“I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you,” she murmured into my ear. Shit, really? Nobody’s ever said that before. And this city’s been slicing my face into scabby pieces lately. Not wanting to alter the atmosphere in any way, I kept quiet and kissed her.
Conversely, I hadn’t wanted to fuck her straight away. It was the Alice Band: an immediate issue which made me annoyed by my own fussiness with jewellery and accessories. Back home Alice Bands were exclusively the staple of 12 year old girls or girly-haired European footballers. Not women.
But by the time she breathed those words into my ear, the next morning, naked in my hotel bed, I did want to fuck her, very much. And I even liked her too.
She’d entered the bar and sat down next to me, wearing that Alice Band – worn to hold curly red hair. She seemed nice, chatty, human and smart; neither of us perturbed by the unorthodox meeting, the loose online acquaintance but not actually knowing the first thing about each other.
We drank pints and ate burgers, drank more, conversation flowing easily. She spoke amusingly and with the manner of a charismatic, obviously homosexual man: lots of back and forth shoulder tilting, flappy hand gestures and much use of air quotation marks, which I teased her about. I was enjoying having company, conversing. She was fun, the bar was cool and low key, the music good. Although I wasn’t sure if this was just a pleasant couple of hours and we should be getting back: me to my hotel a few blocks east, her to her small flat a short train ride north. It was more of a date than I’d anticipated when I suggested meeting up. But that was fine, and became better than fine.
“Well.. I’m having a fun time,” she said, leadingly, so we moved on elsewhere. In the next dark sports bar we had tequila and further strong liquors, discussing drinking, local politics, religion and family. An hour later we tired of that bar and headed out, considering a next venue but not knowing where. On the street it was bitterly cold. She shivered and I put an arm around her.
Despite being the local, she was unsure where to go next. “Nothing.. funny, but we could just go back to mine, or..” she trailed away. I suggested we go back to my hotel, a shorter distance away, just a few blocks. Nothing.. funny either, I added, chuckling in my head. She agreed. In the room I generously poured from the bottle of Sour Mash bourbon bought from Moe’s Liquor Store in Sheboygan Falls earlier that week.
She flopped down onto the near-side of the bed. I made to leap over and rest the other side of her, louche and athletic: a poor idea made worse by a misjudged leap and bounce off the far side of the bed and onto the floor. It was clearly unintended and less than smooth. She laughed. We were both drunk and fuzzy. I clambered back on the bed
and lay next to her, embarrassed and flustered, any cool I had extinguished in that moment.
We breathed and sipped at the bourbon. What now?
“We could get naked and get in bed?” she nonchalantly suggested.
“But what would my wife say?” I whispered straightfaced.
A nervous giggle, a pregnant pause for thought.
My turn to laugh. I assured her, agreed to her suggestion and hoped she’d take off the Alice Band.
*
Around midmorning, that stupendously filthy murmur suggested her headache had eased. These were times of therapy for a man of fragile ego.
Midday saw glaring Chicago sunlight punish the curtains. She rested warmly against me, now freshly showered and slowly preparing to leave. No great urgency. I played with her hair. The night before had been made easier by the transience of the situation: the time-sensitive One Night Only Offer. Nothing had mattered all that much, nothing had any real consequence. In two days’ time I’d be gone, a long way away, unlikely to ever return.
That’s unless feeling develops, if there’s any sense of mutual feeling, if raw is courage acted upon. This is less likely with sober, pragmatic characters already encroached on their thirties. Those who know they should stop playing games and start being serious, whatever that means.
Let it go. Frivolously skim back across the ocean and remember it fondly. Accept it for what it was: a night with someone you found you liked, albeit for a brief period, someone you had a good time with. Be content to smile at the memory: that spectacular death of your cool; that you were both naked in bed before you’d even kissed; the quirky unorthodoxy of it all. Be grateful for her unknowing illumination of your ridiculously unsuitable previous female hope.
Use the knowledge to go forward and hope that these type of meetings – for this isn’t entirely without precedent – isn’t as good as you can ever hope for. Hope that you stop being so pathetically grateful for attention from any female with a combination of looks and intelligence. Learn to stop excitedly sledgehammering square shapes into round holes like an overzealous recruitment consultant. It’ll be fine, it can work, IT WILL WORK!
Move on now.
Let it go when you kiss her for the last time and smile and say something meaningless and she leaves the room and the heavy hotel door clunks shut behind her. Let it slide and blur and fade. Just like that. Easy.
Lying there together in those final minutes, absently twirling one of her curls around a forefinger, perhaps it was because nothing mattered all that much, because nothing had any consequence: perhaps that made it sadder.
Showing posts with label females. Show all posts
Showing posts with label females. Show all posts
Monday, 17 January 2011
Wednesday, 8 December 2010
affair ground
A long five months ago our Hammersmith pub conversation opened up with “How do you KNOW?” or “can you ever know, that somebody is The One?” Doesn’t it always degenerate, get tired and dull, don’t you always end up boring one another?
After which he’d crumbled. He told me how he was having an affair with a girl in the office, who he was crazy about. He explained how he was cheating on his wife of a year, which was horrible and hateful but he couldn’t help it, and how the other girl herself was also married.
Now, a long five months later he told how he’d allowed the affair to turn his life upside down. A divorce was proceeding, although he said he wasn’t really reading the letters, and he’d not only moved in with the new woman, they also were moving back to her native America after a month travelling in Thailand over Christmas.
His ex-wife was heartbroken and had wanted reconciliation even after everything became known. Her father had visited him at his workplace and tried to persuade him to try again, even speaking of sex and how such things can dwindle but men have ways of coping, other outlets.
My friend rejected this. He liked the other girl. He loved her in fact, and no longer loved the woman he’d married. This was difficult for them to accept and he received hate email, both from her and from her sisters.
In a separate, dark twist his new partner’s husband died suddenly, overnight. A verdict is still pending.
The original concealment of the affair from his wife was less forgivable, but the manner with which he followed his heart (I can find no less trite way of saying it), grasped a very painful nettle and dared to change his life; I found it peculiarly admirable.
We spoke briefly in the South Kensington pub, before his new partner arrived to join us, about fear and self-doubt, our shared concern of boring people eventually.
If you’re seeing someone younger with plenty of those exciting 20-something years ahead of them – years when they’ll do exciting new things, go to novel or exotic places and meet interesting cool people – how can you not worry that you won’t stand up? You will appear jaded, lazy and uninteresting, old. You will eventually bore. It’s a risk, like everything is. Like “How Do You Know?” You don’t, you can’t.
She arrived in the South Kensington pub after about half an hour: pretty, blonde and slightly nervous of me (as he’d admitted to me beforehand that she was – not having met any of his friends before). He’d been attracted by her quirky creative bent, her desire to make her own clothes and her practicality, the fact she wasn’t a girly girl. None of that came across.
We spoke of the Interpol concert they were heading to from here, how I’d heard good reports and there was a favourable review in the newspaper. From the half hour spent, my impression was positive. She appeared like someone who’d over-lived for 25, had many things happen including the possibly premature first marriage.
I left the couple to head south of the river to my work function, pleased for them and their convictions – more his than hers? – perversely envious of their dramatic, romantic year, sad I might never see them again.
After which he’d crumbled. He told me how he was having an affair with a girl in the office, who he was crazy about. He explained how he was cheating on his wife of a year, which was horrible and hateful but he couldn’t help it, and how the other girl herself was also married.
Now, a long five months later he told how he’d allowed the affair to turn his life upside down. A divorce was proceeding, although he said he wasn’t really reading the letters, and he’d not only moved in with the new woman, they also were moving back to her native America after a month travelling in Thailand over Christmas.
His ex-wife was heartbroken and had wanted reconciliation even after everything became known. Her father had visited him at his workplace and tried to persuade him to try again, even speaking of sex and how such things can dwindle but men have ways of coping, other outlets.
My friend rejected this. He liked the other girl. He loved her in fact, and no longer loved the woman he’d married. This was difficult for them to accept and he received hate email, both from her and from her sisters.
In a separate, dark twist his new partner’s husband died suddenly, overnight. A verdict is still pending.
The original concealment of the affair from his wife was less forgivable, but the manner with which he followed his heart (I can find no less trite way of saying it), grasped a very painful nettle and dared to change his life; I found it peculiarly admirable.
We spoke briefly in the South Kensington pub, before his new partner arrived to join us, about fear and self-doubt, our shared concern of boring people eventually.
If you’re seeing someone younger with plenty of those exciting 20-something years ahead of them – years when they’ll do exciting new things, go to novel or exotic places and meet interesting cool people – how can you not worry that you won’t stand up? You will appear jaded, lazy and uninteresting, old. You will eventually bore. It’s a risk, like everything is. Like “How Do You Know?” You don’t, you can’t.
She arrived in the South Kensington pub after about half an hour: pretty, blonde and slightly nervous of me (as he’d admitted to me beforehand that she was – not having met any of his friends before). He’d been attracted by her quirky creative bent, her desire to make her own clothes and her practicality, the fact she wasn’t a girly girl. None of that came across.
We spoke of the Interpol concert they were heading to from here, how I’d heard good reports and there was a favourable review in the newspaper. From the half hour spent, my impression was positive. She appeared like someone who’d over-lived for 25, had many things happen including the possibly premature first marriage.
I left the couple to head south of the river to my work function, pleased for them and their convictions – more his than hers? – perversely envious of their dramatic, romantic year, sad I might never see them again.
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
second date jinx
It goes on. Those two shards from ten days ago appear to have now fizzled, though it took a little longer than expected, and the one enjoyed a brief crackle of sorts.
However, the one higher in my affections and more subjected to careful hope qualified her brush off yesterday evening by text message. Her indifference had grown obvious. She initially gave hope and we loosely arranged a second meeting, then she cancelled – really busy, promising to get in touch the week after, then didn’t.
Part due to my own circumstance and lifestyle, but I have little respect for an excuse of ‘busyness.’ It’s tantamount to not being arsed. Unless you’re a Prime Minister or a President, or James Corden, there clearly ARE enough hours in a day or week.
Added to this sketchiness and inability to fix a date was a frustrating email manner of one-liners, text messages no more developed, minimal words. Yet within them: still responses and questions. If complete indifference, why bother responding at all?
I kept it casual, never mentioning my probable and increasingly imminent departure from London. Yet mindful of ever dwindling time I decided to push the issue, and wondered by text if it was worth my while attempting to ‘challenge her indifference.’
‘Challenge my indifference?’ the three words were returned several hours later.
Perhaps I should have just called her. Verbal conversations about such matters seem to be getting rarer, or maybe our generation is just bad at them, particularly at early stages like this. Also.. well, I was in a cinema at the time and the film was really good.
I explained that I didn’t know if she was that bothered; she apologised for being flaky but was very busy at the moment so it was probably better if we just left it, sorry.
No reply rushed to my fingertips. That was that then.
Perhaps on that evening, when there was that small frisson: if I’d been more direct, more of a slag – who knows if she was actually interested then, and then only.. But then came the discovery of the theft.
Everything was simpler with the brush off, but it raised the ugly narcissistic head of my relentless inability to secure second dates.
What the hell is wrong with you? Ok, at times it’s your own doing and you don’t fancy them and there aren’t many who have moved you enough to try and persuade them they’re wrong (none in fact because you don’t Do persuasion). But the brutal truth is that the ratio is around 50/50. Do you scare them somehow? Are you just not attractive enough? Are you too needy? (You tempered that one quite well last time too, you thought, extremely casual). You wish you could conceal yourself slightly better, not say quite so much, lie about small things – although you’re essentially unashamed that you don’t and can’t. Why should you apologise for yourself? How much of your personal integrity is it necessary to compromise? How much should you lie or fake or bluster?
But when it rolls on like this, the first dates which are only ever first dates, followed by more first dates and no second dates, you can’t help but reflect and look inward. You can do presentable, fairly charming, moderately amusing, even upbeat at a push; you don’t swear, probe insensitively on delicate subjects, talk endlessly about work or football, burp or fart in their faces.
There are often small things I regret saying or not saying, and I know if I possessed more direction, greater ambition and knew how to confidently operate chopsticks, this would be beneficial. On the whole though, I don’t walk away thinking I’ve given an unfair or disappointing representation.
I’m usually excellent at navelgazy self-criticism, but here all I see is fog and murk and confusion. It concerns me.
However, the one higher in my affections and more subjected to careful hope qualified her brush off yesterday evening by text message. Her indifference had grown obvious. She initially gave hope and we loosely arranged a second meeting, then she cancelled – really busy, promising to get in touch the week after, then didn’t.
Part due to my own circumstance and lifestyle, but I have little respect for an excuse of ‘busyness.’ It’s tantamount to not being arsed. Unless you’re a Prime Minister or a President, or James Corden, there clearly ARE enough hours in a day or week.
Added to this sketchiness and inability to fix a date was a frustrating email manner of one-liners, text messages no more developed, minimal words. Yet within them: still responses and questions. If complete indifference, why bother responding at all?
I kept it casual, never mentioning my probable and increasingly imminent departure from London. Yet mindful of ever dwindling time I decided to push the issue, and wondered by text if it was worth my while attempting to ‘challenge her indifference.’
‘Challenge my indifference?’ the three words were returned several hours later.
Perhaps I should have just called her. Verbal conversations about such matters seem to be getting rarer, or maybe our generation is just bad at them, particularly at early stages like this. Also.. well, I was in a cinema at the time and the film was really good.
I explained that I didn’t know if she was that bothered; she apologised for being flaky but was very busy at the moment so it was probably better if we just left it, sorry.
No reply rushed to my fingertips. That was that then.
Perhaps on that evening, when there was that small frisson: if I’d been more direct, more of a slag – who knows if she was actually interested then, and then only.. But then came the discovery of the theft.
Everything was simpler with the brush off, but it raised the ugly narcissistic head of my relentless inability to secure second dates.
What the hell is wrong with you? Ok, at times it’s your own doing and you don’t fancy them and there aren’t many who have moved you enough to try and persuade them they’re wrong (none in fact because you don’t Do persuasion). But the brutal truth is that the ratio is around 50/50. Do you scare them somehow? Are you just not attractive enough? Are you too needy? (You tempered that one quite well last time too, you thought, extremely casual). You wish you could conceal yourself slightly better, not say quite so much, lie about small things – although you’re essentially unashamed that you don’t and can’t. Why should you apologise for yourself? How much of your personal integrity is it necessary to compromise? How much should you lie or fake or bluster?
But when it rolls on like this, the first dates which are only ever first dates, followed by more first dates and no second dates, you can’t help but reflect and look inward. You can do presentable, fairly charming, moderately amusing, even upbeat at a push; you don’t swear, probe insensitively on delicate subjects, talk endlessly about work or football, burp or fart in their faces.
There are often small things I regret saying or not saying, and I know if I possessed more direction, greater ambition and knew how to confidently operate chopsticks, this would be beneficial. On the whole though, I don’t walk away thinking I’ve given an unfair or disappointing representation.
I’m usually excellent at navelgazy self-criticism, but here all I see is fog and murk and confusion. It concerns me.
Sunday, 18 July 2010
rides
“Horsey!” infants shrieked, riding on my back as I crawled on all fours around our relatives’ large back garden. The previous two hours had been spent playing football with a five year old. Blissfully little of my time at the extended family had been spent speaking with adults. When I finally collapsed into an armchair it was with small alarm that I noted the time. I had little over two and a half hours to make it back to London. How did it get to be that late? It was doable, just, if I put my foot down on the A-Roads. I thanked people for their hospitality, apologised for not going to the park with them, ruffled infants’ hair and hugged and kissed the older generations.
What would this one be like? I pondered while speeding down a pretty A-road bisecting dense forest. Does a date at 8.30pm on a Saturday evening basically mean you’re on a promise?
I still knew next to nothing about her, suspected she wasn’t the sharpest tool, just that she was probably willing. Seemed willing back then, text messages suggested she may still be now. That was ok, just go with it, get drunk, see what happens, don’t think too much.
I was back, showered, out and on a bus in perfect time. She called asking where I was, fifteen minutes before we were due to meet. She’d misremembered the time she’d given and sounded confused. I’ll be there in five.
Painfully thin, a strained, pinched face which suggested nerves, troubles and fragility – please don’t be a bit mental; a whispy, flighty manner, washed-out elsewhere eyes and a strangled, almost puppet-like voice. Ridiculously high heels. She made you want to protect her in a not particularly attractive way. Yet for all that, she wasn’t unattractive.
Her ‘issues’ were confirmed during our early chatter, but never in detail and I never probed. My suspicions that she wasn’t all too bright were also given substantial evidence. Did I care? Should I care? Her grammar appalled me and I couldn’t help but mention it, although I dumbed down my own language. She smoked a lot, had struggled with it for a long time, a clearly necessary crutch which made it more acceptable somehow. Just go with it, get drunk, don’t think too much about it. Live in the moment for once: not before it or after it. Take a stupid decision.
Given a lack of common ground and interests – aside from mutual loneliness and unspoken needs – I expected conversation to flag but, propelled by alcohol, it didn’t. We passed through several bars, eventually ending at a loud, dark, busy venue with a late licence. We had gone there via the station to check her last train times, but I didn’t know if this was merely for show. If she would ‘forget,’ leaving the only option to return to mine. We stayed in the late bar, discussing the music and the venue’s youthful clientele. The time of her last train came and went, unmentioned.
It had been a long day; I’d driven a fair distance across the country and back. I didn’t like this sort of place anyway and wanted to go, she wanted to stay.
We stayed and drank more, too much, but didn’t dance. There was barely any obvious warmth or explicit flirtation between us, no signals being sent or received; simply an implicitly shared assumption. I admired younger, prettier females in the bar: those with height and flesh, confidence and grace.
When she was eventually persuaded that we should leave, we tumbled out and onto the street and she became aware that the short distance to my flat was the only option outside of an extortionate taxi ride. It was likely what we both had in mind all along. A date at 8.30 on a Saturday night?
Just do it, you’re drunk, everything is as it was vaguely forecast. So, she might be a bit mental but you always take that risk.
*
In the morning, following a more concerted Round Two being ridden in an entirely different way from the previous afternoon, she laboured with her hangover. She claimed she wasn’t usually this bad and said “Oh God my head” a lot. I made tea, returned to bed and watched the golf on mute, waiting for her to move, silently impatient although I had no plans for the day at all.
After several aborted attempts she did move, spurning all offers of paracetomol, tea, or anything at all. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while dressed in her only clothes from the night before, complete with precariously high-heeled shoes which took her an age to walk any distance in. She might as well have been wearing stilts.
I drove her back to the station and here conversation struggled as we shared the hungover silence. Token attempts at the weather, this part of town. Despite a relaxed affection and playfulness which had developed in the slumbering bedroom, neither of us spoke about repeating this thing we’d done, doing it again sometime or meeting up somewhere. Was the mismatch starkly obvious? That it was a meeting to satisfy mutual needs and nothing more?
A final snatched lips kiss while the car engine idled outside the station: “thanks, bye then.” She made sure she had everything and left, and stepped out, teetering on her ridiculous heels. The passenger door clunked shut. My eyes didn’t linger on her gallingly skeletal frame. I checked my blind spot, pulled out, looked forward and drove on.
I would prefer never to see or hear from her again.
What would this one be like? I pondered while speeding down a pretty A-road bisecting dense forest. Does a date at 8.30pm on a Saturday evening basically mean you’re on a promise?
I still knew next to nothing about her, suspected she wasn’t the sharpest tool, just that she was probably willing. Seemed willing back then, text messages suggested she may still be now. That was ok, just go with it, get drunk, see what happens, don’t think too much.
I was back, showered, out and on a bus in perfect time. She called asking where I was, fifteen minutes before we were due to meet. She’d misremembered the time she’d given and sounded confused. I’ll be there in five.
Painfully thin, a strained, pinched face which suggested nerves, troubles and fragility – please don’t be a bit mental; a whispy, flighty manner, washed-out elsewhere eyes and a strangled, almost puppet-like voice. Ridiculously high heels. She made you want to protect her in a not particularly attractive way. Yet for all that, she wasn’t unattractive.
Her ‘issues’ were confirmed during our early chatter, but never in detail and I never probed. My suspicions that she wasn’t all too bright were also given substantial evidence. Did I care? Should I care? Her grammar appalled me and I couldn’t help but mention it, although I dumbed down my own language. She smoked a lot, had struggled with it for a long time, a clearly necessary crutch which made it more acceptable somehow. Just go with it, get drunk, don’t think too much about it. Live in the moment for once: not before it or after it. Take a stupid decision.
Given a lack of common ground and interests – aside from mutual loneliness and unspoken needs – I expected conversation to flag but, propelled by alcohol, it didn’t. We passed through several bars, eventually ending at a loud, dark, busy venue with a late licence. We had gone there via the station to check her last train times, but I didn’t know if this was merely for show. If she would ‘forget,’ leaving the only option to return to mine. We stayed in the late bar, discussing the music and the venue’s youthful clientele. The time of her last train came and went, unmentioned.
It had been a long day; I’d driven a fair distance across the country and back. I didn’t like this sort of place anyway and wanted to go, she wanted to stay.
We stayed and drank more, too much, but didn’t dance. There was barely any obvious warmth or explicit flirtation between us, no signals being sent or received; simply an implicitly shared assumption. I admired younger, prettier females in the bar: those with height and flesh, confidence and grace.
When she was eventually persuaded that we should leave, we tumbled out and onto the street and she became aware that the short distance to my flat was the only option outside of an extortionate taxi ride. It was likely what we both had in mind all along. A date at 8.30 on a Saturday night?
Just do it, you’re drunk, everything is as it was vaguely forecast. So, she might be a bit mental but you always take that risk.
*
In the morning, following a more concerted Round Two being ridden in an entirely different way from the previous afternoon, she laboured with her hangover. She claimed she wasn’t usually this bad and said “Oh God my head” a lot. I made tea, returned to bed and watched the golf on mute, waiting for her to move, silently impatient although I had no plans for the day at all.
After several aborted attempts she did move, spurning all offers of paracetomol, tea, or anything at all. I pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt while dressed in her only clothes from the night before, complete with precariously high-heeled shoes which took her an age to walk any distance in. She might as well have been wearing stilts.
I drove her back to the station and here conversation struggled as we shared the hungover silence. Token attempts at the weather, this part of town. Despite a relaxed affection and playfulness which had developed in the slumbering bedroom, neither of us spoke about repeating this thing we’d done, doing it again sometime or meeting up somewhere. Was the mismatch starkly obvious? That it was a meeting to satisfy mutual needs and nothing more?
A final snatched lips kiss while the car engine idled outside the station: “thanks, bye then.” She made sure she had everything and left, and stepped out, teetering on her ridiculous heels. The passenger door clunked shut. My eyes didn’t linger on her gallingly skeletal frame. I checked my blind spot, pulled out, looked forward and drove on.
I would prefer never to see or hear from her again.
Monday, 12 July 2010
struggling with direction
With a move-in date a few weeks away and notice given on my current flat, now I’m unsure about the move.
I've been quite enjoying London in the summer – it feels bigger and more full of chance than in the winter months. Things like this can happen (I never saw or heard from any of them again). Added to which - and it could easily be nothing at all, something I'll feel silly about in a month - but there are two thin shards of recently developed female hope.
One of these was a young lady with whom I reasserted my status as King Fuckwit. Her bossy friend led us up the road to impatiently wait on the station steps, wanting them to hurry down onto the platform for the last train. We walked slowly, pausing deliberately, in no stress about potentially missing her last train, talking nonsense about seasoning biscuits. She clearly didn't want to go, and was aware that I didn’t live far away. It only needed a suggestion on my part that we could go… to mine, we could have childishly run away, around a block, out of sight of her friend. She was drunk, but perhaps not THAT drunk, and totally persuadable. That is, persuadable for any regular man with a grain of self-belief in matters of being direct.
She had at least served to quell the over-replayed memory of another female from twenty four hours earlier. It may have even been memories from the previous evening which hamstrung me into fuckwittage. They did flicker through my brain as we walked up towards the station.
But she was really nice last night … but then, she’s nice here too, but then..
Don’t be an idiot! You have no obligation towards the girl from last night AT ALL. Just as she doesn’t to you, and probably instantly forgot you. You’re simply using it as an excuse to be a gutless little twerp here and now, aren’t you?!
Fnerr! Why is everything so HARD?! I whined in my head.
Because you make it hard, fool.
I sensed the inevitable: that I was about to screw this up and let her make her train without proposing that we run away. I gave her a card and messages have since been exchanged, but still, the immediate opportunity is difficult not to rue.
The night before had been a blind(ish) date. I didn’t figure myself to be her usual type (she seemed to be the kind of girl to have ‘types,’ often narrowing her eyes as if comparing me to an imagined other), and although I certainly warmed to her, I suspected she was out of my league. The evening had ended with the discovery that my laptop and camera had been stolen from my case, irrecoverably denting an amiable, maybe faintly flirtatious atmosphere that had developed. (She had briefly played with my hair. Girls don’t usually do that if they’re repulsed by you, right?) As well as the sickening violation and huge inconvenience of the theft, neither loss was without sentimental attachment: both devices had done some miles with me and contained a considerable amount of personal data. It was as if somebody had suddenly punched me in the guts and pulled off my penis.
*
Even slender shards of female hope don't appear too often. And notwithstanding females, I've been newly unsure of the move: wondering if it's a cowardly retreat to a smaller scale and a place of proportionately reduced opportunity, albeit an improvement in living space. It’s possible I’ve had too much time to mull it over, what with the previous aborted move.
I could cancel or postpone the move, lose a hundred quid deposit, surprise and annoy a few people, retract my notice here.
A friend asked: if something were to be engineered on the female front, would a brief thing, or a six week to six month dalliance be worth it? I replied yes. I’m essentially a sad lonely fool and moving won’t change this. But it’s most likely immaterial. It would come as no surprise if both shards fizzled by Friday.
I've been quite enjoying London in the summer – it feels bigger and more full of chance than in the winter months. Things like this can happen (I never saw or heard from any of them again). Added to which - and it could easily be nothing at all, something I'll feel silly about in a month - but there are two thin shards of recently developed female hope.
One of these was a young lady with whom I reasserted my status as King Fuckwit. Her bossy friend led us up the road to impatiently wait on the station steps, wanting them to hurry down onto the platform for the last train. We walked slowly, pausing deliberately, in no stress about potentially missing her last train, talking nonsense about seasoning biscuits. She clearly didn't want to go, and was aware that I didn’t live far away. It only needed a suggestion on my part that we could go… to mine, we could have childishly run away, around a block, out of sight of her friend. She was drunk, but perhaps not THAT drunk, and totally persuadable. That is, persuadable for any regular man with a grain of self-belief in matters of being direct.
She had at least served to quell the over-replayed memory of another female from twenty four hours earlier. It may have even been memories from the previous evening which hamstrung me into fuckwittage. They did flicker through my brain as we walked up towards the station.
But she was really nice last night … but then, she’s nice here too, but then..
Don’t be an idiot! You have no obligation towards the girl from last night AT ALL. Just as she doesn’t to you, and probably instantly forgot you. You’re simply using it as an excuse to be a gutless little twerp here and now, aren’t you?!
Fnerr! Why is everything so HARD?! I whined in my head.
Because you make it hard, fool.
I sensed the inevitable: that I was about to screw this up and let her make her train without proposing that we run away. I gave her a card and messages have since been exchanged, but still, the immediate opportunity is difficult not to rue.
The night before had been a blind(ish) date. I didn’t figure myself to be her usual type (she seemed to be the kind of girl to have ‘types,’ often narrowing her eyes as if comparing me to an imagined other), and although I certainly warmed to her, I suspected she was out of my league. The evening had ended with the discovery that my laptop and camera had been stolen from my case, irrecoverably denting an amiable, maybe faintly flirtatious atmosphere that had developed. (She had briefly played with my hair. Girls don’t usually do that if they’re repulsed by you, right?) As well as the sickening violation and huge inconvenience of the theft, neither loss was without sentimental attachment: both devices had done some miles with me and contained a considerable amount of personal data. It was as if somebody had suddenly punched me in the guts and pulled off my penis.
*
Even slender shards of female hope don't appear too often. And notwithstanding females, I've been newly unsure of the move: wondering if it's a cowardly retreat to a smaller scale and a place of proportionately reduced opportunity, albeit an improvement in living space. It’s possible I’ve had too much time to mull it over, what with the previous aborted move.
I could cancel or postpone the move, lose a hundred quid deposit, surprise and annoy a few people, retract my notice here.
A friend asked: if something were to be engineered on the female front, would a brief thing, or a six week to six month dalliance be worth it? I replied yes. I’m essentially a sad lonely fool and moving won’t change this. But it’s most likely immaterial. It would come as no surprise if both shards fizzled by Friday.
Monday, 5 July 2010
itchy memories
I went back last Friday and found somewhere new to live. It certainly doesn’t have the wow factor of the ill-fated first attempt, but it should do fine for a while: clean, spacey, reasonable location, a probably civilised yet fairly anonymous local community.
Pending form-filling and references, the flat is mine. Another deposit holding payment has been made, telephone discussions have been conducted and emails exchanged. A prospective move date has been agreed.
I’m suddenly nervous, jittery and slightly afraid. Of what, I’m not precisely sure, although I have suspicions. I haven’t minded London as much this last month or so, but the good financial arguments still hold, as do the social ones – despite their vague hopefulness.
Added to this is that continued nagging doubt about moving backwards, also expressed before, and the irritation of old memories which that unavoidably brings.
Current reading, Obstacles To Young Love, by David Nobbs, has helpfully (or unhelpfully) illuminated this. Its key characters have a brief teenage fling, their first, at the book’s opening, and it seems they periodically come back together – not unlike One Day, the most recent book by the similarly styled David Nicholls. In these books, and probably in real life, people might take a year or two to get over their other, but they ostensibly do (even if they ‘deeply’ do not). People move on.
The horrid truth is that I haven’t, not really. And it’s been significantly longer than a year or two. There's been nothing anywhere near as serious. She still invades my dreams every month or so, accusing, teasing, sighing at how utterly pathetic I must be.
But I don’t seek reconciliation. A few months ago I unfriended her on Facebook (she had originally found me and, after a short dither, I had accepted the friend request). I didn’t want to see photos of her and her boyfriend but couldn’t resist my temptation to click when they did appear on my feed, the handsome bastard. I WANT to move on, put clear water between me and those memories. I simply can’t; they keep resurfacing like stubbornly floating shit.
Returning to the scene of the crime, the place where all that was set, it’s natural for that to breed nervousness, to fear how healthy or unhealthy it could be, the scabs you’re picking anew. It’s this which is a large cause of my discomfort about moving back, as well as knowing she could be around the next corner.
Move dates refresh this nervousness. They make it pungent, fresh and frightening.
Pending form-filling and references, the flat is mine. Another deposit holding payment has been made, telephone discussions have been conducted and emails exchanged. A prospective move date has been agreed.
I’m suddenly nervous, jittery and slightly afraid. Of what, I’m not precisely sure, although I have suspicions. I haven’t minded London as much this last month or so, but the good financial arguments still hold, as do the social ones – despite their vague hopefulness.
Added to this is that continued nagging doubt about moving backwards, also expressed before, and the irritation of old memories which that unavoidably brings.
Current reading, Obstacles To Young Love, by David Nobbs, has helpfully (or unhelpfully) illuminated this. Its key characters have a brief teenage fling, their first, at the book’s opening, and it seems they periodically come back together – not unlike One Day, the most recent book by the similarly styled David Nicholls. In these books, and probably in real life, people might take a year or two to get over their other, but they ostensibly do (even if they ‘deeply’ do not). People move on.
The horrid truth is that I haven’t, not really. And it’s been significantly longer than a year or two. There's been nothing anywhere near as serious. She still invades my dreams every month or so, accusing, teasing, sighing at how utterly pathetic I must be.
But I don’t seek reconciliation. A few months ago I unfriended her on Facebook (she had originally found me and, after a short dither, I had accepted the friend request). I didn’t want to see photos of her and her boyfriend but couldn’t resist my temptation to click when they did appear on my feed, the handsome bastard. I WANT to move on, put clear water between me and those memories. I simply can’t; they keep resurfacing like stubbornly floating shit.
Returning to the scene of the crime, the place where all that was set, it’s natural for that to breed nervousness, to fear how healthy or unhealthy it could be, the scabs you’re picking anew. It’s this which is a large cause of my discomfort about moving back, as well as knowing she could be around the next corner.
Move dates refresh this nervousness. They make it pungent, fresh and frightening.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
did she say she had a husband?
Barry was standing at the back of the crowded, dark basement bar room, near the rear door, watching the speaker at the other end. Poor lighting meant he could only make out the dazzle of the speaker’s bald pate, and his silhouette. The words were good though, he could certainly talk.
Behind Barry the rear door swished and he half turned around, smiling instinctively as he squeezed himself against the wall to allow her past, down the steps and into the mesh of people. Cute, short, a frizzy dark bob, trim shape. I may have to introduce myself during the networking afterwards, Barry thought. But Barry thought that about practically every attractive female in the room. There were several.
The silhouette spoke on, took questions and eventually finished. Barry left the basement to go outside and make a call. He returned to find that she hadn’t progressed far into the room and was chatting to a tall, thick-set young guy. Barry introduced himself to them, noting that the young man imparticular was keen and fully charged to network.
They said what they did and swapped cards. She was attractive, Canadian, smart, dryly funny and had a similar line of work to Barry.
During his brief trip outside, Barry had unwittingly collected pollen: his eyes stung and his nose twitched. In the dark, full basement room of loud blaring chatter, the reverb of Barry’s voice inside his head resulted in a tickling sensation within nose cavities. This led to onslaughts of sneezing, nose running and eye weeping.
It wasn’t pretty.
It also blotted out his hearing. She spoke at length and he nodded, mimicking her expressions, as is done when one isn't hearing everything clearly but doesn’t wish to stall the conversational flow every few seconds. He continued to paw at his left eye, more weepy than his right, surreptitiously graze his nose to check that it wasn't dripping in an unsightly fashion. A couple of times Barry broke off to sneeze and visited the gents to splash his face, leaving them to chat together.
He returned, freshened, everything sucked in or blown out.
It’s often the case that publicity, advertising, marketing people have artistic aspirations, sidelines, extracurricular projects or hobbies. Hers appeared to be more than aspirations, she was firmly on the road to realising a few and they discussed that, slowly marginalising their other company. She mentioned '..-husband,' her husband(?)
Did she?
Was that what she said?
Bollocks.
Barry nodded, still not quite following as she spoke quickly, interestingly and in depth, swinging from subject to subject. He didn’t want to lose her.
Barry’s symptoms gradually passed, his hearing cleared, helped by the slow trickle of people out of the bar. He felt able to speak for longer than ten seconds without the tickling reverb in his head. So they carried on chatting: arts, books and films, stories found in sport. There was a distinct lack of networking. He bought her a drink.
After an hour or so they realised they should make an effort with other people in the room and broke off to join a group of male suits who their original, motivated company was now speaking to.
Hands were shaken and so what do you do?s swapped. They were largely uninteresting. Barry split away to another group he partly already knew, always mindful of her behind him.
A short time later he joined her again, sitting at a table with another pair, this time more interesting. He wondered how they, he and her, appeared to their new company. They were both borderline drunk now and reasonably familiar - apart from the minor detail of him not being sure whether or not she was married. “You work together or..?” one of their new company asked. She fiddled with a roll-up cigarette, which surprised Barry because she didn’t look like a smoker.
“You want to smoke?” Barry asked her, having qualified the nature of their relationship, breaking away from the wider conversation for a moment.
“Yeah, you?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll come, get some fresh air.”
Don’t want anyone else pouncing on you.
“You’ll come up and watch me smoke?”
I’d watch you clean toilets, you’re very attractive..
“I have my book,” Barry said, lamely, referring to a glossy book of photography which their interesting company had just donated. His attraction to her was probably transparent now, his lack of will to leave her. How much did he care? Best not to think about it.
Outside they discussed health, smoking and drinking. She said she’d taken up smoking aged 29 after her divorce from a childhood sweetheart she’d been with since she was 17. It had been a rebellion of sorts. She didn’t look too much older than 29 to Barry as it was; mid thirties tops. Superb condition.
But.. hang on, a divorce? Barry’s brain recoiled. Had she been referring to an ex husband earlier, or a current one? Had his hayfevery hearing blotted out the all important word ‘ex’? She barely looked old enough to have gone through two marriages. So was she married now, or not?
Just ask her?
No, can’t do that.
She proposed leaving there and then, although she had a drink waiting for her downstairs from our original company. Barry said his jacket was back downstairs too, so they returned. She said she couldn’t drink all of her new Rum and Coke and asked if they could share. Barry accepted.
The room was thin with people. Under a dozen remained and their modest appetite for networking had fully evaporated. She mentioned an artistic feminism side project she was working on but uncomfortable talking about. Barry sensitively probed for detail, offered liberal male input.
Lights came on and the basement bar looked like closing. She went to the ladies, Barry went to the gents. Shit. She was amazing. But she had a husband, did she? What was the score? he silently asked his reflection. It didn't know either. They had implicitly agreed to leave together, if only to step out of the door of the bar. Why?
Was there more to this? What was going on?
Barry hated this shit, would he ever get less rubbish at it?
They emerged onto the upper, ground floor bar at roughly the same time and from separate ends of the room. They stepped out onto the street.
“Gotta get back then,” she said, looking slightly drunk now, but still beautiful, Barry thought, newly unsure of herself perhaps. If you just mention your husband again I’ll know where we are. Go on, mention your husband and I’ll walk away.
“Where you heading?” she asked.
“Um, I’ll probably just walk back through to Waterloo,” I said.
“You’ll walk to Waterloo? From here?”
“Yeah, it’s not so far.”
Why did you say that, why don't you just walk with her to the tube? Idiot.
They did nice to meet yous, Barry kissed her on both cheeks, noting that she smelled brilliant. Was there anything else? Was he being a fuckwit or just a dickhead? Would a stronger, more confident, more assertive alpha male just Do Something at this point – regardless of whether or not she had a husband? Risk the embarrassment and probable rejection. She hadn’t spoken about him much; hardly at all, if she had one. That one fleeting mention.
‘Did you say you had a husband?’ he could ask.
He didn’t. He turned round and walked south. She walked north to the tube, a five minute walk. Barry paused after several steps, looked round. She was dawdling, idling slowly, holding a phone and another roll up cigarette. You could’ve at least seen her to the tube, Barry chided himself. Used the tube yourself, instead of walking. Dickhead.
Why do you always do this? he continued to slay himself. Do absolutely nothing. You know why: zero confidence when it really matters, zilch belief combined with a deadly risk aversion to potential embarrassment, meaning you always do nothing.
Still time though, here and now, if you wanted to sacrifice your dignity. She’s still there, you could.
Befuddled by booze and the raging voices, Barry did it. He turned on his heel and walked back up the road, feeling nervous and scared and like a stalker. Still she was still dawdling, walking slowly without purpose, playing with her phone.
Barry got within fifteen yards, could almost smell her scent again, sensed that she was about to turn around. He was close, this was terrifying. She paused again to glance at her phone. Barry leapt into a doorway.
What the FUCK was he doing? Barry rested his head against cool marble. You UTTER schoolboy.
He glanced around the corner to see her lazily walk into the tube station. Barry slapped his forehead with the glossy book of photography he was somehow still clasping, lost, in no-man’s land. She’d gone in, descended to the platforms.
You are pretty much stalking her now, aren't you, you freak? Barry told himself as he passed through the barriers. This was mindless punishment. No, not mindless. His mind was working overtime, it just wasn’t producing much that was helpful, chundering out bilge and idiotic decisions at will. Barry heard a tube arrive beneath him as he descended the steps and jumped down the last few to see the tube, its doors dead ahead, the window next to them and the back of her lovely frizzy bobbed head. She was there, still; no more than five smart footsteps away.
The doors stayed open for several moments, teasing Barry as he stood at the bottom of the steps, paralysed. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough, chicken shit.
But was she married? Did it matter?
She’s just there! Last chance, idiot! ACT!
Or don’t act, like usual. Do nothing, except chase her up the street, into the tube station and almost into the tube, like a creepy weird schoolboy psycho.
Quick chirruping beeps saw the doors close and the tube hum away. Barry remained standing, frozen still, excepting a slow headbutt of the shiny stone wall to his left. Hard enough to hurt a bit - not hard enough to really hurt, draw blood or bruise or anything like that. You're just a fuckup, aren't you?
Barry forlornly made his way to the other platform, hating himself, his immortal haplessness in this hideously complicated line of things. Was he guilty of overplaying this one in his head too? Maybe. In femaleworld she’d likely had an amusing evening, albeit mostly with one bloke who she’d told early on she had a husband – so that was fine. Although she mentioned him little thereafter.
On his own tube, Barry retrieved her card from his back pocket. Was a text message a bad idea? It could confirm whether or not she had a husband, effectively exonerate him from fuckwittage and return him back into familiar dickhead environment.
Hope you got back safe, Barry typed, it was good meeting, I considered acting but it was probably best I didn’t.
Ack. That was a bit… too much? Barry paused over the send button, but not for too long as the signal was sporadic. Took a breath, fuck it, clicked send.
Who is this? came back the reply two minutes later. Barry smiled initially, thinking it a genuine reflection of how long he had stayed in her memory. Not long at all. What was he worrying about? Nobody remembers you even if you’ve spent three solid hours in their company. You’re eminently forgettable, Barry, however compelling you might hope you are at the time. His chest lightened, he flicked through the photobook.
A second message a minute later claimed it was a joke from an overly sarcastic (and married) Canadian X.
So she WAS married! Brilliant! Great news, Barry thought. He had no reason to be proud of his peculiar behaviour, but at least he was now free, spared from further humiliation. The dunce cuffs were off.
Or were they?
In that moment outside the bar – for everything is comprised of moments of action or inaction – when he ridiculously didn’t even walk her to the tube and prolong their parting until there; in that moment her status barely mattered. Unease or uncertainty sat in alcohol washed eyes, untrusting, perhaps of herself more than him. If Barry had been stronger and more direct, like friends of his whose behaviour he didn’t necessarily always admire but...
Ethically unsound if she was married, sure. But was HE really obliged to care that much? Should he have just been bold and selfish and fatalistic. Although bold and selfish and fatalistic wasn’t Barry’s forté. Dithering in the key moments was where he excelled; in that domain he was virtually untouchable. Like England and penalties. Guaranteed to bottle it, lose and feel sorry for himself after the event.
Behind Barry the rear door swished and he half turned around, smiling instinctively as he squeezed himself against the wall to allow her past, down the steps and into the mesh of people. Cute, short, a frizzy dark bob, trim shape. I may have to introduce myself during the networking afterwards, Barry thought. But Barry thought that about practically every attractive female in the room. There were several.
The silhouette spoke on, took questions and eventually finished. Barry left the basement to go outside and make a call. He returned to find that she hadn’t progressed far into the room and was chatting to a tall, thick-set young guy. Barry introduced himself to them, noting that the young man imparticular was keen and fully charged to network.
They said what they did and swapped cards. She was attractive, Canadian, smart, dryly funny and had a similar line of work to Barry.
During his brief trip outside, Barry had unwittingly collected pollen: his eyes stung and his nose twitched. In the dark, full basement room of loud blaring chatter, the reverb of Barry’s voice inside his head resulted in a tickling sensation within nose cavities. This led to onslaughts of sneezing, nose running and eye weeping.
It wasn’t pretty.
It also blotted out his hearing. She spoke at length and he nodded, mimicking her expressions, as is done when one isn't hearing everything clearly but doesn’t wish to stall the conversational flow every few seconds. He continued to paw at his left eye, more weepy than his right, surreptitiously graze his nose to check that it wasn't dripping in an unsightly fashion. A couple of times Barry broke off to sneeze and visited the gents to splash his face, leaving them to chat together.
He returned, freshened, everything sucked in or blown out.
It’s often the case that publicity, advertising, marketing people have artistic aspirations, sidelines, extracurricular projects or hobbies. Hers appeared to be more than aspirations, she was firmly on the road to realising a few and they discussed that, slowly marginalising their other company. She mentioned '..-husband,' her husband(?)
Did she?
Was that what she said?
Bollocks.
Barry nodded, still not quite following as she spoke quickly, interestingly and in depth, swinging from subject to subject. He didn’t want to lose her.
Barry’s symptoms gradually passed, his hearing cleared, helped by the slow trickle of people out of the bar. He felt able to speak for longer than ten seconds without the tickling reverb in his head. So they carried on chatting: arts, books and films, stories found in sport. There was a distinct lack of networking. He bought her a drink.
After an hour or so they realised they should make an effort with other people in the room and broke off to join a group of male suits who their original, motivated company was now speaking to.
Hands were shaken and so what do you do?s swapped. They were largely uninteresting. Barry split away to another group he partly already knew, always mindful of her behind him.
A short time later he joined her again, sitting at a table with another pair, this time more interesting. He wondered how they, he and her, appeared to their new company. They were both borderline drunk now and reasonably familiar - apart from the minor detail of him not being sure whether or not she was married. “You work together or..?” one of their new company asked. She fiddled with a roll-up cigarette, which surprised Barry because she didn’t look like a smoker.
“You want to smoke?” Barry asked her, having qualified the nature of their relationship, breaking away from the wider conversation for a moment.
“Yeah, you?”
“No, I don’t, but I’ll come, get some fresh air.”
Don’t want anyone else pouncing on you.
“You’ll come up and watch me smoke?”
I’d watch you clean toilets, you’re very attractive..
“I have my book,” Barry said, lamely, referring to a glossy book of photography which their interesting company had just donated. His attraction to her was probably transparent now, his lack of will to leave her. How much did he care? Best not to think about it.
Outside they discussed health, smoking and drinking. She said she’d taken up smoking aged 29 after her divorce from a childhood sweetheart she’d been with since she was 17. It had been a rebellion of sorts. She didn’t look too much older than 29 to Barry as it was; mid thirties tops. Superb condition.
But.. hang on, a divorce? Barry’s brain recoiled. Had she been referring to an ex husband earlier, or a current one? Had his hayfevery hearing blotted out the all important word ‘ex’? She barely looked old enough to have gone through two marriages. So was she married now, or not?
Just ask her?
No, can’t do that.
She proposed leaving there and then, although she had a drink waiting for her downstairs from our original company. Barry said his jacket was back downstairs too, so they returned. She said she couldn’t drink all of her new Rum and Coke and asked if they could share. Barry accepted.
The room was thin with people. Under a dozen remained and their modest appetite for networking had fully evaporated. She mentioned an artistic feminism side project she was working on but uncomfortable talking about. Barry sensitively probed for detail, offered liberal male input.
Lights came on and the basement bar looked like closing. She went to the ladies, Barry went to the gents. Shit. She was amazing. But she had a husband, did she? What was the score? he silently asked his reflection. It didn't know either. They had implicitly agreed to leave together, if only to step out of the door of the bar. Why?
Was there more to this? What was going on?
Barry hated this shit, would he ever get less rubbish at it?
They emerged onto the upper, ground floor bar at roughly the same time and from separate ends of the room. They stepped out onto the street.
“Gotta get back then,” she said, looking slightly drunk now, but still beautiful, Barry thought, newly unsure of herself perhaps. If you just mention your husband again I’ll know where we are. Go on, mention your husband and I’ll walk away.
“Where you heading?” she asked.
“Um, I’ll probably just walk back through to Waterloo,” I said.
“You’ll walk to Waterloo? From here?”
“Yeah, it’s not so far.”
Why did you say that, why don't you just walk with her to the tube? Idiot.
They did nice to meet yous, Barry kissed her on both cheeks, noting that she smelled brilliant. Was there anything else? Was he being a fuckwit or just a dickhead? Would a stronger, more confident, more assertive alpha male just Do Something at this point – regardless of whether or not she had a husband? Risk the embarrassment and probable rejection. She hadn’t spoken about him much; hardly at all, if she had one. That one fleeting mention.
‘Did you say you had a husband?’ he could ask.
He didn’t. He turned round and walked south. She walked north to the tube, a five minute walk. Barry paused after several steps, looked round. She was dawdling, idling slowly, holding a phone and another roll up cigarette. You could’ve at least seen her to the tube, Barry chided himself. Used the tube yourself, instead of walking. Dickhead.
Why do you always do this? he continued to slay himself. Do absolutely nothing. You know why: zero confidence when it really matters, zilch belief combined with a deadly risk aversion to potential embarrassment, meaning you always do nothing.
Still time though, here and now, if you wanted to sacrifice your dignity. She’s still there, you could.
Befuddled by booze and the raging voices, Barry did it. He turned on his heel and walked back up the road, feeling nervous and scared and like a stalker. Still she was still dawdling, walking slowly without purpose, playing with her phone.
Barry got within fifteen yards, could almost smell her scent again, sensed that she was about to turn around. He was close, this was terrifying. She paused again to glance at her phone. Barry leapt into a doorway.
What the FUCK was he doing? Barry rested his head against cool marble. You UTTER schoolboy.
He glanced around the corner to see her lazily walk into the tube station. Barry slapped his forehead with the glossy book of photography he was somehow still clasping, lost, in no-man’s land. She’d gone in, descended to the platforms.
You are pretty much stalking her now, aren't you, you freak? Barry told himself as he passed through the barriers. This was mindless punishment. No, not mindless. His mind was working overtime, it just wasn’t producing much that was helpful, chundering out bilge and idiotic decisions at will. Barry heard a tube arrive beneath him as he descended the steps and jumped down the last few to see the tube, its doors dead ahead, the window next to them and the back of her lovely frizzy bobbed head. She was there, still; no more than five smart footsteps away.
The doors stayed open for several moments, teasing Barry as he stood at the bottom of the steps, paralysed. Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough, chicken shit.
But was she married? Did it matter?
She’s just there! Last chance, idiot! ACT!
Or don’t act, like usual. Do nothing, except chase her up the street, into the tube station and almost into the tube, like a creepy weird schoolboy psycho.
Quick chirruping beeps saw the doors close and the tube hum away. Barry remained standing, frozen still, excepting a slow headbutt of the shiny stone wall to his left. Hard enough to hurt a bit - not hard enough to really hurt, draw blood or bruise or anything like that. You're just a fuckup, aren't you?
Barry forlornly made his way to the other platform, hating himself, his immortal haplessness in this hideously complicated line of things. Was he guilty of overplaying this one in his head too? Maybe. In femaleworld she’d likely had an amusing evening, albeit mostly with one bloke who she’d told early on she had a husband – so that was fine. Although she mentioned him little thereafter.
On his own tube, Barry retrieved her card from his back pocket. Was a text message a bad idea? It could confirm whether or not she had a husband, effectively exonerate him from fuckwittage and return him back into familiar dickhead environment.
Hope you got back safe, Barry typed, it was good meeting, I considered acting but it was probably best I didn’t.
Ack. That was a bit… too much? Barry paused over the send button, but not for too long as the signal was sporadic. Took a breath, fuck it, clicked send.
Who is this? came back the reply two minutes later. Barry smiled initially, thinking it a genuine reflection of how long he had stayed in her memory. Not long at all. What was he worrying about? Nobody remembers you even if you’ve spent three solid hours in their company. You’re eminently forgettable, Barry, however compelling you might hope you are at the time. His chest lightened, he flicked through the photobook.
A second message a minute later claimed it was a joke from an overly sarcastic (and married) Canadian X.
So she WAS married! Brilliant! Great news, Barry thought. He had no reason to be proud of his peculiar behaviour, but at least he was now free, spared from further humiliation. The dunce cuffs were off.
Or were they?
In that moment outside the bar – for everything is comprised of moments of action or inaction – when he ridiculously didn’t even walk her to the tube and prolong their parting until there; in that moment her status barely mattered. Unease or uncertainty sat in alcohol washed eyes, untrusting, perhaps of herself more than him. If Barry had been stronger and more direct, like friends of his whose behaviour he didn’t necessarily always admire but...
Ethically unsound if she was married, sure. But was HE really obliged to care that much? Should he have just been bold and selfish and fatalistic. Although bold and selfish and fatalistic wasn’t Barry’s forté. Dithering in the key moments was where he excelled; in that domain he was virtually untouchable. Like England and penalties. Guaranteed to bottle it, lose and feel sorry for himself after the event.
Monday, 7 June 2010
so long, Mrs P (Die bitch, die)
Mrs P was always old to us. She died yesterday, aged 97, leaving a daughter in her sixties who has spent most of the last 25 years looking after her.
Mrs P’s husband died about 25 years ago, her daughter’s husband about 10 years ago. They lived half a dozen houses apart on the small crescent road. Mrs P was her daughter, Val’s reason for living and the bain of her life. Old forever, she suffered dementia, delusions and confusion. Although she retained reasonable mobility, she needed help and depended on her daughter for everything. There was never any talk of a Residential Home. In return her daughter had little semblance of a life after her own husband died, emotion invested in alcohol and small yapping, spoiled dogs, until the hurt suffered in losing that was too great to get another.
A trip to the nearest small town would cause dizzying confusion and worry. A drive to the nearest large city had to be plotted and planned and timed. It would still paralyse with worry. She shut herself in, was intimidated by invitations as far afield as next door on Christmas Day, went to bed at 7 o clock after a bottle of wine. She went nowhere and did nothing, except tend to her mother for 25 years.
The time before last that I returned home, I opened their garden gates. Val returned from ferrying her mother somewhere. I smiled as the car rolled past me and down the driveway. Mrs P smiled back, glazed, who knows where, and her daughter waved her gratitude. Did Mrs P know who I was when she smiled? One of the boys from next door to her Val, one of those small boys, a man, a young man, a middle-aged man now? Who knew? Ageless. It all blurred.
She had a stroke a week ago but clung on with the same belligerence she lived her life.
Is she still not dead? we whispered whenever we returned. She must be, what, two hundred and thirty six now?
And if we were this amazed at her longevity, us who saw her only a handful of times in passing from year to year – long had passed the days when, passing with the dog, you would be obliged to stop and chat – then what of her poor shackled daughter?
Die bitch, die! Give me back at least some life!
“The doctors told us they expected her to die a week ago,” Val had told us over the garden fence, red eyed, red faced, those burst and battle-weary blood vessels in her rosy cheeks splitting some more. “But she stuck it out right to the end.”
Mrs P’s husband died about 25 years ago, her daughter’s husband about 10 years ago. They lived half a dozen houses apart on the small crescent road. Mrs P was her daughter, Val’s reason for living and the bain of her life. Old forever, she suffered dementia, delusions and confusion. Although she retained reasonable mobility, she needed help and depended on her daughter for everything. There was never any talk of a Residential Home. In return her daughter had little semblance of a life after her own husband died, emotion invested in alcohol and small yapping, spoiled dogs, until the hurt suffered in losing that was too great to get another.
A trip to the nearest small town would cause dizzying confusion and worry. A drive to the nearest large city had to be plotted and planned and timed. It would still paralyse with worry. She shut herself in, was intimidated by invitations as far afield as next door on Christmas Day, went to bed at 7 o clock after a bottle of wine. She went nowhere and did nothing, except tend to her mother for 25 years.
The time before last that I returned home, I opened their garden gates. Val returned from ferrying her mother somewhere. I smiled as the car rolled past me and down the driveway. Mrs P smiled back, glazed, who knows where, and her daughter waved her gratitude. Did Mrs P know who I was when she smiled? One of the boys from next door to her Val, one of those small boys, a man, a young man, a middle-aged man now? Who knew? Ageless. It all blurred.
She had a stroke a week ago but clung on with the same belligerence she lived her life.
Is she still not dead? we whispered whenever we returned. She must be, what, two hundred and thirty six now?
And if we were this amazed at her longevity, us who saw her only a handful of times in passing from year to year – long had passed the days when, passing with the dog, you would be obliged to stop and chat – then what of her poor shackled daughter?
Die bitch, die! Give me back at least some life!
“The doctors told us they expected her to die a week ago,” Val had told us over the garden fence, red eyed, red faced, those burst and battle-weary blood vessels in her rosy cheeks splitting some more. “But she stuck it out right to the end.”
Saturday, 29 May 2010
another example
It’s possible that I’m over inflating this one, but it’s further proof, if any more were needed, of my continued gross ineptitude.
----------------
It’s about 1am and you're standing at the night bus stop attempting to recall the mesh of conversations from the two distinct halves of the evening. You’re not closed to the idea of one more.
A fraught looking bottle blonde approaches: dark roots, pale complexion, black leather jacket, similar age, imposing and steely but not unattractive. You exchange a glance as she nears the shelter to wait. Another glance, half smile which says tsk, reduced to this whole night bus thing again, eh? You dismiss the idea of saying something out loud. Ludicrous idea.
She digs through a handbag and extracts a packet of cigarettes, lights one and smokes deeply, therapeutically, like she needs it. A taxing evening shepherding a drunken friend? An argument with her boyfriend? 'Looks therapeutic,' you could say, and chat from there. She glances in your direction again and you both look away.
You don’t like smoking generally but sympathise with the manner in which she does, perhaps she half expects you to ask her for one. You don’t smoke. She smokes considerately though, not too close, it twines and floats upwards into the mild, neon-lit Piccadilly sky. Looks therapeutic, you could still say? Why not?
You don’t.
Your bus arrives when she’s a couple of puffs from the end of her cigarette. She’s not rushing and could easily be waiting for one of the many other buses which go from here. You’re an idiot, you think, and shuffle towards the braking double decker with a small throng of revellers. In you step with the other bleary dregs, none misbehaved, bleeping your Oyster card before selecting the back seat of the lower deck. A dozen more people enter the vehicle after you, evenly splitting themselves between the upper and lower decks.
Then the fraught blonde. As she steps aboard your eyes briefly connect before flitting away. There are still plenty of seats available but she walks down the aisle and takes the backwards-facing seat which directly faces you. You uncross your legs to allow more space.
You could still say something. What? Would it need to be a good line? Or could it just be anything? It doesn’t matter that much. You’ve shared enough space and time for it not to seem too out of the blue now. You’re thinking about it too much. Minutes and miles pass as you mull your lines and the bus rolls West.
You dickhead, you tell your reflection.
She scrutinises her iPhone with thick industrious looking hands, dials a number but doesn’t speak, looks at it again. Short stubby fingernails, partly nibbled? You notice her phone has a seriously smashed screen and the unconsidered words tumble from your mouth, “What dyou do there?”
“Forgot it was on my lap when I got out of the car,” she says, “skidded along the pavement.” She says this like you’ve been chatting for some time already, your conversation had merely paused.
You discuss repairs, iPhones and you nosily swipe through the pages of her applications. She doesn’t appear to mind. She’s a teacher, (another bloody teacher), had been out with a group of teachers and was obliged to steward a drunk friend. You ask her about teaching and she tells you, but not with the relentless gushing abandon of many.
She tells you the part of town where she lives, that there was another more direct bus but she was bored waiting. She’s tired of London too, only moved here for a bloke, is moving back to Kent soon. It’s better for her dog. You detect singleness. There’s nothing explicitly, or even subtly flirtatious about the conversation, as far as you can tell.
You’re aware she’s long missed her stop but you don’t want the easy, free-flowing conversation to end. Is she..? Could she be interes-.? In the back of your mind winks the idea of not telling her at all, not until you reach your stop, so you’d both alight at the same place. And then.. and then..? Who knows?
You feel a nagging press of obligation. Although the best thing would have been to flag her stop to her as you had passed it. Which you didn’t. And the most calculated thing would be to say nothing at all.
“You know where we are now, right?”
There are nice to meet yous and smiles when she hurriedly alights in a pleasant inner suburb, although it is the dead of night. Anyone could be about. For a moment you feel like getting out with her, making sure she’s ok and gets a cab easily. It’s not THAT far of a walk from here to your flat. No. Stupid, and massive potential for awkwardness, which must always be avoided at all costs. She’s very much a grown woman who looks like she can handle herself.
Instead you smile, nod, wave feebly like a bollockless twat, and watch her go. The bus coasts on and you wait for the rolling wave of regret to hit.
----------------
It’s about 1am and you're standing at the night bus stop attempting to recall the mesh of conversations from the two distinct halves of the evening. You’re not closed to the idea of one more.
A fraught looking bottle blonde approaches: dark roots, pale complexion, black leather jacket, similar age, imposing and steely but not unattractive. You exchange a glance as she nears the shelter to wait. Another glance, half smile which says tsk, reduced to this whole night bus thing again, eh? You dismiss the idea of saying something out loud. Ludicrous idea.
She digs through a handbag and extracts a packet of cigarettes, lights one and smokes deeply, therapeutically, like she needs it. A taxing evening shepherding a drunken friend? An argument with her boyfriend? 'Looks therapeutic,' you could say, and chat from there. She glances in your direction again and you both look away.
You don’t like smoking generally but sympathise with the manner in which she does, perhaps she half expects you to ask her for one. You don’t smoke. She smokes considerately though, not too close, it twines and floats upwards into the mild, neon-lit Piccadilly sky. Looks therapeutic, you could still say? Why not?
You don’t.
Your bus arrives when she’s a couple of puffs from the end of her cigarette. She’s not rushing and could easily be waiting for one of the many other buses which go from here. You’re an idiot, you think, and shuffle towards the braking double decker with a small throng of revellers. In you step with the other bleary dregs, none misbehaved, bleeping your Oyster card before selecting the back seat of the lower deck. A dozen more people enter the vehicle after you, evenly splitting themselves between the upper and lower decks.
Then the fraught blonde. As she steps aboard your eyes briefly connect before flitting away. There are still plenty of seats available but she walks down the aisle and takes the backwards-facing seat which directly faces you. You uncross your legs to allow more space.
You could still say something. What? Would it need to be a good line? Or could it just be anything? It doesn’t matter that much. You’ve shared enough space and time for it not to seem too out of the blue now. You’re thinking about it too much. Minutes and miles pass as you mull your lines and the bus rolls West.
You dickhead, you tell your reflection.
She scrutinises her iPhone with thick industrious looking hands, dials a number but doesn’t speak, looks at it again. Short stubby fingernails, partly nibbled? You notice her phone has a seriously smashed screen and the unconsidered words tumble from your mouth, “What dyou do there?”
“Forgot it was on my lap when I got out of the car,” she says, “skidded along the pavement.” She says this like you’ve been chatting for some time already, your conversation had merely paused.
You discuss repairs, iPhones and you nosily swipe through the pages of her applications. She doesn’t appear to mind. She’s a teacher, (another bloody teacher), had been out with a group of teachers and was obliged to steward a drunk friend. You ask her about teaching and she tells you, but not with the relentless gushing abandon of many.
She tells you the part of town where she lives, that there was another more direct bus but she was bored waiting. She’s tired of London too, only moved here for a bloke, is moving back to Kent soon. It’s better for her dog. You detect singleness. There’s nothing explicitly, or even subtly flirtatious about the conversation, as far as you can tell.
You’re aware she’s long missed her stop but you don’t want the easy, free-flowing conversation to end. Is she..? Could she be interes-.? In the back of your mind winks the idea of not telling her at all, not until you reach your stop, so you’d both alight at the same place. And then.. and then..? Who knows?
You feel a nagging press of obligation. Although the best thing would have been to flag her stop to her as you had passed it. Which you didn’t. And the most calculated thing would be to say nothing at all.
“You know where we are now, right?”
There are nice to meet yous and smiles when she hurriedly alights in a pleasant inner suburb, although it is the dead of night. Anyone could be about. For a moment you feel like getting out with her, making sure she’s ok and gets a cab easily. It’s not THAT far of a walk from here to your flat. No. Stupid, and massive potential for awkwardness, which must always be avoided at all costs. She’s very much a grown woman who looks like she can handle herself.
Instead you smile, nod, wave feebly like a bollockless twat, and watch her go. The bus coasts on and you wait for the rolling wave of regret to hit.
Friday, 21 May 2010
solo
My life isn’t awash with an endless torrent of people, there’s no day-to-day blur of professional acquaintances, family or social circle. I have only a small handful of friends and we come together increasingly rarely: once or twice a year at best. I work alone and live alone from a fairly pleasant inner London suburb. Occasionally there might be a run of days where I’m relatively active, but it’s more often the case that I’m not.
Whackloads of largely business emails, Skypes, Messenger sessions, Tweets and teleconference calls, but it’s not uncommon for a whole week to pass without an in-person, two-way conversation with another human.
I struggle with this - have done so for over a year and will likely continue to, for how long I’m not sure.
To fend off boredom, insanity or depression, I do things alone, seeking difference and experience outside my four walls, and feeling like I'm an oddity for it.
Sitting squarely in your own head for so long, you end up grossly over analysing. People probably don’t give as much of a shit as you think they do. A passing glance, a second then gone.
It’s not uncommon for me to move: walk, run, cycle drive – without having a specific target. Or to begin doing something with a half baked idea, not fully committed, although I do often see it through. A gig listing that looked interesting, a football match with affordable tickets not too far away.
Any movement is better than sitting on a sofa in the lounge of a poky flat, at a desk, or pacing ditheringly, anxious about work.
On Wednesday this week I was bored out of my skull and went to a gig in North London for the difference of experience which cannot be gained by sitting alone in a building all day. Walking along the street or sitting on a tube crammed with other life forms can give that difference. Plopped back into the ocean.
Today, Friday, despite not being unbusy with work, the first glorious summer weather was irresistible. The coast promised less clawing of pollen at the back of my throat. I had a vehicle (whose worrying rattles and shakes I try to ignore) , so why not?
Flicking through a road atlas it’s easy to find places easily reachable from London where I’ve never visited. A ropey B&B somewhere, £30 at best, maybe £40-45 if you’re unlucky. Still doable. Right there you have a reasonable break from your four walls. Even if it’s only for 24 or 36 hours.
That’s what I’ve done.
Thanks to the wonders of technology, nobody need ever know I’m not at my “office.”. A mobile phone, a laptop and a mobile dongle: I can respond to emails and fulfill promises of documents to be delivered.
A car has served perfectly adequately as an office for one afternoon; nobody knows or cares.
Company would be preferable and I’m never entirely without self consciousness, because it’s not in any conceivable way ‘cool’ to be like this. You’ll go a long way to find somebody who claims to LOVE having few mates and doing things on their own all the time. But you learn to deal with it, attracting suspicious glances and beating them away, trying not to care.
I try not to care. I still do these things, which could suggest that I succeed in not caring.
Experience is better shared: a basic, often unspoken human maxim. YES, I would have ticked when presented with the mythical form: I WILL have a magnificently solid network of amazingly loyal friends and a gorgeous partner who I unequivocally adore. Tick box, job done. Sadly there is no such form, or I wasn’t offered one.
So I sit here in on this saggy bed in this distinctly dodgy B&B room in a small and very English south coast town: many George crosses out readied for the World Cup, a wealth of tattoos, zillions of small dogs, kiss-me-quick hats, children’s amusement parks, boarded up sea front stores and tweens on BMXs.
Paper peels from the bedroom walls and ceilings, the bed linen has holes, lumps of plaster has been knocked out of the walls and Leopardskin used as a trimming throughout; the hallway paper is headspinning. The bass of a karaoke Dancing Queen thuds beneath me and a drunk drones. I won’t be complaining about any of this because I paid thirty pounds and don’t care that much.
This is difference, it’s an experience, it’s discovery of a new place I’ve never been to before and will never visit again. I’ll see a couple more of those tomorrow then return to London. Maybe I’ll get up in time to see a beautiful dawn stretch across the English channel, maybe I won’t. It’s not being in the flat.
There are other things I could do too – rather than this self congratulatory solo foraging for difference; social groups I could join. They are out there and I have looked momentarily before clicking away. But they’d be populated by fucking weirdo loner freaks, wouldn’t they? And who wants to mix with them?
Whackloads of largely business emails, Skypes, Messenger sessions, Tweets and teleconference calls, but it’s not uncommon for a whole week to pass without an in-person, two-way conversation with another human.
I struggle with this - have done so for over a year and will likely continue to, for how long I’m not sure.
To fend off boredom, insanity or depression, I do things alone, seeking difference and experience outside my four walls, and feeling like I'm an oddity for it.
Sitting squarely in your own head for so long, you end up grossly over analysing. People probably don’t give as much of a shit as you think they do. A passing glance, a second then gone.
It’s not uncommon for me to move: walk, run, cycle drive – without having a specific target. Or to begin doing something with a half baked idea, not fully committed, although I do often see it through. A gig listing that looked interesting, a football match with affordable tickets not too far away.
Any movement is better than sitting on a sofa in the lounge of a poky flat, at a desk, or pacing ditheringly, anxious about work.
On Wednesday this week I was bored out of my skull and went to a gig in North London for the difference of experience which cannot be gained by sitting alone in a building all day. Walking along the street or sitting on a tube crammed with other life forms can give that difference. Plopped back into the ocean.
Today, Friday, despite not being unbusy with work, the first glorious summer weather was irresistible. The coast promised less clawing of pollen at the back of my throat. I had a vehicle (whose worrying rattles and shakes I try to ignore) , so why not?
Flicking through a road atlas it’s easy to find places easily reachable from London where I’ve never visited. A ropey B&B somewhere, £30 at best, maybe £40-45 if you’re unlucky. Still doable. Right there you have a reasonable break from your four walls. Even if it’s only for 24 or 36 hours.
That’s what I’ve done.
Thanks to the wonders of technology, nobody need ever know I’m not at my “office.”. A mobile phone, a laptop and a mobile dongle: I can respond to emails and fulfill promises of documents to be delivered.
A car has served perfectly adequately as an office for one afternoon; nobody knows or cares.
Company would be preferable and I’m never entirely without self consciousness, because it’s not in any conceivable way ‘cool’ to be like this. You’ll go a long way to find somebody who claims to LOVE having few mates and doing things on their own all the time. But you learn to deal with it, attracting suspicious glances and beating them away, trying not to care.
I try not to care. I still do these things, which could suggest that I succeed in not caring.
Experience is better shared: a basic, often unspoken human maxim. YES, I would have ticked when presented with the mythical form: I WILL have a magnificently solid network of amazingly loyal friends and a gorgeous partner who I unequivocally adore. Tick box, job done. Sadly there is no such form, or I wasn’t offered one.
So I sit here in on this saggy bed in this distinctly dodgy B&B room in a small and very English south coast town: many George crosses out readied for the World Cup, a wealth of tattoos, zillions of small dogs, kiss-me-quick hats, children’s amusement parks, boarded up sea front stores and tweens on BMXs.
Paper peels from the bedroom walls and ceilings, the bed linen has holes, lumps of plaster has been knocked out of the walls and Leopardskin used as a trimming throughout; the hallway paper is headspinning. The bass of a karaoke Dancing Queen thuds beneath me and a drunk drones. I won’t be complaining about any of this because I paid thirty pounds and don’t care that much.
This is difference, it’s an experience, it’s discovery of a new place I’ve never been to before and will never visit again. I’ll see a couple more of those tomorrow then return to London. Maybe I’ll get up in time to see a beautiful dawn stretch across the English channel, maybe I won’t. It’s not being in the flat.
There are other things I could do too – rather than this self congratulatory solo foraging for difference; social groups I could join. They are out there and I have looked momentarily before clicking away. But they’d be populated by fucking weirdo loner freaks, wouldn’t they? And who wants to mix with them?
Friday, 23 April 2010
The charmability / novelty equation
A number of female demographics are eminently more charmable than others: Mums are quite a cinch; in fact most mature ladies over about 40, old people, generalising wildly, but those from overseas can be relatively easy to defrost too.
On the other end of the spectrum there's the severe impossibility of females who occupy roughly the same demographic, but sit on the other side of the gender fence. White middle to upper middle class, youngish, upwardly mobile women.
There’s a sturdy drawbridge which tends to abrupty slam down whenever I say "hello." I don’t know why this is. Guarded uptight Britishness, maybe. Natural defence in the face of a probable leery prat, perhaps.
I’ve enjoyed as much success with members of the fairer sex from foreign climes, as with those from the home turf. Novelty helps here: I’m comfortable slotting further into the English type, adhering to preconceptions. I enjoy it and find it easy adopting the affable English outsider persona. It works like nothing else back home. And I’m no good at accents.
At a professional function, a middle eastern barmaid was considerably easier to chat to and banter with – notwithstanding that this was obviously her job – than the arctic yet predictably attractive PRs. It’s remotely possible they knew I worked in a similar field so were uninterested to begin with. But the effort involved in engaging in a professional conversation was considerable and I soon withdrew.
While this was a professional context, it could be applied elsewhere. There appears to be a direct equation between charm and novelty. You’re seldom charmed by anyone who appears quite ordinary. There’s a spark of difference, a wit or style of flattery that penetrates and disarms. If, to those of a similar age and background, you immediately appear just like everyone else – you have no dazzling smile or devilishly handsome looks on which to fall, there's no immediately obvious Unique Selling Point, you're not even dressed to impress – is it only natural to assume disinterest? Especially if they’re barely inclined to listen or engage.
Because if they did listen, even if only for a moment, then they’d almost certainly want to dive into your pants right away.
On the other end of the spectrum there's the severe impossibility of females who occupy roughly the same demographic, but sit on the other side of the gender fence. White middle to upper middle class, youngish, upwardly mobile women.
There’s a sturdy drawbridge which tends to abrupty slam down whenever I say "hello." I don’t know why this is. Guarded uptight Britishness, maybe. Natural defence in the face of a probable leery prat, perhaps.
I’ve enjoyed as much success with members of the fairer sex from foreign climes, as with those from the home turf. Novelty helps here: I’m comfortable slotting further into the English type, adhering to preconceptions. I enjoy it and find it easy adopting the affable English outsider persona. It works like nothing else back home. And I’m no good at accents.
At a professional function, a middle eastern barmaid was considerably easier to chat to and banter with – notwithstanding that this was obviously her job – than the arctic yet predictably attractive PRs. It’s remotely possible they knew I worked in a similar field so were uninterested to begin with. But the effort involved in engaging in a professional conversation was considerable and I soon withdrew.
While this was a professional context, it could be applied elsewhere. There appears to be a direct equation between charm and novelty. You’re seldom charmed by anyone who appears quite ordinary. There’s a spark of difference, a wit or style of flattery that penetrates and disarms. If, to those of a similar age and background, you immediately appear just like everyone else – you have no dazzling smile or devilishly handsome looks on which to fall, there's no immediately obvious Unique Selling Point, you're not even dressed to impress – is it only natural to assume disinterest? Especially if they’re barely inclined to listen or engage.
Because if they did listen, even if only for a moment, then they’d almost certainly want to dive into your pants right away.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Fearsome female control freakery
I had my doubts about his girlfriend before: was she insecure in the relationship, horribly cold, a control freak, an attention seeker, merely a tiring ball-ache? I was meeting up with him for the first time in about two months, a fast-talking young Scottish guy with bags of energy. Our pre-Christmas relationship had fizzled as we realised professional, personal and social differences.
Still, we did get on well and didn’t want to lose touch, so we decided to meet up later in the Thursday evening, after the leaders' election debate, in the upstairs bar of a dimly lit, sofa-rich venue in Soho.
We’d only been there for about half hour when his phone buzzed, and he said the words in passing, before answering the phone.
“Laura’s coming, by the way..”
“Oh.” My heart sank. It was covertly agreed beforehand that this would be a boysy catch-up. We’d enjoyed evenings before Christmas like this, where, freed from his girlfriend, we’d had several drinks and chatted to girls: had fun. Despite being in a long term relationship, he clearly loved it (“all in the chase, man”): the attention and thrill of performance which he revelled in. He explained where we were to her, then hung up.
“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t know. She’s been out with a mate from work so…”
She arrived a few minutes later, drunk and gabbling about cocktails, hijacking the evening for a time, consummately strangling the momentum of chat we'd built up. I nodded, smiled, asked civil questions about work and her teaching course – she was clearly destined to become yet another female teacher who spoke excessively about her work. It was starting already, I thought, listening, glazed over. My friend had recoiled at the social invasion too, even though she was his girlfriend. He became quickly tired, sullen, unresponsive and slumped in the sofa like he wanted it to swallow him. I continued to make polite small talk with her, not much caring about the answers to my questions.
She’d sat without a drink for a short time, saying she didn’t want one immediately because of those crazy strong cocktails. When I rose to visit the bar, she gladly accepted my offer.
I returned, graciously deposited bottles of beer ("you're very welcome") and resumed chatting about business to my friend, marginalising his girlfriend. I‘d bought the pain in the arse a drink; the least she could do was let us talk about what we wanted to talk about. Hell, I’d be really charitable and not even mind if she wanted to join in.
But predictably enough, she didn’t. She sat there peripheral and vaguely sulky. Neither of us made any attempt to change the conversation or integrate her and she didn’t try to become more involved, sitting there mute and drunk, swigging distractedly at her beer.
On finishing the bottle, she began pulling on her coat and looking pointedly at her boyfriend. We’d only been there little over an hour in total.
“I’ve got to go, I have to be up for work in the morning,” she said.
“…”
Chilly glances and icy looks were exchanged.
“You going too then mate, or…?” I asked, my voice wavering, tension escalating deliciously.
“Er, ehmm..” he dithered, not knowing.
“If you want to see the lady home, that’s cool,” I said. “We can call it a night.”
She saw he was more leaning towards staying there, letting her go. Those cold eyes of hers returned. She was used to getting her way, bending her malleable man. That sort of thing terrifies me about females.
Still he said nothing assertive, either that he’d stay or go, exuded a confused ambivalent lethargy.
“Right. Ok then!” she said, and walked out.
“You want to go after her?”
“Nah, she’ll be fine.” He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “Want another one then?” he smiled, a lightbulb flicked back on.
He tried to persuade me that I would get on with her if I spent more time with her, if we went out on full nights together. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself. He’d said this once before, following the chip incident, and I’d blithely nodded in agreement. Yeah, maybe.. (whatever, don't care).
When I mentioned potential wedding bells, he blibbled uncertainly like men do, but said that she had mentioned it. “I’ve got an empire to build man!” he exclaimed. I asked him if he wanted to though: marriage etc. if everything with her was all going well enough. He shrugged.
Given my expert form in relationships, I counselled, “If you love her, go for it, living together for two and a half years should have given you a good enough idea. If you don’t, shit, you’re 25 years old mate.” I left it at that, not needing to scream at him that he could be completely wasting his youth. Because he'd actually use it too, wholeheartedly seize a young, single metropolitan life with everything he has. Unlike me, who sits back, thinks too much, doesn't so much go with the flow as build a dam, then effortlessly screws up.
He shrugged again, not wanting the conversation, so we moved it on elsewhere.
Still, we did get on well and didn’t want to lose touch, so we decided to meet up later in the Thursday evening, after the leaders' election debate, in the upstairs bar of a dimly lit, sofa-rich venue in Soho.
We’d only been there for about half hour when his phone buzzed, and he said the words in passing, before answering the phone.
“Laura’s coming, by the way..”
“Oh.” My heart sank. It was covertly agreed beforehand that this would be a boysy catch-up. We’d enjoyed evenings before Christmas like this, where, freed from his girlfriend, we’d had several drinks and chatted to girls: had fun. Despite being in a long term relationship, he clearly loved it (“all in the chase, man”): the attention and thrill of performance which he revelled in. He explained where we were to her, then hung up.
“Yeah, sorry. I didn’t know. She’s been out with a mate from work so…”
She arrived a few minutes later, drunk and gabbling about cocktails, hijacking the evening for a time, consummately strangling the momentum of chat we'd built up. I nodded, smiled, asked civil questions about work and her teaching course – she was clearly destined to become yet another female teacher who spoke excessively about her work. It was starting already, I thought, listening, glazed over. My friend had recoiled at the social invasion too, even though she was his girlfriend. He became quickly tired, sullen, unresponsive and slumped in the sofa like he wanted it to swallow him. I continued to make polite small talk with her, not much caring about the answers to my questions.
She’d sat without a drink for a short time, saying she didn’t want one immediately because of those crazy strong cocktails. When I rose to visit the bar, she gladly accepted my offer.
I returned, graciously deposited bottles of beer ("you're very welcome") and resumed chatting about business to my friend, marginalising his girlfriend. I‘d bought the pain in the arse a drink; the least she could do was let us talk about what we wanted to talk about. Hell, I’d be really charitable and not even mind if she wanted to join in.
But predictably enough, she didn’t. She sat there peripheral and vaguely sulky. Neither of us made any attempt to change the conversation or integrate her and she didn’t try to become more involved, sitting there mute and drunk, swigging distractedly at her beer.
On finishing the bottle, she began pulling on her coat and looking pointedly at her boyfriend. We’d only been there little over an hour in total.
“I’ve got to go, I have to be up for work in the morning,” she said.
“…”
Chilly glances and icy looks were exchanged.
“You going too then mate, or…?” I asked, my voice wavering, tension escalating deliciously.
“Er, ehmm..” he dithered, not knowing.
“If you want to see the lady home, that’s cool,” I said. “We can call it a night.”
She saw he was more leaning towards staying there, letting her go. Those cold eyes of hers returned. She was used to getting her way, bending her malleable man. That sort of thing terrifies me about females.
Still he said nothing assertive, either that he’d stay or go, exuded a confused ambivalent lethargy.
“Right. Ok then!” she said, and walked out.
“You want to go after her?”
“Nah, she’ll be fine.” He shrugged, as if he didn’t care. “Want another one then?” he smiled, a lightbulb flicked back on.
He tried to persuade me that I would get on with her if I spent more time with her, if we went out on full nights together. I wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince me or himself. He’d said this once before, following the chip incident, and I’d blithely nodded in agreement. Yeah, maybe.. (whatever, don't care).
When I mentioned potential wedding bells, he blibbled uncertainly like men do, but said that she had mentioned it. “I’ve got an empire to build man!” he exclaimed. I asked him if he wanted to though: marriage etc. if everything with her was all going well enough. He shrugged.
Given my expert form in relationships, I counselled, “If you love her, go for it, living together for two and a half years should have given you a good enough idea. If you don’t, shit, you’re 25 years old mate.” I left it at that, not needing to scream at him that he could be completely wasting his youth. Because he'd actually use it too, wholeheartedly seize a young, single metropolitan life with everything he has. Unlike me, who sits back, thinks too much, doesn't so much go with the flow as build a dam, then effortlessly screws up.
He shrugged again, not wanting the conversation, so we moved it on elsewhere.
Wednesday, 14 April 2010
the zigzag home
Barry walked down the street, still tutting to himself and shaking his head, half looking for cabs. He saw an open fast food shop with people trailing lazily out of the front door. Chips sounded like a good idea. He entered and joined a straggly queue. Two American girls spoke pointedly at each other, around two other guys. “Aw, man, tell me you’re not seriously considering..” the one asked of her friend, possibly sister, seeming appalled. The subject of her disdain was standing right there, nonplussed. He was fairly short, bald, mid thirties, slightly overweight and quite smug. He was getting some tonight, he didn't give a shit what anyone said or thought; fuck you, his face said. Barry agreed with the one who had spoken: he looked horrible. But her sister argued back, “Like YOUR love life is so perfect?! What about that..”
“Who’s next?!” an asian man in white overalls interjected over the counter. Barry approached, placed his order and paid. The ongoing entertainment fizzled out disappointingly as the protagonist tipsily retracted in a sulk.
Barry received his polystyrene box and looked around him. There were seats and a sprinkling of sad looking, quiet, drunk people sitting at tables. None were free.
“Do you want to join us?” a young female from one quiet couple asked him. The man sitting opposite her looked grey and moody, like she was trying to aggravate him.
“Erm, no you’re all right, thanks,” Barry said, remembering how much hard work women were. Worth the effort? Yes, unfortunately.
He ate as he walked, the chips appearing to quickly disappear. Perhaps he was hungrier than he imagined. Disposing the polystyrene box into a bin, Barry found he was even less sure where he was. It felt faintly dangerous, high rise blocks growing up around him as he walked further on, in what was surely the right direction, wasn’t it? The residential buildings looming, there was nobody else on the street. Don’t get mugged, don’t get mugged, he told himself in his head, as if telling himself not to get mugged enough times in his head was a surefire way of not getting mugged. He consulted a map on his phone and grew more confused, slightly scared and walked back the way he had come, quickly finding a cab to ferry him back into the comfortingly populated centre.
At the Night Bus stop he chatted with a spindly disproportioned female whose microscopic skirt exaggerated infinite legs, although she still looked like somebody’s daughter. She was studying in a small northern university town and missed London’s size and anonymity, hated the close, in each other’s pocket feeling of university. London’s anonymity was what was beginning to depress Barry. It could be handle if you’d just had a date like that, he supposed. Unlikely to ever see her again, unlike if you live in a smaller city or town. But rarely seeing strangers twice, never bumping into people, having to make military plans to meet up for a drink: that was a ball ache. She got off the bus three stops before him and he wished her luck.
The formativeness of university, Barry pondered, gazing out of the window at the well-to-do riverside borough: it was a strange one.
A week earlier he had chatted to a successful young radio DJ at a gig, a man a few years younger than him who had broken into mainstream radio at a sickeningly young age, when Barry was at university. Now, despite appearing slightly bumbling and not innately charismatic in person, he was respected nationally, travelled widely, had nice, central pads in Cardiff and London. Horribly likeable, complete bastard, Barry thought.
He remembered chatting to him briefly at a gig during his university years, the best part of a decade ago. Barry’s girlfriend at the time had had a thing for him and giggled like a schoolgirl when they spotted him at gigs. This annoyed Barry, although he could appreciate that there was charm in his inauspiciousness, the way he could linger alone and unnoticed against the back walls of dark clubs in a totally unpredatory, unthreatening fashion, and be a reasonably influential figure.
Having engaged him between songs by asking after local bands of his student era, Barry questioned how he broke through as a radio DJ at such a young age. Hospital radio, a chance meeting, that local villagey, who-you-knowness of Cardiff. Now he had one of the most enviable jobs Barry could think of, and he could feasibly do it for many years to come, if he wanted to. “Thems the breaks,” Barry supposed. But he didn’t strike Barry as a person in possession of especially dynamic, ambitious drive. It had simply fallen for him, like life does for some.
That could be unfair though: a convenient deflection for the bitter, cowardly and unbelieving. As he reached the lower deck the bus lurched and slowed quickly, as if the driver had forgotten a passenger had dinged the STOP bell. Barry allowed his knees to bend, compliant, and waited for the doors to open.
“Who’s next?!” an asian man in white overalls interjected over the counter. Barry approached, placed his order and paid. The ongoing entertainment fizzled out disappointingly as the protagonist tipsily retracted in a sulk.
Barry received his polystyrene box and looked around him. There were seats and a sprinkling of sad looking, quiet, drunk people sitting at tables. None were free.
“Do you want to join us?” a young female from one quiet couple asked him. The man sitting opposite her looked grey and moody, like she was trying to aggravate him.
“Erm, no you’re all right, thanks,” Barry said, remembering how much hard work women were. Worth the effort? Yes, unfortunately.
He ate as he walked, the chips appearing to quickly disappear. Perhaps he was hungrier than he imagined. Disposing the polystyrene box into a bin, Barry found he was even less sure where he was. It felt faintly dangerous, high rise blocks growing up around him as he walked further on, in what was surely the right direction, wasn’t it? The residential buildings looming, there was nobody else on the street. Don’t get mugged, don’t get mugged, he told himself in his head, as if telling himself not to get mugged enough times in his head was a surefire way of not getting mugged. He consulted a map on his phone and grew more confused, slightly scared and walked back the way he had come, quickly finding a cab to ferry him back into the comfortingly populated centre.
At the Night Bus stop he chatted with a spindly disproportioned female whose microscopic skirt exaggerated infinite legs, although she still looked like somebody’s daughter. She was studying in a small northern university town and missed London’s size and anonymity, hated the close, in each other’s pocket feeling of university. London’s anonymity was what was beginning to depress Barry. It could be handle if you’d just had a date like that, he supposed. Unlikely to ever see her again, unlike if you live in a smaller city or town. But rarely seeing strangers twice, never bumping into people, having to make military plans to meet up for a drink: that was a ball ache. She got off the bus three stops before him and he wished her luck.
The formativeness of university, Barry pondered, gazing out of the window at the well-to-do riverside borough: it was a strange one.
A week earlier he had chatted to a successful young radio DJ at a gig, a man a few years younger than him who had broken into mainstream radio at a sickeningly young age, when Barry was at university. Now, despite appearing slightly bumbling and not innately charismatic in person, he was respected nationally, travelled widely, had nice, central pads in Cardiff and London. Horribly likeable, complete bastard, Barry thought.
He remembered chatting to him briefly at a gig during his university years, the best part of a decade ago. Barry’s girlfriend at the time had had a thing for him and giggled like a schoolgirl when they spotted him at gigs. This annoyed Barry, although he could appreciate that there was charm in his inauspiciousness, the way he could linger alone and unnoticed against the back walls of dark clubs in a totally unpredatory, unthreatening fashion, and be a reasonably influential figure.
Having engaged him between songs by asking after local bands of his student era, Barry questioned how he broke through as a radio DJ at such a young age. Hospital radio, a chance meeting, that local villagey, who-you-knowness of Cardiff. Now he had one of the most enviable jobs Barry could think of, and he could feasibly do it for many years to come, if he wanted to. “Thems the breaks,” Barry supposed. But he didn’t strike Barry as a person in possession of especially dynamic, ambitious drive. It had simply fallen for him, like life does for some.
That could be unfair though: a convenient deflection for the bitter, cowardly and unbelieving. As he reached the lower deck the bus lurched and slowed quickly, as if the driver had forgotten a passenger had dinged the STOP bell. Barry allowed his knees to bend, compliant, and waited for the doors to open.
Friday, 9 April 2010
Date with contingency plan
Barry wasn’t very sure about it. He was never exactly brimming with conviction where females were concerned, but at 36, she was more than just a couple of years older and the first couple of times they met were far from regular. All the same, what did he have to lose? It was worth a punt, the other options had long been exhausted, as expected, and she might even be a laugh.
She nonchalantly tossed a spanner in the works with another message received mid afternoon. Could he bring a friend with him because a friend of hers was at a loose end and wanted to come along. She wanted backup all of a sudden? Barry said he’d ask around, but it was late notice. He asked around but it was late notice, people had plans. Then he received another message saying her friend had now remembered something she needed to do, so it was back to the original plan.
Females are designed to confuse me, Barry thought.
He passed through Vauxhall station, which was sprinkled with more than a few clusters of mean looking police officers, some of whom were questioning young people who didn’t look native. A faint edginess was in the air, but Barry passed through freely enough, knowing he had over twenty minutes to make a ten to fifteen minute tube journey through town. Sitting stationary in Pimlico for twenty minutes made him late, with no recourse mobile notification. Other station platforms enjoyed mean looking police officers too, the tubes themselves were painfully slow.
Barry was just over half an hour late when he eventually emerged, and wondered if she’d have given him up. He looked around the station entrance and his phone rang immediately. He answered, continued his three hundred and sixty degree survey, and saw her.
Bit older, sure, but definitely not unattractive. Great body; impressive, unignorable assets, perkily cheerful despite his lateness. Generous make-up couldn’t disguise a chinline beginning to head south and a couple of pronounced lines which Barry didn’t yet associate with those in his immediate age group. Human though, confident and brassy in line with his earlier drunken memory,clever too. Not a bad start.
They went to a bar, bought pints and sat down at a small table. Barry sensed she was more interested in talking than listening. He often got that impression from females on dates. But he was equally happy to ask the occasional question and let them conversationally lead, (and boy, did she conversationally lead). A former saleswoman, able to get onto the property ladder when young people with regular jobs were able to get on the property ladder, just a touch materialistic and rather pleased with herself.
Barry wished he didn’t make these harsh early judgements, wished he could vet his brain like a spam filter. This wasn’t to say she displayed no interest in him at all, and she duly obliged with a series of questions which he duly answered.
They moved bars, it was still going ok. This next bar was darker and she found them seats in a corner which was darker still and appeared to be populated exclusively by attractive young people on dates. They drank more beer discussed football, arts, film and books. A couple in the same section asked Barry and his companion to mind their seats while they went outside for a smoke. The female of the couple, an attractive blonde, had asked as they left the darkened section. She had put one hand on Barry’s shoulder and one on his knee and leant in close, addressing Barry’s companion and Barry with the request, which was introduced more ominously than necessarily. “Can I ask you guys a favour..?” Where had he been taken? Was this ‘one of those’ places? No. She just wanted them to guard their seats.
It reminded Barry how you became instantly less threatening in a male/female pairing. There was no way he would have been approached like this if he had been with a male friend, in a larger group, or on his own. Being out with a female gave such brilliant social acceptability, sudden validation.
Now it was getting late, almost last train times, but Barry had completely lost track of time and didn’t care that much. Several beers apiece had been imbibed, he wasn’t thinking ahead, just enjoying the company and the conversation.
She asked the question he’d been dreading all night and it all momentum ground to a halt. He’d had long enough to think of a plausible false answer, be imaginative and creative with it. But he hadn’t so he drunkenly stumbled and choked on it instead.
“Ok, I could think of something else to say, make something up. But I’m just going to be honest,” he said.
“I’ll appreciate the honesty,” she said.
She didn’t appreciate the honesty. Not at all.
She’d asked what it was that he’d apologised for in the text, what it was that she couldn’t remember from that night when she’d been really drunk. She just remembered reading the pathetically gushing apology the next day and didn’t know what it was for.
Barry was unable to deflect the question now and his brain wasn’t up to the elasticity required of invention. She didn’t accept a jokey change of subject so he told her the truth: there had been someone else he’d liked a bit better that night.
Females don’t like hearing that sort of thing.
Females like to be Number One as soon as you engage like that. Barry is just happy to be considered at all, wherever he falls in any pecking order: 37, 4, wherever. He knows that in a room containing any decent number of men, there will be better looking, more charismatic, smarter, funnier and richer bastards. Being in with a shout is as much as he asks.
The truthful disclosure was an incredibly foolish move, he realised afterwards, quintessentially Swashbuckled in nature. From that point she set out to unsettle him with a series of unanswerable questions. “Oh, so I was second choice then?” (Third or fourth actually, Barry thought). This was precisely what had happened before, and what she had failed to recall: that she had discovered this and told Barry to fuck off, so he did.
Barry didn’t enlighten her about the other options from the speed dating, the other girl he had dated afterwards, the fact that yes: she had been at least third choice, maybe fourth. Which was canny of him. ("Now you are Number One though, there's no more options left. I messed all them up as well. You're not a contingency plan anymore; you're the only plan left.") He thought it better not to any of say that out loud.
The evening had faltered late in the night, the bar kicking out, her enjoying Barry’s obvious discomfort and failing to accept his apology or move the conversation on. She was offended at not being first choice, so she's punishing me, Barry thought. She grew flightily smug, supercilious and suddenly less likable. It became annoying. Listening to her gabble away haughtily, boringly, he clocked the time and sagged. It was well past midnight and he was drunk, miles away from home and had unequivocally messed it up again. All evening she had been fiddling with the neckline of her loose, round-necked black top, flicking it back and forwards, rearranging. It was distracting. Now Barry wanted to yank the fucking thing over her head, plunge her into full darkness and run away, leaving her to flounder. But he didn't. He sucked up his punishment and sat there like a scolded child.
The last to leave the bar, they walked out onto the street and realised they were going in opposite directions, this was it. He quickly kissed her cheek, said “goodbye, had a fun night, up until… anway. I’ll erm.. yeah..” turned on his heel and walked off, trying to feel proud despite fucking up yet again. Fucking up for being honest and flawed. She said something to his back that he didn’t catch and cackled into the night sky. Barry kept walking, looking out for cabs.
She nonchalantly tossed a spanner in the works with another message received mid afternoon. Could he bring a friend with him because a friend of hers was at a loose end and wanted to come along. She wanted backup all of a sudden? Barry said he’d ask around, but it was late notice. He asked around but it was late notice, people had plans. Then he received another message saying her friend had now remembered something she needed to do, so it was back to the original plan.
Females are designed to confuse me, Barry thought.
He passed through Vauxhall station, which was sprinkled with more than a few clusters of mean looking police officers, some of whom were questioning young people who didn’t look native. A faint edginess was in the air, but Barry passed through freely enough, knowing he had over twenty minutes to make a ten to fifteen minute tube journey through town. Sitting stationary in Pimlico for twenty minutes made him late, with no recourse mobile notification. Other station platforms enjoyed mean looking police officers too, the tubes themselves were painfully slow.
Barry was just over half an hour late when he eventually emerged, and wondered if she’d have given him up. He looked around the station entrance and his phone rang immediately. He answered, continued his three hundred and sixty degree survey, and saw her.
Bit older, sure, but definitely not unattractive. Great body; impressive, unignorable assets, perkily cheerful despite his lateness. Generous make-up couldn’t disguise a chinline beginning to head south and a couple of pronounced lines which Barry didn’t yet associate with those in his immediate age group. Human though, confident and brassy in line with his earlier drunken memory,clever too. Not a bad start.
They went to a bar, bought pints and sat down at a small table. Barry sensed she was more interested in talking than listening. He often got that impression from females on dates. But he was equally happy to ask the occasional question and let them conversationally lead, (and boy, did she conversationally lead). A former saleswoman, able to get onto the property ladder when young people with regular jobs were able to get on the property ladder, just a touch materialistic and rather pleased with herself.
Barry wished he didn’t make these harsh early judgements, wished he could vet his brain like a spam filter. This wasn’t to say she displayed no interest in him at all, and she duly obliged with a series of questions which he duly answered.
They moved bars, it was still going ok. This next bar was darker and she found them seats in a corner which was darker still and appeared to be populated exclusively by attractive young people on dates. They drank more beer discussed football, arts, film and books. A couple in the same section asked Barry and his companion to mind their seats while they went outside for a smoke. The female of the couple, an attractive blonde, had asked as they left the darkened section. She had put one hand on Barry’s shoulder and one on his knee and leant in close, addressing Barry’s companion and Barry with the request, which was introduced more ominously than necessarily. “Can I ask you guys a favour..?” Where had he been taken? Was this ‘one of those’ places? No. She just wanted them to guard their seats.
It reminded Barry how you became instantly less threatening in a male/female pairing. There was no way he would have been approached like this if he had been with a male friend, in a larger group, or on his own. Being out with a female gave such brilliant social acceptability, sudden validation.
Now it was getting late, almost last train times, but Barry had completely lost track of time and didn’t care that much. Several beers apiece had been imbibed, he wasn’t thinking ahead, just enjoying the company and the conversation.
She asked the question he’d been dreading all night and it all momentum ground to a halt. He’d had long enough to think of a plausible false answer, be imaginative and creative with it. But he hadn’t so he drunkenly stumbled and choked on it instead.
“Ok, I could think of something else to say, make something up. But I’m just going to be honest,” he said.
“I’ll appreciate the honesty,” she said.
She didn’t appreciate the honesty. Not at all.
She’d asked what it was that he’d apologised for in the text, what it was that she couldn’t remember from that night when she’d been really drunk. She just remembered reading the pathetically gushing apology the next day and didn’t know what it was for.
Barry was unable to deflect the question now and his brain wasn’t up to the elasticity required of invention. She didn’t accept a jokey change of subject so he told her the truth: there had been someone else he’d liked a bit better that night.
Females don’t like hearing that sort of thing.
Females like to be Number One as soon as you engage like that. Barry is just happy to be considered at all, wherever he falls in any pecking order: 37, 4, wherever. He knows that in a room containing any decent number of men, there will be better looking, more charismatic, smarter, funnier and richer bastards. Being in with a shout is as much as he asks.
The truthful disclosure was an incredibly foolish move, he realised afterwards, quintessentially Swashbuckled in nature. From that point she set out to unsettle him with a series of unanswerable questions. “Oh, so I was second choice then?” (Third or fourth actually, Barry thought). This was precisely what had happened before, and what she had failed to recall: that she had discovered this and told Barry to fuck off, so he did.
Barry didn’t enlighten her about the other options from the speed dating, the other girl he had dated afterwards, the fact that yes: she had been at least third choice, maybe fourth. Which was canny of him. ("Now you are Number One though, there's no more options left. I messed all them up as well. You're not a contingency plan anymore; you're the only plan left.") He thought it better not to any of say that out loud.
The evening had faltered late in the night, the bar kicking out, her enjoying Barry’s obvious discomfort and failing to accept his apology or move the conversation on. She was offended at not being first choice, so she's punishing me, Barry thought. She grew flightily smug, supercilious and suddenly less likable. It became annoying. Listening to her gabble away haughtily, boringly, he clocked the time and sagged. It was well past midnight and he was drunk, miles away from home and had unequivocally messed it up again. All evening she had been fiddling with the neckline of her loose, round-necked black top, flicking it back and forwards, rearranging. It was distracting. Now Barry wanted to yank the fucking thing over her head, plunge her into full darkness and run away, leaving her to flounder. But he didn't. He sucked up his punishment and sat there like a scolded child.
The last to leave the bar, they walked out onto the street and realised they were going in opposite directions, this was it. He quickly kissed her cheek, said “goodbye, had a fun night, up until… anway. I’ll erm.. yeah..” turned on his heel and walked off, trying to feel proud despite fucking up yet again. Fucking up for being honest and flawed. She said something to his back that he didn’t catch and cackled into the night sky. Barry kept walking, looking out for cabs.
Sunday, 28 March 2010
remembering
Blokes drive Barry nuts for being rubbish, because he considers himself less rubbish in many ways, although he’s profoundly more rubbish in others.
It’s the memory thing which really gets him. The way he can have chats with friends and they won’t ask questions or remember anything he’s said in earlier conversations. Sure, he thinks to himself, they have their own life in which I only play a very small fleeting role, but surely they’d remember x or y? Surely they’d just be polite enough to ask a question or two about me? I remember stuff they’ve said before, which they don’t always remember having told me. They should remember some stuff too?
No. Is that because you’re a bit dull, Barry? Or because they are, and they’re blokes? Or both?
When the boot’s on the other foot and Barry is speaking to a female person, and he remembers something they mentioned once, he’s made to feel creepy for his memory. “Wow! You remembered that?” they say, looking at him like he was making notes or hiding in the bushes outside their front door every morning for a month. “Um, yes,” Barry replies. Because he does remember stuff.
This may be, in part, due to the fact that Barry doesn’t speak to all that many people so his brain is less burdened with stuff to remember, but he does still pride himself in having a strong memory when most people, especially blokes, don’t. That’s still not ok though, if it makes you look like a creep.
The memory thing struck him again when chatting to someone he thought was going to become a good bloke friend several months ago, then their relationship wained. Despite a handful of decent nights out, feeling like they were establishing a bond, certain things irked, Barry supposed mutually. Enough for their manlove to both dwindle anyway.
This saddened Barry, but not that much, which then saddened him some more: that he could just drop people, suddenly become less fussed when he realised they were a certain way, nice enough but plastic, not altogether that bright.
His ability to let friendships wither and slide was relentless.
It’s the memory thing which really gets him. The way he can have chats with friends and they won’t ask questions or remember anything he’s said in earlier conversations. Sure, he thinks to himself, they have their own life in which I only play a very small fleeting role, but surely they’d remember x or y? Surely they’d just be polite enough to ask a question or two about me? I remember stuff they’ve said before, which they don’t always remember having told me. They should remember some stuff too?
No. Is that because you’re a bit dull, Barry? Or because they are, and they’re blokes? Or both?
When the boot’s on the other foot and Barry is speaking to a female person, and he remembers something they mentioned once, he’s made to feel creepy for his memory. “Wow! You remembered that?” they say, looking at him like he was making notes or hiding in the bushes outside their front door every morning for a month. “Um, yes,” Barry replies. Because he does remember stuff.
This may be, in part, due to the fact that Barry doesn’t speak to all that many people so his brain is less burdened with stuff to remember, but he does still pride himself in having a strong memory when most people, especially blokes, don’t. That’s still not ok though, if it makes you look like a creep.
The memory thing struck him again when chatting to someone he thought was going to become a good bloke friend several months ago, then their relationship wained. Despite a handful of decent nights out, feeling like they were establishing a bond, certain things irked, Barry supposed mutually. Enough for their manlove to both dwindle anyway.
This saddened Barry, but not that much, which then saddened him some more: that he could just drop people, suddenly become less fussed when he realised they were a certain way, nice enough but plastic, not altogether that bright.
His ability to let friendships wither and slide was relentless.
Saturday, 20 March 2010
in or out
His studs sank readily into the sodden turf and he surveyed the endless expanse of football pitches through thick hazy drizzle. Paul did a quick cost / benefit analysis, standing a few short paces onto the turf, several away from the clubhouse and dressing room his team-mates were still filtering out of. He wasn't feeling great and had been surprised his voice still sounded so droney and infected when he spoke for the first time in a while. It was shakeable though, surely the last dregs of illness, forgettable if he could play from the start. Then there was the vulnerable hip / lower back / hamstring / whatever the hell it was. A dull ache which twanged sharply on standing up after crouching or leaning down, just as it had when he’d plucked a pair of long socks from the kitbag. It could capitulate entirely or he could run through it, numb it by playing, forget it and, who knows, that might even right it. But he wouldn’t want to enter the match as a substitute then leave it two minutes later after his first full sprint or leap left him in a pathetic crumpled heap, and his team one man short.
The manager had pestered him to play during the week, text messaged and called. Paul had told him he wasn’t definitely sure: he was ill and still struggling with an injury but would let him know towards the end of the week. An abrasive and occasionally abrupt Northern Irishman, his manager had sniffed at him, said ok. Paul had messaged him to say ok, he was in, the previous day. Then he immediately received a one word reply: sub. Cunt, Paul thought.
The weather became more relevant. If it was temperate and sunny, he wouldn’t mind going sub. If it was grey and cold and raining, his appetite for standing on a touchline for 45 minutes of a Saturday afternoon wouldn’t be as great. And the reasons for him being sub were sound enough: his attendance had been poor over recent weeks, through the injury and illness. It was reasonable, it wasn’t like they were competing at any sort of high level. The team were crap regardless and remained so in his absence, losing each game by a margin as fat as their goalkeeper. It wasn’t like he was investing in a meaningful, dramatic and poetic competition here. They would in all probability lose horrendously and it wouldn’t be a fun experience. In the changing room one youngster told Paul he had been missed out on the pitch, and was angry when Paul revealed he was to be substitute. “That’s fucking bollocks.”
The opposition – vaguely familiar to Paul – were heading out to warm up over a full half hour before his team would mobilise. They exchanged half glances and nods with Paul as they passed in the tight corridor. Paul was always on time but didn’t know why. Nobody else was. His team-mates, from the manager down, were always predictably and inevitably slow to gather and change. There had been a handful there when he opened the changing room door, amiable greetings, handshakes and banter exchanged, kit forced into his arms. So he had dutifully changed. Numbers looked desperate for a period, then they had surged into the changing room with minutes left to the official kick off, which was only ever a rough guideline.
So, if we now have enough numbers..? Paul thought, standing there in limbo between clubhouse and pitch. He walked back to the building and met the Northern Irishman at the bottom of the steps.
“How many players you got now?” Paul asked.
“Thirteen,” he replied.
The obvious next question was whether that thirteen included Paul or not, but he didn’t ask it and the manager didn’t confirm.
“Ah, you’re comfortable then. Look, I think I’ll do one then," Paul said, meaning he'd go. "I don’t much fancy standing around in this,” he added, gesturing the dank grey weather by way of explanation.
“Well it’s only 45 minutes then I’ll stand around in it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not feeling so great anyway so…”
There was a small pause as they looked to one another for a reaction or decision, players from other teams walked around them, heading to the pitches. Paul knew it was a mutiny of a sort, but he wasn’t throwing a tantrum about it. Just changing his mind.
“Look, good luck yeah?” Paul said, and headed back inside to change out of his kit.
Other teams were marching from the building towards the park as he left, the blustery drizzle still falling and sweeping sideways. It added to a peculiar sense of finality. The next scheduled game was somehow the last in the season, despite the many January and February postponements, underlining the relatively small size of the league. Most of its teams were far better than Paul’s and their final game was a double header: two matches of an hour each, both of which they would almost certainly lose heavily. He'd give it a miss. That match a month earlier could have been his last for the club, especially considering he was still toying with the idea of leaving the city.
The manager had pestered him to play during the week, text messaged and called. Paul had told him he wasn’t definitely sure: he was ill and still struggling with an injury but would let him know towards the end of the week. An abrasive and occasionally abrupt Northern Irishman, his manager had sniffed at him, said ok. Paul had messaged him to say ok, he was in, the previous day. Then he immediately received a one word reply: sub. Cunt, Paul thought.
The weather became more relevant. If it was temperate and sunny, he wouldn’t mind going sub. If it was grey and cold and raining, his appetite for standing on a touchline for 45 minutes of a Saturday afternoon wouldn’t be as great. And the reasons for him being sub were sound enough: his attendance had been poor over recent weeks, through the injury and illness. It was reasonable, it wasn’t like they were competing at any sort of high level. The team were crap regardless and remained so in his absence, losing each game by a margin as fat as their goalkeeper. It wasn’t like he was investing in a meaningful, dramatic and poetic competition here. They would in all probability lose horrendously and it wouldn’t be a fun experience. In the changing room one youngster told Paul he had been missed out on the pitch, and was angry when Paul revealed he was to be substitute. “That’s fucking bollocks.”
The opposition – vaguely familiar to Paul – were heading out to warm up over a full half hour before his team would mobilise. They exchanged half glances and nods with Paul as they passed in the tight corridor. Paul was always on time but didn’t know why. Nobody else was. His team-mates, from the manager down, were always predictably and inevitably slow to gather and change. There had been a handful there when he opened the changing room door, amiable greetings, handshakes and banter exchanged, kit forced into his arms. So he had dutifully changed. Numbers looked desperate for a period, then they had surged into the changing room with minutes left to the official kick off, which was only ever a rough guideline.
So, if we now have enough numbers..? Paul thought, standing there in limbo between clubhouse and pitch. He walked back to the building and met the Northern Irishman at the bottom of the steps.
“How many players you got now?” Paul asked.
“Thirteen,” he replied.
The obvious next question was whether that thirteen included Paul or not, but he didn’t ask it and the manager didn’t confirm.
“Ah, you’re comfortable then. Look, I think I’ll do one then," Paul said, meaning he'd go. "I don’t much fancy standing around in this,” he added, gesturing the dank grey weather by way of explanation.
“Well it’s only 45 minutes then I’ll stand around in it.”
“Yeah, but I’m not feeling so great anyway so…”
There was a small pause as they looked to one another for a reaction or decision, players from other teams walked around them, heading to the pitches. Paul knew it was a mutiny of a sort, but he wasn’t throwing a tantrum about it. Just changing his mind.
“Look, good luck yeah?” Paul said, and headed back inside to change out of his kit.
Other teams were marching from the building towards the park as he left, the blustery drizzle still falling and sweeping sideways. It added to a peculiar sense of finality. The next scheduled game was somehow the last in the season, despite the many January and February postponements, underlining the relatively small size of the league. Most of its teams were far better than Paul’s and their final game was a double header: two matches of an hour each, both of which they would almost certainly lose heavily. He'd give it a miss. That match a month earlier could have been his last for the club, especially considering he was still toying with the idea of leaving the city.
Tuesday, 2 March 2010
brian
Brian had prepared himself, had expected it, but it still came as a suckerpunch as she refuted all his suspicions within an email, raised hope, then landed the ‘however.. friends’ blah in the final paragraph.
He had realised the obvious lack of chemistry too, of course. Much as he tried to generate it, flirting doesn’t come naturally to Brian – being the victim does. Being claimed by ropey tarts, not that that happens too much these days. He understood that they were off kilter on a number of things, but on the same wavelength with a small number too. She was more attractive than he’d remembered – had made a real effort, embarrassingly more than he. On top of this, she was reasonably smart, demographically and culturally similar (white middle class English), not obviously insane: which all in all amounted to the best opportunity in some time.
They had missed and jarred in a few places throughout the course of the evening, she didn’t share his above average - ok, borderline fanatical - commitment to interests: football, film, music. Brian internally groaned inside when she gave that empty, “oh, a bit of everything really” answer, in response to “what sort of music are you into then?” That answer means you’re not really into anything. He had sipped his drink politely and changed the subject.
Brian’s willingness to compromise unproudly grows with each year. He no longer expects instant chemistry and fireworks, and if this were to ever occur, he would instinctively doubt the other. He’s happy to be preyed upon by those who’ve been around the block a few times and see him as easy vulnerable meat, but if he were to be subjected to serious interest by someone who was smart and attractive, who he undeniably connected with and strongly liked from the outset: that would ring all manner of frightening alarm bells. He simply doesn’t invest in the myth anymore, not for him. Not after the things he'd seen. Nobody could connect with him like that.
No, anything would have to be worked at, persuaded, coaxed along, requiring of effort; all of which he was prepared to do in order to not be a pathetically lonely idiot forever, to not grow more bitter, angry and generally miserable than he is already. It would be fine, you just had to be methodical about these things, he reasoned to himself. No point getting upset about it, not yet anyway.
Brian works alone, lives alone and as a largely sour bastard, has few friends. If he lived anywhere less easy to be anonymous than London, he imagines he’d be suspected of things, a source of gossip for elderly villagers perhaps. The truth is that he’s not even that interesting.
He half watches a television news report in his immediate, mopey, blew-it-again rejected funk. Something to do with the serial killer, Peter Sutcliffe and all the women he’d killed. Always an option, Brian idly supposes, beginning to perversely empathise. Not that he’d have the bottle to do that again.
He had realised the obvious lack of chemistry too, of course. Much as he tried to generate it, flirting doesn’t come naturally to Brian – being the victim does. Being claimed by ropey tarts, not that that happens too much these days. He understood that they were off kilter on a number of things, but on the same wavelength with a small number too. She was more attractive than he’d remembered – had made a real effort, embarrassingly more than he. On top of this, she was reasonably smart, demographically and culturally similar (white middle class English), not obviously insane: which all in all amounted to the best opportunity in some time.
They had missed and jarred in a few places throughout the course of the evening, she didn’t share his above average - ok, borderline fanatical - commitment to interests: football, film, music. Brian internally groaned inside when she gave that empty, “oh, a bit of everything really” answer, in response to “what sort of music are you into then?” That answer means you’re not really into anything. He had sipped his drink politely and changed the subject.
Brian’s willingness to compromise unproudly grows with each year. He no longer expects instant chemistry and fireworks, and if this were to ever occur, he would instinctively doubt the other. He’s happy to be preyed upon by those who’ve been around the block a few times and see him as easy vulnerable meat, but if he were to be subjected to serious interest by someone who was smart and attractive, who he undeniably connected with and strongly liked from the outset: that would ring all manner of frightening alarm bells. He simply doesn’t invest in the myth anymore, not for him. Not after the things he'd seen. Nobody could connect with him like that.
No, anything would have to be worked at, persuaded, coaxed along, requiring of effort; all of which he was prepared to do in order to not be a pathetically lonely idiot forever, to not grow more bitter, angry and generally miserable than he is already. It would be fine, you just had to be methodical about these things, he reasoned to himself. No point getting upset about it, not yet anyway.
Brian works alone, lives alone and as a largely sour bastard, has few friends. If he lived anywhere less easy to be anonymous than London, he imagines he’d be suspected of things, a source of gossip for elderly villagers perhaps. The truth is that he’s not even that interesting.
He half watches a television news report in his immediate, mopey, blew-it-again rejected funk. Something to do with the serial killer, Peter Sutcliffe and all the women he’d killed. Always an option, Brian idly supposes, beginning to perversely empathise. Not that he’d have the bottle to do that again.
Monday, 1 March 2010
spat out
“Well, I try not to be myself, as much as possible,” I finally relented and explained to my brother in the pub. “You know, feigning like I’m an upbeat, positive sort of character. Sometimes they buy it. And I do too.”
He was giggling, we were onto our second large glass of tasty but extremely expensive Shiraz. I was disgusted at the price of the round, no wonder I never usually drink it in pubs.
Pressed by the craving to physically voice the garbage that populates this silly identity, the urge to speak it to somebody I know in real life, I eventually caved in.
I explained my misgivings to him, why I didn’t speak about it, and he laughed, before acting exactly as I knew he would. That faux patronising, “aww, but that’s so sweet, she sounds so eligible”. I knew a reasonably adult, man-to-man conversation with him would be out of the question. He would giggle, make fun and patronise Even so, it still felt good to speak it, and out it tumbled with amusing punctuations, humour, genuine laughter on both sides. It made it less serious somehow, not so important really – despite beating myself up over it most of the weekend, healthily removing, explaining my accidental, gauche inclinations like this.
“So, all I’d need to do would be log into your laptop, find this Twitter account and blog? Mum would go mental.” He always worries about what Mum would think, first and foremost. It’s quite tiring. Yes, my shrug said. And I pretended not to be terrified of the prospect.
“You know, basically I’m still a twat given to screwing up any potential opportunity in stupidly clumsy manner,” I concluded.
Hence swashbuckled.
He was giggling, we were onto our second large glass of tasty but extremely expensive Shiraz. I was disgusted at the price of the round, no wonder I never usually drink it in pubs.
Pressed by the craving to physically voice the garbage that populates this silly identity, the urge to speak it to somebody I know in real life, I eventually caved in.
I explained my misgivings to him, why I didn’t speak about it, and he laughed, before acting exactly as I knew he would. That faux patronising, “aww, but that’s so sweet, she sounds so eligible”. I knew a reasonably adult, man-to-man conversation with him would be out of the question. He would giggle, make fun and patronise Even so, it still felt good to speak it, and out it tumbled with amusing punctuations, humour, genuine laughter on both sides. It made it less serious somehow, not so important really – despite beating myself up over it most of the weekend, healthily removing, explaining my accidental, gauche inclinations like this.
“So, all I’d need to do would be log into your laptop, find this Twitter account and blog? Mum would go mental.” He always worries about what Mum would think, first and foremost. It’s quite tiring. Yes, my shrug said. And I pretended not to be terrified of the prospect.
“You know, basically I’m still a twat given to screwing up any potential opportunity in stupidly clumsy manner,” I concluded.
Hence swashbuckled.
Tuesday, 23 February 2010
swaying
Barry could never empathise with women who were openly attracted to bastards, bad men, wrong-uns. The closest he could come was this: being drawn back into affiliation with a charismatic businessman he could never fully trust, but couldn’t help investing in. Like the temptation of that repeated “last” drink. Go on then, just one more..
Hugh had won him over from the off, in that Starbucks four years ago. That dynamic, infectious antipodean enthusiasm, his diminutive fuck-em all stature and ballsy wide-eyed belief. It led to a job at the small start-up company, but over time, Barry's attitude cooled and his patience thinned. Unpredictable hours kept by Hugh, together with his seemingly frivolous abdication of duty and care, albeit with that puppy-like abandon: it began to seriously grate. Back he’d skip into the office after a few weeks away, chest-pumpingly buoyant and doggedly determined. Hopeless disorganisation and flagrant number embroidery never helped his cause.
When the company was still failing to make any sort of profit eighteen months later, morale was low and dissent amongst the staff was rife, Barry got another job and moved to the city.
He kept in touch with a good handful of colleagues from those days, the majority of whom (actually.. perhaps all?) had fallen out with the boss, parted on fractious, uncomfortable terms. Disagreements and disputes with staff were common, he was unafraid to argue, go to courts and tribunals. It happened so many times you thought it must be him, he must be a duplicitous arse. Barry certainly never trusted him after a while: the false promises, the hyped hope, expectation of big things and conspicuous prolonged absences. Was he a confidence trickster, a fraud, a phoney? Barry knew if he conferred with other former colleagues, decent enough folk, they would each say yes: do not touch him with a bargepole.
Meeting him again a few years later, Hugh didn’t appear to have aged at all, his confidence and belief was entirely unbowed. Perhaps a touch more humility and openness to listen, or was Barry inventing that himself because he wanted to believe it? He sat and listened as his old boss briefed the small audience: the web designer, Barry and the latest in a line of his successors in the role, a man Barry was also unsure about. He was stylish, well groomed and confident; a tonal, penetrating northern accent of the kind which naturally exudes authority.
Afterwards they went for sushi, just Barry and Hugh, and spoke socially about family and off-record about Hugh’s business.
Big plans, big names. This year, this time...
Hugh radiated a desperate craving for a business jackpot like never before. Many years of hard labour, a big churn of staff in what had never been a large company, many personal disputes: all that must cause you to look inward. He confessed to the self doubt, when pressed. Even so, Barry had to admire the man’s resilience, his fearlessness and perseverance at a difficult business route. He tried to stop himself, remind himself about everything he knew about the man, everything his former colleagues would say. He knew Hugh was quite full of shit about a lot of things: King of The Blag. Maybe this time, though?
Barry smiled and went with his gut feeling. From a safe distance, he would join hands again.
Hugh had won him over from the off, in that Starbucks four years ago. That dynamic, infectious antipodean enthusiasm, his diminutive fuck-em all stature and ballsy wide-eyed belief. It led to a job at the small start-up company, but over time, Barry's attitude cooled and his patience thinned. Unpredictable hours kept by Hugh, together with his seemingly frivolous abdication of duty and care, albeit with that puppy-like abandon: it began to seriously grate. Back he’d skip into the office after a few weeks away, chest-pumpingly buoyant and doggedly determined. Hopeless disorganisation and flagrant number embroidery never helped his cause.
When the company was still failing to make any sort of profit eighteen months later, morale was low and dissent amongst the staff was rife, Barry got another job and moved to the city.
He kept in touch with a good handful of colleagues from those days, the majority of whom (actually.. perhaps all?) had fallen out with the boss, parted on fractious, uncomfortable terms. Disagreements and disputes with staff were common, he was unafraid to argue, go to courts and tribunals. It happened so many times you thought it must be him, he must be a duplicitous arse. Barry certainly never trusted him after a while: the false promises, the hyped hope, expectation of big things and conspicuous prolonged absences. Was he a confidence trickster, a fraud, a phoney? Barry knew if he conferred with other former colleagues, decent enough folk, they would each say yes: do not touch him with a bargepole.
Meeting him again a few years later, Hugh didn’t appear to have aged at all, his confidence and belief was entirely unbowed. Perhaps a touch more humility and openness to listen, or was Barry inventing that himself because he wanted to believe it? He sat and listened as his old boss briefed the small audience: the web designer, Barry and the latest in a line of his successors in the role, a man Barry was also unsure about. He was stylish, well groomed and confident; a tonal, penetrating northern accent of the kind which naturally exudes authority.
Afterwards they went for sushi, just Barry and Hugh, and spoke socially about family and off-record about Hugh’s business.
Big plans, big names. This year, this time...
Hugh radiated a desperate craving for a business jackpot like never before. Many years of hard labour, a big churn of staff in what had never been a large company, many personal disputes: all that must cause you to look inward. He confessed to the self doubt, when pressed. Even so, Barry had to admire the man’s resilience, his fearlessness and perseverance at a difficult business route. He tried to stop himself, remind himself about everything he knew about the man, everything his former colleagues would say. He knew Hugh was quite full of shit about a lot of things: King of The Blag. Maybe this time, though?
Barry smiled and went with his gut feeling. From a safe distance, he would join hands again.
Thursday, 18 February 2010
eeny meeny miny mo
In the days that followed, Barry couldn’t help but feel slightly duplicitous. Not that he did anything or even saw any of them again. Just thinking about each of them in turn was enough. It had turned out that perhaps he hadn’t entirely and cataclysmically blown his chances in one single moment, as he had convinced himself at the time. During a slowly sobering Sunday afternoon, he asked himself: what if, somehow, she hadn’t seen me with her? I still have her details anyway, isn’t it worth trying?
And so he tried, receiving reasonable text message replies from the pocket-sized American who had effortlessly won his highest affection. Attempts at fixing coffee didn’t go smoothly, but she didn’t sound as if she was being polite merely for the sake of it. So he remained unbowed and they agreed to try and arrange something soon.
It wasn’t just her though. That same Sunday afternoon he received a reply from the lady who had told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave the venue. She sounded forgiving, apologetic of her own drunkenness, claimed not to remember. Barry entertained thoughts of her, ever mindful of her age. However much he tried not to think about it, he couldn’t avoid thinking that the further up the agestream you look, the louder physical clocks tick. Whereas further downstream, it’s quieter, less implicitly threatening. He didn’t continue the dialogue with her, though it was she who had come closest, who had touched, and who had once invaded his dreams when none other had.
A dream appearance hadn't even been bestowed upon the one main possible from the previous Tuesday's event. She was of course ignorant of his Saturday evening adventure with her neighbour from the event. (Thankfully, they had not been acquainted). He was still exchanging messages with her, discussing meeting up again. She sounded very young in comparison, because she was young in comparison: a touch ditzy and forgetful of practically everything in their one conversation. He would certainly be willing to give her another chance all the same, he thought, giggling at his magnanimity.
But he did feel conflicted and guilty, entertaining the ongoing notions of each of the three, trying to ignore that he had involuntarily ranked them in his head, despite scantly knowing any of them. 1. the ornamental American, 2. the younger possible ditz from the event, 3. the older ballsy lady – who he hadn’t altogether ruled out pursuing again at a later point, if 1 and 2 both fell bay the wayside. But not now. Not yet. Not while there was still hope elsewhere.. How romantic of him. She could even already have children, of course, he pondered. There was something a little fragile beneath the bold, strident exterior. It was an absurd situation, knowing practically nothing about each of them, being swung so readily by what they looked like. They could each be quite mental.
He hadn't told anyone he knew about all of this, and felt momentary tugs to verbally unload. Let it all come pouring out in one long torrent. With a friend / colleague, but around his girlfriend. In a pub with his brother during a pause in conversation. Never quite comfortable enough speaking to his brother about such things. And it needed a good five to ten minutes of energetic monologue; he was never sure if he could retain anyone's attention speaking for that long. He'd do it given booze and the right scenario, but it didn't seem to want to present itself. And there was the other reason that it could all easily come to nought in the long run. Telling people where he was up to would mean having to give updates and then answer questions when all hope was extinguished. That sad shake of the head and puffed cheeks, together with a brave, rueful, pathetic 'tried again, failed again' smile which would make people sympathise and pity, and would make him want to headbutt them and run away.
Still he felt pressed to pursue, to not give up hope just yet, to try and secure another meeting or two and see if their interest would wane. Or if his would. It was a tricky and tediously long game; you gave line, then reeled in, gave line then reeled in, keen to appear neither too desperate, nor too casual. He tried hard to negate his natural pessimism, tried not to envisage a month hence, when it would all have stalled and spluttered out to a disappointing nothing once again. He would keep trying.
And so he tried, receiving reasonable text message replies from the pocket-sized American who had effortlessly won his highest affection. Attempts at fixing coffee didn’t go smoothly, but she didn’t sound as if she was being polite merely for the sake of it. So he remained unbowed and they agreed to try and arrange something soon.
It wasn’t just her though. That same Sunday afternoon he received a reply from the lady who had told him, in no uncertain terms, to leave the venue. She sounded forgiving, apologetic of her own drunkenness, claimed not to remember. Barry entertained thoughts of her, ever mindful of her age. However much he tried not to think about it, he couldn’t avoid thinking that the further up the agestream you look, the louder physical clocks tick. Whereas further downstream, it’s quieter, less implicitly threatening. He didn’t continue the dialogue with her, though it was she who had come closest, who had touched, and who had once invaded his dreams when none other had.
A dream appearance hadn't even been bestowed upon the one main possible from the previous Tuesday's event. She was of course ignorant of his Saturday evening adventure with her neighbour from the event. (Thankfully, they had not been acquainted). He was still exchanging messages with her, discussing meeting up again. She sounded very young in comparison, because she was young in comparison: a touch ditzy and forgetful of practically everything in their one conversation. He would certainly be willing to give her another chance all the same, he thought, giggling at his magnanimity.
But he did feel conflicted and guilty, entertaining the ongoing notions of each of the three, trying to ignore that he had involuntarily ranked them in his head, despite scantly knowing any of them. 1. the ornamental American, 2. the younger possible ditz from the event, 3. the older ballsy lady – who he hadn’t altogether ruled out pursuing again at a later point, if 1 and 2 both fell bay the wayside. But not now. Not yet. Not while there was still hope elsewhere.. How romantic of him. She could even already have children, of course, he pondered. There was something a little fragile beneath the bold, strident exterior. It was an absurd situation, knowing practically nothing about each of them, being swung so readily by what they looked like. They could each be quite mental.
He hadn't told anyone he knew about all of this, and felt momentary tugs to verbally unload. Let it all come pouring out in one long torrent. With a friend / colleague, but around his girlfriend. In a pub with his brother during a pause in conversation. Never quite comfortable enough speaking to his brother about such things. And it needed a good five to ten minutes of energetic monologue; he was never sure if he could retain anyone's attention speaking for that long. He'd do it given booze and the right scenario, but it didn't seem to want to present itself. And there was the other reason that it could all easily come to nought in the long run. Telling people where he was up to would mean having to give updates and then answer questions when all hope was extinguished. That sad shake of the head and puffed cheeks, together with a brave, rueful, pathetic 'tried again, failed again' smile which would make people sympathise and pity, and would make him want to headbutt them and run away.
Still he felt pressed to pursue, to not give up hope just yet, to try and secure another meeting or two and see if their interest would wane. Or if his would. It was a tricky and tediously long game; you gave line, then reeled in, gave line then reeled in, keen to appear neither too desperate, nor too casual. He tried hard to negate his natural pessimism, tried not to envisage a month hence, when it would all have stalled and spluttered out to a disappointing nothing once again. He would keep trying.
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