Charity Shop

As has previously been mentioned, my Saturday morning is filled at an unreasonably early hour with the attendance of Favourite Daughter’s ballet class and the necessary trawl, at FD’s insistance, around town that takes place afterward.

Which includes the Charity Shop. And the Woman In The Charity Shop.

Each Saturday she looks at her watch. And thinks to herself ‘Oooh that bleary-eyed man with the really beautiful little girl (she’s not his in my opinion) will be in soon. It’s nearly quarter past twelve.’

She fusses with her hair a bit.

‘I’ve got this wonderful connection with that young lady,’ she thinks to herself. ‘Our little game when I pretend to get her name wrong every time really delights her. Every week. For the last six months. Oh she loves the game, and, by extension, me. And I’m sure her Dad feels it to be the highlight of his day. Although he could have a shave. And comb his hair. And do a little more than grunt at me. Anyway. They’ll be here in a minute. What shall I call her today? She’s so funny though. Pretends not to be interested in my joke. Silly girl. I’m so good with kids me.’

Anyway.

Favourite Daughter: Daddy! Charity Shop!

Me: Christ. Must we?

FD: Daddy!

Me: O.K.

My teeth are already clenched in anticipation of the forthcoming Theatre of Non-Cross-Generational Communication between Favourite Daughter and Mental Charity Shop Woman. I mean. It’s been close to a fucking year now.

If either I or FD were to find that a shop-keeper’s pretend inability to remember a name were comedy gold, we would have perhaps laughed by now. Once. For the look of it.

We never have.

Mental Charity Shop Woman usually spends at least ten minutes following FD around chanting a number of intentionally inaccurate names as FD absent-mindedly chants ‘no’. And very obviously wishing she would Go Away.

It’s a difficult thing really. She (Mental Charity Shop Woman) is obviously doing her best to be nice. And has taken an obvious shine to FD. Which she cannot be blamed for in my eyes. She is also at the cutting edge of customer service. Remembers her customers and that.

Christ I wish she would die.

So. Anyway. We walk in.

I am bracing myself for the charade of politeness in which she pretends to forget my daughter’s name and neither me nor my daughter think anything of it and pretend to correct her for the EIGHT BILLIONTH TIME.

Mental Charity Woman: Aaah. It’s Annabel isn’t it? [FD’s name is not Annabel]

FD: [Very VERY loud] Gaaah! [Looks with total contempt at MCW and then me]. Not this AGAIN?! [Very VERY loud]

And then storms around for a bit, ignoring any retard adults.

I clench my teeth. Roll my eyes apologetically at MCW.

MCW is visibly taken-aback.

I wait until we are outside before I smother her with kisses.

She tells me to get off.

Work.

It is morning. I am at a desk. Colleague Who Ressembles a Hobgoblin But Is Very Pleasant arrives, looking a bit flustered.

CWRAHBIVP: Morning Tired.

Me: Yeah.

CWRAHBIVP: Do anything nice last night?

Me: No.

CWRAHBIVP: By, I was in a rush this morning like. Nearly didn't have time to straighten my hair.

Silence.

After a moment or two his head sinks and he stares with desolation at his desk-tidy. He knows what he has just done.

More silence.

Me: [Quitely] You're a good man and I like you. I am going to just pretend this didn't happen.

He nods moresely.

Me: But if I ever hear that sort of fuckery again you and I are going to have a little chat, like men, in the carpark. Are we understood?

He nods silently. His eyes are glistening.

Colleague Who Is Also Very Nice Despite Being American But She Has Apologised So That Is O.K. has overheard the exchange, and comes over.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: I just want to say, I think you're totally right Tired. [She is very good like this]. You guys round here do too much grooming and it just isn't right.

I nod sagely at this validation of my extreme wisdom.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: I mean, look at you Tired, right?

I do look good, I think to myself. She's right. I do like her.

CWIAVNDBABSHASTIOK: You're like so obviously not someone who spends a lot of time on their appearance.

Silence.

Me: Fuck off.

It is seven minutes past nine.

Trapped.

Three-and-a-half months ago.

Upon realising that I have been twatting about on the Inter-Course until the early hours of the morning yet again, I decide it may be wise to turn the computer off and retire to bed.

As usual, I am not in the slightest bit sleepy, but have made some rather rash promises regarding by activities for the coming day. I should at least try and sleep.

Having had a shower some time previously, I am wearing only a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. No pants. The t-shirt is fine but the jeans are not fitting night attire. I cast about for something more suited to the lower regions.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not some Victorian sort who believes that sleeping with one’s undercarriage exposed is some form of degeneracy.

But the feeling when a small child creeps into the bed at God knows what hour and Little Dad is flopping about unrestrained is not one of well-being.

Ah. Upon the clothes-horse that does not in the slightest resemble a horse is a pair of my boxer shorts. Ideal.

I whip my jeans off, pausing only to be amused by the fact that I have no trousers on in the sitting-room before a Christmas tree, and begin pulling on my boxer shorts.

This proves problematic. They seem unusually tight and do not progress much higher than halfway up my calves.

I am now hopping about. With no trousers on. In front of a Christmas tree. There is some flapping.

Taking a closer look at my boxer shorts, I have something of a surprise.

They are not, in fact, boxer shorts. Nor or they mine.

I wonder how my nineteen-month-old Favourite Son would feel knowing that at two o’clock in the morning his half-naked Father could be found hopping around in front of a Christmas tree desperately trying to pull on a pair of Favourite Son’s trousers.

Personally, I felt rather uneasy.

I put my jeans back on. I am trapped. I do not know where alternative night-time attire would be located.

I cannot go to bed.

Service/Retail Grief.

‘I’m sorry,’ says the Unsympathetic Woman, ‘but we can’t do anything with that. It is far too dirty.’

I blink for a bit.

‘Pardon?’ I say.

‘Your coat. You’ll have to clean it before we can do anything with it.’

I am in a Dry-Cleaning Emporium. Brandishing an overcoat. My only overcoat. It is apparently offensive in that it is not in pristine condition.

‘I need to take my coat away. And then clean it myself. With my hands. And then bring it back. So that you can then clean it?’

‘I’m afraid so, yes. It is far too dirty for us to consider.’

‘Right.’

I then proceed to the You Can Purchase Anything Imaginable Emporium. I require a new keyboard for my computing machine so that people reading my emails do not suspect me of being a drunkard/imbecile when they see that every other letter of each word is missing.

In order to acquire this I have to leaf through a laminated catalogue until I see a picture of my desired item. I then have to write an arcane code onto something that resembles a betting slip.

Taking the betting slip to a troglodyte behind a small computing machine of her own results in my paying for the item. After queuing for a bit. Despite never having even seen it.

The troglodyte then refuses to surrender my coveted purchase.

It seems I have to join another queue. And wait to receive the item I have just paid for. Strictly speaking my keyboard has been stolen before I have even touched it. After suffering wipe-clean magazines and arcane rituals involving betting slips.

Three people before me are informed, before their stolen goods are presented to them, that the goods themselves are not exactly as they would have imagined. In that they are different items altogether. And is that O.K?

When I reach the desk of Kidnapped Goods That Rightly Belong To Someone Who Paid For Them Fifteen Minutes Previously the following exchange takes place:

‘Seems like a bit of a lucky dip here.’ Say I.

’43?’ Says he.

It has been an unsatisfactory afternoon.

Go And Buy This Book.

I'm in it so it must be O.K.

www.shaggyblogstories.co.uk

Girls Are Scary

I head into my Local Shop, side-stepping the youths who darkly demand cigarettes and/or the purchase of Smirnoff Ice.

Having recently experienced an unpleasant episode involving a football, I now just want to purchase some cigarettes and return to the safety of my home.

Heading toward the counter, my heart sinks as I see an Elderly Person engaged in the purchase of every single lottery ticket available in the country. Perhaps the machine will run out of paper.

Also present are a group of schoolgirls, milling around being girly. I glance at them.

Shit. They are THAT age. Not women by any stretch of the imagination. Technically still girls, but girls who have realised they have some strange influence on adult men. That they can make them go red. And perspire. I’m not sure if they even now how or why.

I start to worry. Although by no means a matinee idol, I am not ugly. I am their ideal target. Thirties, not hideous. Christ.

It’s O.K. I think to myself. Just do not look at them.

I can already hear them whispering. Already. I know it’s about me. I start to feel quite warm.

God. They must be thirteen if that. Just don’t look at them. It’ll be O.K. It’ll be fine. Fuck me this hag is taking an aeon with her lottery tickets.

They start to giggle. The whispering continues. ‘He fancies you.’

Christ, I think. Just don’t look. Everything normal here.

My eyes do a spastic thing and, without warning, point themselves directly at the TITS of one of these barely pubescent girls.

Shit. SHIT.

They explode in a combination of laughter and whispers.

Fuck. FUCK.

I am now VERY hot. I really would like to be elsewhere, but would also quite like some cigarettes. Fuck me Miss Havisham is taking fucking forever with her cunting lottery tickets.

The laughter and whispering intensifies. Kinell, I think. I should tell them I’ve got a daughter. That’ll help.

Whilst thinking about my tormentors, my eyes unconsciously swivel toward them. And point directly at the ARSE of one of their number.

I’m dead in the water and all concerned know it. They have beaten me. Actually quite LOUD laughter and pointing of fingers ensues.

'He's got a hard-on!'

I have not.

Elderly Person completes her additional purchase of an entire roll of scratch cards and departs. I step to the counter.

Shop Assistant woman looks at me with distaste.

I decide that this will not do. I shall explain to her that this is just what girls of that age DO. That they have tricked and humiliated me because they have just discovered they CAN. Without fully realising why. Yes. I will do that.

Me: Um. Twenty Regal Filter please.

Shop Assistant: Uh-huh.

I make my purchase and head toward the door. My palms are wet. I stand in front of the glass door for a moment or two.

Nothing happens. I step back. Nothing happens.

Oh you twat. It was NEVER an automatic door.

More girlish laughter.

It is getting dark now. I head toward the door to open it manually but notice someone on the other side heading toward it at the same time. Being a gentleman I wait for this person to come in first.

And then realise that said person is merely my reflection in the glass that has, in the dark, become a mirror.

Considerably more girlish laughter.

I RUN home.

Comic Relief Is Shit.

But this might not be:

http://troubled-diva.com/labels/rednoseday.html

*SIGH* I'll be noshing-off real publishers next.

I swore to myself that I'd never get involved in this sort of hippy-internet-we're-all-mates nonsense. But it is for the starving. Or the spastics. Lesbians maybe. Mentals. Oh I don't know.

Anyway. Have a look. I suppose it's a jape, and anyone who doesn't want to see their stuff in REAL print is a liar.

More on the personal humiliation front soon.

Throw / Catch.

I am walking down my street. On my way to my Local Shop.

I don’t know what it is. I’ve never had much interest in the physical pursuits. I don’t know why. My Grandfather (don’t even get me started on that grand old bastard. There’s a permanent blog in it) continues to study and practice Art decades after he retired from teaching it. And has read Everthing. Maybe it is from him. Or maybe it is because I am not tall and built like a pencil.

Anyway.

I pass by the waist-high wall of the back-garden that belongs to one of our neighbours. In attendance are several children playing football and, at the bottom of the garden, several Dads observing. Adopting the classic stance. Legs wide, arms crossed aside from the right hand which clutches a can of Stella Artois.

The ball gets away from them. And sails over the wall. Toward me.

I start to panic. I may be required to Do Something.

In slow motion the ball heads toward me.

Assorted Children: Mate. MATE. Can you get our ball?

I reach out to catch it. It scrapes my hands and begins bouncing downhill.

I tried to catch it. Hence I am now committed. I go running after it. I catch it. And walk back to their garden.

I attempt to drop-kick the ball and miss. My foot flails in mid-air whilst the ball bounces away. Again. Once more I run and catch it.

Accepting my limitations, I now throw it over the wall. Well. I say over. It clips the top of the wall and bounces back toward me.

I duck so it does not smack me in the face.

And then go running after it. AGAIN.

I then HAND it to one of the children.

Child: [With tears in his eyes] Yeah. Thanks a lot.

Parent-type: [Desperately trying to breath normally and slightly doubled-up] Yeah. Cheers for that.

Me: Um. Yeah.

I proceed to the Local Shop.

Where things actually get worse.


To be continued.

Everyone Needs Good Neighbours.

She giggled in a girlish manner unbecoming of her age and physical repugnance.

It had not even been a very good joke, and to see someone in their early forties with sunbed-brown skin and a ‘wet-look’ black perm laughing like a twelve-year-old with a crush on her English teacher at one of your not-actually-funny jokes is not terribly pleasant.

But we’ll get back to this.

Our current house is not terribly unpleasant.

So far as I can see.

It has the correct number of walls and the roof has remained attached for two years. We have gas, electric and, briefly, telephone. It is a pleasant street, six-year old boys complain to me as I collect my daughter from school that the Fire Engines woke them up, we like our neighbours on our left and LOVE our empty-house-no-neighbour scenario on our right. This ticks all the boxes to my mind.

Tired Mam believes that it is akin to the Amytiville Horror. That is her concern.

Anyway.

It was not always thus. We had different left-hand neighbours once.

Oh dear God. Where do I start?

I am playing in the backyard (a proper northern-England terrace, mind. Built for miners. No luxuries like back gardens) with Favourite Son. He is only a few months old. He cannot even crawl.

A football comes sailing over the wall from said neighbours’ yard and narrowly misses FS’s skull. That does not even have bone at the top of it.

I furiously yank open gate to back street and address next-door kids:

Me: Look [Brandish child] He doesn’t even have bone at the top of his head. I don’t mind you having a kick-about. Just do it a bit further down the street. He is out here a lot.

Two months after this conversation. I have eleven confiscated footballs in my outhouse. Eleven. I had tried being reasonable. I wonder. As a mother (a single mother, so money must have been an issue), when you bought the tenth football you must have been thinking about cost.

The joy of realising I am The Grumpy Guy On The Street Who Won’t Give Balls Back is tempered by the hours in which Neighbours Children are In Their House.

I know. I have two children under the age of five myself and they are bloody NOISY. Not like these fucked-up little cunts though. Jesus. I don’t know what the Nazis heard when they gassed all those kids, but it can’t have been as bad as this shit. For three solid fucking hours. Every night. I’ve never heard so much screaming and hammering on walls in my life.

It relents at about 10 o’clock. Ten. I know the age of these kids. Ten is too late. No wonder they’re hyper. Whatever.

This brief respite is then replaced by the soothing sounds of ‘Bat Out Of Hell’ at volume turned to ‘eleven’. Or the greatest hits of Olivia Newton John. I do not know which is worse.

After three occasions of knocking on neighbours door at eleven-thirty at night and explaining the non-sleeping situation of all in my household, I resort to merely banging upon the wall.

Not activity for a civilised man but having seen the less-than-pleasant face of Next Door Neighbour, I am not anxious to ever see it again.

They move out, and all is well. I have more footballs than I know what to do with and do not have to listen to anyone’s dreadful records. New neighbours are perfectly pleasant.

Anyway. Now.

I have some lime. But a sad lack of either vodka or indeed tonic.

The only off-licence now open is fifteen-minutes walk away. I hurry.

I get there in reasonable time.

Me: Smirnoff. 35cl. And some tonic water.

Woman: [I do not look at her] It’s two-for-one on tonic water.

Me: O.K. Lets go crazy.

She giggles. She is being coquettish, with her face like an unnaturally brown paving slab and her hair so tightly permed it resembles an unrealistically large number of pubes sprouting from her head.

She pretends not to remember that we were neighbours. She is doing a menial job.

I give her some money.

Whilst she simpers.

Outdone.

I fancy some cigarettes. I wander to the off-licence conveniently situated one-minute and thirty-seconds walk away from my front door.

It is shut. As I am informed by the very serious-looking Police Officer standing outside the door. He volunteers no further information.

I light my second-last cigarette and think for a bit.

Random Youth: How. Gie ayes one a theym.

I normally decline such requests, but as he is a ‘yoot’ and has probably been standing around outside this off-licence for the past twelve hours, he may be able to shed some light on this whole non-cigarette-purchasing nonsense. I give him a cigarette.

Me: What's going on.

RY: Hah ya not hurd? The choppers an that? [I had been irritated by a low-flying helicopter that was quite rudely brandishing a searchlight around the back of my street. I had yet to get around to composing a letter about it.] Thu’ve bin robbed. Shooters an at.

Me: Oh. Right.

I now have no cigarettes and am quite unhappy.

The next day.

I give the off-licence the benefit of my custom in order to purchase a newspaper.

Troll Woman: £1.40 hen.

Me: Working last night?

TW: Aye.

I expected more than this. I am slightly irritated. My recent kitchen fire had been the talk of the off-licence for five whole minutes, despite my being very stoical about the whole thing.

Me: Have they got them?

TW: Divn’t knaw.

Me: [Getting quite exasperated now. Christ. I thought I was deadpan.] I say ‘them’. How many was it?

TW: Just the one.

It is clear she is not going to elaborate. Bloody hell. At least I managed to get a matter-of-fact story out of it and put it on my shit blog. This woman is just not making the effort. I try and wheedle further information from her.

Me: Really?

TW: One’s enough.

Some time passes.

Me: Thanks then.

TW: Seeya hen.

I leave.

A man had pointed a GUN at her. She might have elaborated. I’ve got a BLOG to write for God's sake.

Is Shit the New Good?

I am In The Pub. Frankly, wishing I were elsewhere. My experience started thus:

Slothful Barman: [After chatting to his mates in the corner for a couple of minutes and then ambling in my direction like it was some sort of chore] Whatcha after?

What am I after? What is my desire? How about an afternoon in a locked Hilton room with all the members of Girls Aloud (except the ginger one) and a big pile of coke?

Or an assurance that my children will always see me as ‘Dad’ and never the hugely fallible ‘man’ I actually am? (Although I fear that ship has already sailed.)

Failing that how about a Travelodge with Holly Willoughby?

Failing all of that, how about a fucking drink?

I obtain my drink and find myself a quiet table. Somebody puts a song on the jukebox.

It’s quite good. Interesting guitar riff, not ripped-off from anyone. Lyrics concerning the essential emptiness of modern icons. And how they are merely useless tools of capitalilism. The essentially empty nature of advertising and commercialism.

Who is this radical band, you would think. The Manics? The Whoever Else Who Is A Bit Gobby?

Genesis. Phil Collins. Genesis.

I finish my drink and leave.

Later that evening I listen to the debut album of Del Amitri and am stunned by the level of insight that would not even see the light of day today. It is a Shit Record. But it is Very Good.

I physically prevent myself from listening to my old Lloyd Cole and the Commotions records. Because they are properly shit. But also very good compared to the output of, I don’t know, Pete Doh- no. Forget it. Too easy.

Later.

Tired Mam: Was he up for long last night?

It is a sensible question regarding the well-being of Favourite Son. Unfortunately, I have no idea what she is talking about. I decide to front it.

Me: Em. Not long.

TM: Oh good.

It seems that Favourite Son suffered some unrest during the night. And that I resolved it. Without fully Waking Up myself. Or remembering. Because I was sleeping.

Does this mean I am Shit? As a Father? Or so Good I can actually resolve things without even being fully awake?


And is Shit the new Good?

Signifier / Signified.

I stare at the sign distractedly, for a number of reasons.

TopShop have less chance of seeing it now that it has been blown over, I think to myself. That’s a small mercy. But it is still a terrible thing to exist.

I am on a suburban street, looking at the front garden of a house.

Although having nothing against these sort of less-than-ten-year-old houses, or indeed the streets that they are on, I find the huge ‘developments’ that contain them deeply alarming.

I get lost in them. Very easily. Everything looks the same and there are – intentionally, I think – no landmarks. You feel as though you may never leave.

Everybody drives the same car, all of which are parked on identical driveways. The cars may be very different for all I know, but they all look the same.

The front garden of this house is not obviously unremarkable or unwelcoming. No wall or fence around the front. An expanse of grass, with some inoffensive evergreen shrubbery. There is, in the centre, a small wooden placard with some text upon it staked into the lawn and that has been blown over in the recent gales. However, it is still readable. I stare at it. I start to think about the occupants of the house attached to this garden, and the general thinking thereof:

Mildred: Maurice?

Maurice: Oh God Mildred. It can’t be Saturday already. We did it last month surely?

Mildred: No no. Not that. I can see you’re busy with your Hornby train set so I shan’t trouble you for long…..I SAY! Is that a papier-mâché evocation of the Penines?

Maurice: [Smug] Mmmm.

Mildred: VERY good if I may say. Anyway. Our front garden.

Maurice: Hardly the Penines is it?

Mildred: Quite right. QUITE RIGHT. Oooh if you keep agreeing with me Saturday may come early.

Maurice: [Under his breath] Oh sweet Jesus no.

Mildred: Anyway. It just doesn’t seem very welcoming at the minute does it?

Maurice: What the hell? What is this nonsense now woman? And where is my dinner? ‘Welcoming’ for the love of our Lord Jesus Christ. What are you blathering about? It’s the front garden. Put a sign up or something.

Anyway.

I am staring at the little wooden sign that has been staked into the centre of the garden of this particular abode. Although it has blown over, the pedestrian can still read it. As I can.

I realise that although this is not America, and that this particular estate may not employ a private security firm that will shortly Taser me, it may be time to move on.

Whatever. The seasonal North Wind has made this scenario a very distant possibility:

Interior. Day. Corporate Headquarters of TopShop or any other manky High Street clothing emporium selling dreams of whoredom to twelve-year-olds. And that, oddly, are only actually frequented by slightly tense-looking women in their forties who can be seen asking after Size 12’s and getting laughed at.

Exec 1: We are running out of disgustingly suggestive slogans to put on pastel-pink size 8 crop-tops that are ‘aimed’ at women in their ‘twenties’ but that we cannot ‘prevent’ 11-year-old girls from buying.

Exec 2: Tell me about it. That one that was an anagram for ‘EASY’ took forever.

Exec 3: It’s a headache now. They’ve stopped selling. You know the problem? They’re not subtle enough. I mean. The last one said ‘I will merrily take it up the wrong’un for no babies’. That’s not even a play on words.

Exec 1: He’s right. These are size 8 for fucks sake. No ADULT is going to buy them, and no adult will buy them for their pubescent daughters – no matter how much they pester them – if they allude REALLY OBVIOUSLY to minge- or indeed bumhole-activity.

Exec 4: [He has remained silent until now. He knows he has the upper hand.] Yeah. Subtle. So that a kid would know it were filth, but it could easily not be, so that she could get ‘cross’ if some bloke took it the ‘wrong way’. And still get their mother to buy it them when Mam realises t’won’t fit’em emselves.

Exec 2: Alright Madchester. Affecting a Mancunian accent is totally 1998.

Exec 4: As is saying ‘totally’, Beverly Hills 90210.

Exec 2: Fuck you.

Exec 4: Naw man. Fuck YOU.

Exec 1: Fucks sake come on. I want to score some toot before the day is out. What is it big shot?

Exec 4: I saw it on way ‘ome. A sign in a front lawn that ‘ad almost blown down. The kiddy-fiddler-wannabee-victims will lap it up and their Mam’s will never get it.

[Everyone is holding their breath]

Exec 4: ‘Welcome To My Garden’

CEO walks in.

CEO: I’ve been listening. Exec 4, you are promoted. Your ideas of over-sexualising the barely adult will, if accepted by society in a relatively short period of time, help my upcoming court case – I can’t talk about it really. She looked at least 13. Here is a one hundred thousand dollar bonus.

Fade to black.

Day Four.

At this point the amateur insomniac has to bow out.

Four days. Oh yes I have slept. I shall tell you about this 'sleep'.

You taste metal in the back of your mouth. You start to sweat so badly you would think you were doing something fun. You have an awful dream about a bird.

Then one of your limbs twitches without your permission and wakes you. After less than an hour. And it’s nearly dead so you have to shake it with your other arm to get it to work again.

And then you can’t sleep.

And every part of you feels...just…not…right.

And your mouth feels funny. And your eyes feel like they belong to someone else.

And you just want to sleep. Because you are cross. And it has been three – or is it four (you can’t think properly when you are this tired) – nights now and you don’t want to make anyone unhappy so just some sleep will do but you can’t because there is always Noise and it’s no-ones fault but you just need some sleep.

Just some peace.

And you try and find a quite corner of the house during the day. And try and sleep.

But it is day. And the weekend. Children jump on you. You cannot be cross.

Adults need access to the bedroom you are in just as you are drifting, and if they don’t get it now they never will. There is no point in getting cross.

You give up, and resign yourself to the fact that not only do you have trouble formulating thoughts, but actual vocal expression is something of a chore. Whilst you ignore the weird things that flash in the corner of your eyes that are not actually there.

And try not to flinch when they reach for you. In my experience, they’ve got lots of legs but it doesn’t matter because as soon as you look at them they’re gone.

Ballet / Twat.

Saturday morning. An unreasonably early hour.

I am sitting in the draughty ante-room of a Church of England–owned Village Hall. From the main hall, behind closed doors, comes the sound of classical music and frantic foot-falls.

It is Favourite Daughter’s ballet class. I am surrounded by a dozen or so Mummies discussing the relative merits of various forms of child discipline. And the general usefulness –or otherwise- of Men.

I have opted-out of this debate, and immerse myself in my newspaper.

An opinion-piece suggests that a contestant on a recent reality show is in fact not racist, but is merely stupid. So that is O.K. then. The inference is that only university-educated middle-class wankers actually know how to be properly racist, and that anyone else who has a crack at it are not privileged enough to do it right. What with racism and stupidity being mutually exclusive and that.

Fucking hippies. With some irritation I cast my newspaper to one side and look about me.

I notice that there is another Man in the room, about my age. He does not look happy, and after a moment leaves the room to –I assume- get something from his car.

From the main hall I hear ‘Oooh-be-doo, I want to be like you-hoo-hoo’. For the two-dozenth time I try and recall a National Ballet production of the Jungle Book. I cannot. But tap my foot anyway.

The Man returns, brandishing a Man Bag.

Fucking hell, I think.

He unzips it and produces a laptop-computer. Oh. It wasn’t a Man Bag. It was a Laptop Bag. Is that better or worse?

Powering-on said laptop, he begins to earnestly tap away. Occasionally glancing around to make sure everyone can see that he owns an expensive computer, and is a person of such importance that he needs to use it now. There is a whole forty minutes until the end of his daughter’s ballet class. Valuable time. Time a gentleman of his stature cannot waste.

I try and ignore this Master of the – well, not Universe but perhaps Village Parish – but am consumed with curiosity. What with not being able to read the newspaper because it makes me cross and not being able to partake in Mummy conversation of this variety-

Random Mummy: ….And do you know, the odd occasion Brian DOES do the washing-up, he does it so badly I have to spend half-an-hour yelling at him afterwards pointing-out all the things he’s done wrong. I mean, I could do it MYSELF in that amount of time!

-for obvious reasons.

Perhaps he’s checking some important emails, I think to myself. Really time-sensitive ones. (Fucking hell. ‘Time Sensitive’. Even being near this man is turning me into a cunt.) I mean, really urgent ones.

I examine his laptop for evidence of one of those PCMCIA GPRS cards. Nothing. Upon reflection, I find it unlikely that this Village Hall is a Wi-Fi hotspot. They don’t have heating for goodness sake. Besides, the owners have a direct line to God. An internet-connection without-the-wires would surely be a secondary consideration.

Ruling-out any online activity, I can only assume that Master of the Village Parish is so dreadfully important that he is actually working on a Saturday and is preparing some sort of PowerPoint presentation for a meeting he has this afternoon.

Yes. That must be it. Blimey. And he finds the time to squeeze-in taking his daughter to her ballet class. What a gent.

I shift my chair a little, so as to better shower this man with my gaze of new-found admiration. From my new vantage point I can actually see the screen of his computer.



I should have known.

Solitaire.



Fuck me, I think. Do you know how much a pack of cards costs? Jesus, I knew I was going to have a bit of time on my hands so I bought a newspaper. It cost £1.40.



No-one gives a tepid shit about you or your fucking WANKY two-grand computer you hopeless hopeless FUCK. I myself possess a laptop-computer. And do you know what? I have never felt the need to use it in a public place. Do you know why? Because I am not a CUNT. If a person were to pull out their cock and begin vigorous rubbing their wilted miniscule genitalia they would be arrested before they had chance to lovelessly dribble their watery grey useless spunk down the front of their Next casual slacks. And yet TWATS like you get to walk free.

I rather miss Enchanted Dad. He was nowhere near as tiresome as this gentleman.

Work/Flu.

I am At Work. Some time ago.

I have The Flu.

The phone rings. I look about for a bit. No-one leaps to answer it. Bugger.

Me: Support.

Bonkers Woman: Windows is broken.

Me: [Pause]. How can I help?

BW: I’ve told you. It’s broken.

Me: I’m afraid I’ll need a little more than that. What EXACTLY has happened?

BW: Well it doesn’t work obviously. Why do you think I’m calling? Don’t you know? YOU put it on.

Me: Well, not me perso- [SIGH]. What is it you are trying to do?

BW: I have been writing a letter. I have printed it. And now I just want THIS to go away.

Me: You mean Word. You want to shut it down.

BW: Isn’t that what I just said? You must pay attention young man. How much do I pay you?

Me: Pay me? Nothi-[sigh]. Again. Tell me EXACTLY what is happening.

BW: Well. I go to close it. Click on the thing to close it. A box I don’t want comes up. I don’t want it so I click Cancel and around we go. This has taken half my day. It doesn’t work. This computer. With your Windows thing.

Me: [Long pause. I try and think about nice things. Like me not actually inventing Word and not being held personally responsible for its quirks.] You are trying to close a Word document?

BW: Well obviously. Good God young man, do you know what you’re doing?

Me: Mmmmm. When you click on the cross to close the application, do you then get a small window asking you if you want to save and giving you the options of ‘yes’, ‘no’ or ‘cancel’?

BW: Obviously. Can I speak to your supervisor?

Me: Mmmmmmmm. One moment. Do you keep clicking ‘cancel’?

BW: Well of course. WHAT ELSE WOULD I DO?

Me: Have you saved it?

MW: Do not take me for an idiot.

Me: THEN CLICK ‘No’.

Pause.

MW: Mmmm. It seems to have fixed itself. Goodbye.

The Flu is very pressing, and I make my excuses. I go to the Chemists.

Me: I have The Flu. I require your best medicine.

Fat Chemist Woman: You don’t have the flu.

Me: [Taken aback] I bloody do.

FCW: Do you have a fever?

Me: Well. I’m quite hot.

FCW: You’ve got a jumper on. No wonder.

Me: Look. I’m not well. And I’ve not had much sleep. I just want to get through the day. I need some medicine. What have you got for The Flu?

FCW: Paracetemol.

Me: Is that a joke?

FW: The joke is your pretend illness. You are just like my husband. You’re about as ill as I am.

Me: Look…

FCW: Do you want the pills or not?

I go back to my office.

With my pills.



She was fired a month later.

Thieving.

Firestarter.

I am at work.

Having a cigarette with a man I have known for one week. And have instantly liked. This is not an everyday experience for me.

Instantly Likeable Man examines his cigarette.

ILM: You know, you can accidentally start a fire without even thinking about it.

Me: Mmmm.

ILM: I mean. If I were to pop into the kitchen leaving a lit cigarette in the sitting-room, the house would instantly burst into flames.

Me: Mmmmm.

ILM: Now. On the other hand. If you want to intentionally start a fire …..

Me: Mmmmmm.

ILM: It takes bloody HOURS.

Me: Mmmmmm.

I Am Not The King Of Pop.

New Years Day.

I am a bit tired. During a New Years Eve spent babysitting in complete sobriety, I am struck with an attack of insomnia so acute that I have only had two hours sleep out of thirty-six waking hours and feel significantly worse than I would have had I been on the lash.

It is late morning. Favourite Son appears to be marginally more exhausted than I but has so far resisted any attempt to lull his 20-month old brain to sleep for his mid-day nap. He still requires this nap.

I recall his infant months, when I was a student-type and at home a lot. We would retire to bed at about eleven-ish and he would drink his bottle with head resting in the crook of my arm. I would feel his tiny heartbeat at the side of my chest slow, and listen to his breathing match mine as he fell asleep with his infant skin pressed against my own not-quite-so-infant flesh. I ‘occasionally’ nodded-off myself.

It was quite nice. And was ALWAYS successful.

I know, I think. We’ll give that a try now. He’s knackered and God knows we both need the sleep.

As I lay him – clad only in nappy – in the centre of the double bed, bottle in mouth, he looks delighted.

Favourite Son: [Of course this is all a guess, but I’m fairly sure I’m right] Come on. This is the fucking life. This has got to be ten times bigger than my bed. Here comes the duvet. Superb. Christ I can barely breath it’s so heavy. I am over the moon. I might actually sleep now.

I remove jeans and shirt and begin to clamper in bed next to him. He gives me a weird look I have never seen before.

FS: What the fu-

I slip my arm behind his neck and pull him close to me, pulling the duvet over both of us. His eyes simultaneously display confusion and panic.

FS: What sort of fuckery is this? Micheal twatting Jackson. I don’t cocking think so.

He does several 360 degree rolls, falls off the bed and crashes to the floor.

I peer down at him, reflexes numbed by lack of sleep.

He is lying on the floor, drinking his milk and staring at me fiercely.

FS: I would rather lie, without my pyjamas, on the floor, on top of a framed picture that for some reason is decorating the floor rather than the wall, and have my nap right here than get involved in any of your touchy-feely mullarky my good man. Gentlemen do not touch each other without their shirts on. They just don’t. For God’s sake man I’m not a child anymore. I’m nearly two now. I’m closing my eyes and when I open them I expect you to be gone.

I sheepishly scoop him up and put him in his own room. And then get dressed, resigning myself to the weird all-over-body-wobble of the proper non-sleeper.

Some time ago I mentioned the day I realised he had ceased being a baby and had become a little boy.

I hadn’t realised it was a little thirteen-year-old boy.

Hell's Kitchen

The funniest thing about the whole incident was the frying pan.

I walk into my local off-licence. The one conveniently located at the end of my street, one-minute and thirty-seconds walk away from my front door. I am feeling a bit twitchy.

Troll Woman behind the counter looks rather excited.

Me: [Gesturing at the shelves behind Troll Woman] Could I have that small bottle of bourbon please?

Troll Woman: Eee. Bit of excitement down your street. Someone telt us there’s Fire Engines and that.

Me: Yes. I know. Could I please have that small bottle of bourbon? Please.

TW: Du ya knaw whese hoose it was? The fire?

Me: Yes I do. Could I pretty please have that small bottle of bourbon?

TW: Aye. Whese then?

Me: What?

TW: Whese hoose is on fire?

Me: Mine.

TW: Eh?

Me: It’s out now. Could I please have that small bottle of bourbon? Please.

TW: Aye. You’re joking.

She notices the soot on my hands.

TW: [Wide-eyed] Everyone all reet? What aboot the bairns?

Me: Didn’t even wake. Could I please have that small bottle of bourbon?

TW: Aye. What happened?

Me: Look, could I just pleas- [sigh] I accidentally set the kitchen alight.

TW: [Suddenly strangely maternal] Ye daft bugga. [With complete lack of sympathy] Good start to the New Year. Bit of excitement for yu thun?

Me: Yes well. There was nothing on television. Look. Could I please just have that small bottle of bourbon?

TW: Aye.

One-minute and thirty-seconds later I return to my home. I notice that although the firemen had left big boot-prints on the steps up to my front door, they had had the decency to wipe them on the way in and had not tracked any dirt into the front room.

There may have been lives at stake, but good manners cost nothing.

I glance at the new smoke alarm that the fire crew fitted whilst they were here and then pour myself a large drink. I pace about in a distracted manner for a while.

After a minute or two I brace myself. I walk back into the kitchen and survey the damage. It is then that I notice the frying pan.

Clean on the draining board.

After regarding the flames shooting up the wall, after giving instructions for the emergency services to be called, after turning the electric cooker off at the power point on the wall so the situation would not worsen, after sealing the door of the kitchen with me inside so the flames would not reach the rest of my house and my sleeping children, after – stupidly - tackling the fire myself and briefly making it worse, I did this:

Amid thick black smoke and the still-glowing embers of a potentially catastrophic kitchen-fire, I calmly washed a dirty frying pan that was languishing next to the sink without even realising I was doing it. So that the soon-to-arrive fire crew would not think we were slobs.

I put the pan back in the cupboard.

I look again at the smoke damage. Tired Mam joins me. She looks around.

Tired Mam: I’d only just cleaned-up in here.

Not Dead, Just Sleeping.

Back some time in the immediate future.

Or not so immediate.

Guest Post.

I shan’t give my name for fear of further contact with Mad People. But I am female, an adult scholar and my parents are third-generation Korean-English. Imbeciles refer to me as Oriental.

So I’m at my university. Heading toward the canteen (only twats call it a refectory). And I see this guy who looks just like someone on one of the modules of my degree that I myself have not chosen. But I say ‘hi’ anyway. And immediately realise it isn’t him at all.

An everyday mistake.

But he greets me with such enthusiasm I begin to wonder if I do know him. You know. Have seen him in hallways and libraries and that. So I make the effort for a bit.

Shit. No. I really don’t know him at all. Christ. He is obviously mental. And we have now been talking for some time. He might think that I am his ‘mate’. I decide upon a test, just to be sure.

I mean. Security is a bit lax on campus. You have to be careful.

We (all students) have recently been offered copies of selected Microsoft and all Macromedia products free-of-charge as a result of a sponsorship deal The School of Technology has struck. Macromedia Dreamweaver has proved a popular choice. Fellow students have done quite well out of Ebay.

I question him on the subject. If he were a genuine student with even basic social skills he would know about this.

He looks quite alarmed and fidgety.

Mental.

He goes away very quickly. Sadly into the canteen where I am due to meet some friends. Oh well. I give it a minute just to be safe.

And walk in after him. To see Mental Bloke doing an uninvited impression of The Fonz to a random person.

Before sitting down on his own and muttering to himself for a while.

Christ. You can’t move for them. Nutters I mean.

Anyway. Thanks for your time.

This Isn’t Happy Days...

At University. [This is me now.]

Only a couple of years ago.

I am outside the Refectory.

A woman approaches. And says Hello in a cheery manner. I instinctively reply in a similar fashion.

She is one of my tutors. An American Professor quite famous in her field. I rather like her, despite the fact that she has made it clear that she considers F.R. Leavis to be something of a radical and that his new-fangled ideas will never catch on.

The very fact that she is unaware that it is actually 2005 is one of her endearing qualities.

As she gets closer, I am about to launch into conversation.

And stop.

I am not wearing my spectacles today.

It is not her at all. In fact it is a person of Oriental origin. Not to be easily mistaken for a slightly dusty American WASP.

There results some slightly awkward conversation.

She has mistaken me for somebody else, I think. And is too embarrassed to say so. And is now pretending that everything is normal and is chatting away. Maybe she is also a bit Mental.

I remember that I had cheerily greeted her as if I knew her quite well. Even so.

Strange woman says:

‘Oh. Have you got your copy of Dreamweaver yet?’

Right. That’s it. She’s bonkers. I don’t even know what that means. Is it code for something? You are mad. Is it one of those graphic novels? Why even bring it up like it was normal? Go away. Christ. For a second I thought it was me who was mad.

I make a short goodbye to the Bonkers Woman and return to the warmth and sanity of the Refectory.

Lost in my own thoughts – most of them regarding my recent peculiar social exchange – I pass by someone else who seems to know me without my really noticing.

He utters some words of greeting. Being preoccupied, the ‘talking’ part of my brain does not function properly and I utter this sound:

‘E-eyyyyyyy!’

Just like The Fonz.

The guy looks a bit perplexed and keeps walking.

I sit down with my coffee and wonder why everyone is mad.