Ladies Man

I’m sorry that I haven’t written for so long. I guess I haven’t done anything stupid in a while. Not since seeing She’s the Man, sleeping with my ex-girlfriend or making excessive international calls on my mobile, all of which are detailed below and, incidentally, involve members of the opposite sex.

It was only a matter of time that one would come along; I would do something stupid and, if nothing else, get to share it on my blog. Luckily for me however, Suzie, the one that did come along, finds the stupid things that I do quite charming. (I’ll give her ‘til the end of this blog entry.)

“The female of the species,” so wrote Rudyard Kipling (and sang 90s band, Space), “is more deadly than the male.” And though they’ve not yet proven fatal (though I hope that’s how I’ll go), just being around them is something of a scarring experience for me. Quite literally.

I wrote in Your Hapless Hero of the nosebleed that ruined a barbeque and in Word of Mouth about the mouth sores that precede even the slightest chance of sex. I was suffering from neither come my date with Suzie when I stepped into the shower, and the elaborate routine that is my getting ready, to find I had no hot water. This is, to me, like having no water at all. How was I to double-shampoo, apply my leave-in conditioner, have a hot towel shave?

And while these are issues that concern the metrosexual male, plumbing is not. So I set about getting some help. And when it finally arrived, three days later, it was exactly as I imagined. The plumber’s name was Kev, and he said things like, “ooh, this looks like a bigger job than I thought”, “I’m going to have to order another part”, and something about football that I didn’t understand.

Either way, he left not having fixed my plumbing and with the realisation that, worse than a nosebleed, worse even than the mouth sores, I stank. I hadn’t showered in days. And I had a second date with Suzie. What was I going to do?

I decided I would shower at my gym. But then I realised I don’t have a gym. I know a gym, sure, but it’s not mine, I’m not a member, and I’ve never got beyond the gym tour or over the stitch that it gave me. But this was a matter of personal hygiene, I told myself; personal appearance. And so I called ahead and asked if I could.

Worse than the idea of exercising was the thought of taking a communal shower. But once I got there and changed out of my clothes, I stumbled in blindly, without my glasses, and found there were curtains that divided the shower room into cubicles. Better still, there was no-one there. Pulling the curtain to, I began the first of two shampoos. This was great, I thought. As I applied the leave-in conditioner, I read the ad that hung on the wall. “Stay shower fresh all day,” it read. That would be nice, I thought. And how do I do that? “Use Always Ultra Panty Liner.”

Just then, two female voices entered the room, their pedicured feet showing from under the shower curtain. Thinking mine were conspicuously hairy I edged back towards the wall (and the panty liner advert) and wondered what the hell I was going to do. The female of the species might be deadly, but, when it comes to personal hygiene, apparently they’re no match for the metrosexual male. One shampoo and no conditioning later they had left and so too did I, squinting as I did to see the ‘Ladies’ sign on the door.

Soccer and High Heels

Hot on the high-heels of Felicity Huffman’s critically acclaimed Transamerica, She’s the Man is a gender bending comedy of errors, recycled from parts of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night and Robin Williams’ Mrs Doubtfire. In it Amanda Byrnes plays a girl who pretends to be a boy in order to play soccer.

“Everybody has a secret...” reads the almost necessarily long tagline on the movie’s poster. “Duke wants Olivia who likes Sebastian who is really Viola whose brother is dating Monique so she hates Olivia who’s with Duke to make Sebastian jealous who is really Viola who’s crushing on Duke who thinks she's a guy...”

You might be wondering how I read to the end of the poster and still saw this movie. Surely a film with this many interlocking romantic triangles is one for a hot date? Not in my world. In my world this is the kind of film that I am cajoled into seeing by my slightly weird, thirteen year old, male (I should mention) cousin.

I thought, at the least, there might be some eye candy in the form of the female lead. This is usually where I find my solace in being cajoled to watch a sub-standard romantic comedy. I didn’t find it in this film. Amanda Byrnes, though perfectly lovable, looks about 12 years old. And, when disguised as her older brother, a 13 year old boy. This does not appeal to me. And so, with what remained of my appetite, I took what solace I could find in the mouth candy of my popcorn.

But, with exuberance as boundless as his baldness, the greatest consolation, by far, was an excellent turn by David Cross as the school principal. Essentially reviving his role as Tobias Fünke in Arrested Development, Cross’s headmaster is an even less convincing ‘man’ than Byrnes’ – awkward in his skin, weirdly effeminate and occasionally alluding to a penchant for cross-dressing. “Have you ever tried running in high heels?” he asks. “It’s not that easy...it’s not that easy.”

And have you ever tried sitting through a romantic comedy pitched at an age group, an IQ even, dare I say, a gender not your own? It is, I imagine, like running in high heels. It’s not that easy. It’s not that easy.

Baby Brown

Nannying has had its fair share of bad PR. British au pair, Louise Woodward and her murder trial did little for its image; so too did Jude Law when he, rather bizarrely, cheated on his fiancée, Sienna Miller with his children’s nanny. Then, of course, there was the Robin Williams film, Mrs Doubtfire, in which the profession is depicted as an opportunity for some cross-dressing, gender bending, slapstick humour. (“My first day as a woman and I am already having hot flashes.”)

And though, in her casual clothes, she does look somewhat like a small boy, my ex-girlfriend, Beth, is single-handedly improving the public image of the au pair industry. She is meticulous in her care of the four Wheeler children and careful too, to instil some racial tolerance at an early age. I witnessed this first hand yesterday, when I met with Beth and her youngest – two-year old Bea.

“I like your shirt,” I said. “It’s pink. Do you like pink?”
“Yeah,” she replied, coyly.
“My shirt is blue.” I said, pointing to it. “Do you like blue?"
“Yeah,”
“And what about brown, Bea?” asked Beth. Then, pointing at my face, “Do you like brown?”
She thought about it. It was an excruciating moment, but rewarded with relief.
“Yeah,” said Bea. “Brown!”

Be still my stupid heart.

Do you remember that college film, in which a guy cheats on his girlfriend on camera, accidentally sends it to her and then embarks on a road trip to retrieve the tape before she sees it? You know, he and his friends hit the road...in a trip across the States? And lots of funny things happen on the road and during their trip? What’s it called? ‘Road’ something? Something ‘Trip’? I don’t know.

Anyway, I find myself in a similar circumstance – more tenuous, I suppose, than similar. But having returned from my own road trip I now find myself chasing an item of mail, in an attempt to exonerate myself of a stupid incident. There was, I suppose, driving involved, and sex. No videotape however (most unusual), but a letter – and a stupid one at that.

You see, towards the end of my trip, I found myself in the embrace of an ex-girlfriend – one I didn’t think I’d ever see again. In the moment and, I guess, out of my mind, I found myself in a compromising situation and, convinced that this was the result of her undying and unrelenting love for me, wrote her a letter whilst on the plane home.

With a combination of jetlag, fatigue, and the after-effects of that blasted in-flight romantic comedy, I dropped it in the letterbox and essentially sent her a letter of sympathy. I could not, I wrote, find it in my heart to love her again.

Imagine my surprise then when I returned home to an e-mail from said lost-love. It was nice to see me, it said. And nice too, it went on, to relive the passion. “See you later,” it finished. “Cheers.” What I thought was the star-crossing of two paths, nevertheless a rocky road, was nothing more than a booty call.

I was, of course, happy to oblige. But there was a letter, on its way, with a far less casual tone. It must be stopped, I thought. I might not have saved ass, but I was hoping, at least, to save face.

I implored her not to read it, but couldn’t imagine how she would not. Especially with all the imploring. I wondered how long it would take to arrive; I worried that her roommate/ex-boyfriend/whatever might read it; I wished I hadn’t sent it.

Today, I got a letter. In fact, I got two. The first read:

“Dear San, I didn’t open this letter. Alas, I don’t know how to steam it open, but I also trust that if you really wanted to say something to me, you would just say it, unapologetically. So, here is your letter back, unravaged by my curiousity. I hope you’re well… Always, X”

The second was mine, enclosed.

Blog Author for Sale

In my last post, pointless though it was, I asked whether my trip to California had changed me. The question plagued me for, oh, fifteen minutes. I had just as soon forgotten it when Vodafone, my mobile phone provider, called with an answer.

If I had changed since my trip it was financially. Whilst out there, it seems, I made a number of calls, resulting in a bill of £360. I have changed. I’m broke.

Hotel reservations, e-mail checking, booty calls have cost me more than my car rental. Hell, they’ve cost me more than my flight! And now, I need to find a way to recoup my costs.

First to go is my match.com subscription. I’m not going to find love within six months and I don’t even qualify for the guarantee. I haven’t organised enough dates, or rather, dates haven’t always shown up.

Next, are the extravagant Marks & Spencer ready meals. No more Char-Grilled Chicken Linguini with Salsa Verde for me. I bought a sack of potatoes today.

And I’m drastically cutting my shoe budget. – gasp –

Saving money is one thing. Making money is another. And I’ve been thinking of ways to do so with as little effort as possible. See the ads above? Now click.

I figure, with my site statistics, I should make an easy...15c per week. To supplement that I’ve also gone into publishing. Self-publishing, rather, with Lulu. No, not the famed 60's singer (though my books and my prices will make you want to shout! – that’s going on the cover).

Lulu is a free self-publishing site that prints and ships each order as it’s bought. You keep your rights, design, price and 80% of the profits. And, since I thought that I have a much smaller percentage of free time available to write books, let alone paltry blog entries, I decided to publish some of my earlier works. Namely, a university paper, The Thrills: Michael Jackson, MTV and Multi-platinum Success; my dissertation, The Funk: A Cultural Response to the Disappointments of Post-Civil Rights Era America; and, slightly less academic and, arguably, less entertaining than Michael Jackson, MTV and funk music, a compilation of my best blog entries.

And, as a final measure, and perhaps to compensate for having to cancel my match.com subscription, I researched online escort agencies. (This is part of a money-making scheme, mind you, not just a way to blow my remaining money on some good company.) Ideal Escorts can help you make £500 per night. And, I figure, I’d be killing two birds with one stone, so to speak. Well, hopefully, no girls will have to die. But they would be helping a worthy cause. We both would be.

And you can help too. Click an ad, order a book, order me!

It's a kind of magic

Somebody asked me tonight if I was a long baby when I was born.
I said, “Yes.” I said that I was unravelled like a never-ending handkerchief from a magician’s sleeve.

And just as I vanished to America for a month, I now feel suddenly pulled from a hat – a floppy eared bunny rabbit!

Ta-da.

OK, I may be no more floppy eared than usual (they’ve always been big) or, indeed, as highly sexed as a rabbit, but did my vanishing act to California change me?

I think that whenever you leave and return to a place, you give yourself the opportunity to start afresh or, at least, a new chapter. It’s like an artificial New Years. It starts with so many resolutions. Keeping them, though, would be magic.

Postcard from London

"Welcome to London. It's a blustery day here," said the announcement, as the plane touched down at London Heathrow. "It's raining."

It didn't take me long to figure this out for myself.

As I stepped out a paper bag blew up and smacked me in the crotch. A sort of telling off, I imagined, for my month in California.

Even as I write this I can see litter blowing up and smacking people for their sins. I think of how they ignore bins here, as they do social niceties.

A rather rude customer service advisor has just told me that I can't travel on an earlier train to see my mum on Mother's Day.

It smacked with irony then when James Blunt came on the radio.
"My life is brilliant," he mocked.
Whomever smiled at him on a subway, I thought to myself, can't have been riding the Tube.

Postcard from a Convenience Store

Behind the convenience store counter sat, what I've been told is called, an NRI - a non-resident Indian.

The top half of his face hid under the shadow of his baseball cap, which nodded both to the San Francisco Giants and to the tallish NRI standing at the counter, handing over his driving license.

I was buying booze.

As he stood to serve me I noticed that from under his baggy jeans shone the ruby jewels of his fancy slippers.

These were not the shoes of an American football fan. Nor were they the comfortable footwear of a convenience store clerk.

The stones were sewn into white satin and glistened as he walked, with surprising grace, over to the cash register.

These were, I realised, the slippers of a bhangra dancer.

He noticed me smile and turned up the volume on his radio. It was the familiar locomotive beats of bhangra music.

My feet shuffled, we spoke a little Punjabi and the drinks were on the house.

Postcard from a Rollercoaster

There must be some convoluted metaphor I can apply to riding Santa Cruz’s Giant Dipper five times as I did today. Life is a rollercoaster? Pleasure at the fairground? Rollercoaster…of love? I’m beginning to sound like an AOR radio station playlist. (And I’ve always considered myself soul, man.)

With a light breakfast, a wristband, and balls of steel, Pete and I plonked ourselves down on one of the oldest rollercoasters and marked the beginning of my last week here with an ascent, a decent, a twist and a turn.

I guess I could fashion some literary device from that. What do we have? An ascent…? Well, we’ve certainly had our high points. Seeing the sun set over the Pacific, out of the windscreen, setting the sea and St Patrick’s Day on fire, with the Rolling Stones ‘Under My Thumb’ and on the car stereo is a moment in time I will not soon forget. Nor will I the kind people that I’ve met. And it doesn't get much higher than riding, what the Rough Guide calls, two "utterly demented" rides atop Las Vegas's 1149-foot-tall Stratosphere tower.

A decent…? I think I hit some dark depths after a particularly drunken night, when I realised that my blurry outlook had less to do with how much I’d drunk and more to do with the fact that I’d actually lost my glasses. I then had to spend the next few days (before I bought a replacement pair) driving in my prescription sunglasses and explaining to everybody that I did not think I was cool sitting in my shades at the bar. (They didn’t think I was cool anyway.)

As for twists and turns, there’ve been plenty driving on the 1, or the Pacific Coastal Highway. Just last night we saw a deer in our headlights. Literally. It looked like me. I mean, I’ve felt the same way with some of the run-ins I’ve had.

And we can expect more – twists and turns, that is – as we continue our roadtrip north. If, to quote Ronan Keating, of all people, “life is a rollercoaster”, I’ve just got to ride it. Word.

Postcard from Las Vegas

In the carefully constructed casinos of Las Vegas every effort is made to keep the teeming, gambling masses in a constant state of fantasy.

The halls are a Wonderland-like maze of tables and toys, clocks are conspicuously absent, time and space - even the natural light of day - are a reality at odds with this sensuous sin city.

If you ever find an exit sign and venture out into the unknown - a sun-lit Strip in the day - you'll find the curious meeting of fantasy and reality. Neon signs reach into a clear blue sky and the Las Vegas Boulevard stretches between the Sierra Nevada mountains like a stream through the desert.

Though not exactly the same (there are fewer exotic dancers, but no less gambling), Las Vegas and its two worlds is in some way similar to my life. My writing is the Strip that bridges my public and private spheres.

Unlike Vegas however neither present fantasy. Far from it (there'd certainly be more exotic dancers and less gambling if that were the case). Rather, those that known me, that share in my experiences and read my blog are presented with reality from a different perspective.

I write this because I met a girl - a great girl - far from the Las Vegas Strip, in sunny San Diego. And I'm nervous that when she returns home she'll Google me, find my blog and suddenly be presented with reality from a different perspective. Not to mention an archive of my dating disasters.

But I guess that this is what we gamble when we put our cards on the table. It's like opening the door to a sun-lit Las Vegas, my flaws and follies on display.

Sometimes even there are exotic dancers.

Postcard from Big Stupid Sur

Should we have taken the advice of Irish band, The Thrills, we might not have gone "back to Big Sur", and be faced, as we are today, with a court citation.

And though running from the cops was high on our list of things to do, this morning we were faced with a park ranger. And we hardly ran. Instead, we stated our case plainly: We had (honestly) dropped our $20 into the drop box for registration at the camp site. Somehow, perhaps through some administrative error, it had got lost.

"You see sometimes," the old man said. "People say they've paid their registration," then, looking at us from under his baseball cap, added, "when they haven't."
"With all due respect, sir," I began. "We have."
"Is it possible that you forgot to pay and dropped it in this morning?"
"No," Pete snapped. "We paid it. When we arrived."

And so the conversation continued until the man, with the power to tear up our notice and put this misunderstanding, like much of the Pacific Coastal Highway, behind us, simply smirked and walked away.

For a moment in time our destiny, our freedom, sat in the grubby hands of this rude and arrogant park ranger - a stupid white man with the power to decide our fate.

And as we left the park, I thought of other stupid white men in positions of power and wondered how Americans put up with it everyday.

Postcard from a Big Guy in a Small Town

You can take the big guy out of the small town but not the small town out of the big guy.

This is the lesson I learned from my stay in Davis, the sleepy college town where, you might remember, I stayed for a year and, more recently, vowed to never return.

Posterity, a remaining friend and a convenient stop on our road trip led us there. And a girl - isn't there always a girl? - may just bring us back.

I'm vowing to never take more vows. Unless of course it is one of holy matrimony with Sonia, the young lady my friend Amber introduced us to.

And though we'd wished, with the Beach Boys a-blaring on the car stereo that "they all could be/California girls", Sonia hails from Spain. But she'll always hold a place in my beer swilled heart.

I might have been under the influence, but my eyes had ne'er seen a more beautiful site. And bear in mind, we're road tripping down the Pacific Coastal Highway.

Having sobered up and hit the road (in that order), it occurs to me that I've either fallen pretty hard for Sonia or bumped my head. I say this because we've driven some 250 miles but no further from her delightful memory.

The catch - and isn't there always a catch? She has a boyfriend, albeit a pig, who pays her little attention and time.

With three weeks remaining I could give her both those things. Unfortunately, all I leave her with is a stolen kiss and a goodbye.

Postcard from a Piss-Drenched Couch

It's important to make a good first impression. Even more so when travelling, meeting new people and, potentially, sharing their living space.

Unfortunately, I rarely do.

Like this morning at my friend Katya's house in San Francisco. It turned out that, in the night, her cat had peed on the sofa - an occurrence that Katya was recounting to her new housemate, Christina. This coincided with my first meeting with said housemate.

And though it would have been more sensible, certainly more commonplace, to simply extend my hand and say my name, I instead went with a joke. And a crude one at that. You could say that I took a risk.

"So, Christina," Katya said. "The cat peed on the sofa last night."
"Oh no!" Christina exclaimed. "Bad kitty!"
"Well hey," I said, pointing. "I just pissed in the corner."
"What?" Christina said. Clearly preoccupied with the piss-drenched couch she'd not heard my joke.
"I, er...I pissed in the corner."
The moment had passed. And I was just some weird guy, standing in her lounge, pointing at the spot in which I'd just claimed to have pissed.
"Hi," I said, extending my hand. "I'm San."

Postcard from match.com/sanfrancisco

Though many first dates may start with nerves and excitement, few end with projectile vomit.

This was the curious situation I found myself in last night as I kissed my date farewell, stumbled out of her front door and puked on her porch.

It was marginally better than my first match.com date, buoyed by the fact that she actually showed up. And it didn't hurt that we were drinking in arguably California's greatest city, San Francisco.

The amount we drank however may have led to the evening damp and dastardly demise and this morning's hangover from hell.

Should she not remind me of such horrifically drunken times I might see her again. Unfortunately, her memory is now forever associated with that crazy night. And I'm constantly reminded by the little bit of vomit on the tip of my shoe.

Pretentious Poem from North Beach

Allen Ginsberg, what would you say,
Sitting here, smoking North Beach away?
Inhaling the trees
Blowing out the cathederal
Sleeping bags and the homeless
Did you know him?
He's about your age
He's flanked with tourists now
The City Lights Walking Tour
Did you ever take that, Allen Ginsberg?

.

Postcard from The Office

We made it to San Francisco by plane and train. It seemed only natural then to complete the final part of our journey by automobile.

When my friend, Meghan, picked us up from Union Square we hit speeds of zero to weird in under 15 minutes, stopping at her old workplace for an office party.

Imagine the scene: the UK Office meets its US counterpart by way of Louis Theroux's Weird Weekends and Larry David's Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Awkward humour, tongue in cheek and social faux pas.

Postcard from the Runway

I was under the supposition that by leaving England I was leaving behind its vagaries and virtues. And though I'll miss the Beeb, logical road systems and PG Tips, I'd imagined a fond farewell to the many fouls of English customer service.

We'd not even left the runway however before being reminded that for the next 10 or so hours we were at the service of British Airways.

A Geordie voice crackled over the tanoy.
"This is Dean, your flight service manager," it said. "Can I just say, it's very difficult to do our job when yous lot stand in the isles.
"And another thing," he continued. "There are 208 passengers and 208 meals. It doesn't take a genius to work out that some of you might not get the right kind. Can I just apologise now?"

And with the pre-emptive apologies of the British Airways cabin crew we were ready, more than ever, to take off.

Postcard from the Check-In Desk

The abuse of the English accent happened long before landing on American soil. Having been denied a seat next to Pete on the plane I thought I'd approach customer services with a smouldering look that in my head resembles James Bond, in the external world, a man in need of a bathroom.

Overhearing her name in conversation, I say, with perhaps too much surprise, as if seeing an old friend, "Sarah!"
Within five minutes, a few smouldering looks and the most charming English accent I could manage, I had young Sarah printing me a new boarding pass.

Let's hope my skills of persuasion work just as well at immigration, where I'm paranoid to the point of feeling like I'm only pretending to be a "regular tourist."

Postcard from the Night Before

Though it seems a shame to leave the bitter cold of a lingering winter, the oodles of work piling on my desk, the threat of bird flu even, I've decided to blow my holiday entitlement on a month long trip to California.

Accompanying me this time is my not-so-glamourous assistant, Pete, my trusty Moleskine (notebook to Hemingway and Chatwin) and a number of Biro pens.

Expect witty field reports, acute observations and, ultimately, bitchy comments about my travel buddy, Pete, as we venture on a journey across the state, through the Nevada desert and into the longest period of time I've spent with a single person.

How will we get on for a month? Who will flip first? Where is my red shirt? Just a question for myself there. But stay tuned for answers to the other two. And more besides.

R.I.P. My Love Life

Ah, first dates. The nerves, the sweaty palms, the possibility that they’ll actually show up. Today was mine with an online match, or so it should have been. Instead I was left nervous, sweaty and alone.

And a little bit confused. It was as whirlwind as an online romance could be. On Wednesday she ‘winked’, by Thursday we had exchanged e-mails, on Friday we were making plans to meet. It was like a Craig David song.

In fact, I thought she was very keen, having suggested that we meet up today. She even suggested that we do so at a time and a place convenient to me. Instead, I arranged to have coffee in a trendy, Birmingham bar, about an hour from home. It might have not been convenient but it was at least in her home town.

Sitting at the bar I wondered when ‘fashionably late’ became ‘you’ve been stood up, mate.’ But considering she hadn’t far to travel, and that she was so keen to meet in the first place, I figured circumstance had prevented her from coming. Perhaps a family crisis, an accident, last minute nerves even. Maybe she died.

It took a real friend however to suggest that perhaps she had seen me and decided to leave. I still think that she’s dead.

Put the dildo down

Have you ever been somewhere embarrassing, like a sex shop, and worried that you might see somebody you know? Well, the chances are that if you do, they'd be just as embarrassed. There's some comfort then in knowing that should they ask, "what are you doing here?" you could just as easily reply, "what are you doing here?"

The Internet being one big sex shop, in which the goods are on display but the customers are not, gives surfers a feeling of anonymity and the confidence, however misguided, that they can peruse, pick up and play in privacy.

But put that dildo down.

Our privacy is this century's Civil Rights but its protection is not yet assured. And, should the ne'er-do-wells in the Bush administration get their way, even our search results will be monitored (I’ll save you the worry, it's annsummers.com).

Whatever it's long term plans (and don't believe everything you read at google-watch.org), Google last week emerged as a sort of Rosa Parks, refusing to give up its seat, or rather its records, to the Bush administration.

So, and I digress, while my IP address, cookies and crumbs can give me away online, last night my web whereabouts were revealed by nothing more scientific than actually bumping into somebody I know somewhere I shouldn’t have been.

Well, I was on match.com, not that there's anything wrong with that, but decided to check out my competition. To do so however I had to search for men, roughly my age in and around my area.

As the results loaded I recognised an old school friend and, in my haste, clicked on his profile. Though mine, and the exercise as a whole, has been mostly tongue in cheek (so far only my tongue in my own cheek), his was very sincere.

And I say in haste, because clicking his profile was with more so than sense. The match.com service being what it is (that is quite impressive) members can see who has viewed their profile.

Not only will I be revealed for using the service – something I'm obviously not too shy about – but seen as searching for men, roughly my age in and around my area.

It's like I’m in the sex shop and I've been caught picking up a dildo.

The Hoffice

A highlight of Yahoo’s Finds of the Year awards, if not the highlight, the Hoffice Calendar is making the rounds with bored office workers, ironic students and genuine German fans. If the Hoff isn’t already hanging off your wall download it now.

Waiting for Beth

Waiting for Beth has become almost as popular and certainly as absurd a tragicomedy as Samuel Beckett’s original, playing off-off Broadway in restaurants and bars in my hometown. In the past week I’ve sat waiting for my ex-girlfriend on a number of occasions – not including the two years in which she lived in California – and have realised that tardiness is a theme that concerns both plays.

In mine however the waiting is not in vain, but it is in discomfort. Waitresses watch from the wings, deployed one by one, with tilted head and sympathy, to ask if I need another drink, if I would like a starter, or if I might require a counsellor. It’s a surprise to them, and an enormous relief, when Beth shows up, by which time I’ve already had crab cakes, a chat with a professional and one too many Brewskies.

If breaking up is hard to do, dating is harder

Fear not, loyal readers, your hero to zero has not found love in his absence. I am sorry for not having written sooner but, rest assured, my adventures on Match.com have resulted in nothing more romantic than a couple of e-mails and a costly credit card bill.

I am glad however that things are working out for my readers. Sian, 40 from Shrewsbury, joined Match.com as local_minger on the strength of my recent posts. “I've got fleas, large facial warts and all manner of infectious diseases... but a great personality!” says Sian on her online profile, which, despite it’s raw honesty, has led to over 200 viewings, scores of e-mails and a couple of dates.

Divide those figures by four and we’re closer to the sort of statistics my online profile is enjoying. Despite my “virtual winking”, even e-mailing a few girls, I have as of yet been unable to score a single date. But before my winking develops into a nervous tick, I’m not going to worry. I like to think that I have a very slow release charm.

It has actually been oozing rather gently over a long conversation with ChicClimber, a 26 year-old junior doctor, with whom I share a love of Belle and Sebestian and Ben Folds. After a couple of inappropriate jokes regarding incest and espionage I guess the slow release charm slowly retracted and ChicClimber went rather quiet. Either that or she found my blog.

If that is indeed the case, Amie, I do apologise and hope you might get back in touch. It’s customary that a girl dates me at least once before breaking up with me. This way is so premature. I know it’s hard to break up in person but it’s much easier to date that way.

Can't Buy Me Love

For all its techno wizardry, match.com follows simple, if outmoded, rules of dating. In the real world you might linger at the bar, building up the courage to approach the object of your desire, practising your witty and ironic opener in your head, before going for the kill. On match.com you send a virtual wink. It lets the other person know that you’re interested.

If, like me, you’ve registered for match.com but not yet paid the subscription fee, winking is all you can do. It’s like being outside of the bar, pushing your face up against the glass and winking at the hottie in the short dress. Without paying the cover charge you’re just a weirdo, winking.

And so, I’m tempted to pay the subscription charge (I figure I’m pretty weird as it is), but wonder how else I could invest that money towards finding a date…

New shirt: £30
Cover charge: £6
Drinks: £30
Cab fare home: £10
Pot noodle: £1.20
Watching Jonathan Ross on your own: Priceless.

Right. Where’s my credit card?

Tall, dark and handsome seeks short and fat

It’s no good bragging about having a bachelors degree or a knowledge of modern Czech literature when you can’t even work the multiple choice section of match.com’s profile builder. It seems, in my haste to get my own written statement right, I rushed building an accurate portrait of my desired match.

If I didn’t already sound desperate imagine reading a profile that seeks a woman anywhere between 3’1’’ and 8’11''. Also, I checked ‘heavyset’, thinking it meant busty – like having a heavy set. Apparently it does not.

So, before I’m inundated with short and squat dates, I’m changing my profile. Again.

Meeting with Approval

Online dating service, Match.com, was quicker than I had expected in reviewing the personal profile I’d submitted to the site. Yep, within two hours of an estimated 72, a member of staff had deemed my submission inappropriate and declined to approve it for publication. “A portion appears to be confusing, filled with random text, cut off mid-paragraph or inappropriate, but it may be approved with minor changes,” the e-mail read.

It was a disheartening start to what was becoming a typical dating experience. If Match.com is singles’ night at the virtual bar of online dating, I had just been declined entry on account of my footwear.

So, I changed my shoes and my approach, read the site’s advice, which recommended opening with a joke (a suggestion I took literally), and submitted my updated profile to almost instant approval. Not only that, I’m told, but its “being considered for the member spotlight.” It can’t have been the picture.

So, a guy walks into a bar…“ouch!” This clumsy but charming man is seeking someone to fall about laughing with. Knock knock…

By day, a mild-mannered designer; by night, a fun loving, music aficionado, this Clark Kent is looking for his Lois Lane, or something less cheesy. Though I’ve never – quite gladly – been mistaken for a bird, or indeed a plane, I like to think that beneath the spectacles and the modest, self-deprecating demeanour is something of a Superman.

I’m not always this annoying. But I really do like music. I listen to everything from Ryan Adams to Frank Zappa, a lot of Indie stuff, and even soul and funk. In fact, I wrote my university dissertation on the latter and its relationship to the Civil Rights Movement in America.

I don’t expect my match to know anything about that! But I am looking for somebody who appreciates good conversation, likes to laugh (I mean who doesn’t – it’s brilliant), and enjoys life. So if you are indeed alive get in touch!

Okay, so the ending sounds a little desperate, my only request being that my date can talk, listen and, essentially, breathe. Still, I’m not holding my breath. My profile’s been online all of 8 hours. And been viewed once. And that was me.

Meeting My Match

There comes a time in your life when you concede that you need help. For me that time is now. I just never thought it would come at 23 and have anything to do with my love life.

In a straight run from my 15th birthday right up to my 22nd, I had a steady stream of girlfriends. Okay, hardly a stream, more like three big buckets of water. But in the last year there’s been something of a dry spell.

My website too has all but withered from the draught. And so, with it, and my love life in mind, I decided to dip my toe in the wet and wild world of online dating, thinking it might provide amusing fodder for my blog and a story to desperately conceal from the grandkids.

Match.com seemed an obvious place to start. It’s the world’s largest online dating service, has inspired twice as many marriage as any other site, and though it doesn’t appear to have a returns policy, it does come with a guarantee. Apparently, I’ll find the special someone that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside within 6 months.

This sounds good. In the last 6 months only whiskey has made me feel that way. But it’s also made me vomit on more than one occasion. Just as long as I don’t do that I imagine my love life is about to improve. Or else it’ll make for interesting reading.

After clicking past several photo montages, at once putrid and promising, of attractive, mostly interracial couples, I’m asked to enter some information about myself under four broad categories: Basics, Appearance, Interests, Lifestyle and Background/Values. I’m modest about my body type, list my lips as my best feature (from a selection that included ‘calves’ and ‘belly button’), and mention nothing about my website, or indeed, the devil worshiping that requires human sacrifice. I am, of course, just joking. We can use lamb.

I do however brag about my frequent trips to California, drop a Norah Jones lyric about “rain falling on a tin roof” and admit that I am an incredibly slow reader and have been reading modern Czech classic, The Unbearable Lightness of Being for an unbearably long time. I figure that will make me sound rather sophisticated, if a little slow.

I struggle however to choose even one sport or exercise that I enjoy.

Questions regarding my “match” are even more taxing. What colour eyes do you like to stare into? What kind of hair do you like to run your fingers through? Should she want kids?

Hitting next takes me to a screen even more daunting. Describe yourself and your perfect match to our community. I’ve got 2000 characters in which to do it and a further 128 for my ‘dating headline.’ If you’ve ever used eBay this is the equivalent of an item description and title. Except this is not granny’s old tea set from the loft, this is San, you know, from the block.

Still, I hit submit and send my profile for approval by a match.com member of staff. In 72 hours time I’ll be out there again, albeit in the online dating world, leaning on the virtual bar, looking for that special someone who makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but doesn’t make me vomit the next day.

Stay tuned to see if I do indeed find a match, strike a flame or blow chunks.

Ask the Lonely

It’s as common a question as I’m ever asked. And remember, I’m from an Indian family, and it’s more common even than questions regarding my ultimate wedding to a nice Hindu girl, or my decision to not study law or medicine, or why I’m not more like my cousin, Dinesh. It’s so pressing, in fact, that my dad himself, a man of few words, and certainly not with a vocabulary of emotive language, felt it necessary to ask: “Don’t you get lonely?”

This usually follows a tour of my flat, and is becoming as obligatory as the tour itself; my response as short. “No,” I say. “Of course not.” But, for some reason, people tend to equate my single life with a life of bleak loneliness, posing the question with a tilted head and a look of concern.

The truth is, I’m too busy to feel lonely. And, in fact, I’m rarely even alone. Sure, I don’t have a girlfriend, a life partner, a Hindu wife, or whatever else people think is the opposite loneliness, but I’m so inundated with visitors asking me whether I’m lonely that I’m, frankly...not.

My Mental Girlfriend

I was on my way to see an attractive local weather girl switch on the Christmas lights when I met Lucy. There she was, standing on the platform, practically illuminating it, when I began to rethink my 15 mile journey. Here are the Christmas lights, I thought. And this is my weather girl. And though I couldn’t, from my vantage point on platform 5, accurately ascertain her occupation, I nevertheless took my thoughts as profound, broke all the rules of my involuntary celibacy and asked for her number. Breaking further rules, and indeed, expectations, she gave it. And I waited just a few moments until she disappeared behind the station building to punch the air in delight.

As I swung somewhat pointlessly into the cold, dark night, I considered my recent romantic misfortunes and felt glad to have not seen Lucy with a child, a grey hair, or even a hint of a penis.

My friends were less sure. “Come on,” said Bill. “What’s wrong with her then?”
“Nothing!” I said. “Well, anyway I’ll find out on Sunday. I’m seeing her then.”
“There’s got to be something.”
“Can’t this just be that I meet a hot girl, my own age; I ask her out, we have a good time and it all works out?”
And, though this was really a rhetorical question, by Sunday it had been answered loud and clear, and only fifteen minutes into our date.

“So, do you live with your folks or do you have your own place?” I asked, already thinking of potential sleeping arrangements.
“No,” she said, putting her coffee down, as if getting ready to leave. “I live with my daughter.”
Thinking, perhaps under some sort of illusion, that I wasn’t the kind of guy to just get up and run, I held steady on to my coffee cup, and looked interested. “Oh wow!” I said. “What’s her name?” I didn’t really care what her name was. What difference does it make? And the smile that curled at the edges of my mouth wasn’t in excitement at this news but in knowing that, of course, this was “what’s wrong with her.”
Whilst she told me her daughter’s name, and the story behind it, which I hoped I’d never be quizzed on because I wasn’t really listening, I began to rationalise the situation, and think of how this could work without my becoming little whatsherface’s new daddy. The pause, I thought, signified the end of her story.
“So that’s where little…your little daughter gets her name from!” I said. “Great. Shall we go for a walk?”

And so we did. But at every turn was another startling revelation that only the illusion of my own kindness kept me running from. She’d been unwell for several years, she said, and so, tempted by curiosity I asked with what. And when she answered, “anorexia”, I again responded with “Oh wow!” but suddenly felt awful for having listed ‘thin’ as a quality in describing her to Bill. (I’m surprised he didn’t already guess.) But that wasn’t all.

As our walk took a turn towards the river and our conversation for the worse, she began to recall her days in the mental health institution where she was committed with schizophrenia. It was there, in her defence, that she discovered that she was pregnant and that she must recover for the sake of her daughter, whose name, at this moment in time, escapes me.

Her recovery and, indeed, the sing-song way in which she told her story, endeared me to her and, as our walk led us to the pub and one drink to another, the date somehow picked up. But whatever good she impressed upon me that evening she soon undid with the 87 text messages that followed.

In the brief moments between them I pondered my dilemma. Just how do you break up with a young, single mother with a history of schizophrenia and anorexia? Despite the phrase ‘unlucky in love’, which I take credit for coining, I’d never been in this situation. I thought that doing it in a text message was a bad idea. Over dinner was even worse. I mean, what do you say? “It’s not you, or you, or you, it’s me”?

End of the Line

You can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your mobile phone until it happens to you. At first there’s the sinking feeling that it’s not coming back, an anticipatory worry, building like the interference that interrupts a radio signal – pip-piP-pIP-PIP; then the silence, and a brief moment of liberation, when you can just about imagine a world without it; before the ringing sound of panic, blaring in your ear, like an inaudible melody of the names and numbers that you realise you’ve lost for good.

This happened to me yesterday, like some sort of comeuppance for actually engaging in any kind of physical exertion, on a golf course. I guess I swung too hard, and now, only a day later, I’m quickly realising what a handicap it is to be without my phone.

In that time I’ve been unable to cancel a meeting with a mate, respond to the outrageous advances of a lady friend and wish my big sister a Happy Birthday, leaving three people waiting, wondering and wanting to kill me, respectively. Worse still, sitting now on the train, I can’t tell the woman meeting me at the other end that I am more than one hour delayed.

I guess that’s two people wanting to kill me.

What are we complaining about?

1. It being cold in October
2. Kate Moss taking our share of drugs
3. The EU ban on imports of exotic birds. (There goes Christmas)
4. Things not being the way they used to be
5. Lack of British hurricanes

Under the Weather

If only my cleaner had more in common with Gwyneth Paltrow. (Sigh.) I realise how that sounds, but it really is the least of my problems. (For starters, I can’t even park my Hummer in the street and my £50 notes won’t fit in my wallet.)

After walking home in the drizzle (there is no Hummer, but if anybody has any suggestions about the £50s...), I found a note from my new cleaner, Sylvia, whom I’d recently discovered was pleasant but not hot. I always imagined Jennifer Lopez in Maid in Manhattan – a weapon of ass distraction. Instead Sylv, although very pleasant, is more of an A bomb. And, it turns out, no Sylvia Plath.

Sam [sic],

Could you get me some more bleach please? And you need washing up liquid. Don’t like this weather.

Sylvia

What’s particularly interesting about this note is not that she spells my name wrong, despite my attempts to print it clearly in all correspondence, but that even in its economy of only five lines we still see a mention of the weather. Are we Brits so obsessed, or rather, so upset by it that it pervades our every conversation, whether spoken or otherwise? The weather constitutes one third of the message body. I didn’t even get a mention when it was obviously my birthday, cake and balloons strewn around the flat. (Maybe that's why.)

Okay, now I’m complaining. But that too – I suppose – is as British as talking of the weather, which brings us back to Gwyneth Paltrow, whom by doing both, last week became 'officially' British. It seems all is not yellow for Mrs Coldplay.

“Bring a raincoat, definitely,” she advises potential ex-pats in the US edition of Marie Claire magazine. “Or at least a little umbrella that can fit in your bag, because it always does rain.”

Even on the off chance that it’s not raining, things, according to Gwyneth, are still rather gloomy, with poor customer service and dirty streets. “My husband thinks I'm way too obsessed with cleanliness and germs. I'm just like, ‘The street is filthy, could we take off our shoes before we come into the house?’”

To be fair, Sylvia says the same. And at least one of the two has no complaints about British men. Gwyneth married Chris Martin in under a year and who knows what the future holds for Sylvia and Sam. At least he takes his shoes off.

Parting Shot

There was an awkwardness with which Peter swept his hair across his brow. Noticing it, I asked, “did you do something different with your hair today, Pete?”
“Yeah, I switched my parting,” he said, once the motion had completed its conspicuous path.
“Can you just…do that?” I asked.
“Well, guys usually have their parting on the left,” he said. “And girls on the right. But I thought I’d switch it up a little.”

My mouth curled into a smile at the thought of Pete, extending the switching up to his dressing habits, turning up at my flat, not as Peter Woods, sports fan and Dylan aficionado, but as Petra, wood strapped firmly to the thigh, bra stuffed with tissue and long black hair, parted from the right.

“Why do we bother with all these gender rules?” he asked, his sensible question interrupting my sordid thought. “Left or right, does it really matter?”

He’d had more profound thoughts, I’m sure, but his question was an interesting one. Watches, badges, earrings, depending on which side they’re worn, can indicate one’s gender or sexuality, in case it’s not already obvious (in which case, the ‘left or right’ dilemma is probably the least pressing).

“It makes me anxious,” he said, “these rules. I don’t know if I’m misrepresenting myself.” Throwing his hands dramatically in the air reminded me of Petra. “If I wear my watch on the right hand does that make me a girl?”
Wearing a bra does, I thought to myself.
“And if I wear an earring on my left ear, does that make me gay?”
“I think with the watch on your right hand it would make you a lesbian.” I said. Pete thought about it for a second, long enough for the excitement to wear off, imagined himself as Petra, stuffed bra and long hair, and unceremoniously switched his parting back, sweeping his hair across his brow so that it started at the left. Like a man.

The Crotch-Grabbing of Fate

In, what can only be described as a twist, a pirouette and a crotch-grabbing of fate, singer Michael Jackson today received a jury summons at his Neverland Valley Ranch in California – four months after he was acquitted on child molestation charges.

If anybody remembers the trouble lawyers had in finding a jury of his peers (although I think two-thirds female, and mostly white was about right), imagine the fun they’ll have with Jackson in the jury box. Although by the sounds of it, he could do with the $15 a day.

On his recent trip to London the singer spent only £85,000 in 30-minutes at Harrods. Looks like someone’s tightening the belt...

Rain Man

So, I’m standing outside my flat, in the rain, waiting for a cab in the busy rush hour traffic, when my neighbour walks by. We do the stop-and-chat thing. You know, how it goes.
“How are you?”
“Fine. How are you?”
“Fine.”

I extended things by asking where she was going.
“I’m just off to M&S to get some wine.”
“Ah,” I said, looked at my watch. Seeing that it was 10 minutes to closing time, I shouted over the noise of the traffic, “Well, you better quicken the pace!”

I mean, we don’t see each very other often. And, in doing the friendly neighbour thing, I didn’t want her to miss the shops. Besides, I think we had the stop-and-chat thing fairly covered. I was fine, she was fine, both our businesses were well. And anyway, I think you need the whole 10 minutes to get wine. You’ve got to get to the shop, you’ve got to decide the wine, you’ve got to queue. And nowadays you’ve got to factor for the charity collectors on the way, perhaps even alter your route.

My neighbour, on the other hand, thought this plenty of time, and perhaps mistook my volume for aggression, when in actual fact, I was just shouting over the traffic. “Ok,” she said, quietly, and then tip-toed away. Just as she did, a truck roared past.
“See you later!” I shouted. By the time my words reached her ears the noise had passed and all that remained was a screaming man in the rain.

The Big Three Killed My Baby

Oh, ITV. Is it not enough that you bombard us with bollocks programming every day? Were you not satisfied with your 50th Anniversary celebrations, reliving each year in what felt like real-time? Are you not filled with content when you produce yet another detective series with a maverick lead character? Why then, you gaudy yellow and blue thing, must you now interfere with my love life?

Okay, perhaps love life is a bit much. But when, last night, Lucia– a talented and charming, not to mention, gorgeous looking artist – wrote to alert me to her upcoming TV appearance I was, at first, hesitant. “I didn’t imagine that I’d see you next on ITV,” I wrote in my response. “Though you realise I’ll have to break my ‘no ITV’ rule to catch your show.”

And so I broke my rule. But not wanting to break the one that keeps me in the office, 9am-5pm, I programmed her lovingly into my PVR guide and returned home this evening, excited to be seeing her again, albeit on ITV. Imagine my disappointment then when I didn’t see Lucia on my screen, but instead an error message saying, that “the guide encountered a problem trying to download listings for this channel.”

The error message gave way to an e-mail alert. It was Lucia. “Hey, cheers for taking an interest in the programme!” she wrote. “I’d be interested to know what you think.”

I didn’t know what to think. The programme had not recorded. And so, what could have been a great opportunity to connect with Lucia on a personal level instead became another reason to hate ITV.

Think McFly. Think.

Another ghost from blog past is Vicky the Violinist. Remember the hot busker I asked out with the aid of a low-fat, savoury snack? (See Pretzel Logic) Well, it turns out, I’m seeing her again.

Don’t worry. I realise my actually dating a girl would probably bring about the demise of this here blog; and anyway, since my pretzel antics I’ve not heard a thing from young Vicky. So when I say I’m seeing her, I mean just that. She’s in the new McFly video.

Old Strangers

Connoisseur of the surreal, Louis Theroux, this week releases his first book, The Call of the Weird, in which he revisits the subjects of his television documentaries – the off-beat characters on the fringes of American society.

Tall, bespectacled and only just handsome, I often meet the comparison with the TV star, whom, I usually point out, was dubbed “the thinking woman’s crumpet” by a leading women’s magazine in 2001. As if to further our resemblance, this week I too found myself revisiting a subject of my blog.

You may remember a not-so-brilliant post that I wrote about an Indian-run chip shop on the fringes of the Shrewsbury town centre, and its blaspheming staff member that made a sincere effort to sound English.

Well, just yesterday, I saw him at his new place of work and, not content with now sounding English, his latest challenge, it seems, is to be a black man. Smiling behind the counter at McDonald’s, his newly acquired teeth gleaming like the golden arches, his hair a curious design, cut to appear like swept-back braided hair - “cornrows” I believe they’re called - he greeted me with the surprise of an old friend, when in actual fact - aside from both being Indian - we knew nothing about each other.

And, while I decided between fries and carrot sticks, he served the gentleman before me, a flustered looking, middle-aged man with greying hair and a temper fiery red. With the distinctive accent of upper-crust Britain and the manners of its stone-age ancestors, the man spat his order at the young immigrant. “And a bottle of Water,” he added.
Bagging the Big Mac, the young man reached for the fridge and asked in perfect RP, “was that a cup of tea?”
“No. A bottle of water, boy.”
And then with absolute grace, he handed over the water, took the man’s money and then, with a strange knowing glance my way – like old friends – said with a smile, “And here’s your change, sir,” before dropping the 50p piece into the charity box depository, just an inch from the man’s open hand. “Thank you.”

And with that, the man showed his ungleaming teeth, looked as though he was about to say something, but, unable to take from a children’s charity, simply walked away.

“And what can I get for you, my friend,” he said, as if he really knew me.
And, somewhat overwhelmed, I considered the last five minutes introduction enough, smiled – like an old friend – and gave him my order.

Kill the light, Save a Bird

Assembly Line

Trying to imagine the crowd in its underwear, as the age-old trick has it, complicates matters by several orders of magnitude, I discovered, when addressing 160 children last Friday. “Know your audience” would have been better advice. Instead, adult themed jokes fell on the young ears of disturbingly Y-front clad small boys as I spoke at a school assembly.

“A funny thing happened on the way to school gym hall today,” I started.

The Words and the Bees

When it comes to dating it’s not like I’m spoilt for choice. When presented with options however I somehow manage to spoil them for myself, finding flaws and faults that ultimately put me off. You know the thing, she’s got kids, she wants kids, she is a kid…

These are, I suppose, legitimate concerns. The latest however do test the boundaries of fairness. Should I be put off by someone’s misuse of English grammar?

It’s a common mistake, I suppose – to write “should of” instead of “should have.” It’s not like she slept with my brother. (Although my not having a brother kind of works in her favour.)

Then there’s the apostrophe. I imagine that would get between us, and probably in the wrong places.

And what of the semi-colon – the most underused of punctuation marks, so undermined by the comma? You can’t just whack it in when you feel like it. It has feelings.

But, San, you can’t date a semi-colon. You’re right, full stop.

Pretzel Logic

Many great men have fallen victim to the almighty pretzel. George W. Bush springs to mind. Who could forget the leader of the Free World, fainting and falling from his couch after choking on one? Here’s another story with a salty twist.

I usually walk away from team meetings with the most arduous of to-do lists, and last Monday was no different, save for the diamond in the rough – the task of sourcing musicians for a lunch event our company was organising.

Diamond, I say, since the requested musicians – two nubile, busking violinists – had quite a following in Shrewsbury. In fact, as an ardent follower myself, I had began altering my routine in order to pass them in the street, even stopping to give change. Especially odd, they might have thought, since with my iPod constantly in, I had never actually heard them play.

I passed them again after my meeting and they were indeed a sight for sore eyes. Pulling the little white things out of my ears (the iPod, that is, not the girls), I looked and listened as they played something by Mozart, or Beethoven, or something I’d heard on a TV commercial. And when they were done, I applauded, of course, told them I was a big fan of their work, and invited them to play at our event.

Since it was completely sold out I couldn’t offer the girls lunch during the event.
“That’s alright,” Vicky, the violist, said. “I’ll take a pretzel though.” She pointed at the bag in my hand.
“Okay,” I said, handing the snack. “And, since you’re clearly a fan, why don’t I bring you pretzels for the lunch as well.”
“Deal.”

And though I’d lost a pretzel I’d earned a phone number and I was happy; especially at the lunch event, where the girls played the one from the British Airways commercial. I even went out and bought the Best Classical Album in the World Ever…Vol. II CD, on which it appeared. Better still, I was really getting to like Vicky. She was cute and funny, and more importantly, found me funny, and spoke with the sort of posh accent you’d expect from a student of the Royal Academy.

Following the lunch, I sent Vicky a text message asking her out for a drink. But concerned that she didn’t immediately reply, and that SMS was not the right way to go about asking, I again headed into town, hoping to run into her. And I did.

And when she was done playing, what I think was one of the Four Seasons (probably ‘Summer’), she stopped to chat, alluding to the pretzels that I had forgotten to give at the lunch. Sensing a way to impress her, I decided to buy a bag and drop them in her violin case as she played.

And so, whilst she launched into ‘Autumn’ or something, I scoured the town centre for a bag of pretzels. Not being so popular outside of New York, never mind in the West Midlands, I struggled, only finding a bag from the Boots’ ‘Get in Shape: Low Fat’ range. I decided it was better than getting a bus to the supermarket from whence I’d originally found them, and so bought these, the healthier option, and dropped them in her case, as planned.

Later that evening Vicky responded to my text. “Thanks for the ‘Get in Shape: Low Fat Pretzels.’ Very considerate,” she wrote, mentioning nothing about going out for a drink. I hoped, if nothing else, that the pretzels would make her thirsty. But, of course, I thought, they were reduced in salt. Needless to say, I’ve not heard from her since.    

Message in a To: Box

Top Tip, readers: When sending a mass group e-mail, address it to yourself and put your contacts in the BCC box. That way, you get a copy (and everybody likes e-mail, even if from themselves) and the warring fractions of your social circle aren’t awkwardly placed together in the To: box, their e-mail addresses on display.

Have you ever glared at an impossibly impersonal group e-mail, its To: box a-brimming with addresses, and wondered why Timmy’s came before yours? Whether it would be inappropriate to e-mail your mate’s fit sister? Or who eatonsht@dku.edu is? (It’s Helen Thomas Eatons of Duke University, if you were wondering.)

I certainly had a few questions (and a few answers) upon receiving an ex-girlfriend’s change of address e-mail this morning. It seems she’s still with her boyfriend, whom she addressed first, and whom – it appears – has a surname worthy of ridicule. She’s also still in touch with her hot friends, whose e-mail addresses I now have, and with whom it has been a pleasure sharing a To: box.

Even more interesting was how fervently she added me to the list. I was the only recipient to appear thrice, ensuring the message’s delivery. Interesting especially since we don’t talk. Well, not since I wrote an extensive post about her on this here blog (see Postcard from the Camel's Mouth). Perhaps, knowing what a fan of Google I am, her switch to Gmail is an effort to get closer to me. Or perhaps I’m reading far too much into it. Perhaps, in fact, I should get back to work, before I find myself the only recipient of an angry e-mail from the boss.

Dressed to Kill

I had no sooner shelved a posting, called ‘Pocket Full of Poses’ on the advice that it was too self-obsessed, when tonight its sentiment rang violently true. Perhaps one day it will see the light as part of an unreleased collection for die-hard fans (I hear there are already bootlegs in Asia), but its gist was one of standard self-deprecating fare, alluding to the name-calling my appearance elicits, from foppish hair to impractically white leather loafers and every metrosexual muscle in between.

Beth – erstwhile girlfriend, incessant critic – argued that it was too insular and failed to connect with the larger, more pressing issues on readers’ minds: global terrorism, the ‘Islamic threat’, Craig off of Big Brother. Tonight however, I found that same insular subject the unwitting site of a body politic, a dapper scapegoat for our badly dressed social ills.

As I wandered the length and breadth of the bar, looking for my friends, I suddenly felt my conspicuousness. Tall, dark and in a carefully handpicked outfit, I was the antithesis of the short and pasty “chavs” that watched my every move. Unable to find a single familiar or even friendly face I sat myself between breasts instead and chatted to a lady by the bar. In this instance, I was a brunet having more fun than a blonde.

That was until the chavs, in their baseball caps and tracksuits, muscled in.
“What’s a gay twat doing with a bird like that?” one asked.
“Well, I’m not gay.” I said, thinking the situation itself made this quite obvious.
“Of course he’s gay,” one said to another. “Look at his shoes.”
At this the shoes shied away. Hoping to get a better a look, a third clamoured under the table, seemingly to be with the loafers.
“Don’t mate,” his friend warned. “He’s probably got a bomb in them!”

Which would, of course, if their theory proved correct, make me a gay terrorist. Could you imagine? (“Does my bomb look big in this?”) I assured my lady friend that I was indeed neither; that I was, in fact, a lover, not a fighter; and packed nothing more sinister than a sex bomb (sex bomb). Despite this, and I guess through fear of guilt by association, she too left.

But what is my association – what is my relationship to the phobias and the isms in the minds of those young men? Does my wearing white shoes make me gay? Does my having a brown face make me a terrorist? Are those the indicators - the tell-tale signs?

Last night I narrowly avoided a fight. The police were called in and the boys, who got more and more aggressive, left unscathed (the lucky bastards). This morning however, looking at the weekend papers, it seems some other young men, in Central London, didn’t escape the grip of the police so easily, nor the scorn of the tabloid press. “Got the bastards,” screamed the headline of The Sun, referring to the arrest of the suspected London bombers, stripped to their underwear, their brown faces filling the 11’’ X 7’’ page.

Turning over I saw another brown face but under a different headline. “Teenager Killed in Racist Attack,” and I thought to myself how tragically one begets the other. Hatred begets hatred. The “cowardly suicide bombers” of The Sun article are, after all, suspects, but their coverage in the news media breeds the kind of hatred that threatens to infect a nervous nation.

I don’t suspect this is the last time I will notice its effect. Nor can I change my brown face or my white shoes. Well, I suppose I can change the shoes. But why should I? George Michael, a singer who is actually gay and not adverse to a bit of white shoe wearing himself, sang in the aptly titled, ‘Freedom’, that “sometimes the clothes do not make the man.” But, for the chavs in their tracksuits, the suspected terrorists in their pants, and even for me, in my shiny white loafers, it’s often hard to escape the assumption. At least unscathted.

Goff or Go?

Strange though it seems, I hate to talk about art in an art gallery. I’d rather do that museum shuffle, hit the gift shop, gobble a panini (or what is essentially a toasted sandwich) and leave the whispering analyses to the culture vultures more in the know.

I’m always slightly afraid that one might overhear my transparent paraphrasing of the gallery programme, swoop down and brand me a philistine for my hopeless pronunciation of artists’ names. (Is it Goff or Go?)

Today at the Tate, I’ll admit, I took credit for some rather intelligent observations regarding Cubism that were not entirely my own. “Its radical fragmentation of the human body,” I said, glancing at the museum notes, “and aggressively angular forms could also be seen to reflect a troubled and changing world.”
“Gosh.” The lady was suitably impressed. “And who painted this?”
“Diego…” I began, having caught the first name in my discreet glancing. “…Maradona.”
“The football player?”
“That’s right.”
At this point, she too glanced at the museum notes. My eyes followed and soon realised that my hopeless pronunciation had exposed me again. The lady, also realising this, slowly pulled her jacket from the bench, shuffled towards the gift shop and left me for the vultures. It was Rivera, I thought. Bloody Diego Rivera.

There's no such thing as a three lunch

It used to be I’d say to people, “hey, I’m getting kind of fat.” And people would say, “what are talking about?” with some surprise, “you’re totally skinny.” Then recently, I’d say the same, and they’d go, “yeah, you are putting on some weight.” Now, quite remarkably, people are volunteering this information. “Dude,” they say, looking at my belly. “You’re fat.”

How did this happen? In just a few months I’ve gone from floater to bloater. My blazers are tight (and not like in an indie rock and roll kind of way), my jeans don’t fit and, well, I don’t even want to talk about the swelling in my feet. I find myself wearing more black, saying stuff like, “moment on the lips, lifetime on the hips”, and asking retails assistants if my bum looks big in any number of outfits.

Now that everybody and their mama is noticing (never mind that my lifestyle is inherently unhealthy), I feel driven by vanity to act quickly. This involves switching from regular M&S ready meals to their ‘Count on Us’ low-calorie range, drinking spirits instead of beer and occasionally – get this – walking over to the TV to change the channel. (That won’t last.)

But, before my toes disappear beneath the shadow of my belly, I am going to have to do something. Even if that means just eating the one lunch.

Romeo, Juliet and her three kids

When a friend of mine, Amanda Mullins, called Friday night and suggested I go to bed early in preparation for the ball she and her husband had invited me to, I did just that. Though it was early, like early morning, by the time I got to bed and late afternoon when I woke up and vowed to never drink again.

I was therefore most excited, and somewhat hungover, to attend the Prestfelde School Summer Ball, an annual knees-up for the sort of well-to-do parents whose incomes could afford its offspring’s private education. And so, as a childless, single, twentysomething male, I expected to fit right in, though perhaps bore more likeness to its pupils than parents.

The Mullins had invited me – and I was flattered – because they couldn’t think of “another single guy” and, frankly, it doesn’t get any more single than this. They had a spare seat on their table that needed filling and my ass stepped up – and sat down – to the job. I didn’t really give much thought to whom I might be sitting next to, or whether my attendance made an even number and therefore some lucky lady’s night.

Was this a blind date?

When Amanda’s husband, Steve, picked me up yesterday afternoon for a little pre-ball drinkage that question was answered. No, Steve was not my date. She was inside, finishing her nails, and while Steve ran in to collect her, I spoke to her neighbours and realised that this was very much a date.
“She looks absolutely stunning,” one said. “She’s doing her nails last.”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s the way I do it.”

Then out she came – Juliet – and, true to her neighbour’s word, looked, and this is no overstatement, absolutely stunning. I suddenly felt tiny in my suit and swore that the guy who had rented it to me had only convinced me that it fit because it was late in the day and they didn’t actually have my size. Bastard.
“Hi,” I said, extending a hand from somewhere in my massive dinner jacket. “I’m San.”
“Nails,” she said.
“Right.” And the evening would continue, in a mostly awkward fashion. “We can just wave.”

And, as we left, three children did, waving at Juliet and staring at the boy that sat beside her, not much older than themselves. Staring back at little Alvin, Simon and Theodore, I realised that they were her kids and I was on date with – in its literal sense – a MILF. And she looked stunning - tall, dark, handsome in a feminine way, and in a sexy black dress that plunged in all the right places. She even looked like a certain soap star I’d harboured strong feelings for. This was going great, I thought. But things were about to get worse.

Drinks with the Mullins became an open discussion about kids and grandkids even. And since I’m not long out of my own childhood I could at least bring a different perspective to the table. When Juliet left to go outside for a cigarette I decided to take up smoking and join her. It was then that we realised the twelve years between us. “That’s a whole person!” she exclaimed. “That’s almost a teenager.”
I tried to downplay it by stepping a little closer and giving it the old, “you’re as young as the person you feel,” but in saying so, sounded about twelve.

The evening continued in much the same way. She popped out for a smoke, I joined her, said something wildly inappropriate, and generally ballsed it up. I asked her to dance however, which I thought was rather appropriate, since we were at a ball, but she insisted that she didn’t. This, like my sudden smoking habit, was untrue, and I soon found myself swinging into her on the dance floor. It seems we were both with other people and, at least, having a good time, albeit not with each other.

And while Juliet swung with Steve – or so it seemed – Amanda asked how it was going.
“Yeah good,” I said. “I think. I mean, I haven’t actually seen her very much.”
“I’m sorry, San,” She said, genuinely apologetic. “I thought you were the same age - that you might have something in common.”
“She’s 34.” I said. “And yeah, I suppose, she likes Coldplay.”
“I like Coldplay!”
“Everybody likes Coldplay.” We both burst into laughter with this and, while the house band segued into a rather jazzy version of ‘Yellow’, took to the dance floor. The disco lights dimmed a predictable colour and, looking around at all the parents, all tuxes and ball gowns aglow, I realised that for one night, with their kids tucked in bed, they were in their twenties again. Amanda was totally drunk, Steve was dancing outrageously with my date, and I think someone was even smoking a spliff outside. And everybody was liking Coldplay.

And when I kissed Juliet goodnight I knew that in the morning she’d be in her thirties again, and I wondered if, in ten summer’s time, I might be here, in my thirties, acting twenty and with kids of my own. It was a sobering thought. And, with it, I vowed to never drink again.

Message from sansharma.com

Below is the result of your feedback form. It was submitted by Bylli Crayone (xxx@Yahoo.com) on Tuesday, June 21, 2005 at 20:14:49

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Location: Boston, MA USA

Body: Hi. I found your site from another fan of MJ who had your pic on her site. I thought to myself "Wow, he is cute!" I clicked the photo thinking it would make the photo bigger but instead brought me to your website. Very impressive. I think you are amazing and would love the opportunity to talk or even meet you.

Sincerly, An online Admirer.

~Bylli Crayone

www.BylliCrayone.com

write back please.

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Your Hapless Hero

People have noted that I, more so than others, seem to find myself in those awkward situations that are funny in retrospect. Perhaps, with a mixture of oddball humour and sadomasochism, I place myself in such situations. Beth has suggested that it’s not the frequency with which they happen but the way in which they are told. Or maybe I’m just that goofy. Either way, the following – unfortunately – really did happen to me. And all in the space of a few days.

---

The weather has been unusually hot. Or so it seems. We Brits, I’ve noticed, are always surprised by the changing of seasons. It’s like we didn’t know it was coming. And although it’s June, generally considered a summer month, the warm and pleasant weather is a major topic of conversation. “Isn’t it hot?” we say to one another, and will continue to until around October when we’ll say, “Isn’t it cold?”

This past weekend was particularly hot and so I slept with my bedroom window wide open. As did, so it transpired, the girl upstairs. She’s pleasant enough and though we’ve not struck an immediate friendship exactly, we’re certainly on “hi” and “hello” terms.

I was most surprised in the morning however to hear her add another greeting to our phrasebook. “Good morning,” she said, followed by a yawn and the sort of creaking that I can only assume was her stretching in her bed.
“Ah,” I said, pleasantly surprised. “Good morning.”
Then, after another creak, this time louder, a third person added, “good morning.” It seems, further to my surprise, that she was not alone. I was, or so it felt, more so than ever and while my neighbour and her male friend continued their creaking I rolled over, awkwardly, and hid under the covers.

---

More often than not my trips to the supermarket are long overdue and I find myself walking back with more bags than I can manage. On this particular morning I hadn’t walked far at all when two bags broke and twelve bottles of Becks smashed around me in a sort of fountain of beer.

I’d not even made it passed the car park and, since it was a Saturday, there was plenty in the way of unhelpful though entertained shoppers. One of whom was an old lady, so British in her unfriendliness that she stared at me as though I’d wronged her in some way. “That wasn’t very clever, was it?” she snarled. “Well, I wasn’t going for clever.” I quipped, before crouching down to pick up the pieces. What my motivation was exactly, I don’t know, but what happened next was an even greater mystery.

I’ve come to accept that the zipper on my jeans has a tendency to open by itself. I kind of view it as being playful, though at times inappropriate. (Again, my apologies to Shrewsbury High School.) But I’ve never known the top button to undo itself. That was until this moment, crouched in a pool of beer, when I stood out of my jeans. That’s right. I stood up. My jeans did not. And the little old lady suddenly fell silent. As embarrassed as I was, I was quite proud of that fact.

---

No pride could be gleamed however from this story. Already embarrassed by the heat rash that the surprising weather had caused my face, it was with reluctance that I accepted an invitation to a barbecue with my friend Sïan. Told that – “rash or no rash” – I could not flake (though, if you saw my face, you’d beg to differ), I met Sïan after work and we caught a cab to the barbecue. I’d no sooner commented on the taxi’s clean upholstery when I had the sort of nosebleed that upholstery dreads.

To make matters worse nobody had anything to stop the bleeding. Well, that is nobody had any tissue. Sian however had panty liner, which she – in the panic and the rush hour traffic - shoved under my nose. Imagine the scene, if you will: I’m sitting in a stationary taxi, pedestrians wandering past, holding a bloody panty liner to my face. I’m sure the other guests were similarly charmed with the delicacy I brought to the barbecue. “Gosh,” one said, looking over. “Isn’t it hot?”

Michael Jackson: The Monster that Lurks Among Us

The three month trial that ended this week with the acquittal of Michael Jackson was the ultimate assassination-of-character attempt on the one time King of Pop. And as he emerged for the final time from the Santa Maria courthouse Monday he was a free, albeit shadow of a man, hobbling to his SUV, barely managing to raise a hand to acknowledge his fans, many of whom recognise him now only as a zombie from his Thriller music video.

He appeared the relic of a human being, whom once, to quote Sir Bob Geldof, sang “with the voice of angels. And when his feet move, you can see God dancing.” His fall from grace was neatly packaged for network television and we gawped and gazed, not at the mastery of his art, but at the curiosity of his demise. From master to monstrosity, Michael Jackson is, at best, a freak.

But Michael Jackson is us.

Since he was a child, he has had the tragic misfortune of having been cast as a lightning rod for our cultural diseases: racism, homophobia, gender confusion, celebrity obsession, sexual obsession, materialism, beauty obsession, paedophilia, security obsession. The bomb that loomed over Jackson’s head over the last few months can not be underestimated.

And it took 12 sensible-minded men and women seven days to defuse it.

We can see the way American culture has deteriorated to a society at war with itself – eager to demonize, unable to heal – in the tragic deterioration of Jackson's face and form. The crossover King of the 1980s, who offered a true promise, to quote Funkadelic, of “one nation under a groove,” left the courthouse on Monday to a more divided America.

The ugly ordeal of the past few months revealed a monster that lurks among us. Only it turns out the monster was not the freak.

It was the assassin.

Jerry Maguire 2

Hello. Of all American romantic comedies, Jerry Maguire is probably the least likely to spawn a sequel. That is, of course, unless Tom Cruise and Renée Zellweger were to reprise their roles for a decidedly downbeat divorce drama. (Can you imagine? Jerry Maguire 2: “Show me the child support!”)

Still, I delivered a memo with such veracity last night that it left me feeling, and not for the first time, like our chisel-jawed hero. Short of taking the gold fish with me (I do hope you’ve seen the film), I outlined my idea to revolutionise business to a somewhat panic-stricken company director.

“Oh God. What is that?” She asked, pointing at page three of the memo.
“That...that is a sketch of my brain.”
“Right.”
“It delineates how much of it I use for each task…”
“Was there a need for the blood?”
“I thought it would add...effect.” Then, standing suddenly, I shouted, “who’s with me?!”
“San, there’s no-one else in the room.”

And so the meeting continued. She pointed at indecipherable sketches; I explained my intentions; all the while, skating the underside of thin-ice, aware that at any point – and I almost expected it at the page headed, “Don't Chase Money” – she might present me with a box of my belongings (which is always the way people are fired in movies. Have you noticed?).

Instead, she went very quiet, gathering her thoughts, I guess, and the memo that lay strewn across the table. And in the silence, I pictured a box somewhere, filling with executive toys, issues of NME, an assortment of biscuits, and whatever else I have on my office desk (overdue work probably).

It’s unlikely that I will be fired. But, if I did have to go, it would be nice to have a fish or a Renée Zellweger to take with me. And you, of course. Though I had you at ‘hello,’ right?

See You Next Thursday

It’s the fear of right wing Daily Mail readers everywhere: The colourful immigrants that dot our towns are not painting them red, or enriching them with their cultures, but quietly muttering insults upon its locals. Have you ever sat on a train, overheard foreign language speakers and thought, for a minute, that the joke they’re sharing with their friends is on you?

Surely not, I thought. But today, I found myself – and not for the first time – sharing the fears of a Daily Mail reader. (The first time I was genuinely worried about the Y2K Bug.)

The Town Frier in Shrewsbury is a brilliantly named chip shop in the centre of town, and run by a family of Indian immigrants, one of whom I’ve taken a particularly shine too. (Chip shop workers too, I find, are particularly shiny people.) He’s made a sincere effort to sound English and, since knowing him, I’ve noticed an improvement from the Carry On language of yesteryear, to the sort of Gallagher brother English he employs today, going as far as referring to his younger brother as “our kid.”

He does usually converse with his family in Punjabi, and fair enough. Today however the conversation took a turn for the worse and, upon handing the customer ahead of me his order, he muttered a word that, translated into English, is generally considered the language’s lowest point. To his credit, however, it was at least in keeping with his adopted Gallagher tone.

And if you haven’t already guessed it, a Google search, at least with the Safe Filter on, returns a dissertation on the word’s cultural history.

****: A Cultural History

English Tea

"What happens when you leave tea in a cup overnight?" My Gran asks - in Punjabi - while I sip on a good English cuppa.
I reply the best I can - in English. "Er, Santa Claus drinks it?"
"The cup stains black."
"Right."
"So, what do you think happens to your insides when you drink tea?"
Surely not, I think to myself. Overwhelmed by this, I take one last breath of fresh air before the stale lecture about what I should and should not be drinking begins.

Water, milk and orange juice are all good apparently. (One can only imagine the colours swilling inside my gran's belly.)
"Do you drink water?" She asks.
"In my tea I do." It's a good job I didn't mention all the Guinness that was had last night.

She actually believes this stuff though, that's the funny thing. She actually thinks, as I write this, that I'm staining my soul, or what remains of it, black. You see, she thinks it's despicable that I speak so little Punjabi, though I can understand most. I would like to defend myself by saying that she's been in England for fifty years, while I've seen the occasional Bollywood movie, and still my Punjabi is streets ahead of her English, but a) it's a bit disrespectful and b) my command of the language is not yet that great.

I'm now fearing for my insides as she shoves a large and brightly coloured Indian dried milk pudding under my nose. I try some.
"You like?" That's the most English she can manage. That, and "you no like?" depending on the situation.
"Yes Gran," I say. But, like brightly coloured, saccharine Bollywood movies, it's definitely one for small doses. And so I decline a second helping - or forcing, rather.
"You either like it or you don't. I don't understand." We're back to Punjabi now and then, in a shock move, she unleashes a torrent of English. "You like it? You no like it?"
I swear to God, or rather many many limbed Gods, if my family weren't Hindu they'd be Jewish. And so I open my mouth, though not to speak, take another bite and think this would all taste a lot better with some good English tea.

Lost in Transmission

You may remember the story of Dana, the girl from Ohio, the bunch of roses I sent and the ‘thank you’ that never was: an episode we at sansharma.com are calling ‘flowergate’ (conjures a lovely image, doesn’t it?). I had just as soon put the whole incident behind me when, late last night, my mobile beeped (or rather played a Bright Eyes song, as I have it set) with a message. It was Dana, clearly unfamiliar with the workings of the world clock, texting at what was already an unsociable hour in her time zone, and, evidently, the middle of night in mine.
“How are you doing” it read, sans punctuation. “Well I hope”

Having just woken up from a particularly harrowing dream (Vanessa Feltz again), my brain, booting in Safe Mode, struggled with the syntax of the short and punctuation-free message. I remembered how texting is far less of a common thing in America and assumed that, being unfamiliar with the system altogether, Dana had sent the message prematurely, failing to finish her sentence.
“Well I hope,” she may have intended to write, “you might forgive me for not thanking you sooner…”

And so in my semi-slumber I replied with what, in retrospect, might seem a remarkably rude message.
“If there was anything interesting in that message,” I wrote. “I didn’t get it,” thinking, of course, that something was lost in transmission. Then, alluding to the bunch of roses, “did you get a delivery recently?”

No sooner was my message delivered when hers suddenly made sense. “How are you doing?” it should have read, question mark and all. “Well, I hope.” Full stop. “Well, I hope.” Not, “well I hope...Liverpool win the bloody Champions League tomorrow night.” Needless to say, she did not reply to my message. I doubt even that she got my flowers. She would have said thanks, wouldn’t she? Well one would hope so…

Love, In Actual Fact

Driving to the airport tonight at top speed and with the Bridget Jones soundtrack ablaring, I had the odd feeling that I was on some romantic quest to halt the departure of an unrequited loved one. Odd especially since I am in, actual fact, collecting my parents, whom I love...requitedly (though unromantically), on return from their holiday. Even now, sitting in arrivals I’m tempted to run at someone and say, “Stop! I bloody love you!” In fact, I’m actually considering the redhead in the knee-high boots. Imagine how that would go…
“Pardon?”
“I said ‘I love you’…what’s your name?”
“What?!”
“That doesn’t matter to me. So, I don’t know your name…” A crowd is now forming around us. A security guard puts down his scanning device and listens in. An air hostess stops in her tracks. “I don’t even know if you have a boyfriend - ”
“I’m married.”
“Right.” Just then hubby walks over. “I didn’t know that. But I do know – what is your name?”
“Diane.”
“Right. I do know, Diana –”
“It’s Diane.”
“Sorry – Diane. I do know that I love you.” With that female members of the audience swoon. “And you mustn’t get on that plane.”
“What’s going on here, Diane?” Diane’s husband is a remarkably large man, and I begin to wish that I'd picked on the minger in the tracksuit. She’s obviously single. “Is this bloke bothering you?”
“He says I mustn’t get on the plane.” The audience awakes from the slumber of their swooning and gasps in fear.
“Nobody board the plane!” The husband shouts to the crowd. And then quieter but with no less urgency, to me. “Especially not you.” Then everything goes dark.

Awaking from this thought I’m relieved to find that I am not covered in blood and reconsider the whole romantic terrorism thing altogether. Instead, I watch returnees wheel their luggage from the carousel to the crowd, appearing from behind a screen, looking tanned and tired and for family and friends. As I stand with them and behind the barrier that separates the tanned from the untanned (which I am, I’m not sure), I think to myself that it’s an arrangement not unfamiliar to celebrities the world over. The security, the barricades, the adoring fans. Throw in some red carpet, supermodel Caprice and a Star Wars prequel (not much, I know) and we’ve got ourselves a movie premiere.

The old man approaching is there already, waving at nobody in particular but enjoying his moment all the same. Hey, I know the next couple...It’s R2D2 and C3PO – my mum and dad, back from a Balearic Island, far, far away.

Sorry for the Delay

Sorry for the delay…Man, I start a lot of sentences that way.
“Sorry for the delay in replying…”
“Sorry for the delay getting here…”
“Sorry for the delay in child support, Little Jimmy (which is what we’ve called him)...”

I am sorry for not having written sooner. Although, to be fair, I have been writing – but it’s been so sub-standard that I’ve had to lock it away in a safe. Perhaps one day it’ll appear as a bootleg at a book fair. (Do authors have bootlegs? This is how much I read.)

This lack of anything interesting to write about, I’m sure, comes from a lack of doing anything interesting. You don’t want to know what I’ve been doing. Although, now I feel obliged to tell you, before you draw your own – very sinister – conclusions.

I’m currently fifteen miles (and five years) from my flat, and in the town where I spent my formative years, house-sitting for my parents while they sit on a Balearic Island, soaking up the sun. And since I’m unable to compromise the life of comfort and convenience that I have become accustomed to at the flat, I find myself driving between my two residences several times a day.

All this is very tiring. So much so that I’m getting my chores all mixed up and have started watering the dog and walking the plants. This is one reason for my delay in writing. Another is that things are particularly busy at work. I don’t imagine if I worked day and night that I’d get everything done. And so, when I’m wide awake, and less busy, I’ll write more. I am really sorry for the delay.

Thank you, please

I hold doors open for people all the time. Sometimes it’s an inconvenience. You know, when you’ve already walked quite some way but see someone coming and hang back in a sort of limbo, holding the door with just a few fingers and an act of balance. But they say “thanks.” And I let people out at junctions when I’m driving. I can be there for a while, just waving people through. They nod. Sometimes they mouth the words. But it’s usually “thank you”. (Once it I think it was, “what are you doing? I saw you here an hour ago!”) And you know, if you’re in my office, and I’m making a cup of tea, I’ll make you one. And you’ll probably say thanks. But these are minor gestures really. Small acts of kindness. Nothing a little appreciation doesn’t make worthwhile. So imagine, if one day, you do all those things – those little things – and add to them one grand gesture. And then no “thank you”.

You see, I met this girl...And so many stories start this way, but this one doesn’t end in tears, or a fleeing to America, or a restraining order. This girl, and I think I’ve mentioned her already, I met in Miami (so we were already in America – no fleeing necessary) and, frankly, we hooked up for the time I was there. Nothing serious. I mean, we did get on (and ‘it on’), and exchanged contact details and all that, but, of course, had no realistic plan to see each other again. She did however ask me to call her some time for a chat, but I got the impression that she didn’t really think that I would. And, in fairness, I didn’t.

But, last week, when Cinco de Maya struck (if you don’t know, a sort of Mexican holiday where there’s lots of beer and Gringos are killed and eaten), I thought to send a case of Corona to her home in Ohio. I thought it’d be a kind gesture. Like a ‘I-had-a-great-time-haven’t-forgotten-you-the-results-were-negative-from-the-clinic’ type thing. But it turns out, such are the laws in Ohio, that it’s incredibly difficult, if illegal, to order alcohol online. And so, with the determination to send something, I ordered flowers, albeit roses, but not red and not with a note worth noting. I didn’t mention the clinic, but did allude to the great time we had together and my original, though unhatched, plan to send her a case of beer. It was kind of funny actually and, at least I thought, sweet. And certainly deserving of a “thank you”.

But here we are. Not a phone call. Not an e-mail. Not even a nod. No “thanks” whatsoever. But it’s not like I’m going to ask for one. (If I did, I would probably say “please.”) And so, as my good friend Beth kindly calculates the ludicrous cost per rose of this grand gesture, and I wonder if I might get a refund, I ask you, dear reader: when did a “thank you” require a “please”?