the seat next to me, with the other sitting opposite. “I’m not sure I believe in them, what’s wrong with books anyway?” says the older lady. “But Kindles are so convenient Mum” says her daughter.
Ah, Kindles - I’m suddenly reminded of a conversation I recently had with G on the same topic. “They’re so convenient” she had said. “I can have my whole library with me to dip in and out of on the tube”. Now in fairness, G might struggle to fill a couple of shoeboxes with her library. She’s more of a magazine fan than a book reader. She is however, a gadget freak and it’s probably here that the conversation first stemmed. It got me thinking though. Does the dipping in and out, convenience argument of the Kindle really hold water? I’m not so sure. It’s fine if we’re talking about MP3’s, where you might want to chop and change between tracks and albums frequently. But how many times have you honestly wanted to flit between books, mid-read on the underground?
There’s more too. With books there is also an accessory factor. How many times have you been to someone’s house or flat for the first time and found yourself browsing through the books on their shelf, curious to see the sorts of things they have in their collection. They may even recommend one of them and let you borrow it. Indeed, this is how I came to be reading the book I’m reading. However, when was the last time you walked up to anyone and said “Excuse me, but what do you have on your Kindle?”
Also there’s the look and feel of a book. Last week I was having lunch with G2 (friend of G’s who appeared in an earlier update) who was given a Kindle last Christmas. She told me that she found it convenient, in so far as it was less bulky than some of her books. However she missed the feeling of knowing and being able to physically see how far through a book she is and how far she has to go to finish it.
Is this a debate between technophobes and technogeeks I wonder, or is it more a generational thing? Certainly the debate being had by the two ladies on the tube seems to be more generational and one where I find myself falling into the older camp.
I’m trying to multi task between reading and listening in on the mother/daughter sparring session. In the book, the boy has just been taken to the zoo by his father and has drawn a perfectly detailed map of it’s layout for the reader. In the debate, I am hoping the mother will come up with a killer argument that will leave her daughter stumped. ‘Come on mum, you can’t lose this one’ I’m thinking, when suddenly I hear her say “What about illustrations? Do they have books with illustrations on Kindles?” ”Oh mum...” says the daughter. She rolls her eyes and smiles at me as if to say ‘sorry about my mother’. “When was the last time you read a book with illustrations?” I slowly turn the book over to show her and smile back. She shrugs her shoulders and laughs "Ok, fair enough". I want to high five the mother, but don't - it's a generational thing.
I look up from the book as the tube train pulls into Earls Court station. The doors open and two ladies walk on. One looks to be in her late 60’s and the other in her early 40’s. They are in mid conversation as the older lady takes the seat next to me, with the other sitting opposite. “I’m not sure I believe in them, what’s wrong with books anyway?” says the older lady. “But Kindles are so convenient Mum” says her daughter.
Ah, Kindles - I’m suddenly reminded of a conversation I recently had with G on the same topic. “They’re so convenient” she had said. “I can have my whole library with me to dip in and out of on the tube”. Now in fairness, G might struggle to fill a couple of shoeboxes with her library. She’s more of a magazine fan than a book reader. She is however, a gadget freak and it’s probably here that the conversation first stemmed. It got me thinking though. Does the dipping in and out, convenience argument of the Kindle really hold water? I’m not so sure. It’s fine if we’re talking about MP3’s, where you might want to chop and change between tracks and albums frequently. But how many times have you honestly wanted to flit between books, mid-read on the underground?
There’s more too. With books there is also an accessory factor. How many times have you been to someone’s house or flat for the first time and found yourself browsing through the books on their shelf, curious to see the sorts of things they have in their collection. They may even recommend one of them and let you borrow it. Indeed, this is how I came to be reading the book I’m reading. However, when was the last time you walked up to anyone and said “Excuse me, but what do you have on your Kindle?”
Also there’s the look and feel of a book. Last week I was having lunch with G2 (friend of G’s who appeared in an earlier update) who was given a Kindle last Christmas. She told me that she found it convenient, in so far as it was less bulky than some of her books. However she missed the feeling of knowing and being able to physically see how far through a book she is and how far she has to go to finish it.
Is this a debate between technophobes and technogeeks I wonder, or is it more a generational thing? Certainly the debate being had by the two ladies on the tube seems to be more generational and one where I find myself falling into the older camp.
I’m trying to multi task between reading and listening in on the mother/daughter sparring session. In the book, the boy has just been taken to the zoo by his father and has drawn a perfectly detailed map of it’s layout for the reader. In the debate, I am hoping the mother will come up with a killer argument that will leave her daughter stumped. ‘Come on mum, you can’t lose this one’ I’m thinking, when suddenly I hear her say “What about illustrations? Do they have books with illustrations on Kindles?” ”Oh mum...” says the daughter. She rolls her eyes and smiles at me as if to say ‘sorry about my mother’. “When was the last time you read a book with illustrations?” I slowly turn the book over to show her and smile back. She shrugs her shoulders and laughs "Ok, fair enough". I want to high five the mother, but don't - it's a generational thing.
Thursday 2 June 2011
Cars
I’m a little bit of a car nut, I always have been. It comes from growing up with brothers who were into cars and from watching endless re-runs of The Italian Job and the car chase from Bullitt as a kid. I have so many memories through my childhood and teenage years of going to countless motor shows and collecting all the freebies on offer. Looking back, it must have irritated the hell out of my mother. We’d bring back armfuls of stuff which would just sit around gathering dust. What did it matter though – I had a carrier bag from Lotus, full of free stickers from Ford – how cool was that! Of all the car shows me and my mates used to go to though, the one which was the most constant was one in our own town in North London and was called the Enfield Pageant of Motoring.
It was only just up the road from where I used to live and we used to go there on our bikes. If you were a kid and into cars, then it was a smorgasbord of adventure. There were traction engines and classic cars from the 1940’s, 50’s and 60’s. There was a large autojumble and historic buses and army vehicles and motorbikes. There was even a funfair for children and families. The funny thing with car shows though, is that sometimes the most interesting cars are not in the show at all, but actually belong to paying visitors and can be found out in the car park.
At the age of around 9 or 10 we’d cycle around the car park, trying to see if we could spot a Ferrari or an Aston Martin. Occasionally we’d see something like a 1971 Alfa Romeo Spider, just as the owner would be getting into it. “Corrr nice car” we’d say, as he’d slip on a pair of shades, fire up the engine and give it a rev. I want to be him one day, I’d think as he’d drive off.
I mention all this of course, as I was driving through Enfield last Monday on my way to visit family and remembered that it was the bank holiday that the Enfield Pageant was on. I drive an old MGB Roadster myself and I was curious to see if I could pick up any parts for it at the autojumble and see what cars might be on display – or indeed, in the car park.
I drove in and parked up. Looking around the show, it seemed pretty much as I remembered it. The traction engines were still there, as was the funfair, the autojumble and the historic car clubs. The cars were newer though. The classics from the 50’s and 60’s had now been replaced by those from the 70’s and 80’s. There were more old American cars than I remembered. A large collection was displayed in a tent with a band playing Rockabilly music as a group of brylcreemed geriatric rockers tried their best to rock around the clock in front of the stage. As I spent the best part of a couple of hours walking around the show, I was struck by nostalgia and the memories of past times at the same place – of heading home afterwards and Mum making dinner before we’d get ready for school the next morning.
I bought a couple of things from the autojumble and after completing another circuit of the show, decided that it was time to head to Hertfordshire to see the family. I headed back to my car and put the things in the boot. The sun was starting to shine and I put on a pair of sunglasses as I opened the drivers door. “Wicked car mate!” said a voice. I looked around to see 3 kids on bikes looking at my MG. “That’s sic, I bet it goes well fast” said another. “Thanks” I said as I climbed in. I started the engine and gave it a rev – much to their approval. I reversed out and drove off, grinning to myself as I realised that I was now the guy in the car park that I had always wanted to be.
It was only just up the road from where I used to live and we used to go there on our bikes. If you were a kid and into cars, then it was a smorgasbord of adventure. There were traction engines and classic cars from the 1940’s, 50’s and 60’s. There was a large autojumble and historic buses and army vehicles and motorbikes. There was even a funfair for children and families. The funny thing with car shows though, is that sometimes the most interesting cars are not in the show at all, but actually belong to paying visitors and can be found out in the car park.
At the age of around 9 or 10 we’d cycle around the car park, trying to see if we could spot a Ferrari or an Aston Martin. Occasionally we’d see something like a 1971 Alfa Romeo Spider, just as the owner would be getting into it. “Corrr nice car” we’d say, as he’d slip on a pair of shades, fire up the engine and give it a rev. I want to be him one day, I’d think as he’d drive off.
I mention all this of course, as I was driving through Enfield last Monday on my way to visit family and remembered that it was the bank holiday that the Enfield Pageant was on. I drive an old MGB Roadster myself and I was curious to see if I could pick up any parts for it at the autojumble and see what cars might be on display – or indeed, in the car park.
I drove in and parked up. Looking around the show, it seemed pretty much as I remembered it. The traction engines were still there, as was the funfair, the autojumble and the historic car clubs. The cars were newer though. The classics from the 50’s and 60’s had now been replaced by those from the 70’s and 80’s. There were more old American cars than I remembered. A large collection was displayed in a tent with a band playing Rockabilly music as a group of brylcreemed geriatric rockers tried their best to rock around the clock in front of the stage. As I spent the best part of a couple of hours walking around the show, I was struck by nostalgia and the memories of past times at the same place – of heading home afterwards and Mum making dinner before we’d get ready for school the next morning.
I bought a couple of things from the autojumble and after completing another circuit of the show, decided that it was time to head to Hertfordshire to see the family. I headed back to my car and put the things in the boot. The sun was starting to shine and I put on a pair of sunglasses as I opened the drivers door. “Wicked car mate!” said a voice. I looked around to see 3 kids on bikes looking at my MG. “That’s sic, I bet it goes well fast” said another. “Thanks” I said as I climbed in. I started the engine and gave it a rev – much to their approval. I reversed out and drove off, grinning to myself as I realised that I was now the guy in the car park that I had always wanted to be.
Thursday 26 May 2011
The Pianist - Part 2
I had half expected the phone line to be engaged with the world and his wife calling in to LBC about this and that. Surprisingly though it answered after only two rings. I spoke to a guy at the other end, saying that I had just seen Iain Dale’s tweet about reviewing something on the show and that I’d been to see James Rhodes concert at the Ambassadors Theatre earlier in the week. “That’s great” he said. “Can you email Iain about it and leave your contact details.” This I did and I drafted an email which pretty much described the evening in the same way I did in last week’s update. It was slightly longer than intended but I figured that the better it read, then the more likely I would be to get a response. I wasn’t desperately hopeful of a reply, but what did I have to lose. As it happened, he emailed me back within 5 minutes and asked if I’d like to come on the show to talk about it. He said that the producer would telephone me at around 9:45.
Now for the panic, what would I say? I had visions of my mouth drying up or of gabbling – unable to get the words out fast enough. I was also quite excited though as I had never been on the radio before and in my excitement I updated Twitter and Facebook that I’d be “Going on LBC between 9:30pm and 10pm to talk about the James Rhodes concert this week.” Ok, it was only a phone in, but what the hell.
I clock watched with the intensity of a union official as the minutes ticked by achingly slowly, my mobile phone glaring like a beacon as I looked at the display - 9:45, 9:46, 9:47...”Come on, ring dammit” 9:48 etc etc... I paced my lounge as in my mind I ran through a number of things to say, before finally constructing a nicely thought out little review. “Yep yep, that’ll work” I thought as I settled on a nice idea which abruptly went straight out of my mind as the phone in my hand started ringing. It was the producer - he called to say that the show had overrun and so unfortunately they wouldn’t have time for me that evening. I was slightly gutted, although he did mention that Iain Dale would read out my email. This was a silver lining at least, but I cheekily asked if he might tweet my blog and he said that Iain may well do. This could be something. Iain Dale has over 20,000 followers on Twitter and if he might be kind enough to tweet my blog link, then the potential for gaining new blog readers and getting the blog and therefore my writing noticed, could be immense.
I popped out for locally for a drink with friends. I wasn’t going to be on the radio, but at least my email, which was quite a good one I thought, would be read out. I received a few texts from people who had read my updates on Twitter and Facebook. They said it was a shame they hadn’t heard me but that the email sounded good. I headed home just after midnight with the intention of going straight to bed. Curiosity had got the better of me though and I switched on the PC to see if the blog had been tweeted. Sadly it hadn’t, although I noted that I had one new follower. Would it be someone random I wondered? Would it be someone I knew? Might it even be Iain Dale? I clicked and looked down the list to see my new follower - @JRhodesPianist.
Now for the panic, what would I say? I had visions of my mouth drying up or of gabbling – unable to get the words out fast enough. I was also quite excited though as I had never been on the radio before and in my excitement I updated Twitter and Facebook that I’d be “Going on LBC between 9:30pm and 10pm to talk about the James Rhodes concert this week.” Ok, it was only a phone in, but what the hell.
I clock watched with the intensity of a union official as the minutes ticked by achingly slowly, my mobile phone glaring like a beacon as I looked at the display - 9:45, 9:46, 9:47...”Come on, ring dammit” 9:48 etc etc... I paced my lounge as in my mind I ran through a number of things to say, before finally constructing a nicely thought out little review. “Yep yep, that’ll work” I thought as I settled on a nice idea which abruptly went straight out of my mind as the phone in my hand started ringing. It was the producer - he called to say that the show had overrun and so unfortunately they wouldn’t have time for me that evening. I was slightly gutted, although he did mention that Iain Dale would read out my email. This was a silver lining at least, but I cheekily asked if he might tweet my blog and he said that Iain may well do. This could be something. Iain Dale has over 20,000 followers on Twitter and if he might be kind enough to tweet my blog link, then the potential for gaining new blog readers and getting the blog and therefore my writing noticed, could be immense.
I popped out for locally for a drink with friends. I wasn’t going to be on the radio, but at least my email, which was quite a good one I thought, would be read out. I received a few texts from people who had read my updates on Twitter and Facebook. They said it was a shame they hadn’t heard me but that the email sounded good. I headed home just after midnight with the intention of going straight to bed. Curiosity had got the better of me though and I switched on the PC to see if the blog had been tweeted. Sadly it hadn’t, although I noted that I had one new follower. Would it be someone random I wondered? Would it be someone I knew? Might it even be Iain Dale? I clicked and looked down the list to see my new follower - @JRhodesPianist.
Saturday 21 May 2011
The Pianist - Part 1
I have always admired, albeit with a tinge of jealousy, people who say they are in their dream job. For me, that would involve drinking too much coffee, bashing out a couple of thousand words daily and being taken to lunch by my literary agent at Shoreditch House or the Ivy Club – well you’ve got to aspire haven’t you. Much as this is something that I am ever so slowly working towards, I have on occasion been disheartened by the pessimism of others. A friend recently said “Do you realise how many people want to be writers and how few actually succeed?” blah blah “You’re not getting any younger... maybe you should stick with what you’re doing.” This coincided with a manic period at work where I was doing two people’s jobs. The longer hours and extra responsibility combined with the voice of my friend in my head began to sew seeds of doubt in my mind. Was he right? Maybe now in my mid-ish thirties I had missed the writing boat. Should I just work harder, push myself more and take on extra responsibility forging a career where I am? Whilst not being a dream, it would at least be a career and would pay well. I couldn’t just do that though. If you’re a regular reader of this blog, then you’ll know that’s just not me. I needed something to help me see that I might not just be pissing into the wind and that with perseverance I might just get somewhere. I needed a renewed inspiration, and boy oh boy did I get it.
Imagine that from a young age, you have a dream and that you work as hard as you can in trying to achieve that dream. Imagine then discovering that, however obsessed with your passion you are, and that however many years you’ve been working towards it, that your technical abilities aren’t good enough for what you want to do. That you might as well give up and go and do something else. Imagine then that you then opt for a career in the City in the belief that earning lots of money might make up of the abandonment of a career in something you had pursued since childhood. And that ultimately you are boring yourself stupid and knowing that you dreamt of a different outcome. After 10 years in your career, would you give it up and go back to try something you once destined yourself to do?
Well it’s not mere imagination, for the person I’ve described is real and is called James Rhodes and it was my brother who first introduced me to him through the power of You Tube. When he was young he started playing the piano and his dream was to be a classical pianist. He walked away from it though at the age of 18 and in the 10 years since he went to work in the City, he hadn’t even been within touching distance of those 88 keys that are now the tools of his trade. After he quit his job and practised and practised, he randomly met someone in a cafe who heard him play and offered him the chance to make an album and now, in only a few short years, he has a 6 album deal with Warner.
As I watched him talk on You Tube about his passion for the piano and the boredom of working in the City, I immediately got what he was talking about. It had taken a truck load of work to get to where he is now, but he had done it, is doing it and it gave me an inspirational focus on what I knew that I wanted to do.
I saw that he was playing a concert in London at the Ambassadors Theatre and booked tickets. It was fantastic. I’ve always enjoyed classical music although have never been to see a classical pianist before. The image of such is traditionally a formal affair with a guy in white tie and tails who plays and plays and plays without saying a word to the audience before eventually leaving the stage. With James Rhodes however, he walked on stage and chatted with the audience. He introduced every piece of music with a clear passion and gave you an understanding of what exactly it was he was about to play and what the composer was doing in his life at the time of composing it - be it a period of great sadness or youth and frivolity and so on. The intimacy of the venue combined with the way James spoke to the audience between pieces, almost made you feel like he was playing in your front room.
I went home feeling energized. What would I write next? The evening had given me a renewed optimism and I wanted to tell someone about it. The next day, I was flicking though Twitter when I saw a post by Iain Dale the blogger and radio presenter on LBC: “Have you seen a good concert or film this week and would like to review it on the show? Get in touch!” Perfect – I picked up the phone and dialled the number...
Imagine that from a young age, you have a dream and that you work as hard as you can in trying to achieve that dream. Imagine then discovering that, however obsessed with your passion you are, and that however many years you’ve been working towards it, that your technical abilities aren’t good enough for what you want to do. That you might as well give up and go and do something else. Imagine then that you then opt for a career in the City in the belief that earning lots of money might make up of the abandonment of a career in something you had pursued since childhood. And that ultimately you are boring yourself stupid and knowing that you dreamt of a different outcome. After 10 years in your career, would you give it up and go back to try something you once destined yourself to do?
Well it’s not mere imagination, for the person I’ve described is real and is called James Rhodes and it was my brother who first introduced me to him through the power of You Tube. When he was young he started playing the piano and his dream was to be a classical pianist. He walked away from it though at the age of 18 and in the 10 years since he went to work in the City, he hadn’t even been within touching distance of those 88 keys that are now the tools of his trade. After he quit his job and practised and practised, he randomly met someone in a cafe who heard him play and offered him the chance to make an album and now, in only a few short years, he has a 6 album deal with Warner.
As I watched him talk on You Tube about his passion for the piano and the boredom of working in the City, I immediately got what he was talking about. It had taken a truck load of work to get to where he is now, but he had done it, is doing it and it gave me an inspirational focus on what I knew that I wanted to do.
I saw that he was playing a concert in London at the Ambassadors Theatre and booked tickets. It was fantastic. I’ve always enjoyed classical music although have never been to see a classical pianist before. The image of such is traditionally a formal affair with a guy in white tie and tails who plays and plays and plays without saying a word to the audience before eventually leaving the stage. With James Rhodes however, he walked on stage and chatted with the audience. He introduced every piece of music with a clear passion and gave you an understanding of what exactly it was he was about to play and what the composer was doing in his life at the time of composing it - be it a period of great sadness or youth and frivolity and so on. The intimacy of the venue combined with the way James spoke to the audience between pieces, almost made you feel like he was playing in your front room.
I went home feeling energized. What would I write next? The evening had given me a renewed optimism and I wanted to tell someone about it. The next day, I was flicking though Twitter when I saw a post by Iain Dale the blogger and radio presenter on LBC: “Have you seen a good concert or film this week and would like to review it on the show? Get in touch!” Perfect – I picked up the phone and dialled the number...
Wednesday 30 March 2011
Taxi
It’s 2am and the bar where the party has been held is closing. I am one of a group of people who spill out onto the street into the cold night air as I face the realisation that the tube trains have stopped running and I live at least two night buses away. Like vultures circling a stricken animal, the cabal of mini cab drivers close in. I am drunk and tired I want to say bugger off and to go and find a black cab. But I don’t want to have to come back having not found one and then have to go through the humiliation of saying “Hey listen guys, I know I told you to bugger off, but are any of you by chance going my way?” It’s cold and late and I’m wobbling. Fuck it – haggle!
“Where are you going to?” says a big West Indian guy. “East London” I tell him. He pauses for a moment, and then says “Thirty quid!” You’re having a fucking laugh, I think but keep this quietly to myself. “So? Thirty quid?” he asks again, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Twenty Five” I say. “Twenty Nine” he says. “Twenty Six” I say. “Twenty Nine” he says. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to come down one?” I suggest. “No” he says “You won’t get lower than Twenty Nine to East London on a Saturday night.” The solidarity of the group of cab drivers holds firm and they all back up his claim. Sod it, I’m cold and I can’t be bothered to go scouring the streets of Fulham for a black cab at this time of morning. I grumble like a petulant child “Okay then, Twenty Nine.”
We’re in silence as the car moves along the Chelsea Embankment. The Honda is at least 15 years old, and rattles and squeaks such that the dashboard seems to lurch from one side of the car to the other as he steers. It has a cheap deodorant smell of the sort which only seems to find its way into mini cabs and I’m thinking that whoever designed those things can only have grown up inside a musty toilet.
The driver turns up the volume on the radio so that he can enjoy Magic FM and then looks over at me. “Good night?” he says. “Great night” I confirm. “So what do you do?” he says. I think for a moment. “I’m a writer,” I say and immediately I like the sound of it. G was telling me only a few days earlier and after a couple of glasses of wine that I ought to think of myself as a writer. “Why should you have to be published before you call yourself a writer? Caravaggio sold bugger all when he was alive but it didn’t make him any less of a painter” she had said. It seemed a good enough reason.
“You’re a writer?” said the driver. “Uh huh” I said, the evening’s wine making me more confident in my assertion. “That’s great, I’d love to write” he said. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was just that it was a nice clear evening and I liked the confidence in my voice, but suddenly he had my full and animated attention. “You’d love to write? That’s brilliant!! Why don’t you?” I said a bit louder than intended. He laughed “Na, too old now, what’s the point?”
One thing that bugs me in life generally is defeatism. Fine, if you’ve tried and failed or discovered it wasn’t for you, then that’s one thing. But to give up on something you’d “love” to do, out of fear that it might not work, seems such a tragic waste of... well, a dream or a passion, for want of a better word. All this is going through my mind as we both talk over the suburban tones of Magic FM.
My desire to write has suddenly turned into an all consuming passion and I want him to know. I raise my voice again as I attempt to give him an inspiring pep talk. In my head this is my Henry V moment, “You have to write!! The ability to make people laugh or cry or feel happy or sad through the simple use of words is an amazing gift and if you have that ability then you can’t just give in or let it go...” As the words leave my mouth, I realise that my pep talk sounds more like a rant. Oh God, shut up now or he’ll throw you out.
But he doesn’t throw me out though, and as we drive through the City he suddenly smiles a broad grin so that I can see his teeth, including a gold molar. “You know what?” he says as he gets more vocal and bangs the steering wheel with his right hand, “I’m gonna do it! I’m really going to do it, you’ve convinced me man!!” “That’s fantastic – terrific!” I say as we go into a mutual congratulatory routine of pursuing our literary dreams.
We drive past Tower Bridge and a few minutes later we are in Wapping and he has pulled up in front of my building. “Well, thanks for a great conversation” he says as he gives me a firm handshake. “You’re going to do it aren’t you? You’re going to start writing aren’t you?? Promise me!?” I say, the wine in my system trying to hold him to some sort of contract. “I will, I’ll start tomorrow.” I’m half out of the door when I shake his hand and say, “Well all the best then, take care.”
“Hey, don’t you owe me a fare?” he says. In all the excitement of encouraging him to write and his deciding to write, I’d completely forgotten about the fare – well partially forgotten and partially hoped that he’d totally forgotten. “Oh yes, what did we say it was?” I ask, knowing full well that he wouldn’t budge earlier but now hoping that he’s had a change of heart. “Twenty Nine quid” he says.
“Twenty Nine quid?” I said slightly incredulously. “Do you not now feel inspired? Do you not now feel you want to pack this in and do something you’ve always wanted to?” “Yeah I do” he says “Then surely that’s worth something?” I say with a smile. He grins broadly showing the gold.
“Ok mate – Twenty quid!”
“Where are you going to?” says a big West Indian guy. “East London” I tell him. He pauses for a moment, and then says “Thirty quid!” You’re having a fucking laugh, I think but keep this quietly to myself. “So? Thirty quid?” he asks again, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Twenty Five” I say. “Twenty Nine” he says. “Twenty Six” I say. “Twenty Nine” he says. “Hey, aren’t you supposed to come down one?” I suggest. “No” he says “You won’t get lower than Twenty Nine to East London on a Saturday night.” The solidarity of the group of cab drivers holds firm and they all back up his claim. Sod it, I’m cold and I can’t be bothered to go scouring the streets of Fulham for a black cab at this time of morning. I grumble like a petulant child “Okay then, Twenty Nine.”
We’re in silence as the car moves along the Chelsea Embankment. The Honda is at least 15 years old, and rattles and squeaks such that the dashboard seems to lurch from one side of the car to the other as he steers. It has a cheap deodorant smell of the sort which only seems to find its way into mini cabs and I’m thinking that whoever designed those things can only have grown up inside a musty toilet.
The driver turns up the volume on the radio so that he can enjoy Magic FM and then looks over at me. “Good night?” he says. “Great night” I confirm. “So what do you do?” he says. I think for a moment. “I’m a writer,” I say and immediately I like the sound of it. G was telling me only a few days earlier and after a couple of glasses of wine that I ought to think of myself as a writer. “Why should you have to be published before you call yourself a writer? Caravaggio sold bugger all when he was alive but it didn’t make him any less of a painter” she had said. It seemed a good enough reason.
“You’re a writer?” said the driver. “Uh huh” I said, the evening’s wine making me more confident in my assertion. “That’s great, I’d love to write” he said. Maybe it was the drink, maybe it was just that it was a nice clear evening and I liked the confidence in my voice, but suddenly he had my full and animated attention. “You’d love to write? That’s brilliant!! Why don’t you?” I said a bit louder than intended. He laughed “Na, too old now, what’s the point?”
One thing that bugs me in life generally is defeatism. Fine, if you’ve tried and failed or discovered it wasn’t for you, then that’s one thing. But to give up on something you’d “love” to do, out of fear that it might not work, seems such a tragic waste of... well, a dream or a passion, for want of a better word. All this is going through my mind as we both talk over the suburban tones of Magic FM.
My desire to write has suddenly turned into an all consuming passion and I want him to know. I raise my voice again as I attempt to give him an inspiring pep talk. In my head this is my Henry V moment, “You have to write!! The ability to make people laugh or cry or feel happy or sad through the simple use of words is an amazing gift and if you have that ability then you can’t just give in or let it go...” As the words leave my mouth, I realise that my pep talk sounds more like a rant. Oh God, shut up now or he’ll throw you out.
But he doesn’t throw me out though, and as we drive through the City he suddenly smiles a broad grin so that I can see his teeth, including a gold molar. “You know what?” he says as he gets more vocal and bangs the steering wheel with his right hand, “I’m gonna do it! I’m really going to do it, you’ve convinced me man!!” “That’s fantastic – terrific!” I say as we go into a mutual congratulatory routine of pursuing our literary dreams.
We drive past Tower Bridge and a few minutes later we are in Wapping and he has pulled up in front of my building. “Well, thanks for a great conversation” he says as he gives me a firm handshake. “You’re going to do it aren’t you? You’re going to start writing aren’t you?? Promise me!?” I say, the wine in my system trying to hold him to some sort of contract. “I will, I’ll start tomorrow.” I’m half out of the door when I shake his hand and say, “Well all the best then, take care.”
“Hey, don’t you owe me a fare?” he says. In all the excitement of encouraging him to write and his deciding to write, I’d completely forgotten about the fare – well partially forgotten and partially hoped that he’d totally forgotten. “Oh yes, what did we say it was?” I ask, knowing full well that he wouldn’t budge earlier but now hoping that he’s had a change of heart. “Twenty Nine quid” he says.
“Twenty Nine quid?” I said slightly incredulously. “Do you not now feel inspired? Do you not now feel you want to pack this in and do something you’ve always wanted to?” “Yeah I do” he says “Then surely that’s worth something?” I say with a smile. He grins broadly showing the gold.
“Ok mate – Twenty quid!”
Wednesday 23 February 2011
Cake
It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning as I stand at the bar, pen in hand and think about what I want to write in the wedding book. It’s been a good wedding party and it’s been really nice to see old friends again. It has reached a point though where I realise that all my friends present, save for one are part of a couple and discussion at different points of the evening has pondered around who will be next. For my own part, I arrived on my own and I will leave on my own. I’m starting to feel a bit like Bridget Jones with a penis as a sort of philosophical melancholy begins to envelope me, due in large part I don’t doubt, to the evening’s alcohol.
I’m feeling sentimental as the pen touches the paper. I don’t want to write a standard ‘hope you’ll both be happy together, best wishes’ type message. I start writing and the more I write, the more gushy I get and in my mind I am filling the page with a tender heartfelt message to one of my best friends and his beautiful new wife. In reality though, I can’t see a bloody thing as I don’t have my glasses with me. The lighting is dim and my handwriting as far as I can tell is reminiscent of that of a two year old just given his first set of crayons.
And then it’s the end of the party, the lights come on and I hug my friend and his wife goodbye. “Here, have some cake” she says, “we’ve got stacks of it”. I take 3 pieces, wrapped up in napkins – I’m bound to get the munchies on my way home. As I leave I walk past two people from the party, snogging in the doorway, which only serves to remind me that I’m going home to an empty flat and I’m spending the night alone.
The night is cool and crisp and I decide that a walk from Waterloo to The Embankment will lend itself to some much needed sobriety. As I walk I pass beneath the London Eye and look up at the structure, reflecting on how in approximately 30 minutes time I will view it again from my balcony as a distant part of the London cityscape. As I look skywards at this huge bicycle wheel on London’s south bank, my attention is caught by shouting just 50 or so metres from me. A petite girl is arguing with her much taller boyfriend it seems, who is in turn hanging his head and looking like a schoolboy who’s mother has just discovered his porn stash. I watch the scene in front of me unfold as she shouts and swears at him. She animatedly waves her arms and pushes him away from her before stomping off, leaving him to follow behind forlornly. Phew, I muse as I shake my head, at least I don’t have to put up with that sort of shit.
I get to Hungerford Bridge and walk up the stairs just in front of the Royal Festival Hall. A homeless man asks for change. I look at him and shrug my shoulders “Sorry mate” I say. “That’s ok, thanks for not ignoring me” he says. Suddenly I’m feeling guilty, but I can’t give him any money as I’ve already said that I have none and if I give him some now then he’ll know I was lying. “I’ve got some wedding cake – it’s not much, but at least it’s something to eat”. I hand him one of the three pieces of wrapped up wedding cake in my hand. “Oh thank you, cheers mate” he says, surprised. “Ah, don’t worry about it” I say, as I turn and carry on in the direction I was going.
I take in the view over the city and a sobriety begins to descend upon me. Giving the piece of cake to the homeless guy has lifted my mood as I carry on across the bridge, itself lightly scattered with an assortment of couples, party goers and drunken teens.
I get to the other end of the bridge and see a beautiful German Shepherd dog lying down and trying to get the attention of it’s owner – a homeless person who is sitting on the ground, slouched backwards and seems to be buried somewhere within a Parker coat. I look at the dog and the owner as I pass and get to the top of the stairs that lead down to The Embankment. I start to walk down before slowing as I pause on the fourth step and look back at the dog. There is something about the way it is nudging it’s owner that makes me walk back up the steps and over to whoever is inside the Parker. I tug the sleeve of the coat “Are you ok mate?” I say.
Two hands reach up and pull the hood of the coat back from the face of the person buried inside. It’s a thin man of about 60, with short grey hair and a light grey beard, who has a look of total surprise about him. “Are you ok?” I repeat. “Oh, hello, er...” he says. I’ve no idea how long he’s been there or what his circumstances are and maybe it’s my lightened mood or maybe it’s the sight of his dog, but I want to help him or do something of some sort. I look at him and his dog “Have you eaten anything?” I say “Look, I know it isn’t much, but er..”. I hand him the two remaining pieces of wedding cake “There, it’s wedding cake.” He looks at me but doesn’t say a word – the tears cascading down his face say enough as he puts an arm around his dog. “Look, it’s wedding cake!!” he says. “Thank you, thank you, God bless you!!” “It’s alright” I say as I turn and head down the stairs.
I hail the first black cab I can find and climb in the back. “Where to mate?” says the cabbie. “Wapping” I say as I look out of the window at drunken revellers in the cold and think of the old man and his dog. Then I think of my warm flat, my tea bags and the milk in my fridge and I smile inwardly. Suddenly I’m more content than I have been all night.
I’m feeling sentimental as the pen touches the paper. I don’t want to write a standard ‘hope you’ll both be happy together, best wishes’ type message. I start writing and the more I write, the more gushy I get and in my mind I am filling the page with a tender heartfelt message to one of my best friends and his beautiful new wife. In reality though, I can’t see a bloody thing as I don’t have my glasses with me. The lighting is dim and my handwriting as far as I can tell is reminiscent of that of a two year old just given his first set of crayons.
And then it’s the end of the party, the lights come on and I hug my friend and his wife goodbye. “Here, have some cake” she says, “we’ve got stacks of it”. I take 3 pieces, wrapped up in napkins – I’m bound to get the munchies on my way home. As I leave I walk past two people from the party, snogging in the doorway, which only serves to remind me that I’m going home to an empty flat and I’m spending the night alone.
The night is cool and crisp and I decide that a walk from Waterloo to The Embankment will lend itself to some much needed sobriety. As I walk I pass beneath the London Eye and look up at the structure, reflecting on how in approximately 30 minutes time I will view it again from my balcony as a distant part of the London cityscape. As I look skywards at this huge bicycle wheel on London’s south bank, my attention is caught by shouting just 50 or so metres from me. A petite girl is arguing with her much taller boyfriend it seems, who is in turn hanging his head and looking like a schoolboy who’s mother has just discovered his porn stash. I watch the scene in front of me unfold as she shouts and swears at him. She animatedly waves her arms and pushes him away from her before stomping off, leaving him to follow behind forlornly. Phew, I muse as I shake my head, at least I don’t have to put up with that sort of shit.
I get to Hungerford Bridge and walk up the stairs just in front of the Royal Festival Hall. A homeless man asks for change. I look at him and shrug my shoulders “Sorry mate” I say. “That’s ok, thanks for not ignoring me” he says. Suddenly I’m feeling guilty, but I can’t give him any money as I’ve already said that I have none and if I give him some now then he’ll know I was lying. “I’ve got some wedding cake – it’s not much, but at least it’s something to eat”. I hand him one of the three pieces of wrapped up wedding cake in my hand. “Oh thank you, cheers mate” he says, surprised. “Ah, don’t worry about it” I say, as I turn and carry on in the direction I was going.
I take in the view over the city and a sobriety begins to descend upon me. Giving the piece of cake to the homeless guy has lifted my mood as I carry on across the bridge, itself lightly scattered with an assortment of couples, party goers and drunken teens.
I get to the other end of the bridge and see a beautiful German Shepherd dog lying down and trying to get the attention of it’s owner – a homeless person who is sitting on the ground, slouched backwards and seems to be buried somewhere within a Parker coat. I look at the dog and the owner as I pass and get to the top of the stairs that lead down to The Embankment. I start to walk down before slowing as I pause on the fourth step and look back at the dog. There is something about the way it is nudging it’s owner that makes me walk back up the steps and over to whoever is inside the Parker. I tug the sleeve of the coat “Are you ok mate?” I say.
Two hands reach up and pull the hood of the coat back from the face of the person buried inside. It’s a thin man of about 60, with short grey hair and a light grey beard, who has a look of total surprise about him. “Are you ok?” I repeat. “Oh, hello, er...” he says. I’ve no idea how long he’s been there or what his circumstances are and maybe it’s my lightened mood or maybe it’s the sight of his dog, but I want to help him or do something of some sort. I look at him and his dog “Have you eaten anything?” I say “Look, I know it isn’t much, but er..”. I hand him the two remaining pieces of wedding cake “There, it’s wedding cake.” He looks at me but doesn’t say a word – the tears cascading down his face say enough as he puts an arm around his dog. “Look, it’s wedding cake!!” he says. “Thank you, thank you, God bless you!!” “It’s alright” I say as I turn and head down the stairs.
I hail the first black cab I can find and climb in the back. “Where to mate?” says the cabbie. “Wapping” I say as I look out of the window at drunken revellers in the cold and think of the old man and his dog. Then I think of my warm flat, my tea bags and the milk in my fridge and I smile inwardly. Suddenly I’m more content than I have been all night.
Wednesday 16 February 2011
Tube Journey
It’s a Wednesday morning and I’m sitting on a tube train reading a book and with half an hour to go until I reach the office. The seat next to mine was the only free one on the carriage until a couple of minutes ago. However, the stature of the guy who has taken it has meant that his buttocks have been forced to make a claim for the seats either side of him too.
Both he and the woman to my right have claimed the arm rests either side of me. The only comfortable position for me therefore, is to lean forward with my elbows on my knees and read that way. I get to the end of my chapter and pause for a moment to take a look at the other passengers. There is a girl standing in front of me holding on to the overhead rail and to her right is a thick set guy with a shaved head and sporting a good four days worth of stubble. He’s got an angry Millwall fan look about him, although he also has the volume on his I-pod turned up and I can hear Mariah Carey singing Hero.
The girl in front of me brushes against my book and I ignore her. She brushes against it again and I inwardly seethe. I can’t sit back because the fat guy and the woman with the elbows are taking all the room. I catch the eye of a lady sitting opposite me who looks like Judi Dench. She sees the look on my face and gives me an empathetic smile before going back to her copy of Howards End. I turn the page as the girl standing in front of me brushes my book yet again. I look up just in time to see that she is falling backwards.
She collapses on the floor between me and the woman next to me with her back against the seat next to my right leg. She’s fainted, or at least I think she’s fainted, as her head tilts back against the seat and her eyes roll into the back of her head. And then there’s an awful noise coming from her mouth. It’s at this stage where everyone around me has a look of ‘is there a doctor in the house’ panic about them. I reach down and untie her scarf. “Undo her coat too” someone says, which I do. “Can someone hit the emergency alarm” I say. The message gets passed back through the carriage from person to person, like gossip spreading through an office “Can someone press the alarm ”, “press the alarm please”, “the guy says hit the alarm”. Someone hits the alarm.
Judi Dench puts her fingers to the girl’s neck to check her pulse. I put my hand in front of the girl’s nose and mouth to see if I can feel her breathing – I can. And then the girl tilts her head back further and her chest moves forward and in a split second I realise what is coming next as I pull my hand back. Judi Dench on the other hand doesn’t and catches the full force of the girl’s morning porridge, to the tune of a collective “Eeewww…” amongst the other passengers.
“I work for London Underground” says a guy, “it’s ok, the driver will know which carriage the alarm went off in and he’ll stop at the next station. Put her in position” People look at him blankly. “The recovery position!” he affirms. There’s a collective ‘Ah yes, of course’. By this time the girl is awake as she is put on her side. People talk to her reassuringly as we pull into the next station. After a couple of minutes the driver pops his head around the carriage door. “Everything alright?” he asks before realising that it clearly isn’t. His colleague is assertive “We need to call the LAS!” The driver looks blank. “LAS?” he asks. The London Ambulance Service!” says his colleague, increasingly frustrated that no one understands him.
After a little while the paramedics arrive and tend to the girl. The platform staff inform us that the tube isn’t going anywhere fast and to go to the opposite platform where another will take us to where we’re going. Judi Dench has been wiping herself down. I hand her an extra tissue and give her an empathetic ‘sorry it was you’ tight mouthed smile. She smiles back in a shoulder shrugging ‘what can you do’ sort of a way.
Checking my watch I realise that I’m now quite late for work and so text my boss to fill him in on the morning’s activities.
“Running a bit late. A woman has collapsed in front of me on the tube and vomited all over herself. The Ambulance is on it’s way but we’re not going anywhere fast.”
Well it’s not a bad thing if I turn up earlier than expected. A few minutes later my phone beeps.
“No worries, we all oversleep sometimes...”
Both he and the woman to my right have claimed the arm rests either side of me. The only comfortable position for me therefore, is to lean forward with my elbows on my knees and read that way. I get to the end of my chapter and pause for a moment to take a look at the other passengers. There is a girl standing in front of me holding on to the overhead rail and to her right is a thick set guy with a shaved head and sporting a good four days worth of stubble. He’s got an angry Millwall fan look about him, although he also has the volume on his I-pod turned up and I can hear Mariah Carey singing Hero.
The girl in front of me brushes against my book and I ignore her. She brushes against it again and I inwardly seethe. I can’t sit back because the fat guy and the woman with the elbows are taking all the room. I catch the eye of a lady sitting opposite me who looks like Judi Dench. She sees the look on my face and gives me an empathetic smile before going back to her copy of Howards End. I turn the page as the girl standing in front of me brushes my book yet again. I look up just in time to see that she is falling backwards.
She collapses on the floor between me and the woman next to me with her back against the seat next to my right leg. She’s fainted, or at least I think she’s fainted, as her head tilts back against the seat and her eyes roll into the back of her head. And then there’s an awful noise coming from her mouth. It’s at this stage where everyone around me has a look of ‘is there a doctor in the house’ panic about them. I reach down and untie her scarf. “Undo her coat too” someone says, which I do. “Can someone hit the emergency alarm” I say. The message gets passed back through the carriage from person to person, like gossip spreading through an office “Can someone press the alarm ”, “press the alarm please”, “the guy says hit the alarm”. Someone hits the alarm.
Judi Dench puts her fingers to the girl’s neck to check her pulse. I put my hand in front of the girl’s nose and mouth to see if I can feel her breathing – I can. And then the girl tilts her head back further and her chest moves forward and in a split second I realise what is coming next as I pull my hand back. Judi Dench on the other hand doesn’t and catches the full force of the girl’s morning porridge, to the tune of a collective “Eeewww…” amongst the other passengers.
“I work for London Underground” says a guy, “it’s ok, the driver will know which carriage the alarm went off in and he’ll stop at the next station. Put her in position” People look at him blankly. “The recovery position!” he affirms. There’s a collective ‘Ah yes, of course’. By this time the girl is awake as she is put on her side. People talk to her reassuringly as we pull into the next station. After a couple of minutes the driver pops his head around the carriage door. “Everything alright?” he asks before realising that it clearly isn’t. His colleague is assertive “We need to call the LAS!” The driver looks blank. “LAS?” he asks. The London Ambulance Service!” says his colleague, increasingly frustrated that no one understands him.
After a little while the paramedics arrive and tend to the girl. The platform staff inform us that the tube isn’t going anywhere fast and to go to the opposite platform where another will take us to where we’re going. Judi Dench has been wiping herself down. I hand her an extra tissue and give her an empathetic ‘sorry it was you’ tight mouthed smile. She smiles back in a shoulder shrugging ‘what can you do’ sort of a way.
Checking my watch I realise that I’m now quite late for work and so text my boss to fill him in on the morning’s activities.
“Running a bit late. A woman has collapsed in front of me on the tube and vomited all over herself. The Ambulance is on it’s way but we’re not going anywhere fast.”
Well it’s not a bad thing if I turn up earlier than expected. A few minutes later my phone beeps.
“No worries, we all oversleep sometimes...”
Thursday 3 February 2011
Midweek Rendezvous - Part 2
It was a few days later, as I sat in the office and looked at my phone. Come on you idiot, just call her! I dialled her number and waited for the call to connect. It went straight to voicemail. Click. I hate leaving messages. Far better to spend half an hour drafting and re-drafting a simple text surely..!?
“Hey, hope you're well and had a great weekend. Are you free for dinner on Saturday night?”
The text sent, I got on with work. A series of back to back meetings during the afternoon had resulted in a pile of actions coming my way that were the result of someone else’s fuck up. My boss was receiving a lot of pressure from his boss and consequently had decided to put pressure on the rest of the team. The moment I started doing one thing, something else would happen and so on and so forth. By 5.30 I was tired and I’d had enough of the office and just wanted to go home.
Sitting on the tube on the way home, I felt like it was the first time that I had properly sat down all day. I had my nose in a book as I heard my phone beep. It was the beep I had been waiting all afternoon to hear, or so I thought: -
“Sorry, I don’t think we’re well suited. I did enjoy my night but I don’t want you 2 get false expectations. I wish you all the best. A.”
I stared at my phone – aghast. What the fuck..!!? I mean what? WHAT?? I was bewildered and didn’t know what to think. I stared at the message over and over. Had we been on different dates? My incredulity was gradually replaced with a sorrow and a sudden loneliness which was exacerbated by the stresses of the day. I looked up and noticed the number of couples who filled the tube carriage. Well there may only have been two or three couples and they may even only have been work colleagues for all I knew. But they stood out with a glow, like kids on a Ready Brek commercial, conspicuous by the warmth of being in a relationship – a warmth that I suddenly longed for more than ever.
I arrived home and made a cup of tea. My phone was lying on the kitchen counter as I glanced again at the message whilst stirring the cup. G phoned, asking how my date had gone the week before. I read her the text. “Oh well, put it behind you. On to the next one” she said, matter of fact. “Yep yep” I said, through gritted teeth, my eyes closed as I desperately tried to keep the lump in my throat under control. I ended the call and took a breath. Fuck it, I thought as I replied to the text: -
“Already had false expectations after you kissed me in the street for half an hour. Kind of wish you hadn’t now. My fault for misjudging”.
I hit the send key as I walked through to the lounge and tossed the phone onto the sofa. There, done! Time for a shower – what a fucking day, I thought as I stripped before opening the shower door just as my phone beeped. Get in the shower, ignore it! Which is why I went straight to the lounge and picked my phone up off the sofa: -
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. Please understand that things are not that black and white. I did enjoy kissing you – my heart says to see you but my logic says that things are not settled for me. Yes, maybe we shouldn’t have kissed. I’m sorry”
Bizarrely I started to feel a slight sense of guilt as the water from the shower cascaded over me. She had very mildly hinted during our date that she hadn’t had an easy breakup with her ex. She obviously wasn’t over the split and it seemed to be more of a timing issue than anything. I remembered my own experience of when I went through a very similar thing a few years ago. I considered my current sense of upset and realised that I had let self pity get in the way of clear thinking. I had to face facts. This relationship was looking like a non starter, not now at least. Surely there was something I could take away from it though? Whatever else had happened, I’d had a wonderful night out with a beautiful girl and we had spent what felt an age snogging like two teenagers. That wasn’t a bad memory for an evening out with someone I didn’t even know a fortnight earlier. I finished showering and texted her back.
“I’m sorry A. You’ve caught me at the end of a very long and not good day. I’ve been where you are now and know that it isn’t easy. I enjoyed kissing you and am glad we met as I thought you were adorable and I had a great night. That’s a good silver lining at least. Call me some time. Take care x”.
It’s not always easy to look for the silver lining in a given situation and sometimes I take a wobble when on the receiving end of a metaphorical punch in the face. But what’s the alternative? Well the alternative is to sink into a sort of morose bitterness that jades and makes one more cynical the next time someone shows an interest, and that’s not me. I’d had a wonderful evening and I wanted to remember it. My phone beeped.
“Thank you. I really appreciated your message. You are awesome. I will try to be in contact with you in time. Keep your go lively spirit. It’s wonderful to be around x”
Last year I needed to develop a thicker skin when it came to finding a job. Maybe my period away from the dating scene had meant that I needed to develop a thicker skin in other areas too. I had surprised myself at just how upset I had felt. But look, two weeks before our date I didn’t even know she existed. And that’s what I’m talking about. Life is so random that you never know who or what is just around the corner. For now though, it’s onwards and upwards. Let’s see what the next adventure has in store...
“Hey, hope you're well and had a great weekend. Are you free for dinner on Saturday night?”
The text sent, I got on with work. A series of back to back meetings during the afternoon had resulted in a pile of actions coming my way that were the result of someone else’s fuck up. My boss was receiving a lot of pressure from his boss and consequently had decided to put pressure on the rest of the team. The moment I started doing one thing, something else would happen and so on and so forth. By 5.30 I was tired and I’d had enough of the office and just wanted to go home.
Sitting on the tube on the way home, I felt like it was the first time that I had properly sat down all day. I had my nose in a book as I heard my phone beep. It was the beep I had been waiting all afternoon to hear, or so I thought: -
“Sorry, I don’t think we’re well suited. I did enjoy my night but I don’t want you 2 get false expectations. I wish you all the best. A.”
I stared at my phone – aghast. What the fuck..!!? I mean what? WHAT?? I was bewildered and didn’t know what to think. I stared at the message over and over. Had we been on different dates? My incredulity was gradually replaced with a sorrow and a sudden loneliness which was exacerbated by the stresses of the day. I looked up and noticed the number of couples who filled the tube carriage. Well there may only have been two or three couples and they may even only have been work colleagues for all I knew. But they stood out with a glow, like kids on a Ready Brek commercial, conspicuous by the warmth of being in a relationship – a warmth that I suddenly longed for more than ever.
I arrived home and made a cup of tea. My phone was lying on the kitchen counter as I glanced again at the message whilst stirring the cup. G phoned, asking how my date had gone the week before. I read her the text. “Oh well, put it behind you. On to the next one” she said, matter of fact. “Yep yep” I said, through gritted teeth, my eyes closed as I desperately tried to keep the lump in my throat under control. I ended the call and took a breath. Fuck it, I thought as I replied to the text: -
“Already had false expectations after you kissed me in the street for half an hour. Kind of wish you hadn’t now. My fault for misjudging”.
I hit the send key as I walked through to the lounge and tossed the phone onto the sofa. There, done! Time for a shower – what a fucking day, I thought as I stripped before opening the shower door just as my phone beeped. Get in the shower, ignore it! Which is why I went straight to the lounge and picked my phone up off the sofa: -
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. Please understand that things are not that black and white. I did enjoy kissing you – my heart says to see you but my logic says that things are not settled for me. Yes, maybe we shouldn’t have kissed. I’m sorry”
Bizarrely I started to feel a slight sense of guilt as the water from the shower cascaded over me. She had very mildly hinted during our date that she hadn’t had an easy breakup with her ex. She obviously wasn’t over the split and it seemed to be more of a timing issue than anything. I remembered my own experience of when I went through a very similar thing a few years ago. I considered my current sense of upset and realised that I had let self pity get in the way of clear thinking. I had to face facts. This relationship was looking like a non starter, not now at least. Surely there was something I could take away from it though? Whatever else had happened, I’d had a wonderful night out with a beautiful girl and we had spent what felt an age snogging like two teenagers. That wasn’t a bad memory for an evening out with someone I didn’t even know a fortnight earlier. I finished showering and texted her back.
“I’m sorry A. You’ve caught me at the end of a very long and not good day. I’ve been where you are now and know that it isn’t easy. I enjoyed kissing you and am glad we met as I thought you were adorable and I had a great night. That’s a good silver lining at least. Call me some time. Take care x”.
It’s not always easy to look for the silver lining in a given situation and sometimes I take a wobble when on the receiving end of a metaphorical punch in the face. But what’s the alternative? Well the alternative is to sink into a sort of morose bitterness that jades and makes one more cynical the next time someone shows an interest, and that’s not me. I’d had a wonderful evening and I wanted to remember it. My phone beeped.
“Thank you. I really appreciated your message. You are awesome. I will try to be in contact with you in time. Keep your go lively spirit. It’s wonderful to be around x”
Last year I needed to develop a thicker skin when it came to finding a job. Maybe my period away from the dating scene had meant that I needed to develop a thicker skin in other areas too. I had surprised myself at just how upset I had felt. But look, two weeks before our date I didn’t even know she existed. And that’s what I’m talking about. Life is so random that you never know who or what is just around the corner. For now though, it’s onwards and upwards. Let’s see what the next adventure has in store...
Thursday 27 January 2011
Midweek Rendezvous - Part 1
I checked my watch - don't be late, don't be late, try not to be late - I was late. Luckily however, so was she. I slowed down, figuring I could take my time. She sped up, not wanting to be even later and we bumped into each other on the way to the venue.
The venue itself was quite a chic and intimate little bar underneath Tower Bridge and the event was a first date. I stopped dating for much of last year - the austerity from not working such as it was. This was my first date since last October - the date of 20 hours, more of which I'll tell you about another time ... or maybe I won't. Whilst this blog can be very personal at times, it isn’t meant to be a completely open book.
Anyway, back to this particular evening, which was with someone I had met at a party the week before - we'll call her A. That night, in a room full of women wearing short party dresses and all screaming "look at me", this vivacious girl with big beautiful dark eyes and a wide mouth smile had captured my attention. We had barely exchanged a few sentences when her friend decided to vomit a cocktail of champagne, red wine and what looked like half a mutilated spring roll onto her shoes. After much wiping of shoes and the vomiter's dress and fetching glasses of water, A said "I’m sorry but I'm going to have to take her home". I hated her friend at that point. Wasn't there any way she could just bundle her into a cab with her flat keys? Plainly not - the girl looked like a refugee from Shameless and left to her own devices she'd give Amy Winehouse a run for her money. "Call me" said A as she got into a taxi with her friend. I did and here we were.
We sat down at a little table next to a window underneath Tower Bridge. The evening was clear, the view over the river was spectacular and the candle in the bottle between us set the perfect intimate atmosphere for a date. Any pre date nerves – any fears I may have had of the conversation drying up were dispelled in an instant, the moment we started talking. She leaned on her hand as I talked and I saw that same wide mouth smile and the deep brown eyes that had caught my attention in the first place. It felt so easy and natural and we seemed to talk and banter about anything and everything – bizarrely so in fact as we talked about things you’re not supposed to on a first date, such as ex’s – she was recently out of a long relationship in the same way as I was a couple of years ago. She was adorable and funny and sweet and beautiful. Normally on a first date my guard is up and I think of a first date as a time to work out if you want to see the person again for a second date. This girl was different though and as she talked animatedly and interestingly I knew that I wanted to see her again.
We were the last two people to leave as we headed for the walk across Tower Bridge. As much as we seemed to really get on, I still wasn’t sure what she thought of me. I needed to test the water and the best way to do this I thought, would be to link my little finger with hers. Either she’d let go of my finger or she’d hold my hand. If she let go of my finger then it wouldn’t be the end of the world exactly, but if she held my hand then it would show that she liked me and was interested. I wondered and ummed and ahhed before gingerly curling the little finger on my right hand with hers on her left. Seconds later I felt her palm close around mine.
We got to the other end of the Bridge. "So.." I said. "So..." she replied, smiling as I was due to head in one direction and she in another. Her hand brushed up and down the side of my arm as I took her left lapel in my hand and pulled her close. The kiss was every bit as good and enjoyable as I hoped it would be. We ignored the tooting of cars and the "GO ON SON!" of passers by. Well I say ignored - she smiled and giggled and in my head I was doing a little dance and punching the air on stage at Wembley stadium in front of a crowd of thousands. We kissed again and after 30 mins she said "I'd better go, I've got to be up at 6am". "Me too" I said, checking the time. "Call me" she said. "I will " I replied as I smiled and as cool as I could, turned and walked in the opposite direction. I felt elated and I looked back over my shoulder as I walked and saw her looking back. I grinned and turned back the way I was walking, taking another peek back a few minutes later, only to see her again glimpsing back.
I beamed as I carried on walking. This felt like the beginning of something exciting...
The venue itself was quite a chic and intimate little bar underneath Tower Bridge and the event was a first date. I stopped dating for much of last year - the austerity from not working such as it was. This was my first date since last October - the date of 20 hours, more of which I'll tell you about another time ... or maybe I won't. Whilst this blog can be very personal at times, it isn’t meant to be a completely open book.
Anyway, back to this particular evening, which was with someone I had met at a party the week before - we'll call her A. That night, in a room full of women wearing short party dresses and all screaming "look at me", this vivacious girl with big beautiful dark eyes and a wide mouth smile had captured my attention. We had barely exchanged a few sentences when her friend decided to vomit a cocktail of champagne, red wine and what looked like half a mutilated spring roll onto her shoes. After much wiping of shoes and the vomiter's dress and fetching glasses of water, A said "I’m sorry but I'm going to have to take her home". I hated her friend at that point. Wasn't there any way she could just bundle her into a cab with her flat keys? Plainly not - the girl looked like a refugee from Shameless and left to her own devices she'd give Amy Winehouse a run for her money. "Call me" said A as she got into a taxi with her friend. I did and here we were.
We sat down at a little table next to a window underneath Tower Bridge. The evening was clear, the view over the river was spectacular and the candle in the bottle between us set the perfect intimate atmosphere for a date. Any pre date nerves – any fears I may have had of the conversation drying up were dispelled in an instant, the moment we started talking. She leaned on her hand as I talked and I saw that same wide mouth smile and the deep brown eyes that had caught my attention in the first place. It felt so easy and natural and we seemed to talk and banter about anything and everything – bizarrely so in fact as we talked about things you’re not supposed to on a first date, such as ex’s – she was recently out of a long relationship in the same way as I was a couple of years ago. She was adorable and funny and sweet and beautiful. Normally on a first date my guard is up and I think of a first date as a time to work out if you want to see the person again for a second date. This girl was different though and as she talked animatedly and interestingly I knew that I wanted to see her again.
We were the last two people to leave as we headed for the walk across Tower Bridge. As much as we seemed to really get on, I still wasn’t sure what she thought of me. I needed to test the water and the best way to do this I thought, would be to link my little finger with hers. Either she’d let go of my finger or she’d hold my hand. If she let go of my finger then it wouldn’t be the end of the world exactly, but if she held my hand then it would show that she liked me and was interested. I wondered and ummed and ahhed before gingerly curling the little finger on my right hand with hers on her left. Seconds later I felt her palm close around mine.
We got to the other end of the Bridge. "So.." I said. "So..." she replied, smiling as I was due to head in one direction and she in another. Her hand brushed up and down the side of my arm as I took her left lapel in my hand and pulled her close. The kiss was every bit as good and enjoyable as I hoped it would be. We ignored the tooting of cars and the "GO ON SON!" of passers by. Well I say ignored - she smiled and giggled and in my head I was doing a little dance and punching the air on stage at Wembley stadium in front of a crowd of thousands. We kissed again and after 30 mins she said "I'd better go, I've got to be up at 6am". "Me too" I said, checking the time. "Call me" she said. "I will " I replied as I smiled and as cool as I could, turned and walked in the opposite direction. I felt elated and I looked back over my shoulder as I walked and saw her looking back. I grinned and turned back the way I was walking, taking another peek back a few minutes later, only to see her again glimpsing back.
I beamed as I carried on walking. This felt like the beginning of something exciting...
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