The Networking Event

I marked the email as unread so that I wouldn't forget about it as I did with most of the others. It's an invitation to a networking event for people working in public affairs. I studied politics at university although have never really used my degree and so it's an area I've been relatively keen on exploring. If I'm going to make any headway with potential opportunities, then this could be a very useful event to attend. I went to one previously which was held above a pub in Horseferry Road in West London. Looking back, I seem to remember that I met a few fun and interesting people that time. Right, I'm going - it could be fun I'll regret it if I don't.

I leg it out of the office an hour or so later than planned. I'm having trouble locating the email exchange on my phone that I had with Phil Murphy, the guy who's organised this evening's networking event. We managed to speak on the phone though and he mentioned that someone called Alan would put my name down on the list of attendees. In the absence of the email I hurry in the direction of Horseferry Road and the Barley Mow pub where the last event was held.

The last time I was here I got into a conversation with the organiser about the various different people in attendance and what sort of networking opportunities existed. This time he said to find him at the event where he'd be able to expand on the topic. I remember that he looks like he's in his early forties with thinning dark straight hair, dark eyes and a little overweight. 'I'll know him when I see him' I tell myself as I walk through the ground floor bar, keeping an eye out in case he happens to be downstairs where we spoke last time. I can't see him though and so I pop upstairs, passing a sign on my way indicating the event upstairs organised by "Alan Wiggins". 'That must be the guy he mentioned'

It's a busy event with wall to wall chattering, laughter and some intense looking conversations. I give the room a quick scan but can't see Phil Murphy. I check my watch 'It's not late - get a drink and talk to people'. I walk to the bar and manage to squeeze my way to the front through a couple of small crowds who have congregated with their drinks by the side of the bar. "Sorry.. thanks.. excuse me.. thanks, no worries..yes, cheers ever so much" I take out a tenner as the barman hands me a pint. "Don't worry mate, it's a free bar - there's food over there too" he says, indicating over to the long table on the other side of the room." "Thanks" I say. I do a quick circuit of the room, nodding at people here and there and saying the occasional "Hi" 'Where's Phil Murphy?'

I nibble on the finger food - a spring roll here, a vol-au-vent there. "You should just fill a plate up - good spread isn't it" says a guy next to me. "Yes it is a bit - I can't remember if there was a spread like this at the last one of these things that I went to." "Oh well, just enjoy it is what I say. Cheers" he says as he raises his glass before walking back to the crowd he was talking to. 'Fair enough'. I take a couple spring rolls, another Vol-au-vent and a chicken drumstick and walk around the room, keeping an eye out for Phil or anyone else I can remember from last time.

I walk back over to the finger buffet and put a fork full of coleslaw onto my plate next to some salad. 'Well I might as well network since I'm here' I muse. I start talking to a chap who looks like he's on the outside of a small group. He talks about the food and how nice it is to have a free bar. "Yes, I didn't expect that either" I tell him. "So who do you know here?" he asks. "Well I don't know anyone really" I confess. "Phil Murphy said I should come down although I haven't him yet". "Phil Murphy? Oh I don't think I know him. Where abouts are you based?" "I work just down the road in Victoria" I tell him. "Oh I see" he says with an air of curiosity. "And yourself?" I ask. "Well I'm based over in Paddington Green right now, although for several years I was based over at New Scotland Yard, which is where I met Wiggins" he says nodding over to a tall thin grey haired man keeping court to half a dozen or so people at the bar. "Some of us wondered if he was ever going to retire at all. Still, he's put on a good spread."

He walks back over to the small group and says something that makes them look over at me as I munch on a sausage roll, sip on my pint and I slowly play his words over again in my mind. I notice the presents underneath the table and the collection of retirement cards to the side. I dig my hand into my pocket to find my iPhone 'Where's that email again?' as I open my inbox. 'It's the Barley Mow on Horseferry Road I know it is' I keep telling myself as I scroll through until I find the email. 'Yup, just as I thought - Walkers of Whitehall".

The Beach - Part 2

I remove my sunglasses as I sit astride the quad bike and take in the view. The engine spits and spurts beneath me - the smell of oil and exhaust pervade my senses, almost as if the bike is doing it’s best to remind me that it’s still there.

It's a small beach, dotted with a dozen or so sun loungers which sink into the deliciously inviting soft yellow sand. Powerful looking waves, egged on by gusts of wind seem to pound into submission anyone who dares to paddle in the water. After a morning of riding around in the sun and the dust it looks like the perfect scene for a change of pace.

Sitting on one of the sinking loungers I slowly glide a plentiful amount of sunscreen into my reddening limbs whilst I people watch the activity of those around me. Sunbathers leisurely coat themselves in oil, two groups of people play with bats and balls and couples stroll hand in hand along the shoreline. People frolic in the water and get hit time and again by the crashing waves. The sunshine feels almost too hot and the water looks so seductive that no sooner are my arms basted like a turkey on a christmas morning, than I'm walking towards the water's edge.

The water is refreshingly cool as I wade just past my knees. Wading further I notice a wave heading towards me. It's deep blue growing in size as it moves closer to me and I closer to it. I turn sideways on as I watch it break and in the next second it connects heavily. And then I'm underwater and I think i'm upside down and my left knee hits the seabed as the wave moves on to claim others who paddle closer to the beach. I start to stand and spit out a mouthful of water when I take the force of another wave to my right side. It washes me up on the shoreline, leaving me to wipe my eyes and pull sand and stones out of my shorts as the water recedes. It's invigorating though and my heart quickens, making me grin as I wade out again to fight against the next one. A few seconds later and I'm spitting out more water and recovering my shorts from half way down my buttocks. With each rush comes an extra bit of confidence as I wade out further, sometimes jumping through waves and sometimes treading water and bobbing through them. 'Fucking awesome' I tell myself as I watch the last one move into shore having passed through me. I put my feet down to touch the seabed. I must have been carried out by the tide though as I'm out of my depth. 'Time to swim back to shore.'

The sea seems to have calmed. Whilst still choppy, the waves no longer crash over me as I swim half a dozen or so strokes towards the beach. I stop to put my feet down and my head goes beneath the water. 'I'm still out of my depth' I realise as I tread water. I kick with my legs and put my face back in the water, bringing my right arm overhead and into the water followed by my left, and then my right again, taking a breath every third stroke until I have completed a dozen or so. I gasp and take a breath, putting my feet down. My head bobs below the waterline again before allowing me to come up and spit out a mouthful of seawater. I tread water and ponder my situation. looking around I realise that I'm no closer to the beach than I was before. I feel a chill it dawns on me that if anything I have been carried further out.

I want to be calm and rational. I want to think logically as to the best way out of this. But I can't because I'm unable to swim back and I am being carried further out to sea and everyone on the beach and at the waters edge seems so very far away. And then I feel alone. So alone - so sickeningly and painfully alone and helpless as I feel my heart pounding in my chest and a realisation begins to bear down upon me. 'Fuck - ttis is it.'

I think of my family, of my mother and what she's going to think. 'This isn't supposed to be me. I'm only half way though my life. I'm supposed to be one who usually lands on his feet.' And then I have a clear vision of myself rehearsing my school nativity play as a 10 year old. I look down at my lines and read them out nervously, only for Miss Lovell, my teacher, to bellow from the back of the school hall "Speak up - open your mouth, we can't hear you!!".

“HEEEELLLLLPPPPP!!!!!” I hear myself shout, as I wave my arms. “HEEEELLLPPPPPP MMEEEE!!!!” I look at the beach but no one moves. “HEELLPPPPP MEEEE” I shout it again and again. 'Please hear me'. In my desperate attempt to be heard I want to cry. How did I get here? '10 minutes ago I was lying on the beach just enjoying the view.'

"HEY!" I look around and see a hand waving at me. It's a guy wearing a wetsuit and holding onto what looks like a body board. "HELP ME PLEASE" I cry out as I wave back at him. 'Stroke by stroke I watch him make his way over to me, cutting his way through the choppy waves - the body board floating in his wake as I see that he's wearing flippers. "Are you ok?" he says upon reaching me. I tell him the situation and he straps the body board onto my wrist and together we both start to kick out way back to shore. It's hard work to begin with but in minutes we are breaking through the bigger waves closer to the beach and then on into shallower water. A few minutes later a big wave knocks the body board out of my grip and I put a foot down and feel the seabed. "Oh Thank God' This time the waves carry me into shore as I am only waist deep. I catch my breath before walking out of the sea - dragging the bodyboard in my behind me.

I can hardly believe the feeling of the sand beneath my feet - something that 10 minutes ago I thought I would never experience again. I lean against a parasol with one hand, catching my breath and reflecting on how close I have just come to drowning. The guy - who turns out to be a lifeguard - pats me on the back to make sure I'm ok before pointing out the red flag, which naturally I handn't seen. I hug him like a long lost brother. "Thankyou"

The Beach

The wind in my face is pleasantly warm and satisfying, masking as it does the intense heat of the midday sun. My arms don’t feel the breeze in the same way though as I steer the quadbike along a main road approaching the bustling town of Hersonissos on the Greek island of Crete. I glance down to see if they’re aglow with sunburn. ‘They’ll be ok for another few minutes’

I’m looking for a place called St Georges Bay, which according to my rather battered and obscure looking map, shouldn’t be too far from here. I saw it yesterday on the last stage of a boat cruise I took to a number of the island's beaches. I was drawn by the photo of a large cave that you were supposedly able to swim into. The guy selling the cruise (typically) said the snorkelling was amazing and amongst the best on the island. Sadly, the reality was that the captain decided to anchor the boat a couple of hundred meters or so from the cave and announced just 10 minutes swim time before having to climb back on-board for the short trip back to Hersonissos – it wasn't going to happen. I’ve always enjoyed exploring caves and rugged shorelines. My childhood memories are full of trips to Devon and Cornwall where we used to scramble across the rocks. The idea of snorkelling into that cave however was something else. I had to find my way back to it.

The street signs are all written in Greek as I pass through Hersonissos and I haven’t seen anything even remotely indicating the place I’m trying to find. I spot an excursion centre coming up on the right - if anyone can give me directions to where I'm going then it should be someone in there. I park up and pop inside, taking off my crash helmet and frisking my hair as I walk. I ask a lady behind the desk for directions to St Georges Bay. She smiles “The nudist beach?” “Huh? No, I’m trying to get to this cave in St Georges Bay” I say, pulling the crumpled leaflet from my rucksack to show her. “Yes, that’s the place but there’s also a nudist beach there” she says. Either she's giving me a knowing look or I'm just feeling paranoid – possibly both. She gives me the directions I need and I head back to the bike, pondering the information as I climb astride and put the key in the ignition. ’A nudist beach.’

I follow her directions, steering the quad bike down a dusty road, although my thoughts are somewhat preoccupied. ‘I haven’t been to a nudist beach before'. I muse. ‘I’m on my own here too’. The quad bumps and unsettles itself on a couple of potholes as I lift off the seat slightly to balance it. ‘No one here knows me.’ The road runs parallel with a cliff edge and I look out at the immense blueness of the ocean. ‘No one at home would ever find out.’ And then it dawns on me that this wouldn't be the first time that I've been naked on a beach.

I recall a night in Thailand a few years ago. An American girl was eating alone at the table across from mine. She was petite with olive skin and thick dark brown hair that fell into a bob just above her shoulders. With her brown eyes she looked a little like G which might be one of the reasons I started talking to her. ‘What was her name?’ She was fun and vivacious. She joined me at my table and for the next couple of hours we chatted, exchanging travel stories and flirted as we shared a small a bottle of Jack Daniels. We took a walk along the beach road taking in the balmy evening and the warm breeze. I linked my little finger with hers. She closed her hand around mine. We wandered down to the deserted beach and kissed on the sand. "Let's skinny dip she said with the excitement of a brilliant new idea. She kicked off her Birkenstocks and walked to the waters edge, "It's so still" she mused before lifting her top over her head. She turned to look back at me. “Come on” she said, unbuttoning and stepping out of her shorts and knickers. I undressed with my eyes fixed on her as she walked in to the water. She splashed water on herself. "Come on, it's beautiful" she said before disappearing beneath the water. I waded in up to my waist wondering where she’d got to as she splashed up in front of me and spat water in my face, giggling hysterically. Her body glistened as she ran her fingers through her wet hair and we kissed. We waded along the shoreline, pointing out the luminous effect of the fish before diving into the cool water. I hadn't been naked in the sea before. It felt free and liberating and a million miles from home. We lay down on the flat sand near some trees and let the warm night air dry us.

'Happy times' I reflect as I'm suddenly snapped out of my recollection by the sound of a car horn and realise that I’m riding on the wrong side of the road. “Sorry” I say. He says something back in Greek. I haven’t a clue what, but it doesn’t sound particularly friendly. I pull over at what looks like an opening with a few cars parked. To the right is a narrow path that seems to lead down. I look over the edge. Below is a series of flat rocks from where it looks like people can dive into the sea. A young woman walks out from under the cliff overhang. She’s naked as she ties her hair in a ponytail and dips a foot into the water. She looks back to say something to someone. ‘Is she speaking Russian?’ I wonder. ‘At least I’ve found the beach’ assuming a collection of flat rocks qualifies as a beach that is. ‘Go on, yes man, do it’ I walk down the narrow track that leads to the nudist beach, lifting off my t shirt as I go and ponder on whether there’s any social etiquette with nudist beaches.

I’m half way down the path when I look across to see the beach properly in all its saggy overweight male dominated glory. The young woman it seems was the exception to the rule as groups of large naked middle aged Russian (from the sound of it) men seem to dominate the area eating, smoking and drinking beer and scratching their balls. People have seen me walking down the path though and so I can’t just turn around and head back. And so I do what any normal person would do. I pull a map out of my rucksack and act like a tourist who has lost their way before turning the map around and discovering the route back up the path.

I climb back onto the quadbike and place the key in the ignition. I fasten my crash helmet and ponder what to do next. Bugger the cave, I’m hot and tired of riding around in the midday sun. I want to find a nice beach with soft yellow sand and I want to swim and cool off. As luck might have it, I think I passed the perfect place just a few minutes down the road. I turn the bike around and bid the nudist beach goodbye.

I ride off, feeling contented for at least having made the effort. My contentment however is to be reasonably short lived. I don’t know it yet but in 30 minutes from now the nudist beach will be the farthest thing from my mind...

Nostalgia

The party was last night – a house warming for friends in North London where I crashed with a tooth brush and a spare pair of pants (forward planning). I walk over to the front lounge window and look at the house across the street – an address where my brother used to live. ‘When was it?’ I count back as I do the maths and am momentarily shocked to discover it was twenty five years ago. My hostess appears from the kitchen and hands me a cup of coffee. I point out the house and tell her the history of when I used to visit the area. “You should spend some time around here if you have time and see how much has changed”. I check the time. I’ve no need to be back in London until later. “Yeah might do” I muse. She and her boyfriend make breakfast for myself and the few waifs and strays who have stayed over and half an hour later I say my goodbyes. We agree to meet up for drinks later in the week.

I climb into the car and start off in the direction of Enfield Town. The sun is shining and it’s heat magnifies through the windscreen as I wind down the driver’s window before taking a turning into the main road. Memory escapes me of the last time I drove this way as I notice some of the shops I used to walk past or pop into on the way home from school. The hairdressers flies past the window on the left – the colour and wording of the shop sign unchanged from when I was a boy. Coming up on the right is the building that houses the pet shop that’s been there since as long as I can remember. We used to pop in there after school to look at the latest hamsters and guinea pigs and wonder about the parrot at the back – would we ever hear it talk? I gasp with a sudden sadness though as I pass it with the realisation that it’s now an Indian restaurant. There’s no one behind me and so I brake and take a look out of the driver’s window at the front of the building. The smell of pet food and the sound of squawking birds is still so clear in my mind. ‘Wow’ I muse. My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a car horn behind me and an irate little old man in a red Honda. I push on and drive in the town centre with a mix of familiarity and curiosity. Some places are the same and others have changed, including the road layout. I decide to park up and take a wander.

I am a sucker for nostalgia and I pull up in a car park that I remember my mum using before dragging us around the shops. I walk the route from the car park into town – a route that seemed to take forever to walk when I was little but which in reality takes only several minutes. I smile inwardly at this realisation as I walk past the Barclays Bank where I opened my first bank account. It still has the same sign on the wall which proudly tells people using the ATM that this was where the world’s very first ATM was installed. I walk from one end of town to the other scanning the filing cabinet of my mind for childhood adventures and recollections. And then I see him.

He’s tall, slim and dark haired and is walking towards me from about 50 meters away. ‘Is that Frank?’ The gap between us closes rapidly as I try and work out if it’s actually him. We used to go to the same school and we were even in the same class at one point. We didn’t really hang out though as we had different friends. We’d acknowledge one another with a nod and a raise of eyebrows if we passed in the school yard or corridor. ‘Is it him though?’, I wonder as we get closer. ‘It could be him’ (40 meters) , I look closer ‘I’m sure it’s him’ (30 meters)) ‘Bloody hell it’s him!’ (25 meters). ‘Right, now what? Do I say something?' (20 meters) 'Do I pretend I haven’t seen him?’ (15 meters). ‘I could just look at my shoes’ (5 metres). He is a couple of meters away as I lift my head and I look at him and he looks at me and we raise our eyebrows and we nod and we keep on walking.

I’m buoyed and reflective as I walk back to my car. It’s been a brief but fun and nostalgic visit. Sad though the loss of old haunts like the pet shop is however, time can’t stand still and change is something that ought to be embraced like a new friend. In twenty years’ time there’ll doubtless be someone for whom the Indian restaurant was a part of their childhood, who’ll mull over how sad it is that’s it’s turned into a bookies or estate agents. Happily though whilst buildings and places change, it seems that people don’t and hopefully they’ll have the silent acknowledgment of someone they used to know to remind them of that.

An Early Start

I am awake at an untimely hour to catch a train to the Midlands for a finance meeting. The early start is compounded by the first starlings of the morning, seemingly determined to ensure that I am awake a good hour before the 5am alarm. I make a mental note to wear ear plugs the next time I go to sleep with the bedroom window open.

I get up, stretch, brush my teeth, shower and shave – such is the morning routine. I dress, scramble some eggs and put the kettle on to make coffee. I look out of the window as it starts to boil. The day is clear and I remind myself to try to wake at this hour more frequently during the summer months – “maybe go for a run.”

Leaving my flat in plenty of time – a rarity in itself, I walk the short journey to the tube station and in what seems like a brief skim through a Metro later, I arrive at Kings Cross and walk through to St Pancras International and collect my tickets from the pre booking machine.

After buying a coffee and a bacon roll, I note the platform on the departures board and make my way in that direction. Walking along the concourse with hands full and laptop bag hanging over my shoulder I check my watch and see that I have 10 minutes to spare. I start to think about the day ahead - of meetings and spreadsheets and finance managers demanding this and that.

I head towards the escalator that leads to the upper platforms. However, the closer I get, the more my thoughts are interrupted by the sound of someone playing a piece of classical music on a piano. It’s an upright, positioned behind one of the columns and is one of an assorted number of pianos that have found themselves dotted around mainline train stations throughout Central London. The aim, being to encourage members of the public to play them at will. I’ve seen a few being played in the past, although usually by a teenager or two, giving a rendition of Chop Sticks. This is something else though.

I’ve heard this piece of music before – it’s by Chopin I think, and I’m wondering who the pianist is. I walk past the column and see a man who looks to be in his mid to late thirties. He has a short beard and long dark hair, which is tied back. He looks like he might be Italian or Spanish. My attention is drawn to his hands, which are dirty, likewise his nails, which are full of grime. I look at his face, side on, and I see that this is also dirty. I wonder if he might be homeless, which only makes me more curious about his piano playing

It sounds like he’s note perfect and I notice that he seems to be looking straight ahead. On closer inspection though, I see that his eyes are in fact closed. The music is gentle and beguiling in a way that cuts through the colourless routine of the morning rush hour. Not that anyone else is watching of course. Commuters go about their business and filter around me as they walk hurriedly to their trains. I sip my coffee and watch and listen. Previous thoughts of the days finance meetings now seem insignificant and bland.

An announcement over the tannoy reminds me of my impending train departure. With a heavy heart, I look at my watch and realise that I have 5 minutes to catch it if I’m not going to be late. I move closer to the piano as the piece he is playing nears its end. He softly plays the last notes and draws the piece to a close.“That was beautiful” I say. He opens his eyes, nods and smiles, “Thank you”.

A little while later and I am sitting on the train. I look out at the countryside flying past the window and reflect wistfully as the sound of the piano playing over and over in my mind. I wonder about the guy who played so beautifully - whether he’s actually homeless, where he learned to play like he did and what’s going through his mind as he closes his eyes and effortlessly, glides his fingers across the eightly eight keys on front of him.

I want to talk to someone about it – to describe what I’ve seen and the sense of wonderment I’ve felt at being briefly transported from a routine of commuter drudgery. But of course there’s no one. And so I do something that I haven’t done for far too long. I take out my laptop and I begin to type.

A New Friend

My phone vibrates in my jean pocket as I cross the road to the park, the other side of which houses my local cafe. It’s a beautiful morning in late summer and G is texting to say she’s overslept and won’t be able to catch a tube down to me in time for brunch. 'See you tonight?' I roll my eyes, but it’s fine and I tell her as much as I text her back. It’s fine because it’s a beautiful warm sunny morning and it means I can eat bacon and eggs in the sunshine, whilst going through the Saturday papers.

I sip my tea and scan through the supplements as I decide what to eat. And then for the third time in what seems like as many minutes, I am harassed. The problem with the outside area of the café is the constant attention that comes from Wapping’s pigeon population. Having twice tried to shoo them away, I roll up one of the magazines and draw my arm back to take a swipe at the fat grey bird that has landed on my table “fuck”(swipe) “off”. The pigeon has seen the movement coming from a mile off and retreats to a corner of the café terrace. “Poor pigeon” says a voice from the next table. I look over to see a girl with blonde hair, tied in a bun and wearing a black sleeveless summer dress. She’s hiding her eyes behind dark sunglasses as she sits back and lightly cradles a cup of tea between her fingers and thumbs. “Airborne rats, I think you mean” I say. “Poor poor pigeon” she tuts and smiles before taking another sip of her tea.

Just at that moment, the café owner walks out and approaches us on the terrace. “I’m sorry but I’ve just had four people arrive looking for a table. Would it be ok if I asked the both of you to share?” “Yeah, sure” we both say in unison as she gets up and sits in the chair opposite me. I hold out my hand and tell her my name. She takes it and tells me hers – we’ll call her V. She places her food order with the waitress, describing each item at a time, in a way that reminds me of Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. I shake my head, bemused as she looks at me and shrugs her shoulders “What!?” she says defensively. I grin curiously. “So, do you live in Wapping?” I ask. “Yes, I live just over, er.. that way” she says pointing in a general direction as she gets her bearings.

I’ve just met her, barely know her and yet as we delve into conversation, the two-way dialogue feels so easy and effortless. Contrary to the reality of meeting a stranger for the first time, this actually feels more like a catch up with an old friend from way back. We cover a lot of ground, including food, drink, writing, holidays, boyfriends, girlfriends, politics – you name it. We’ve been talking throughout brunch and now, an hour and a half and countless cups of tea later, I realise that I need to get going as I have things to do, and so does she. We pay at the counter for our orders before leaving the café to go our separate ways. It’s been a fun and unexpected brunch and as we are about to part, it feels like it would be somehow wrong to simply say goodbye and watch this girl walk out of my life.

“Well,” I say as we face each other on the pavement outside. “This has been a lovely conversation - it would be a shame not to have it again sometime.” “Yes it would be” she says, nodding in agreement. She gives me her number and I leave her a missed call. “So, see you soon then” she says. “Bye” I say, holding my hand to wave her goodbye.

I take out my phone out and dial a number. “Hello” says G. “So what happened to you this morning you lazy bitch?” I say with a sarcastic grin. “I know, sorry I had a late night and overslept. How was brunch?” “Fabulous and unexpected - I’ll tell you all about it later.” I say. “So are you going to G2’s party tonight?” she asks. “Yup, planning to. Are you?” “Yes, let’s talk then, it’s been too long, you git.” I can hear the warmth in her voice. “It has indeed – shame on you” I say, hearing her laugh at the other end of the phone. I want to talk to her about lots of things, but not right now. “Well, I’ll see you later then. “she says “Yep see you later” “Bye then” “Bye”.

First Crush

It’s a Friday night in March and a cold one, although the steak dinner and two bottles of Rioja have more than compensated for the outside temperature. We are the last people in what is a cosy restaurant near London Bridge. The conversation takes on a personal note over after dinner drinks. G brings up the subject of first loves and I listen intently as she talks about her first major crush when she was a teenager.

“And then he went out with my best friend, who funnily enough, then lost her right to that title” “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that” I tell her, which G dismisses with a wave of her hand. “Ancient history now” she says before downing the remains of her Amaretto. “So, how about you” she says “who was your first crush?” I’m quite inhibited when it comes to opening up, and despite the drink, I briefly think twice before speaking. “Well....” I say as I gaze into my glass. G prods my hand with her finger. “Go on, I told you mine” she says before winking and taking a sip of my drink. I cast my mind back to the clear image of a girl from my teens.

I was 16 years old, still at school and I had a Saturday job at a cash and carry in North London. The crush in question was two years older than me and her name was Rachel Harwood. She was tall and slender with wavy brunette hair falling just past her shoulders. She had warm brown eyes which she hid behind glasses and a wide mouth smile that made you melt when it was aimed in your direction. More than that though, she was intelligent, sarcastic and witty in a way that made all the other girls I met seem bland by comparison. I was hooked – line and sinker!

Every week I’d look forward to catching the bus to work as I knew that she’d be on it, having got on only a few stops before me. That journey was one of the most fun parts of the day and I longed to pluck up the courage to ask her out.

And then one day she announced that she was leaving the cash and carry as she’d had enough, and that the following week would be her last. We spoke about her last day and how she’d feel about saying goodbye to everyone. “I might not come in you know – I’m worried that they’re going to embarrass me in some way.“ she said. “Na - people will just want to say goodbye to you.” I told her. I was thinking of me primarily. I wanted to ask her out, or at least to get her phone number. My thinking was that, shy as I was, that it would be better to ask for her number on her last day. That way, if she were to say no, then it would be less embarrassing as it was her last week anyway.

I went to work the following week, full of excitement. It was when I saw that she wasn’t on the bus that my heart began to sink. She wasn’t at work either and evidently had decided to make good on her threat of not turning up at all on her last day. I was gutted. Why hadn’t I asked for her number when I had the chance!? Why didn’t I ask her out?? There was nothing I could do but torture myself over the fact that now I would never see her again.

A few months later I asked out a girl who I’d been flirting with, and we ended up going on a couple of dates. I liked her, although by the end of the second date I kind of had the feeling that maybe it wasn’t going as well as I’d hoped. Still, I thought a third date wouldn’t do any harm and we decided to go out the following Saturday night.

We met up and caught the bus that would take us to the local tube station. I usually prefer to sit downstairs on busses, but as we got on board, she asked if it was ok if we sat upstairs. I didn’t see any harm and so begrudgingly I followed her up to the top deck. The bus ride was quiet during the journey before we finally pulled up outside the tube station entrance. I followed her downstairs to the lower deck and was about to get off when I suddenly heard my name being called. I looked over to see Rachel Harwood sitting on one of the downstairs seats. She waved her arms at me and smiled the wide mouth smile that helped me fall for her when we worked together. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again, and yet there she was – sitting downstairs on the bus. The same downstairs where I had wanted to sit twenty minutes earlier. I froze. I couldn’t believe it was her. I reached my arm up to wave and opened my mouth to say something, but no sound came out. “Come on” said the date, as she grabbed my hand and pulled me off the bus. The doors closed behind me and the bus began to pull away, leaving me and my date on the pavement. I watched it drive off and saw Rachel turn around in her seat. She smiled at me and gave me a wave of her hand. It felt like a wave of goodbye – the goodbye that had been denied me at the cash and carry, months earlier. I felt more gutted than I could ever remember and in that instant I hated the date for wanting us to sit upstairs. “Come on, we’ll miss the tube” she said. I was still watching the bus as it drove further away. “That was Rachel Harwood, she used to work with us.” “Who? Oh right, come on”. I followed her into the tube station and took a last look at the big red double decker as it moved further into the distance - hope and despair trailing in the plume of its exhaust.

In the restaurant, G looks at me. “Wow” she says. I look down at my drink, in contemplation as I swirl it around the glass. “I caught the same bus every Saturday night for three weeks running, but I never saw her again” I tell her, before downing the remnants of the bourbon in my hand. “Oh my god, that’s so sweet” she says. I feign a stoic smile as I am reminded of the acute sense of dejection and helplessness that I felt in that moment outside the tube station. I look down into the empty glass as G leans forward and clasps her fingers through mine, “You’re lovely” she says softly. I look up and meet her brown eyes. A silence ensues as I hold onto her fingers. I’m about to say something, when she smiles and parts her lips as if to speak, and is immediately interrupted by a waiter. “Would you like anything else?”

The Party - Part 2

The last few weeks have been more stressful than any I can remember in recent years, outside of a work situation. Finally the night of the party has arrived though. The venue has been booked and paid for, the food has been ordered, and the guest list finalised – which has been quite a work in itself. My brother has phoned me earlier in day. He knows I’m bound to be stressed, but has told me just to try to relax and just enjoy the evening. Standing in front of the mirror, I hear his words in my head as I look at my reflection. I down the vodka and tonic by the bedside table and stretch my neck from side to side. I’m wearing a black suit, a white shirt and slim black tie ‘not bad’.

The buzzer of my front door sounds and I hear the blare as the taxi driver sounds the horn outside. My good friend A is waiting with the driver and a couple of other friends. “Looking good” she says as I step out of the entrance to my building. I smile and climb in to the back of the cab, and moments later we are on our way.

No sooner have we arrived at the venue, and spoken to the event manager and bar staff, than the guests start arriving, starting with a number of family members. G arrives shortly after and gives me a big hug, telling me to relax and enjoy the evening. There is then a seemingly endless period where the door is continually open with people arriving, including some who I hadn't the least idea would be able to make it.

I have been on a number of dates over the past year, and whilst things may not have worked out in the romantic sense, I now at least have a number of new friends that I didn’t have a year ago. A few of them have turned up this evening for the party. However, this also gives way to awkward introductions as people meet one another and ask the inevitable question about how they know me. “So, you’ve got a lot of ex’s here tonight” says a recent date, with her arms folded and wearing a frown. I smile sheepishly.

A friend of mine walks over to me. “Hey where’s G?" she says "I’ve read so much about her in your blogs but never met her.” G happens to be standing right behind her, overhears the conversation and turns around to catch my eye over the girls shoulder. Regular readers will know that G is the most frequent reoccurrence in this blog. “Just keep me anonymous” she regularly tells me. I shrug my shoulders at my friend “G doesn’t exist” I say “she’s based on a different person every time.” “Oh really?” says my friend disappointedly. G winks at me and reverts back to her conversation.

As more people arrive, I find it difficult to hold conversations with people for more than a few minutes at a time. I flit between different groups and try to ensure that I haven’t ignored or forgotten anyone. “People are enjoying themselves, relax and do the same” says A as she tops up my glass. I nod in agreement take a look around the room at the increasing numbers of people and smile inwardly. Just then another friend walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder. “Are you enjoying yourself mate?” “I am” I tell him “I’m a bit overwhelmed actually. I mean it’s one thing to see a long list of names on a guest list, but quite another to see them all in the same room together”. “Well to be honest,” he says, “the fact that you’ve managed to get this many people out, the week before Christmas, says a lot about you”. I feel a glow inside and we clink glasses.

I’m standing, facing the bar when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around to find myself face to face with the SA. “Hello” she smiles. I have history with this girl and a couple of years ago she broke my heart, although she probably isn’t aware of this fact. We’re good and close friends now though. My desire to remain cool and aloof is betrayed by the smile on my face. She looks terrific and over the next couple of hours we talk, we drink, I introduce her to friends, we dance and we kiss in the middle of the dance floor, oblivious to anyone who might be watching. She has said that she has to go to a leaving do elsewhere later, although I have put this out of my mind as we kiss. A short while later though and I am talking to someone else as she taps me on the shoulder and tells me that she has to leave. I’ve forgotten that she was going. “Stay” I say, “I can’t, I said I’d go to my friend’s do”. I sigh inwardly and with a heavy heart, I help her get her coat and walk her to the top of the stairs. We face each other in the short corridor leading from the top of the stairs to the entrance. I don't want her to go. I press her against the wall and we kiss again. After a few minutes I break the kiss. “Stay” I whisper. “I’m sorry, I can’t” she says. I look into her eyes and I realise that I’m still in love with her. ‘You’re breaking my heart’. I watch her leave as she looks back before disappearing out of the entrance.

My eyes feel hot and there’s a lump in my throat as I walk back downstairs to rejoin the party, which is now beginning to thin out. I get myself a drink from the bar, where G joins me. “You ok?” she asks. I look at her and she can see that I’m not. We take our drinks to a sofa and I tell her about what has just happened and open up about some of the history. I haven’t spoken to G about the SA before. Opening up like this isn't something that comes naturally to me. She rests her hand on mine though, and her eyes are so warm and kind that it feels so simple to talk about something so personal. It also brings an unexpectly cathartic element which lifts my mood. She hugs me warmly, her cheek against mine and reminds me that this, after all, is my birthday party. “You ok now?” she says after a while. I shrug my shoulders and smile at her. “Yes – thanks”. She stands up, taking my hand in hers as we rejoin the party.

It’s gone 2am now, and the party is a hardcore of just over half a dozen close friends. People have stopped dancing. The champagne has finished, the shots have been drunk and people are now swirling Baileys and late night Brandy. Looking around the group, there is a mutual recognition of tiredness, achy feet and a feeling that the evening is coming to a close. “Time for taxis?” says G. I nod and smile “Yes, I think so”. “Have you had a good night?” says A. I ponder - I have eaten well and drunk more than my fair share of champagne and vodka. I have been overwhelmed at the turnout, some of whom I had no idea would come. I have felt loved by close friends and my family. I have felt both deliriously happy and intensely sad, but right now I am feeling content. “Yes, a very good night”. I thank the bar staff and follow the others out into the cold December air.

Outside on the pavement, I see that A has hailed a taxi for a few of us to head back to East London and is holding the door open. I am about to get in, when I look across to see G getting into a silver taxi to head in a different direction. She looks across and we catch one another’s eye. “Thank you” I mouth at her. She blows a kiss and puts a finger and thumb to her ear as she indicates and mouths "call me". I nod before getting into the cab next to A and I close the door. “Anything you want to tell me about there?” she asks, nodding over to G. I shrug my shoulders “No, we’re just friends.” I look out of the back window and watch the silver taxi as it drives away.

Close

“Thank you so much for coming, I wasn’t sure if you’d make it as I know you work far away.” “Don’t be silly” I say, “I said I’d come – you were terrific as ever.” N2 is a singer/songwriter and an old travel buddy of mine who I’ve known for a decade. She’s been playing a gig in North London although it’s now late and we’re saying our goodbyes before I go home.

I head to the Northern Line to get back into town and ponder the journey home from there. I could get the Central Line from Bank to Liverpool Street and then catch a bus that goes practically past my front door. ‘No, screw it’ I decide to catch the DLR to Shadwell and then walk from there. It’ll only be around midnight when I get to Bank and so the DLR should still be running. I make the change at Bank, and as expected, the DLR is indeed still running and I manage to jump onto one of the carriages just as the doors start to beep before closing. After one stop I’m at Shadwell and get off to in order to walk the final leg of the journey back to Wapping.

It's a chilly night, as I walk down Wapping Lane, and I zip up my leather jacket and put my hands in the pockets. The time is just after midnight and it’s always very quiet in the area at this hour, although you can usually spot one or two people on their way back from a night out. And this is what I see as I turn into my road. I’m not sure I have even seen where they have come from, but two guys seem to be walking in my direction.

I walk briskly because of the cold air and I’m looking straight ahead. They cross the road at the same time as me, as I walk further down the road to get to the entrance to my building. At first I have assumed that they are two friends on their way home from a night out. However, my internal alert tells me that something doesn’t feel quite right. Despite my walking at a brisk pace, they seem to be getting closer. My hands are in my pockets and I can feel my door key and the entrance fob to get me into my building as I continue to walk. One of the men who has been walking not far behind me has now caught up with me and is on my right. He has slowed down so that we are now walking at the same pace. I glance to my left and out of the corner of my eye, I can see that his friend is walking about three feet behind me. The guy to my right is almost brushing against my arm as I walk. I can see that he’s taller than me and is wearing an oversize trapper hat that hides his face. I feel a chill as I realise what is happening.

‘How am I going to get out of this?’ I feel like I’m about to be jumped at any moment. There are two of them, they are both bigger than me and I can’t remember the last time I had a fight. Fear brings with it a rush of adrenalin, and in a second I scan the immediate area for possible exits out of this situation. There should be a gate here on the left that I can quickly duck through. ‘Shit, I’ve passed it already’ The next gate is 10 meters away. ‘Look straight ahead, pretend you haven’t noticed them’ 6 metres. I can’t run. If I make a run for it then it’s game over, 4 metres. I need to look like I’m walking straight down the road and hope for the tiniest element of surprise when I make a sharp left at the gate, 2 metres. My heart is pounding as I get closer to the gate and I just hope that I'm not jumped before I reach it. 1 metre. ‘One more step - Now!’

I make a sudden turn on my heal through the gate entrance and almost immediately make another left. I pull the key fob out of my pocket as I reach the entrance door of my building. In an instant, the door beeps and I am inside, pulling it closed behind me. I glance over quickly to see both guys standing still and looking at me. ‘Are they following?’ I don’t stop moving and my flat is on the 4th floor. ‘Stairs of lift?’ My paranoia tells me that I’m safer on the stairs, which I run up, two steps at a time until I reach my floor. I haven’t heard anyone come through the security door behind me, although I don’t slow down for a moment. I walk briskly along the walkway and within a minute I am at my front door. I am slightly out of breath and my heart is pounding in my chest, but I am home and I am safe.

I open my front door and sling my leather jacket on the sofa as I walk past the lounge. It’s then that I contemplate the last few minutes and what a close run experience I have just had. And now I feel angry, fuelled by the adrenalin, as I think of the I-phone inside my jacket on the sofa, the cash in my wallet, still in my jeans and the bank cards that I now won’t have to cancel. ‘Fucking bastards, how fucking dare they...’ I am too wound up to go straight to bed and so I undress in the bathroom, leaving my clothes in a heap on the floor and stand under the shower whilst I brood over what might otherwise have been. 10 minutes later I dry myself as I continue to mull it over. I toss the towel over one of the bedposts and climb naked under the duvet. I close my eyes and 10 minutes later I am asleep.

The Party - Part 1

It’s just coming up to Christmas, and my birthday – a big birthday, is only a few short weeks away. Usually I don’t really celebrate my birthday, due to a mixture of bad planning and bad timing. It falls on Christmas Eve and so doing anything on my actual birthday is difficult. I don’t usually enjoy parties – not my own anyway, as I tend to worry about who I haven’t spoken to and I get vexed at no shows. I’m turning 40 though, and if I don’t celebrate, then I know I will regret it at some point later. After pondering on whether to have a house party or a dinner party, I decide that I don’t want the hassle of moving furniture or cleaning up afterwards. I also need space and my flat isn’t big enough for the sort of gathering I have in mind.

I looking at reserving a private area in a bar somewhere. With this in mind I pop into Floridita in Soho and enquire about renting a semi private area for the Saturday before Christmas. The events organiser tells me “We can cater for 70 people in a semi private area”. “Okay, that sounds cool. How much does it cost?” I ask. “Oh it’s free to hire” she says, “but we have a minimum spend of £7000.” ‘£7000!!?? You’re taking the piss!’ Sadly she isn’t. One of the problems with having a Christmas birthday is that organising anything gets expensive. So many people are trying to organise parties that the demand pushes the price up – in the same way that it costs a fortune to buy red roses on Valentines Day. Still, there is somewhere else just around the corner from here that I have earmarked and stopped by a couple of days ago. It looked quite nice and I was told that I could rent a couple of booths at minimal cost. However, I wanted to see what the place is like when full of people. I pop by in the evening after leaving Floridita and head to the downstairs bar, only to be confronted by a sea of teenagers listening to Justin Bieber. It’s way too young, and is another place to strike from the list. However, there is one more venue that I have seen and is just around the corner from here in Archer Street.

I walk in, nodding to the doorman who I spoke to a couple of days earlier and head to the downstairs bar. I’m pleased to see the place full with a cool looking clientele in their 30’s and 40’s. As I walk amongst the crowd, a waitress approaches me. “Would you like a mini fish and chips sir?” she says. “Oh, yes thanks” I say surprised. I move to the bar to take in the atmosphere of the place and try to picture it on a Saturday night with all my friends. The barman approaches, “Would you like a beer sir?” he says as he hands me a bottle of Becks. “Er, yeah, sure” I say, again surprised. I eat some more of my mini fish and chips and sip my beer. In the middle of swigging my beer I hear something that makes me turn around ‘clink clink clink..’ A grey haired man of about 50 stands up on a coffee table, just as the whole room looks at him. “Hi guys, I’m so glad you could all make it. It’s been a big project of seven years in the making as you all know, but we’ve really made a difference to the lives of people in Iraq and you should feel proud...” ‘Oh shit’, I freeze as I realise It’s a private party and I’m eating his food and drinking his drink. And now as he talks, he is looking right at me with fish and chips in my left hand and a beer in my right, and the quizzical look on his face makes it clear that he’s thinking ‘who the fuck are you?’ I can’t leave though whilst he’s speaking as I’m standing right in front of him. So I nod and clap in time with everyone else throughout his speech and will him to get it over with so that I can dash out. This he does, and I swear that I can hear people asking “Who’s that guy?” as I skulk out the door.

That bar is ok, but one thing that has come from seeing these different places, is that I am getting a better idea of the sort of party and venue that I would like to have. Nice as it was, if I rented a few booths in that last place, then I think I would feel as if I’m renting a space at someone else’s party. I walk along Old Compton Street wondering if I am actually going to find anywhere I like and a slight melancholy hits me. I wonder if I’m being too fickle as I realise there’s a chance that the party might not happen.

And then I walk past Boheme Kitchen on Old Compton Street and I happen to look up and there see a very cosy looking room with Christmas lights on the first floor. My phone rings. It’s G - she’s local and wonders if I’m close by and fancy dinner. She joins me and I tell her what I’ve been up to. We go into Boheme Kitchen to enquire about whether the cosy room I’ve just seen is one of their function rooms. The manager informs me that the room is part of Soho House and takes me to their reception. I’m not allowed to book the room I’ve seen because I’m not a member. However, I am able to rent the basement bar and it turns out to be available on the night I want. He leads us downstairs to the bar, opens the door and switches on the lights. It’s chic, cosy, perfect and I love it. “It’s so you” says G, “You’ve got to take it”. I smile, although mentally I write it off. If Floridita wanted £7000 minimum spend for a small roped off area then the private hire of this basement bar is bound to cost something silly. “It’s £200 for the hire of the room and £1500 minimum spend behind the bar” says the event organiser. G looks at me and raises an eyebrow knowingly. I look to the event organiser “I’ll take it.”

Mr Nice Guy - Part 4

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”.

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.”

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!!

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...”

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...

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...’

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...

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.

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...’

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.