Chapter 12 - Jim, Sunday

I promised myself I’d get out of the house today. What’s the point of having two days off work if you just spend them at home getting on the cat’s nerves? It certainly wasn’t doing me any good staying at home, and in truth I was getting bored. Much as I liked my own company I prefer myself when I’m happy and interested in stuff. The me that sits around reading the paper and dozing all day bores me to tears and part of me wants to kick his arse and tell him to pull himself together.
So that’s why I find myself on top of a hill watching grown men fly kites when really there’s hardly enough breeze to hold them up. It’s fun watching them soar momentarily, followed by the desperate tugging to keep them in the air and the inevitable crash back down to earth. And yet they keep throwing them back up, hoping some mysterious breeze will take it higher than the time before. You have to admire their perseverance. And you have to admire the patience of the women who’ve come with them. They’re sat on a blanket, passing round a bottle of wine, clapping - possibly ironically - every time one of their men gets his kite to fly, and “oooh“-ing dramatically when they come crashing back down again. They seem to have no interest in having a go themselves, and I doubt the men would let them even if they wanted to, - they just seem happy to make the most of the unseasonal sun.
I can’t remember the last time I flew a kite - it must have been thirty years ago. It wasn’t really a big part of my childhood, although I think they made one on Blue Peter once and for a few weeks afterwards everyone I knew was trying to get these homemade kites off the crowd, but more often than not ended the afternoon heading home with a handful of broken sticks and knotted ropes, only to reappear with it the following day once some long-suffering parent had put it back together. I seem to remember mine had paper bunting trailing behind it, although it mostly trailed on the floor as I could never get it to fly. We soon grew out of them and went back to our bikes, and I’ve not really thought about it since. I wonder what makes grown men want to take it up again?

This morning started slowly - I woke up early, but dozed on and off till about eleven, when I decided enough was enough and got up. Twenty minutes in the shower helped me feel more human, and the toast worked wonders as well. Thankfully the previous night hadn’t been too bad - I’d hardly got halfway through my spliff before I felt myself slipping into sleep, and I managed to put it out before I dropped off completely, although if I’d have fallen asleep with it still lit in my hand it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d nearly set fire to the bed.
I felt well rested, and was even whistling as I wandered around the house, which took the cat by surprise - he eyed me suspiciously from his corner of the sofa, but overcame his disdain when I rattled a box of cat biscuit at him. I was just puzzling over what to wear - the weather was so changeable lately that a good day could turn bad before you had chance to notice - when Mum phoned. She needed something doing round the house, but I think it was just a pretext to get me to go round. I’m not surprised, it’d been a few weeks since my last visit - I really needed to do better, but just hadn’t felt like it. Anyway, I promised to go round in the week, and she promised to make me a roast, which I was genuinely looking forward to. No one makes roasts like your Mum, because only theirs remind you of the ones you had throughout your childhood. And there’s something about homemade gravy that always hit’s the spot. I almost wish I’d gone round today, would be nice to have a proper meal.
But instead I wrapped myself up in a big jumper and a nice woolly hat and headed off for a walk. I hadn’t really given much thought to where I was going - there’s usually something going on some place nearby, so I was leaving it to chance. It was hardly a surprise when I ended up in the park though - if you’re going to walk somewhere on a sunny day it ought to be somewhere green, unless you can get to the beach, but that would have to wait for another day.
There were the usual Sunday afternoon people about - families with push-chairs, groups of kids with footballs, elderly couples getting out of the house for a bit, and the occasional couple out on a date - nice afternoon for it, and a nice place to be. I tried not to think of all the times Maria and I had been here, after all it was just a park! I can’t start letting a big patch of greenery make me sad, that’s just stupid.
I ended up watching the kites because it was a good excuse to stop and sit down. There’s something odd about sitting on a bench on your own staring into space, so it was good to have something to focus on. Of course none of this would be necessary if I had a dog - I could wander round to my hearts content and no one would be bothered in the slightest. That’s the crap thing about cats - you can’t walk them. Or get them to do anything you want basically. Still, as cats go Basil wasn’t that bad, and he’d had a lot to put up with lately bless him, what with me moping round the house all the time and his favourite playmate - Maria - vanishing without so much as a goodbye. Maybe Mum will let me bring some roast dinner back for him.
Somehow that thought cheered me up, so I went off in search of an ice cream - avoiding the roller-bladers and kids on skateboards on the way. I wish I could skate, it looked so much fun! I did have a pair of inline skates, which everyone laughed at, suspecting they were a symptom of a mid-life crisis, and in the end I only wore them in the flat once. I was too scared to get far enough away from the furniture to move, so they went straight back in the box and I guess they’re probably still in the loft. Perhaps I should get them out and give them another go? Or give them to Simon, he could do with loosening up a bit. I’m glad he never phoned about lunch, although I suspected he wouldn’t anyway - one social event was enough for me this week.

The ice cream just made me realise how hungry I was, but what could I do about it? It was too late to round up friends to eat, and in truth I didn’t fancy the company, and neither did I fancy eating on my own. So I guess it was back home to cook. Hmm. I couldn’t remember there being any actual food in the house - part of a loaf of bread, a couple of bottles of wine, maybe some fruit, but nothing you could actually conjure a meal out of. So I headed out of the park in search of a shop, thinking that time spent preparing my own food might be nice and would give the afternoon some purpose. But what to make? It wasn’t like I walked round with a load of recipes in my head - if forced I’d probably make bacon sandwiches, which hardly counts as cooking. Pasta? Sausages? There was no point planning, because whatever I decided to do the shop was sure to have run out of . So I’d leave it up to chance, and if chance decided I was having trifle for tea then so be it!

Chapter 11½ - Some mothers….

“Hi, this is Nick, I can’t take your call right now but if you leave me a message I’ll ring you back. Bye”
“Oh, you’re not back. Christenings obviously go on a lot longer nowadays. I expect you’re all being terribly modern and celebrating down the pub. Hmm. Well, give me a ring when you get, but only if it’s not too late. And if you’re sober. Bye. Oh, it’s your mother.”



“Hello, is Dave there?”
“Hi Mrs Mack, no he’s not, he’s at the gym.”
“Hi Danny. At the gym again? He seems to live there lately! Is he ok?”
“Yes, he’s looking very well on it”
“Is he eating?”
“Oh yes, like a horse”
“That’s good. And how are things with you Danny?”
“Good thanks Mrs Mack.”
“I wish you’d call me Doreen - Mrs Mack sounds like my mother”
“Sorry, I’ll try”
“OK, well if my son ever comes home will you get him to give me a ring?”
“Of course I will”
“You still single Danny?”
“Hmmm, yes.”
“What a waste. It’s a pity my sons so stupid, you’d make a lovely couple”
Nervous laughter at the other end of the phone.
“Bye bye Danny!”
Bye …. Doreen.”


“Hello?”
“Jim! It’s your Mum”
“Hi Mum”
“Where’ve you been? We’ve been trying to get hold of you for days!”
“Is everything ok?”
“Yes, it’s just this blessed DVD player. Your father took it upon himself to move it and now it won’t work. I was hoping you might sort it out next time you were round.”
“OK Mum, although I’m not sure when that’ll be. Things have been a bit busy lately and I haven’t had much time to myself.”
“They working you too hard in that office still? No wonder you can’t get a girlfriend, she’d never see you.”
“It’s a good job Mum, I can’t let them down. And besides, I enjoy it.”
“I know you do love, but you always sound so tired and sad when I speak to you.”
“I’m not getting enough sleep, but I’m OK Mum.”
“I hope so love. Do you want a word with your father?”
“No Mum, I’m just on my way out. Tell him to check all his plugs, and if it still doesn’t work I’ll pop round in the week.”
“OK, come to tea, I bet you’re not eating properly. I’ll cook you a roast.”
“OK Mum, that’d be nice, I’ll ring you at let you now when I’m coming.
“OK love, bye bye.”
“Bye Mum.”


“Simon?”
“Hi Mum, you OK?”
“Have you spoken to Nick?”
“No, not lately, why?”
“He was going to that christening today and he’s still not home. I bet he’s out drinking with your father.”
“Dad might not have gone, they’ve probably just gone back to Emma’s for food or something.”
“He wouldn’t tell me if he had seen him.”
“No I don’t suppose he would, because you’d only get upset about it and shout at him.”
“Well, is it any surprise? Siding with the post mistress against me? What kind of son does he think he is?!”
“Calm down Mum, he’s probably just at the pub with his mates. If he phones I’ll tell him to give you a call.”
“Tell him not to bother, I’m all worked up now, he’s ruined my afternoon. How did I raise such a selfish son?”
Silence.
“Oh don’t you stick up for him ,you’re just as bad!”
“That’s not fair M….”
The phone is slammed down at the other end.

Chapter 11 - Gay Dave, Sunday

Blimey, last night was messy. I’m not surprised - it was an odd mix of people, and from the start of the evening there was a feeling that things were going to kick off. I just wasn’t expecting it to get so drunken so quickly!
Honestly, I felt like death when I woke up - dry mouth, dirty skin, gritty eyes, matted hair, aching limbs - there wasn’t one part of me that felt good. I’d have loved to have slept through the day, but Danny was wandering round the flat singing along to some girly pop shite. Cheery twat. There’s no need, especially not on a Sunday morning. But I guess 11 o’clock is hardly morning, so he had every right to. I tried hiding under the pillow for a bit - to block the light out as much as his cheeriness, but it didn’t work so I gave up and stumbled off to the shower.
The water felt good, washing away the dirt although it did nothing to relieve my tiredness. God I felt rough, it was going to take more than a fry-up to bring me back to life! I could hardly look in the mirror as I cleaned my teeth and rearranged my hair - the light was too harsh, and made the bags under my eyes look worse than they were. So I concentrated on my teeth, letting the mirror steam up and doing my hair my touch. In truth there was nothing to it - wax on hand, warm it up, slap it on my head and push it round till it looked artfully mushed up - bed hair really, which is ironic as that’s what I’d had before I got in the shower.
I headed back to my room, dressed only in a towel, which got an appreciative whistle from Danny. He was taking the piss of course, I was no more his type than he was mine. He had a thing for tall hairy blokes, which ruled me out since I started shaving my chest. God, the grief he gave me when he found out, you’d think I’d murdered someone! I only did it as an experiment - some bloke at the gym mentioned it, said I’d look more toned if I lost the hair. I thought it was a chat up line to be honest, and after having seen him in the shower I rather hoped it was, but things never progressed any further, even after I’d taken the plunge and done away with my fur. He gave me a big smile when he saw it, but we’ve not really spoken since. So much for a chat up line then. He was right though, it makes my pecs look even perkier, although that’s mostly due to the hours I’ve been putting in down the gym. I never thought I’d take to it like I have, but I’m pretty compulsive about things so as soon as I started I got completely obsessed - bought all the kit, read all the magazines, even started to eat a little better. Of course nothing could persuade me to give up the drink so a six-pack remains a pipe-dream. But it’s been good fun, and I actually feel a lot better for it too. And the looks I’m getting now certainly make me feel better.

Danny was preparing some complicated vegetarian lunch, involving more types of bean than I knew existed. He invited me to share it with him, knowing I’d say no, opting instead for the first part of my hangover cure: orange juice, a cup of tea, chocolate and crisps. It wasn’t lunch - just something to get me through the next couple of hours until my head cleared and I could make a proper food decision.
Ten minutes later I was dressed and ready to leave.

“Where you off to Dave?”
“The gym Dan, wanna join me?”

As if - Dan didn’t do gyms. He looked like he ought to do yoga and cycle everywhere, but I’d never known him take any exercise in all the years I’ve known him. Unless you count browsing in second-hand bookshops as a sport, in which case he was a world class athlete. He grinned at me, knowing how stupid my suggestion was.

“No thanks mate, wouldn’t want to cramp your style in the sauna”

Cheeky fucker. He had this idea that all I did was sit in the sauna for an hour cruising strangers! Did he think these disco tits grew themselves?! I’m not saying I never went into the sauna - on days like today it was a must - sweat the alcohol out of my body, by the time I got out of there I’d be a new man! And, yes, sometimes I did chat up blokes in there, although they were invariably straight blokes who were after someone to show them a good time while their wife looked after the kids. But I had a strict ’no married men’ policy - it honestly wasn’t worth it - the last one was so grateful for a wank he decided he loved me and started stalking me. God knows what he’d have done if I’d have actually slept with him! It was only when I threatened to tell his wife that he stopped bugging me, although sometimes I think I see him watching me in crowded palaces, which I guess is just paranoia.

“Not with this head mate, the last thing I want is a shag. A good fry-up and twelve hours sleep more like. And one of your neck massages if I’m lucky.”
“No problem, if I’m here when you get back I’m sure I can help you with that. You sure you don’t want food before you go?”
“Food, yeah. But that bean thing isn’t my idea of food! Right, I’m off, be good!”

As if he’d be anything else. Bad wasn’t in Danny’s repertoire. It’d be annoying, but he wasn’t smug about it, he was just thoroughly nice. He seemed like an odd choice of flatmate, but I was desperate to find someone to pay the rest of the rent, and cheery singing aside he was quiet and tidy. And he had some cool friends, who always seemed to be doing really odd and interesting things then coming back here to tell him about it. And once they started on the wine there was no stopping them - you’d think they were slightly worthy, dusty lefties, but get half a bottle red inside them and they’d be singing and dancing like everyone else. And they never made a mess!

The gym wasn’t that busy when I got there - Sunday lunchtime was a good time to go if you wanted to miss the crowds. Everyone else was at lunch or still sleeping off the night before. There were a couple of meat heads in the weights room, their necks thick as tree trunks but there legs woefully underdeveloped - somebody should have told them early on to make sure they worked out all of their body equally, but it was too late now and they looked like the weight of their necks alone would snap their legs. All that grunting as well, how stupid. And those silly little gloves they wear when they lift weights. Honestly!
I jumped on a cycle, slipped on my headphones and spent a happy fifteen minutes looking at the arse of the bloke on the cycle in front of me. It was one of the bonuses about the gym - lots of fit men in shorts! Next up the treadmill, so I switched the music to disco and ran for half an hour. By the time I was finished my shirt was soaked and my head had started to clear. I may even have been singing along, which is a bit of a gym faux pas, but there was nobody about anyway do it didn’t matter.
Then it was off to the machines - the chest press, shoulder press and then off to the mats for sit-ups. I closed my eyes and kept crunching until I couldn’t do anymore - I never counted, preferring to keep going until it hurt. Then resting and do it all over again. I’d never get the six pack I wanted, I just wasn’t disciplined enough. Perhaps if I’d eaten Danny’s bean stew it might be more achievable, but life’s too short, and until you’re naked who can tell anyway? Then onto the stepper for fifteen minutes, just to make sure I keep a firm bum. Don’t want that heading south now I’m getting older do we!
After a few stretches it was time to hit the showers, which were deserted - no surprise there. And then the sauna. The heat hit me as soon as I opened the door, taking my breath away. But once I’d sat down for a few minutes I got used to it. There was no one else there, so I took off the towel, it only made me feel hotter and sweatier, which hardly seemed possible - I could always hide under it if anyone came in, not that that was very likely.

I think at some point I must have drifted off, because I certainly didn’t notice the other bloke come in. Unless he appeared as if by magic. Neat trick if you can manage it. He was sat opposite, eyes shut, humming to himself. I took advantage of the moment to check him out - good arms, slightly flabby chest, bit of a tummy, but it was the shaven head that did it for me. Then he opened his eyes and caught me looking.
“Alright mate”
The grin on his face was more welcoming than you’d expect, and I suddenly became aware of the fact that I was naked and he wasn’t. I reached for the towel.
“don’t put it back on because I’m here. In fact I might even join you.”
This wasn’t typical straight bloke talk. Although actually come to think of it it was very typical of a particular type of ‘straight’ bloke. I checked his fingers, and there it was - the wedding ring! How desperately unoriginal it all was, and yet did I have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon?

Chapter 10 - Simon, Sunday

I should have gone to a christening this morning - my cousin Emma’s first child, which would make him my second cousin I guess. But Dad was invited, and although he’s a bit unreliable about family stuff I didn’t want to risk bumping into him. It’s been so long since I last saw him I’m not even sure I’d know what to say to him. I can hardly remember why we stopped speaking, I guess it must have been out of loyalty to Mum, although as I was 25 at the time I guess I could have been more grown-up about it. But I always was a bit of a Mummy’s boy, but nobody was surprised. Nick still speaks to him occasionally, although I think he only does that to prove some kind of point to me and Mum. Well, he’s welcome to, I don’t want to have to make small talk with the post mistress.
And anyway, I can’t remember the last time I saw Emma - grandpa’s funeral maybe? Although come to think of it I’m not sure she went, she’s a bit sensitive about those kind of things, or so her mother likes to claim. Maybe I haven’t seen her since her wedding? God, what day that was! We couldn’t avoid going, it would have just been rude not to, so we spent all day on edge waiting for Dad to turn up. Mum was so tense she was knocking back the drink in a way that I’ve never seen her do before, and then she fell over during the hokey-cokey and it all got a bit mad. She was upset and Auntie Maggie had to go and rescue her from the toilet. I think she might have broken the door down. Anyway, Mum was dragged out sobbing, her hat all askew and the front of her dress all wet. Thank God Maggie doesn’t drink and could sort it all out - Nick and I had been getting on each other’s nerves all day and I’d drunk too much. I seem to remember him snarling at me to go fuck myself as we left the church, and we pretty much avoided each other for the rest of the day, which was quite an achievement considering how small the village hall was. I don’t think we’ve ever spoken about it since, but you can feel us all tensing whenever someone mentions Emma or weddings, as if any minute the whole sordid story might be retold.
I wish Nick and I were better friends, but somewhere in our teens we stopped confiding in each other and we’ve never managed to get that closeness back. I wonder if it was because he knew he was gay and didn’t want to tell anyone? He must have kept so much of his life secret at that time, no wonder he couldn’t wait to leave home and go to university, and no wonder we rarely saw him at home after that. Of course Mum was gutted - her baby boy a poof? What would the neighbours think?! Dad of course didn’t care, but then I think he’d already started having his affairs by then and was distancing himself from the family anyway. At one point Mum blamed Nick for Dad’s affairs - she had some mad theory about how Dad was punishing her for making Nick gay, by sleeping with the lady from the Co-op. Poor Nick, he hardly knew what to do, so he called her every name under the sun and left. I don’t think they spoke for two years after that. I really must phone him.

So this morning I ended up taking Mum out. She’d phoned before nine, just to check that I’d not gone behind her back to see Dad I guess. She sounded a bit flat, and although she never mentioned the christening I could tell she was sad to have missed it, and was concerned she’d never get to play the proud grandma at one of her own grandchildren’s christenings. Poor Mum, the odds aren’t looking good. But typically we never spoke about it, and instead just chatted about the weather and what we’d done the day before. She made no mention of the neighbours, so hopefully that storm’s blown over as well. It’s bound to blow up again when we need it least.
Anyway, I had no plans. Well, a half-hearted plan to have lunch with Jim, which neither of us really expected to honour and which I’d pretty much forgotten. So after Mum hinted rather unsubtley I agreed to meet her at the Sunday market, then go for lunch somewhere. I haven’t got much time for markets. I’m too lazy to see the beauty beneath the dirt - I want shiny new things, not battered old things that need some work. When have I got time to that kind of thing? And actually I’m not very good at it, none of the family are. We always had people in to do that kind of thing, so we never got shown how to do it - Dad would never let us interrupt the decorator with our stupid questions, because he was paying for his time and that needed to be spent painting, not showing small boys how to apply emulsion. And there was no point asking Dad as he wouldn’t have known anyway. So we grew up without a lot of the skills that might have been useful in later life. True, I can make a sponge that the WI would be proud, but somewhere along the way that became the kind of skill I didn’t want to boast about.

By the time I got to the market Mum had already found some china, none of which matched and none of which looked worth any more than she’d paid for it. I’m not sure why she needed more teacups, didn’t she already have dozens? But at twenty pence each she simply couldn’t leave them behind. They’ll end up in a cupboard until after she dies when Nick and I will just through them out, neither of us certain if we’ve ever seen them before. I wish she wouldn’t, but it’s impossible to tell her to stop, as she just thinks you’re trying to spoil her fun. So I obediently carried her shopping, all the time trying to steer her away from anything I didn’t want her to buy. But she doesn’t miss a thing, and pretty quickly we had more stuff than I could carry. Why she needed two glass jelly moulds is anyone’s guess. I wonder if she’s made jelly since we were at primary school? You don’t as an adult, well I certainly haven’t. There’s something very childish about it, but not in a way that makes me want to rediscover it. But who knows, perhaps next time I’m at Mum’s she’ll be serving it for tea?
I finally managed to get Mum away from the stalls with the promise of lunch. But first we had to get the stuff she’d bought back to hers - there was simply no way she’d manage to drag it all back herself, and I didn’t want to take half of it home with me in case I couldn’t resist the urge to chuck it in the first skip I came across. So we jumped on the bus and headed back to hers.
The first thing I noticed was the apple tree, and the appalling mess she’d made of it - a branch poked over the fetch, all splintered and broken as if a giant had bitten through it. The garden around it was trampled and scattered with leaves and fruit, and the fence was scraped and dented. God knows how she did it, or frankly why, but she’d clearly chopped the branch off with something blunt and inadequate for the job. I was terrified of meeting the neighbours, so I kept my head down until we were in the house. Probably best not to mention it, not unless I wanted another chorus of how difficult it was not having a man round the house. I always took those kind of conversations as some kind of hint, but I’m just not good at that kind of thing so it usually takes tears to get me to help out. Does that make me a bad son?
We ended up eating lunch in the pub round the corner. Mum doesn’t really do pubs. She’s not really that sociable, and I don’t think she likes that many people, so going out is a bit of a nightmare for her. And I guess she’s from a generation where women would never dream of going and eating out on their own. I’m no one to judge, it’s a skill I’ve yet to acquire myself. But the pub is modern and anonymous - a family pub in an area of middle-class families. Hell with beer basically, but they do a nice roast, which is something me or Mum would never bother to do for ourselves in a million years. Once we’d found a table sufficiently far away from the smokers and the kids, Mum relaxed, tensing up again briefly when the waitress came to take our order. From there on in it was small talk all the way - neither of us were stupid enough to mention the christening, which also meant Nick was a bit of a no-go area too. And she knew better than to ask me too much about myself. For my part I didn’t want to get into the whole thing with the neighbours, so we ended up talking an awful lot about the weather and the food. Thankfully the vegetables hadn’t been boiled to within an inch of their life, so Mum got to complain about that, which made her happy, and gave her a good excuse to decline pudding.
I walked her back home, stopping for a cup of tea and the inevitable conversation about the tree. I think she realises she made a mess of it, but is too stubborn to admit it, and would never apologise to the neighbours in a million years. I promised to go back next week and tidy it up, which gives me a week to work out what on earth you do to a tree that’s been butchered by a mad woman with an axe. If I’d had any sense I’d have taken the axe away with me, but you can’t carry an axe on the bus can you!

Chapter 9 - Nick, Sunday

Ooooooohhh, bad head. Bad, bad head.

I wish they’d play that bloody organ a little quieter. Serves me right for coming to church with a hangover, after less than four hours sleep. What was I thinking?! Even the most devoutly religious person would realise this was a dreadful mistake. But a family christening needs family, so one of us had to be here, and, as Simon or Mum refused to come in case they bumped into Dad and She Who must Not Be Mentioned, I guess it had to be me. Emma’s not exactly close family, whose cousins are nowadays? We’re strictly Christmas cards, wedding and funerals, although thankfully not many of the last two lately. But she’s nice, certainly a lot nicer than her snobby sister, so it’s good to see her again. Pity about the organ though.

So. Last night. Well, we met at the pub, although I was a bit late - last minute wardrobe crisis: I ditched the spangly top for a shirt, which felt comfier and looked more grown-up. God knows how that found its way into my wardrobe, I must have been going through a camp phase when I bought it. By the time I got there they were one round ahead of me - Brenda in particular was in good spirits, and at one point was sat on Big Ben’s lap. I think she was secretly trying to grope him but he didn’t seem to care. Steve’s mate looked a bit glum when he realised we were going to a gay club, but then Amy and her sister turned up and he started chatting them up in his monosyllabic way and seemed much happier. Only Ben looked a bit flat - I can’t work him out, I wasn’t even sure if he was gay to begin with, but the way he trails after Big Ben it soon became pretty obvious. Bless him, he doesn’t stand a chance, Big Ben is in a world of his own and the only person he’s interested in is himself. Of course sometimes he’ll include you in it if it’ll help him have a good time, but when you’ve served your purpose that’s that.

Several drinks later we were all starting to get a bit rowdy, so it was just as well it was time to get to the club. It wasn’t far, and so rather than work out which bus to take or jump into a few taxis we decided to walk. It was still warm so there were loads of people out and about, and when you’re pissed distance doesn’t really matter. Me and Brenda were skipping ahead of the others, and I think at one point we were singing show tunes. Oh God, how camp. And she was desperately trying to fix me up with Big Ben, despite the fact that she knows I’m off men at the minute and the only thing I’m taking to bed with me is a good book. But bless her for trying.

The club was packed - well, it was Saturday night, what did we expect? We had to queue, but it chilled us out a bit, and it’s always funny listening to other people’s conversations. The blokes in front were clearly having a bit of a tiff, but it was being carried out in a series of whispers and hisses. I fully expected one of them to flounce off at any second, but then they got in and later I saw them dancing madly with their tops off as if nothing had happened. My top was staying firmly on. This skinny frame doesn’t see the light of day unless it has to. I’m the proud owner of Morrissey’s body circa 1984, which stands out a mile amongst all those buffed, tanned young things. It’s a curse I have to bare!
Most of our crowd headed to the bar, but I was done drinking for the night - I’d already had far too much - it was water all the way for me. So I stood at the balcony looking down at the dance floor. It was still a little early in the evening, so the floor wasn’t packed and people weren’t off their heads yet and going for it. What never ceases to amaze me is how young they all are! I’d never have had the wherewithal to get into a place like this when I was a teenager. Or the cash for that matter. But they were here in droves, all decked out in new outfits, shiny and keen. So much hope. God I felt old. I might have slunk off then if Brenda hadn’t appeared, waving some lurid alcopop at me and beckoning me to follow her to the dance floor. As luck would have it one of those great early ‘90s house anthem was just starting, and before long I was waving my hands in the air singing loudly about how I was free to do what I want to do. Nice sentiment, and sometimes it seems like it might almost be true.
I think we pretty much stayed on the dance floor for the rest of the night. The rest of the group drifted in and out, sometimes in the company of cute strangers, but mostly it was me and Brenda. We must have looked like their parents, out for a night on the town, but I think we had more fun than all of them, because neither of us were expecting to pull - we’d just gone to dance, and dance we did, until my shirt was soaked and my fringe was damply hanging in my eyes.
At some point I remember Big Ben dancing with me, we grinned at each other, laughing as we waved our hands in the air, and he just reach for me and pulled me too him and we were snogging. Not tongues, not serious kissing, just drunkenly giggly kisses, until the music changed and he spun away into the crowd. God I’d forgotten what that felt like, kissing someone new. It’s been a while, but it felt good! I don’t think I saw him again after that, and I guess from the sad look on Ben’s face he must have pulled. I’m not surprised, he’s good-looking and up for a laugh, he probably could have got off with anyone last night. I wonder who he did get off with? But it meant nothing, and I think later in the even I may have even had a feel of Brenda’s bum, although god knows what that was about!
Ben ended up coming back with me. It was so late he didn’t want to wake his family up. Brenda would have took him, but he had an early shift and I’m far closer to work than she is. Besides, I had to be in this stupid church at this foolish hour, so I was getting up early anyway. It was a bit of a shock to find him on my sofa this morning, I’d more or less forgotten he was there. He hardly looked old enough to go to work, let alone go out dancing all hours. The last thing you need on a hungover morning is youth! Nothing is so aging as youth. Still, he sweetly thanked me for letting him stay, and even tidied away the pillows and duvet while I was in the shower. He looked far too perky, I wonder if he was actually drinking last night?

So then I dragged myself across town, unable to face a bus in a suit I called a cab and gazed out of the window all the way here as the driver sang along to Dolly Parton songs. I wasn’t in any state to make sense of a middle-aged man singing Jolene, but the sun was shining and it made a strange kind of sense. And it was certainly more entertaining than these dour hymns. I was remembering Emma’s Christening - I must have been seven or eight, and in those days it was still a separate service just for the family, not part of the regular service. I think Mum put me in a bow tie, and I definitely remember wearing shorts. There was probably a homemade cardigan I expect. But it was the late seventies and their church was going through a belated hippy phase, so I seem to remember singing some jolly song, not the dull hymns I recognised from school assemblies. There may have even been a man with a guitar. I think Mum wore a hat, and Emma cried all the way through the service.
She looks all grown-up now, but she still cried all the way through the service - I don’t think she stopped dabbing her eyes all the way through. The baby was oblivious to the whole thing, although he did cry once or twice when the organ played. I’m not surprised, the pianist played like a drunk and it was loud enough to shatter glass. Even the older aunts around me couldn’t make there voices heard over it, and I heard one or two of them muttering about it when they should have been praying. I just looked at my feet and wondered how much longer we had to endure. We were never big on God in our house, although we went to Sunday school for a few months. I think it was one of Mum’s attempts to get us to ’mix’, which were doomed as we didn’t want to. So this whole thing is a bit of a mystery to me, and I’m rather surprised Emma bothered - I don’t remember her family being any more religious than ours, but then I never expected her to be a Mum either so there’s no telling.
I think I saw Dad sneak into the back of the church just as it was about to begin, although it didn’t look like he had Shirley with him. I wonder if he’ll go to the thing afterwards? I’m not even sure where it is. Sounded like a hotel or a pub, I hope it’s not far or I’ll have to scrounge a lift with someone I don’t know, or worse still some relative I haven’t seen in years who will comment on how I’ve grown and wonder when they’ll be coming to a Christening of one of my kids. Fat chance. I’d have thought word would have spread by now.
God I wish that bloody organ would stop….

Chapter 8½ - Brenda, the remix

"My name is Brenda, I am a showgirl"

Except my name isn't Brenda and I work in Tesco. Brenda is just a nickname I appear to have been christened with, and if it wasn't said with such affection I think I'd be insulted. Do I look like a Brenda? Brenda is a middle-aged woman's name surely? I'm a long way from being Brenda! Would a Brenda find herself in a gay club at 3am, dancing on the stage with a load of boys from the checkouts? No, she'd be at home in a face mask, safely tucked up with her dull husband.

It's been a fab night, I haven't danced this much in years, and stopped caring that my feet hurt hours ago. The sweat is pouring down my face, and my arms ache from dancing with them in the air for so long. Yet every time the bass starts thumping I can feel my heart race and I find energy I didn't think I had. I honestly think I could dance forever! My head is empty, all I can feel is my body moving with the music, driven by the music. And I haven't taken anything to help me feel this way. I must have sobered up hours ago. It's just like that Madonna song: "..only when I'm dancing can I feel this free!" Oh dear God, comparing my life to Madonna lyrics? How gay am I?!

Big Ben's cute. Cheeky beggar, but quite shy, so it took me by surprise when I came back from the toilet and spotted him snogging a complete stranger! Good taste though - the other bloke was gorgeous! Haven't seen them together since, which is a pity as they made a good-looking couple. I had hopes that he might get off with Nick, but on the way from the pub nick drunkenly warned me against setting them up. Bless him, he was so pissed and was trying to be serious about it, and all I could do was giggle at him. The more I laughed at him the more he stood there, hands on hips, saying, “Brenda, it’s not funny!” Stupid thing to say to a hysterical drunk woman, so he gave up and we ran down the road arm in arm singing, “we’re off to see the wizard!”

I do hope they don’t call me a fag hag behind my back. It’s not like that - they’re a lovely bunch, but I’ve come for the dancing as much as anything. Most of my girly friends don’t want to dance - they want to go out and chat up blokes, but what could be more dull? It’s a long time since I had this much fun with a strange bloke I met in a pub, I can tell you! Now where’s those boys, I need some company on the dance floor!

“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen!”

Too fucking right I am! Look at me and my boys! We’re loving it! I’ve never seen such happy smiling faces! And we all know the words! I know you’d expect me and Nick to - if you looked you probably find the single in our lofts, but the Bens are only seventeen, they weren’t even born when this was out. Oooh no, wrong thought, that makes me feel hideously old - put that thought out of your head girl, you’re seventeen, you are the dancing queen!

Oh my God, they're playing Kylie, could tonight get any gayer?!

Chapter 8 - Jim, Saturday

Another day wasted. I hadn’t meant to - I only got back into bed as it’s the comfiest place to read in the flat. I can barely manage ten minutes on that sofa before I start to fidget, and then I’ll make a cup of tea and before you know it the TV is on and the book has been abandoned. But not bed. Bed is safe, bed is cosy . Propped up on all the pillows, duvet pulled up to my chin, blinds open just enough for me to tell whether it’s day or night, answer machine on, bed is best!
But I honestly hadn’t intended to spend all day there. I’d slipped a coat over my pyjamas and nipped over the road for a pile of papers, planning to skim through them, get dressed and wander out to find some food. But once the coffee was brewed I spread the papers on the floor and before I knew it it was lunch time, and all I’d done was absorb information I could happily have lived without, about people I’ll never meet. The fact that it was a broadsheet newspaper didn’t disguise the fact that it was essentially trivia and gossip.
I might have still been there if the cat hadn’t come and sat on the paper, tired of hovering in the background trying to get my attention. Sat in the middle of the sports section I could hardly read round him, and he did have a point - it was time I fed us both. Smart though he likes to think he is, he’s not clever enough to get a tin of cat food open, so I do have my uses. Not many obviously, but this was one of them. So I scooped him up, endured the bout of face-licking that followed, an extra bribe clearly, just to make sure I complied with his wishes, and set off to find dinner.
He was in luck, even if I wasn’t - I opened a foul-smelling tin of something with turkey, then had a rummage through the cupboards for something for myself. The last of the bread had gone stale, and although I’m a bit lazy I do have my standards, so coat back on again and I headed over the road for bread, collecting chocolate and tobacco while I was there just in case I never made it out of the house again. And so I didn’t, well at least not yet, and at this time of night I’m unlikely to bother, although I guess a takeaway might not be a bad idea…

Cat fed, and my toast washed down with a lukewarm cup of coffee I sat on the sofa for a bit thinking about my day. In truth the options were endless - I didn’t have to be anywhere or meet anyone, the world was literally my oyster. But inevitably too much choice was paralysing. Can’t decide? Then don’t. There really was no need to leave the house, so I didn’t. I toyed with the idea of a little spliff, but it was too early in the day even for me, so I grabbed the chocolate and headed to bed to read.
It’s one of the things I’ve enjoyed about being on my own - you can read so much, and there’s no one to distract you. No one to frown at you as if to say, “shouldn’t you be washing up? Shouldn’t you be paying attention to me? Shouldn’t that light be off so I can sleep?” I guess a reader and a non-reader just can’t live happily together, like smokers and non-smokers - there’s a fundamental misunderstanding that can never be bridged. Maria could never work out why I stay up till 2am reading some book I was obsessed with, when I could be in bed with her gossiping about her friends. OK, that’s being a bit mean, but she wasn’t a big reader, preferring magazines about building your own home and classic cars to a novel. She’d always force herself to take whatever was popular at the time on holiday with her, but I ended up reading most of them while she swam and made friends with strangers. She had real stuff going on I guess, she didn’t need made up stuff.
But I’ll read anything - good, bad, stuff I’ve read before - bring it on! I’ve been haunting charity shops lately, habitually spending £5 on a random selection of books, with no expectation of them being any good, but every now and again I’ve found something that has made my head spin and then I’ve set off to find everything else that person has ever written. I guess it’s just another version of that blokey need to collect stuff, although, apart from failed relationships I haven’t really fallen into that trap: most of the books end up back in the charity shop, and music never really gripped me enough to collect Cds and stuff. At one time I had more suits than was really necessary, but fashions change and some of the fabric was starting to look a bit dated, so they’ve gone too. So when Maria took her stuff with her it all suddenly looked very empty. No wonder I’m hiding in bed, I don’t have to sit and look at the space where he stuff used to be.

Now it’s several hours later. I’m not sure what time it is as Maria took the alarm clock and I’ve been using my mobile to wake me up in the mornings. Judging from the light outside it’s after 10. It’s dark, but the moon is bright and the sky is clear.
I may have dozed for a bit, but I think I’ve pretty much been reading all afternoon. One novel down, one started, neither of them likely to become firm favourites, but both sufficiently entertaining to see me through to the end. But I should eat I guess - pity there’s no food in. God I wish that cat could cook! I can hardly face takeaway, and the decent shops will be shut. If I’m going to eat cheap microwave noodles I’m gonna have to get stoned first. I might as well, it’s not like anyone’s going to ring up now and drag me out - one people start thinking of you as a couple they stop asking you out, assuming you’ll be amusing yourselves and won’t want to mix with them anymore, and now I’m not it’s hard to get people to remember to ask. I know I could initiate stuff, but clearly I can’t be bothered! Honestly, I’ve hardly got out of bed today - what are my chances of organising a dinner party, should I have even the merest inclination to do so.
So a spliff it is. Papers? Yep. Chocolate? Yep. Water? Yep. I’m good to go. Hello sweet nothingness! I swear I could roll these in my sleep. I just love the ritual of it, the sliding the paper backwards and forwards between your fingers to make sure it’s evenly rolled, the slowly licking the paper to seal it - always right to left, never the other way round. The final tap on the tin, a kind of good luck thing. The flare of the match, the crackle of the tobacco, the first hint of a smell, the first mouthful of smoke. However did I give up for so long?…..

Chapter 7 - Nick, Saturday

“This is a staff announcement: all checkout staff to tills please. That’s all checkout staff to tills, thank you”

God I sound camp when I do that! But pathetically the thrill hasn’t worn off yet. And I still have the urge to say things I shouldn’t - how fab would it be to tell the shop that the bloke fondling lemons has a great arse? It’d perk up everyone’s day for sure, even if it’d be the end of my job.

“This is a customer announcement: would the smelly old man who complained about our carrots kindly go fuck himself. Thank you”

If only! A little honesty would be refreshing, there’s too much of this, “how can I help you? Have a nice day!” shit. God I’m grumpy today. I half wish I’d agreed to go clubbing with them all tonight, a big drunken night out would help blow this mood away. I can’t help thinking by the time I’ve spent an evening in with a bottle of wine and the laptop I’ll have turned myself into a crazy person, whereas a little drunken dancing might make me feel better. Perhaps if I see Brenda I’ll have a word with her.

I don’t know why Simon’s so snobby about this job. It pays the bills; I get a good staff discount; and most of the people I work with are nice enough. I don’t spend all day hiding from people like he does or wishing my colleagues were dead. Customers yes, colleagues no. What would I do with a career? It certainly won’t keep me warm at night! Although it has to be said I’ve been keeping myself warm at night a lot lately . I wonder if it’s time to get a cat? It just seems so clichéd, and I hate cliché, and yet somehow I always end up behaving so predictably. Oh good, there’s Brenda!

Excellent! I’m going dancing! Brenda squealed with delight when I told her I’d changed my mind, which made some customers stare, then she gave Ben a bit of a look and he grinned and blushed. I wonder what that was all about? I hope she’s not trying to fix me up, he’s a child! Honestly, I think I’m old enough to be his Dad. I must have a word with her before we go, don’t want there to be any awkwardness later.
What can I wear? It’s not like I have a wardrobe full of clubbing clothes. In fact I can’t remember the last time I danced. Oh yes I can, it was Sammy’s grim wedding where we all ended up walking home because we’d forgotten to book taxis. And someone’s drunken girlfriend fell in a ditch and sprained her ankle. I remember her sobbing about the twigs in her hair and the mud on her face, too pissed to realise she as only standing up because she had one man on either side of her holding her up.
I wonder if people dress up? Or is that just straight clubs? Will I be allowed in without the obligatory tight top? Have I got time to dye my hair blond, lose four stone and turn into a mincing twink? Damn, perhaps I should have stuck with no. I should no better than to make decisions in a bad mood, I just get reckless and do the wrong thing

“This is a staff announcement: would Nick stop being such a twat and chill out. Thank you!”

It’s good to get a break, time for a cup of tea and a biscuit, and more importantly a gossip in the staff room. There’s always new people starting, so there’s a constant stream of new rumours, plus the old and ongoing ones about affairs. And that’s before we even get started on the work stuff! There’s a rumour doing the rounds that Brenda is having an affair with one of the managers, which can’t be true, I’m sure I’d have heard about it from her if it was.
I wish I smoked so I could go and join the others outside, but they’re very protective of their little group and don’t like non-smokers to join them. How come all the people I like smoke? I never bothered to take it up, and yet everyone I know seems to. Although there was those few times at sixth form when we were bored during free periods, and that boy I had a crush on showed me how to make roll ups. It looked so cool when he did it that I could almost forget that it was slowly killing him. I made a right mess of it, I never was very good at that kind of thing, I’m all fingers and thumbs. I seem to think the tobacco fell out it was so loose. Or did it fall apart as soon as I lit it? I failed to impress him anyway, and certainly blew any chances of getting a snog from him. As if, he was straight anyway. God I was sad!

Ooh, we had some excitement! A shoplifter! Not often we get those in here, or if we do we never notice them, which is probably more like it. This one was particularly thick - one bottle of whiskey up each sleeve and another down the front of his trousers. As if no one would notice that! Never mind the security tags on the bottles, or the fact that one bottle dropped out of his sleeve as soon as the alarm went off and he tried to leg it! Still, I’m impressed out security bloke got him - he’s a lazy git, always standing round gossiping to the shoppers, you could walk out with a till and I doubt he’d notice. It was fun to see him run after him - for a big scary bloke he runs awfully like a girl. Me and some of the girls on the checkouts stood at the doors watching, and when he came back all red in the face and flustered we had to make our excuses and leave so he couldn’t see how much we were laughing at him.
Turns out the thief was seventeen, and doing it for a dare, or so he says. Cocky little twat, although it has to be said he looked a lot more sheepish when the police turned up. It was that cool policewoman who always comes in and buys organic dog food and piles of cheap crap for herself. Poor little boy looked like he was going to cry as she led him out, and I think security Brian might actually have snarled at him as he walked past.
Well that certainly brightened up the afternoon. Saturday afternoon’s are so busy, but they’re really dull as well - nothing but families doing a weeks shopping, Mum and Dad with a trolley each, shoving crisps into the kids as they go round to keep them quiet. Anyone with any sense stays well away. You can feel the stress in the air and it rubs off on the staff, and before you know it we’re all getting snappy with each other. Like that rude cow on till three - if she asks me to get her a barcode again without saying please I may have to slam her fingers in the till. There’s no need.

Half an hour to go. I caught up with Brenda and pretended to be sorting out a rota so we could make plans for later. I saw Deputy Sally giving me the evil eye, but I just smiled sweetly and went back to pointing at my clipboard. So we’re meeting at a pub first, sounds like there’s going to be quite a crowd - Ben and Big Ben, Brenda, Amy and her sister, Steve and his funny little mate who never says a word all evening and always ends up pulling the most beautiful girl in the place. And a few others who work days when I’m not in. Should be fun, but I never did decide what to wear. Pity we’re not a bigger store, I could have raided the clothing department for something new. Or is it too tacky to go out with work mates wearing something you’ve all been selling all day? I’m hoping inspiration will strike when I get home. I must remember to grab a bottle of gin before I leave, just to get me started at home. And some food, don’t want to end up starving and scoffing some awful burger made entirely of pet food. Or coming back drunk and eating everything in the house, but uncooked because I’m too pissed to work the oven. I’m really looking forward to it now!

Chapter 6 - Simon, Saturday

“Hello?”
“Hello Simon”
“Hi Mum, how are you?”
“I think my neighbours are spying on me.”

This wasn’t quite as mad as it sounded. They had a history of minor arguments, made worse by the fact that Mum didn’t have enough to do and tended to brood about things and make them worse. But they appeared to have reached some kind of truce lately, so this wasn’t a welcome development.

“What makes you think that?”
“Every time I look out of the dining room window they’re looking out of theirs at me.”
“How often has it happened?”
“About a dozen times”
“This week?”
“No, this morning”
“This morning! Mum, it’s hardly 10 o’clock. Have you spent all morning looking out of the window?”

Silence. An ominous silence. This wasn’t going to be good.

“Mum? I thought things were better between you?”
“They were”
“Were? What have you done?”

More silence. Oh God.

“Mum?”
“Well… You know their apple tree?”
“Yes of course I do, we practically lived off the apples from it when we were kids.”
“Well, it’s got a lot bigger since then and needed a bit of a prune.”
“You pruned their tree?”
“Yes, a little”

Was she mad? This was an old apple tree, and from what I could remember it was too big to prune. I dreaded to think what was coming next, but I said nothing hoping she’d just spit it out.

“You know there’s a law or something that says you can prune your neighbour’s tree if it hangs over your garden, but you must give back the bits you prune ?”
“I think I’ve heard that, yes.”

I thought of Mum standing on their doorstep brandishing a dismembered bough and was surprised they hadn’t phoned the police!

“So you gave it back?”
“No! it was too heavy to carry”
“Jesus Christ Mum, you cut off a branch that was too big to carry? Have you gone mad?!”
“It needed doing Simon! Don’t shout at me! Someone has to do it since your father left!”

No, please not the father thing. It was her ‘get out of jail free’ card - any madness could be absolved by the fact that her husband left her, and she wasn’t shy about using it. It was bollocks of course, she’d behaved in odd ways for as long as I could remember, but just liked to make people feel guilty.

“OK Mum, the tree”
“Well, I couldn’t carry it so I dropped it over the fence.”
“Why didn’t you just leave it for me or Nick to chop up?”
“It was untidy, you know I don’t like mess”
“So why are they being funny with you?”

More silence. Now we’d got to the bottom of it.

“what happened?”
“I dropped in on their cold frame. How was I to know it was there? They didn’t used to have one there! Squashed some plants or something, I don’t know, Jim didn’t make much sense when he shouted at me.”
“Oh Mum, why do you keep doing this kind of thing?”
“I’m just trying to look after myself Simon, I’m not going to sit inside and let everything fall apart because your father ran away with the post woman!”
“Mum, that was thirteen years ago!”

At that point the doorbell went, so I promised Mum I’d ring her later, then went to see who it was. I wasn’t expecting anyone, and John was at work as usual, so it was unlikely to be for him. Probably kids messing about.
So it was a bit of a surprise to open the door and find Gay Dave standing there. We started calling him Gay Dave at college, to differentiate him from Straight Dave, although oddly no one ever called the other Dave Straight Dave anymore, yet somehow Gay Dave had stuck. He looked tired, and slightly overdressed for a Saturday morning, but it was always nice to see him so I let him in.

“What are you doing here?!”

He grinned that cheeky grin of his, the one that gets him out of any scrape he’s been in, the one he uses to charm the boys to bed. Fucker. He’d been shagging, it was written all over his face.

“I was in the area although I’d pop in, it’s been ages since I saw you.”

More grinning.

“In the area at this time of day? Since when did you do the suburbs on a Saturday morning? You look like you’ve not been home”
“True enough, but it’s still good to see you. I need a shower, can I jump in yours while you make me a coffee?”

This was so Dave. You always ended up doing what he wanted, you just couldn’t help yourself. And he was right, it was months since I’d seen him, although there had been plenty of emails from him, with increasingly lurid tales of drunken nights out. Of all our group he was the most outgoing, although it was starting to look a lot less like youthfulness and more like immaturity. Love him as much as I did, I wished he’d slow down before he got into trouble. No sign of it happening any time soon though if this morning‘s appearance was anything to go by, and in the mean time he took great pleasure in recounting his adventures in more details than most of us needed.
The coffee was cooling and I was flicking through the paper by the time he came out of the bathroom with his shirt off. Nice. Except I shouldn’t think like that, he’s an old friend, it’s not right. He grinned again - he’d clearly caught me looking.

“You got a shirt I can borrow? Mine stinks of cigarette smoke, which isn’t pleasant with a hangover.”
“Help yourself, you know where they are, although I expect they’re a bit dull for you.”
“Were you staring at my chest?”

Rumbled. Bugger.

“I just wondered when you started shaving it?”
“Liar. Couple of months ago. Someone at the gym said you look more defined if you shave. I think he just said it as a chat up line, but funnily enough it’s true. A bit of a chore though, so I might let it grow back”

And off he went to rummage for a shirt, whistling something as he opened draws and cupboards. He was never going to find anything he liked - I didn’t possess anything with a designer label on it. I expect he was just rummaging to see if he could find anything incriminating. He’ll be lucky!
Five minutes later he emerged from the bedroom in my best shirt, and annoyingly it looked better on him than one me. He’d obviously found hair gel as well, as his hair was back up where it belonged. He looked ready to face the world again, and would no doubt be out of here in search of adventure in no time.

“Hmmm, good coffee, I needed that. Now I feel more human.”
“Late night?”

That grin again.

“Oh yes. It was stupid to stay though, didn’t sleep a wink, and had to make awkward excuses to get out of there this morning.”
“What was he like?”
“Make me some toast and I’ll tell you all the gory details! Not much butter, loads of jam, thanks!”
“Make yourself at home why don’t you!”

But I already had the bread in the toaster, and was wondering which type of jam he’d prefer. Strawberry would be too dull, although he could be going through one of his retro phases where he embraced the old-fashioned and quaint. I settled on raspberry, because it was all I had. I think the rest had vanished in a late night jam eating frenzy - one of those “I hate my life, where’s the food?” moments when the shops are shut and you’ll eat anything that look remotely like food. I seem to remember eating butter once, although the good thing about having a flatmate is that there’s always someone else’s food to raid if you get desperate. Luckily John had a sweet tooth and a bad memory, so he never noticed the odd chocolate bar going astray. Or if he did he never said anything. Perhaps the toothpaste thing was his way of evening out the score?

“Your toast your ladyship, now tell me about last night’s victim.”