The boss is sitting at his desk in the corner. He's distracted by texts from his current 'girlfriend' ( usually they're from Eastern Europe, who he's met at a bar at 2am on a Sunday morning ). He's trying to write her a romantic text.
Apparently his current amour has already taken to calling him by a nickname ( some variety of cuddly animal, which he refuses to disclose ), and his thumbs are furiously roaming his impractically small keypad in an attempt to keep up the repartee.
He turns to me: 'I need an animal.'
'What do you mean, you 'need an animal'?'
'It's for my girlfriend. I need a nickname for her.'
'That Polish girl - the one you don't even like?' I'm thinking: The one you're screwing because no-one who speaks good English would go near you?.
'Yeah, her.'
'What about 'wolverine'?'
'What's that? - Like, a walrus?'
Wednesday, 20 February 2013
WATER COOLER ( 1 )
In the office with a colleague ( Platinum blonde, tall, slim, large breasts - which she paid for from being on Deal Or No Deal ).
She goes: Are you still seeing that woman?
Me: What 'woman'?
Colleague: That Muslim woman?
Me: Yeah. ( Thinks: Here we go. )
Colleague: You're mad you are.
Me: Why?
Colleague: All the women in the world, and you go out with her. It's a right hassle.
Me: All relationships are a hassle.
Colleague: No, they're not. Mine isn't.
Me: You were crying your eyes out at work the other day, because your boyfriend left you. He said it was the 'final straw'. He left you because you have nightmares that make you thrash around at night, because you were bullied at school. You smashed him in the face while you were asleep, and he was angry enough to get dressed, ring a mate, and go and sleep somewhere else at four in the morning.
Colleague: I don't understand. What's your point?
She goes: Are you still seeing that woman?
Me: What 'woman'?
Colleague: That Muslim woman?
Me: Yeah. ( Thinks: Here we go. )
Colleague: You're mad you are.
Me: Why?
Colleague: All the women in the world, and you go out with her. It's a right hassle.
Me: All relationships are a hassle.
Colleague: No, they're not. Mine isn't.
Me: You were crying your eyes out at work the other day, because your boyfriend left you. He said it was the 'final straw'. He left you because you have nightmares that make you thrash around at night, because you were bullied at school. You smashed him in the face while you were asleep, and he was angry enough to get dressed, ring a mate, and go and sleep somewhere else at four in the morning.
Colleague: I don't understand. What's your point?
Tuesday, 10 July 2012
FIFTY SHADES OF SH*T
Oh God.
Here I am again.
On the train.
Doesn't anything ever happen to me while I'm not moving? I can't seem to move ten yards without some idiot trying to get my attention.
Alright mate? Where's Trinity Street?
- Never heard of it.
Alright love? Got any change?
- Sorry. I'm running for that train!
Oi, mate? You got a light?
- No. You got any vitamin C tablets?
Do you have any coins for this machine?
- Do I look like a bank?
It's been noted many times that travel writing flourishes because the writer is in a state of transition. He is neither here, nor there, and therefore, the extra-dimensional aspect lends itself to unique experiences.
Although, in my case, I have to ask, is there such a thing as 'Commuter Writing'?
I'm on the train home. I'm trying to read my book - Limitless, by Alan Glynn. It's the second time I've read it in a year, but the 'hit' ( you'll see what I mean if you read it ), isn't the same the second time around. I should have cold-turkeyed longer, then had another go in maybe a year.
Anyway, a bunch of attractive women ( if you like shrill, orange, Stourbridge types ) invade the seats across the aisle from me. The usual: Hiroshima skin-tones, bling, dyed hair ( jet-black or platinum blonde ) plus extensions, and that ubiquitous Selfridges shopping bag.
I turn up the Ambient Himalayas on my iPod, to try and focus them out. I get into the zone: I'm at windswept base camp. My sherpas are getting me an ice cold coke. Then instantly I'm teleported back to Planet Earth, because the women suddenly start singing their karaoke favourites:
'Oooh baby, do-you know what-that's-worth? / We'll make hea-ven a pla-ace on Earth - !!
I do an Oscar-winning turn as the living embodiment of 'nonchalant', despite a good ten minutes of sonic barrage.
'Oops I-did-it-again - !!'
The CIA may want to try this the next time they have a suspected terrorist in custody. The skin colour of these chicks alone would trigger flash-backs of Guantanamo boiler-suits.
'I'm not-that-inn-o-cent - !!'
After a while, my glacial demeanor, has - I hoped - transmitted itself to their suggestible minds, and prompted them to lapse into a kind of semi-dormant, or vegetative state.
But then it happened.
'Is that Volume Two he's reading?'
Dear God. 'Volume Two'? That can only mean one thing... My book does have a similar colour scheme on the back.
'Ask him which book he's reading.'
Please. Leave me alone.
Focus on the book.
Mountain streams.
Glaciers.
The brunette nearest me leans over and taps me on the knee.
Attrition.
'Which one are you reading?' she says '- Volume One, Two or Three?'
She is, of course, referring to the housewives' current favourite: Fifty Shades of Grey erotic trilogy. Every woman on the train has a copy. And those that don't, have disguised it by reading it on those bloody e-books.
'I do not read that shit.'
'Pardon?'
The blonde next to her leans around to join in: 'They're not shit...'
I look at the one guy in their group. He's either their nephew, or younger brother, or a cheerful homosexual colleague who works at their salon. Probably called Wayne.
I bellow: 'Two thousand years of erotic literature, and they have to read THAT SHIT!'
The brunette's jaw drops open. 'Oh...Emm...Gee. How rude!'
Blonde: 'I know. Oh-emm-gee.'
The crowded train seems strangely silent.
Here I am again.
On the train.
Doesn't anything ever happen to me while I'm not moving? I can't seem to move ten yards without some idiot trying to get my attention.
Alright mate? Where's Trinity Street?
- Never heard of it.
Alright love? Got any change?
- Sorry. I'm running for that train!
Oi, mate? You got a light?
- No. You got any vitamin C tablets?
Do you have any coins for this machine?
- Do I look like a bank?
It's been noted many times that travel writing flourishes because the writer is in a state of transition. He is neither here, nor there, and therefore, the extra-dimensional aspect lends itself to unique experiences.
Although, in my case, I have to ask, is there such a thing as 'Commuter Writing'?
I'm on the train home. I'm trying to read my book - Limitless, by Alan Glynn. It's the second time I've read it in a year, but the 'hit' ( you'll see what I mean if you read it ), isn't the same the second time around. I should have cold-turkeyed longer, then had another go in maybe a year.
Anyway, a bunch of attractive women ( if you like shrill, orange, Stourbridge types ) invade the seats across the aisle from me. The usual: Hiroshima skin-tones, bling, dyed hair ( jet-black or platinum blonde ) plus extensions, and that ubiquitous Selfridges shopping bag.
I turn up the Ambient Himalayas on my iPod, to try and focus them out. I get into the zone: I'm at windswept base camp. My sherpas are getting me an ice cold coke. Then instantly I'm teleported back to Planet Earth, because the women suddenly start singing their karaoke favourites:
'Oooh baby, do-you know what-that's-worth? / We'll make hea-ven a pla-ace on Earth - !!
I do an Oscar-winning turn as the living embodiment of 'nonchalant', despite a good ten minutes of sonic barrage.
'Oops I-did-it-again - !!'
The CIA may want to try this the next time they have a suspected terrorist in custody. The skin colour of these chicks alone would trigger flash-backs of Guantanamo boiler-suits.
'I'm not-that-inn-o-cent - !!'
After a while, my glacial demeanor, has - I hoped - transmitted itself to their suggestible minds, and prompted them to lapse into a kind of semi-dormant, or vegetative state.
But then it happened.
'Is that Volume Two he's reading?'
Dear God. 'Volume Two'? That can only mean one thing... My book does have a similar colour scheme on the back.
'Ask him which book he's reading.'
Please. Leave me alone.
Focus on the book.
Mountain streams.
Glaciers.
The brunette nearest me leans over and taps me on the knee.
Attrition.
'Which one are you reading?' she says '- Volume One, Two or Three?'
She is, of course, referring to the housewives' current favourite: Fifty Shades of Grey erotic trilogy. Every woman on the train has a copy. And those that don't, have disguised it by reading it on those bloody e-books.
'I do not read that shit.'
'Pardon?'
The blonde next to her leans around to join in: 'They're not shit...'
I look at the one guy in their group. He's either their nephew, or younger brother, or a cheerful homosexual colleague who works at their salon. Probably called Wayne.
I bellow: 'Two thousand years of erotic literature, and they have to read THAT SHIT!'
The brunette's jaw drops open. 'Oh...Emm...Gee. How rude!'
Blonde: 'I know. Oh-emm-gee.'
The crowded train seems strangely silent.
Sunday, 27 May 2012
Bro
‘Yo. Are
you okay to talk?’
It
‘Yeah, man,’ I say. ‘But you sound like you’re down a coal mine. Are you on speakerphone? Because you know I might say cunt a lot..?’
I have to verify this every time I speak to him, after what happened a few years ago, when he called me from the car, and neglected to tell me he had a vehicle full of relatives.
‘Haha, yeah,’ he says, ‘let me try SKYPE. Call you back.’
‘Okay.’
It
‘Yeah, man,’ I say. ‘But you sound like you’re down a coal mine. Are you on speakerphone? Because you know I might say cunt a lot..?’
I have to verify this every time I speak to him, after what happened a few years ago, when he called me from the car, and neglected to tell me he had a vehicle full of relatives.
‘Haha, yeah,’ he says, ‘let me try SKYPE. Call you back.’
‘Okay.’
...
‘That
better?’ he asks.
‘Yeah.’
‘So,
what’s up bro? Been a while.’
‘I know.
Hey - how’s the hurricane?’
‘Meh. The
mayor feels like an asshole because of all the apocalyptic warnings he gave.’
‘Well,
he was in a no-win situation, wasn’t he?’
‘Exactly.
If millions of people got killed, his ass would be on the line. Now that
nothing happened, they’re saying he cried wolf.’
‘Well,
it was hardly his fault. So what did you
do?’
‘I drove
over to George’s house, and we shotgunned beers til three in the morning.’
‘Shotgunned?
What’s that?’
‘It’s
when you punch a hole in the bottom of the can, so when you drink through the
regular hole, it pours straight down your throat.’
‘You
mean there’s no glug?’
‘Yep, no
glug. So you can get it down in one go. So we got drunk, and practised taking
apart the AK and putting it back together.’
‘Jesus,
you still have the AK?’
‘Yeah,
baby. I got guns all over the house.’
‘I
thought your mom told you to get rid of it?’
‘I read
her the First Amendment, baby.’
‘And she
was okay with that?’
‘No
choice.’
‘So how
much did you drink?’
‘Er...four
beers and a bottle of wine. I took the AK in case of looters.’
‘Ha, you
should have been here a couple of weeks ago..!’
‘Oh
yeah, I heard you had riots n’ shit. How was
that?’
‘It was
pathetic. It wasn’t political rioting. They were rioting for TVs and snacks.’
‘You’re
shitting me.’
‘Yeah,
they weren’t even poor. One guy was a school teacher. Another was a bank
manager. The oldest was eighty-five!’
‘Oh
shit, that’s funny!’
‘I think
some pundit on TV referred to it as the ‘Because
I’m Worth It’ riots. They were even scheduled on the internet, and people
were organizing car sharing and stuff. It was like, You can go home at four thirty today, as after that, there will be
rioting.’
‘Haha.
Unbelievable.’
‘Yeah,
but get this: They jailed a guy for four years because he stole a white t-shirt
from the Armani shop, after the riot
had left. He felt guilty, handed himself in, and they still jailed him for four years!’
‘No
shit!’
‘Yeah,
and one girl stole a Pepsi got four years, and so did two schmucks who jokingly put up a riot event page on
Facebook. And nobody turned up to riot! There was no riot where they lived..!’
‘Ohh, fuck! Jesus. That’s harsh..!’
‘It’s
because of the Olympics next year. Nobody has said anything to this effect, but
I think the rioters played into the government’s hands. They got it out of
the way a year in advance, and now no-one will dare to do anything during the
Olympics. They’ve all been used to set an example, so there won’t be any
protests or civil uprisings.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Yeah. Anyway,
so how’s things?’
A pause.
‘Well...there’s
some problems with my employer’.
‘Oh
shit.’ Not again.
‘Yeah.
I’ve been told I can resign.’
‘What? You’re
kidding me.’
‘Yeah.’
‘The bastards. I'm sorry to hear that.’
‘Yeah.
And I billed more hours than any other guy there.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yeah,
so what with that, and getting testicular cancer, it’s been a fucking helluva time.
In fact, I’m pretty sure it’s been the worst few weeks of my life. Which is why
you haven’t heard from me.’
‘Oh,
okay. Wait, back up – you’ve got ball cancer?!’
‘I thought I had. I found a lump on my
testicles.’
‘What
happened?’
‘I had
it checked – it wasn’t malignant.’
‘I never
check mine.’
‘You
should, man.’
‘I kinda think that’s what a
girlfriend’s for. They’re always down there, they should be having a look
around, doing inspections. Running a battery of tests. It's part of their job.’
‘I hear
that.’
‘So what
did they say?’
‘It’s fine. It was just the thing at the top
of the ball, the – I can’t remember what it’s called. And there’s no history of ball problems in the family, either. Well, there’s been a few inflammations. The odd
swelling. Maybe a blockage. But no actual tumours.’
‘That’s
good.’
‘Yeah. Talking
of girlfriends, how’s your girl?’
‘Great.
How’s yours?’
‘Great.’
‘Do you
get to see her much, what with all your travelling for work?’
‘We get
together on weekends. It’s great because my parents are away six months a year.
So we get together and fuck in every room in the house. Well, unless there’s a
hurricane, and she can’t get here. So yeah, on top of all I’ve been through, no
pussy this weekend.’
‘Bummer.’
‘In
fact, get this: On the same day I found the lump on my testicle, I failed my
accountancy exam.’
‘Fuck, you’ve really had a time of it.’
‘In fact, that isn’t even the half of it.
Let me think. Yeah, June 24th, I’m asked to resign. June 30th,
I fail the accountancy exam – by one point. Same day, there’s a lump on my
testicle. In July, I’m trying to dodge a goddamn New York City pothole, and smash
into a stand-pipe, destroying two wheels on my car, which then gets towed away. In August
I discover that the people who want to interview me for a job, only want to
interview me during my vacation. Then, during my supposed vacation, I get called into my current job to save someone
else’s ass. Then, while driving across Virginia, I’m tracked by police air
support, who stop me for speeding, and hand me a charge of misdemeanour.’
‘Fucking
hell.’
‘Yeah,
so apart from being broke and unemployed, I’m now a criminal.’
‘Haha,
that’s fucking funny!’
‘However,
the lawyer guarantees that if I hand them a bogus excuse like ‘defective
equipment’ or something, and pay 175 bucks into the system, I can get off, no
problem.’
‘Cool. Nice
one.’
‘Tell me
about it. But I’m amazed I didn’t put a bullet in my brain. And I have plenty
of guns and bullets around the house. So to top it all off there’s a hurricane,
and I’m denied sex. Normally, all I do on a weekend is drink coffee, make
linguine, and screw. But no, I’m denied even that simple human pleasure.’
Basically, if there’s a shit-storm, usually my bro is at the centre of it. Generally, he’s an affable, unassuming, happy-go-lucky kinda guy, and I think a lot of people maybe forget he’s a grown man, who knows what he’s doing. Even I make that mistake, and no matter how much aggro he’s caused me in the past, at some point, I think people should treat him like a responsible adult, and cut him some slack.
‘So what
are you going to do for the rest of the weekend?’ I ask.
‘There’s
a bunch of asshole Italians across the road, having a party. They’re always getting
rowdy, and I wanna keep an eye on them. You remember the big balcony outside
our sister’s old room?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I like to go up there, drink beer, and sit in the dark
with my rifle. I’ll be waiting for one of those fuckers to step on our lawn.’
Sunday, 6 March 2011
Error At 20,000 ft.
Prologue
I find travelling stressful. No matter how many times I have to catch a plane, I can't get used to the routine. All that crap about getting to the airport on time: Do I get there two hours in advance, like it says, or just saunter in at the last minute? What time of year is it? Will there be queues of deeply unattractive British holiday-makers clogging up X-ray machines? Where do you put the tickets? Or boarding pass? Passport? Get them out, put them away, stand up, sit down, stand up again, take your socks off, this toothpaste is too big.
Just thinking about it, makes me want to detonate my shoe.
However, this is a flight to France. And waiting in the departure lounge, for the call to board, a strange thing happens to me. Hearing French accents, and seeing very attractive French women, dressed in their perfectly sensible way, is enough to put me in a completely altered mood.
On a seat across from me is a young, tousle-haired version of Juliet Binoche. She’s probably only nineteen or twenty but is quietly observing her fellow travellers, until she sees me, and looks down. With her head bowed, I think she’s trying to observe me through her fringe, like a cheeky schoolgirl. I look away, in case she is a cheeky schoolgirl.
We are called to board the flight, and pass through the corridors, down the steps and out to the plane. I find my seat, and with my winter coat on, it's pretty cramped and uncomfortable. Added to that, I've been putting off a shoulder problem for months, and carrying luggage has exascerbated it to the point where I realise I should have had it treated weeks ago.
The cabin is warm and stuffy, and seated with my coat on, I realise I am going to have to manoeuvre myself back into the narrow isle, and put my coat in the overhead locker. Awkwardly, I lean forward in my cramped chair, to make enough room to get my coat off.
Unfortunately, my painful shoulder-blade doesn't allow me the flexibility, and in the ensuing struggle, I accidentally elbow the woman next to me, in the tits.
Scene: Aeroplane cabin, somewhere over England. Trajectory: Southern France. Turbulence: Minimal. Visibility: Good.
‘Oh, my god - did I hit you?’
‘What? Oh, non. T’s okay.’
A minute earlier, she’d already stood up to place a bag up there for me. As you can hear, she’s French, and thirty-ish at the most. Short, light brown hair. Looks kind of like an older version of Emma Watson from Harry Potter. And no, I do not mean the grown-up version of Emma Watson as we see her on the red carpet now. I mean a grown-up version of the old Emma Watson. Fuck it, you know what I mean.
‘I didn't realise the plane would be this small,’ I said, turning to her and trying to calculate if I did make contact with her breast. ‘I suppose it’s a small, business flight?’
‘Yes, I think it so. A business flight.’
‘Are you a native of Lyon?’
‘Non. Grenoble.’ She draws a map in the air with her finger: ‘It iz slightly to ze side, and down.’
She shrugs, and makes a lot hand-gestures and facial expressions. It’s been a couple of years since I was on the Continent, and I forgot how much hand-gesturing is involved. It’s actually very charming. She’s probably doing it to help me understand, because the British always have a problem with accents – even their own. She has just been to Birmingham after all, where most people - especially the men - still communicate via enzymes.
‘Grenoble? What's it like there?’ I ask. ‘I love France - Lyon is one of my favourite cities.’
‘Ooh, it iz mutts nice-aire zan Lyon. It has ze fresh ayre, and ze montayns. I prefair living zair, to ze cities.’
Okay, I'm dispensing with the accent at this point - you can add it yourselves.
‘What do you do there?’ I ask.
‘What do I do?’
‘Oui - what's your job?’ - The first opportunity I get, I start speaking French. Goes down well with the locals.
‘Oh, I am a PA.’
‘For what?’
‘An engineering company.’
‘Do you need to know engineering to do that?’
‘Oh, non. Not at all.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Oui, I love my job. I have two great bosses. But - ’
- Here we go, folks, get this -
‘-I really want to live in England.’
‘What? You're kidding? - Why?!’
‘I like ze people. They’re so friendly.’
‘You’re joking. They’re bloody awful.’
‘Why?’
‘Too fat, too vulgar, too many tattoos.’
‘But that is what is good about England. It is okay to express yourself there. Nobody cares. In France, unless you look a certain way, people judge you. The French are too judgmental.’
‘I never thought about the English like that. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I have a tattoo.’
‘Really? Where?’ This could be good.
‘ - It is very discrete.’
At this point, you can imagine my train of thought. I go -
‘Show it to me.’
‘Non.’
I'm searching her body for any signs of ink: ‘Tell me where it is.’
‘Haha,’ she says, ‘you will not find it.’
‘Tell me!’
‘It is on my leg. What is that plant that creeps up a house, and has little feet that stick to the wall?’
‘Ivy?’
‘Oui. This is how I am, when I get a man, I hang on and never let go.’ She wiggles her fingers at me, a clawing gesture, right in my face.
It’s funny, and I laugh. She then indicates her ankle.
‘And I also have a butterfly there. It is a symbol of Guadeloupe, where my family lives.’
‘Guadeloupe? Isn't that in South America?’
‘It is in ze Carib.’
‘Is that their holiday home?’
‘Non, they live there.’
‘Wow, what do your family do there?’
‘My dad, he makes those - how you say? - those things you pull down on windows?’
‘Blinds?’
‘Oui.’
‘Does he export?’
‘Non, he just sells to people on the island.’
‘How come you don’t live there?’
‘I don’t like the people. The Men. I thought I might like an English boyfriend...if I ever get another boyfriend.’
‘If you ever get one? How long have you not had a boyfriend?’
‘Two years.’
‘Good grief! Why is that? What’s wrong with you?’
‘I am a strong, sex-ee woman. Men don’t like that. I am sex-ee, non? Look at me!’
She’s gesturing for me to look at her body: ‘Completely sex-ee!’
The sibilance of the word sexee is easily audible over the loud drone of the plane. People are starting to listen in, because they can tell we only met five minutes ago.
‘Sexee!’, she shouts, and then makes herself comfortable in her seat, satisfied that she has pointed out something so obvious. Maybe it is.
‘Men are weak, feeble,’ she continues, and once again motions for me to admire her figure. ‘Zey cannot handle zis.’
Frankly, I'm not surprised.
‘Okay, so come on, how come you haven't had a boyfriend for two years? You’re an attractive woman..?’
‘My last boyfriend cheated on me. He had a girlfriend the whole time.’
‘Bastard!’
‘Ah, oui. I even found were he lives, and went there to give him back some things. His woman was there.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘Non.’ She waved away the notion dismissively. ‘He is my greatest love. We are still friends. I have nothing against him.’ She shrugs.
‘Really?’
‘Oui. Besides, ‘e is dying.’
‘Dying?! - Of what?’
‘Oui. How you say? - Arterio - ?’
‘ - Arterio sclerosis?’
‘Oui.’
‘Is he fat?’
‘Non. It is a condition.’
I decide to get off the subject. ‘So, were you in Birmingham for business, or - ?’
‘Non, to see my friend.’
‘What does your friend do?’
‘She’s a student.’
‘Studying what?’
‘English.’
‘Okay. So what did you do in Birmingham?’
‘We went to Mondo’s’.
‘Isn’t that expensive?’
‘Oui.’
‘Any good?’
‘Non.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Went shopping.’
‘In Birmingham? Why?’
‘I buy the things I cannot get in France. I got a black dress. It’s beautiful, like - ’
She sits up straight in the chair, arches her back, and motions behind her, indicating that the dress is open right down to her arse, - ‘and zen down ze front’ - and she then indicates with both hands a deeply low-cut V-shape to her belly button, and then mimes the subsequent exposed cleavage ( or decolletage, as it’s called ).
I take a few moments to picture it. Believe me, it’s a bloody great dress. ‘Sounds fantastic.’
‘Oui, it is.’ She sits back in the seat, evidently very pleased with her purchase.
At this point, readers, I have to revert to type. I'm sorry, but the guys reading this will understand.
‘Are you on Facebook?’ I ask. ‘I have to see this dress.’
‘Non,’ she says flatly. ‘I am not on Facebook. There’s not enough control. Too much work.’
‘Oh.’ Damn.
‘But I am on MSN.’
‘Oh really? Me too!’
‘Then maybe I show you the dress. If you're good.’
‘Ha. Great. Okayyy... so how long does it take for you to get home after we land?’
‘Maybe two hours.’
‘You get there on the TGV, or local train?’
‘Local.’
‘What will you do today when you get to Grenoble?’ I always want to know how the Europeans manage that seemingly-idyllic lifestyle. They haven’t completely lost the plot, and devolved into waddling, trans-fats-processing mutants, like the English have.
‘I go get my cat. He is staying at my friend’s.’
She’s a cat-woman! I LOVE cats, so I have to ask: ‘What’s your cat’s name?’
It’s a ridiculous, multi-syllabic name so long, that with her hand in the air, she chops it up into roughly five digestible chunks. However, with the noise of the plane, I still don’t catch what she’s saying.
‘..but for short, I call him Bobo,’ she says.
‘Ah.’
‘He’s - how you say? - genetique..?’
‘Er, a pedigree, you mean?’
‘Oui, a pedigree. An English short-hair. He will be so happy to see his mama.’
In the middle of talking about her cat, we notice that the very striking flight attendant, a beautiful black lady with stylish, square glasses, begins the tea-run at the far end of the plane.
In anticipation, my companion flips the table down in front of her, and folds it out, fully extending it. She then inexplicably starts folding it back in, getting it out, folding it back in. I think about the poor guy in front, whose seat she’s rattling as a result. Frankly, I’m annoyed on his behalf. I put my hand on hers, and whisper as best I can, over the droning engines: ‘Please don't do that. You’re shaking the guy’s seat.’
She pauses for a second. I take my hand away.
Then she starts again - !
Jesus Christ.
The subject of beverages, reminds me that, by this point, I am dehydrated, bordering on organ failure. My pre-flight anxiety, as usual, prevented me from taking adequate food or drink, and there is No Way On God’s Earth I’m ever gonna pay airport prices for any kind of sustenance, either on a plane or in an airport. I am a starving artist – literally.
Minutes later, as she hands me the tea, the flight attendant tells me that she found a safe place for the painting that I am to give to my aunt, which is now stashed at the back of the plane. I thank her, and the tea turns out to be pretty good, which is unusual. Normally, aeroplane-tea is bloody horrible.
Moments later, the trolley comes back in the opposite direction, with everybody handing over their empties along the way.
Unfortunately, I realise that I need a second drink, as I am still horribly thirsty. I desperately look up and down the plane for the customary second run of the tea-trolley, but it appears to have been stashed away.
I tell my companion that it simply does not do, to deny an Englishman his second cup.
‘Zen ask for anuzzer one,’ she says, doing the usual Gallic Shrug.
I don’t know what to do. I REALLY need another cup, but now feel like I would only inconvenience the crew if I asked for more. I feel like a blasted airborne Oliver Twist.
After a few minutes of indecision, I give up, and slump back in my seat, defeated. ‘I don't know what’s the matter with me. I normally always ask for more. Something’s disrupted my thought-processes.’
Then I turn to her: ‘It’s you. You’ve done my head in.’
She shrugs again, not even looking at me, in that oh-so-fucking-French way. ‘Just ask for anuzzer. What is ze problemme?’
Even when the beautiful attendant leans over my companion to speak to me directly, I still can’t summon the courage. Instead, the lady hands me a pen and a questionnaire to fill in..!
‘Er, wait,’ I say, ‘- am I the only one doing this..?’
‘No, we choose three people on each flight.’
I look at the paper, and after the tea denial, decide I want to tick all the boxes marked ‘Crap’.
1 ) What do you think of the Air France Crew? [ Crap. ]
2 ) What do you think of the condition of the cabin? [ Crap. ]
3 ) What do you think of air travel in general? [ Crap. ]
My pen is poised to strike, and then the hideous realisation dawns: I brought one of my latest paintings on board - intended as a present for my French Aunty - and handed it to the crew to keep safe during the flight. The bastards have got my painting! The cheeky French swindling bastards have a hostage!
4 ) What do you think of the snacks provided on this flight? [ Superb. They couldn’t be more generous. ]
5 ) What do you think of the flight attendants? [ Gorgeous, can’t get enough. Hope to marry one, in fact. ]
My companion waited for a while in silence, then took out a paperback. I looked over to see what it was, but she had opened it right out, so I couldn’t see the front. After filling a couple more questions, my curiosity gets the better of me, and with my pen, I lift the corner of the front cover to see what exactly she’s reading.
I’m expecting Proust. Sartre. Or at least – please God! – ‘The Sexual Life of Catherine M’.
Instead, it’s – ‘You are kidding me? Sophie Kinsella?!’
‘Oui! You know of her?’
‘‘The Lovesick Shoplifter’?’
The cover is – you guessed it – bright pink with floating hearts and poodles. Or something like that.
‘Why are you reading this?’ I ask.
‘It’s funny, non? Besides, it helps with my English.’
‘Well, I suppose. Loads of women read them in England. I don’t know why. They sound awful.’
‘Oui. Well, I read it because it is funny and romantic. I am a romantic!’
‘Yeah. I bet you are. Okay, so when you’re not working, or reading, or playing with your cat, what do you do in Grenoble?’
‘I walk. I cook.’
This reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, let alone had a proper drink. I say this to every woman I ever meet: ‘What’s your best meal?’
‘All kinds. My parents are both Italian. Even though I’m French, I’m actually totally Italian. We love to cook.’
‘Oh God…don’t. I love Italian food.’
‘Then maybe I cook for you.’
The attendant returns for the questionnaire, and – oddly – says ‘keep the pen.’ She has a big smile on her face, like it’s a great souvenir or something.
Curious, I study the pen closely. Nothing. No Air France logo, nothing of any interest – it’s just a plain blue and white biro.
Then I get it. I see a sick bag protruding from the pocket of the seat in front of my companion. I reach over, and take it out. The bloody French. Always randy. The flight attendant is one step ahead of me..!
‘As we’re close friends,’ I say, ‘give me your details.’
She takes the bag and the pen, and starts writing. When she’s finished, she goes through every letter and digit with me, to make sure that I clearly understand her handwriting:
‘V-i-r-g-i-n-i-e.’
A typical PA’s attention to admin: You can always block any future correspondence if you change your mind or get cold feet, but with a bouncing email, that’s it – game over.
Then she takes the sick bag from in front of my seat, and hands it to me. ‘Give me your details, too.’
While I write, she tells me that in my inbox, I will see the name Esperanza, and to not be confused by it.
‘That’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that your last name – or a middle name?’
‘Non. It is a name used by both Sicilians and North Italians, like my parents. I use it for my jazz singing.’
‘Woah - you sing?! I love jazz! Do you have any recordings? – You must send me some!’
‘Non, non, non. I just do it for myself.’
‘Please. You have to let me hear you. Send me a disk!’
‘I can’t. It’s just for me. It makes me happy to sing. That’s all.’
‘You don’t do concerts?’
At this point, dear reader, my notes seem to fail me. But I don’t think she did any local gigs, either.
‘What music do you like?’ she asks me.
‘Anything dark and heavy. Heavy metal.’
She pulls a face like a five-year-old, and I laugh. I seem to have been doing a lot of laughing on this flight, and people are still looking around to check where all the noise is coming from.
In the seat directly in front, La Binoche turns around, sees that it’s me, then looks at my companion, and turns back.
I scrutinize the typically-loopy and embossed female scrawl of Virginie's handwriting.
‘From now on,’ I declare, holding up the sick bag, ‘whenever I see one of these, I will think of you.’
She laughs, and retrieves the one with my details. ‘And I will think of you.’
Now it’s her turn to scrutinize my writing. ‘It’s a Greek name,’ I say. ‘I’m half Greek.’
‘I didn’t think you looked English. I thought maybe you were Italian, like me.’
Then it occurs to me - all the hand-gestures: She may sound French, but her mannerisms are pure Italian.
She combs through my writing. On my phone number she’s confused, and after a quick check, she does that horizontal strike-through, that differentiates the sevens from the ones.
The captain announces that we are beginning our descent, and for the first time on the trip, we both stop talking. Being in the window seat, I am mesmerized by the French mountains, and the glorious countryside. France is so huge. I turn to Virginie, and remark at how much space the French have. She nods.
The flight attendant hands me my painting. A cursory feel through the wrapping, and it appears unharmed.
Ten minutes later, we have landed. Being an impatient-type, Virginie stands up in the aisle immediately, and collects her bag from the overhead locker. She gets mine for me too, as I decide to stay in my seat until the doors are opened.
I wonder if she will just disappear off the plane, or if she has to wait at the carousel. I’m already thinking: I’m going to miss her.
‘Avez-vous une baggage?’ I say.
Looking down at me, she raises her eyebrows, impressed.
‘Was that correct?’ I ask.
‘Are you sure you don’t speak French?’
‘No, I don’t. But my aunty says my accent is good.’
‘Oui. It is.’
We file off the plane, and wait for several minutes on the bus parked on the runway, below. I motion for Virginie to hold on to the pole next to me, but she shakes her head. From the way she is standing, I can see she will fall over as soon as the vehicle starts forward. I insist that she holds the pole, but again, refuses.
Two personalities, clashing already. A volatile mix, perhaps?
Sure enough, the bus lurches, and she’s nearly thrown over her luggage. But she grabbed the pole in time, and manages to steady herself.
We disembark into Lyon Saint Exupery Airport, and begin queuing for the passport check. I’m thinking about how much I love France, and how - for some seemingly mystical goddamn reason - I am so fucking horny every time I visit this country.
I feel her hand in the small of my back, and realise it’s my turn to go over to show the guy my passport. A momentary glance, then he hands it back. ‘Merci,’ I say, and walk through into the carousel area.
I can’t even remember what plane I was on, I just keep walking until I realise I’m nearly out of the terminal, so I turn back. I don’t see her anywhere.
Then, over on an empty expanse of shiny floor, I see a silhouetted figure repacking her bags, right by the glass cubicles where they checked the passports.
I walk over to her. ‘Okay?’
‘Oui.’
After the amount of utterly tedious flights I’ve been on, I’m truly grateful for her company, and the irony is of course, that it was merely a short city-hop. What a pity it wasn’t a thrombosis-inducing transatlantic flight: We’d have probably met, flirted, gone for romantic walks, got engaged, had kids...and that’s before we even got as far as Nova Scotia.
I hold out my arms. ‘Come on. Give me a kiss, then.’
We embrace and kiss cheeks, European-style. Worst case scenario, I suppose Virginie could be annoying, petulant, stubborn and arrogant. But also very entertaining, and undoutbedly sexy in a hysterically French way.
‘You’re a very lovely person,’ I say. I can’t think of anything else. I’m talked-out.
‘Au revoir,’ she says.
‘Au revoir.’
She leaves, not looking back. Or at least, I don’t think she did, because I didn’t look either. I was wondering where the hell my luggage was.
Wait, what flight was it again?
.........................................................
Epilogue
Being the romantic soul that I am, I sometimes think back wistfully, to the hour-and-a-half with Virginie, and the first flight that I have truly enjoyed - probably ever.
I imagine that somebody as highly-strung as that would be a nightmare to live with. But of course, she’s French, so they’re allowed. It’s what we English expect. Anyone who’s seen Betty Blue knows that. Why go out with a French woman, if you don’t want to get plates hurled at you, or have stand-up screaming matches in the town square, that only conclude with a single sharp slap across her face in front of three hundred onlookers? Whereupon she would melt into your arms and thank you for bringing her back to her senses?
You can see, I've thought about this a lot.
Last week, I unexpectedly got an email from her. I say ‘unexpectedly’, because I've heard nothing since a couple of how-are-yous? during that week in France.
Subject heading: ‘RIP’.
In the body of text, the word ‘morte’ is repeated several times.
Oh shit.
...And she appears to have copied in about fifty other people. All of them are shown by their full email addresses, except me. I am just...my name.
She’s fucking killed herself. The daft French tart has fucking killed herself, no doubt over some completely trivial romantic entanglement.
Or maybe she hasn’t? Maybe she’s on a bloody bridge right now, in Grenoble, trying to steel herself for the plunge into the icy waters, rocks loaded into the pockets of her winter coat? In her gloved hands, she may even be clutching that sick bag with my name on it.
I look at the list of names at the top of the email. Which ones look like colleagues? Which ones, friends?
There may still be time - !
I Google the Gendarmerie in Grenoble. What do I say? Like I said, my French isn’t that good.
No, who am I kidding? Put this girl out of your head, I tell myself. I have a perfectly lovely girlfriend now, who is more than enough. So what if the French girl is about to kill herself? She’s just a random stranger you met on a flight!
I try to put it out of my mind, but I can’t. My conscience is really bothering me.
Then, I have a great idea - I copy the email, and send it to a French friend on Facebook, explaining the situation, and that I'm worried that the girl was crazy, and finally did herself in.
A day later, my friend replies:
‘It is nothing...
...she is just saying her laptop has died.’
Finis
I find travelling stressful. No matter how many times I have to catch a plane, I can't get used to the routine. All that crap about getting to the airport on time: Do I get there two hours in advance, like it says, or just saunter in at the last minute? What time of year is it? Will there be queues of deeply unattractive British holiday-makers clogging up X-ray machines? Where do you put the tickets? Or boarding pass? Passport? Get them out, put them away, stand up, sit down, stand up again, take your socks off, this toothpaste is too big.
Just thinking about it, makes me want to detonate my shoe.
However, this is a flight to France. And waiting in the departure lounge, for the call to board, a strange thing happens to me. Hearing French accents, and seeing very attractive French women, dressed in their perfectly sensible way, is enough to put me in a completely altered mood.
On a seat across from me is a young, tousle-haired version of Juliet Binoche. She’s probably only nineteen or twenty but is quietly observing her fellow travellers, until she sees me, and looks down. With her head bowed, I think she’s trying to observe me through her fringe, like a cheeky schoolgirl. I look away, in case she is a cheeky schoolgirl.
We are called to board the flight, and pass through the corridors, down the steps and out to the plane. I find my seat, and with my winter coat on, it's pretty cramped and uncomfortable. Added to that, I've been putting off a shoulder problem for months, and carrying luggage has exascerbated it to the point where I realise I should have had it treated weeks ago.
The cabin is warm and stuffy, and seated with my coat on, I realise I am going to have to manoeuvre myself back into the narrow isle, and put my coat in the overhead locker. Awkwardly, I lean forward in my cramped chair, to make enough room to get my coat off.
Unfortunately, my painful shoulder-blade doesn't allow me the flexibility, and in the ensuing struggle, I accidentally elbow the woman next to me, in the tits.
Scene: Aeroplane cabin, somewhere over England. Trajectory: Southern France. Turbulence: Minimal. Visibility: Good.
‘Oh, my god - did I hit you?’
‘What? Oh, non. T’s okay.’
A minute earlier, she’d already stood up to place a bag up there for me. As you can hear, she’s French, and thirty-ish at the most. Short, light brown hair. Looks kind of like an older version of Emma Watson from Harry Potter. And no, I do not mean the grown-up version of Emma Watson as we see her on the red carpet now. I mean a grown-up version of the old Emma Watson. Fuck it, you know what I mean.
‘I didn't realise the plane would be this small,’ I said, turning to her and trying to calculate if I did make contact with her breast. ‘I suppose it’s a small, business flight?’
‘Yes, I think it so. A business flight.’
‘Are you a native of Lyon?’
‘Non. Grenoble.’ She draws a map in the air with her finger: ‘It iz slightly to ze side, and down.’
She shrugs, and makes a lot hand-gestures and facial expressions. It’s been a couple of years since I was on the Continent, and I forgot how much hand-gesturing is involved. It’s actually very charming. She’s probably doing it to help me understand, because the British always have a problem with accents – even their own. She has just been to Birmingham after all, where most people - especially the men - still communicate via enzymes.
‘Grenoble? What's it like there?’ I ask. ‘I love France - Lyon is one of my favourite cities.’
‘Ooh, it iz mutts nice-aire zan Lyon. It has ze fresh ayre, and ze montayns. I prefair living zair, to ze cities.’
Okay, I'm dispensing with the accent at this point - you can add it yourselves.
‘What do you do there?’ I ask.
‘What do I do?’
‘Oui - what's your job?’ - The first opportunity I get, I start speaking French. Goes down well with the locals.
‘Oh, I am a PA.’
‘For what?’
‘An engineering company.’
‘Do you need to know engineering to do that?’
‘Oh, non. Not at all.’
‘Do you like it?’
‘Oui, I love my job. I have two great bosses. But - ’
- Here we go, folks, get this -
‘-I really want to live in England.’
‘What? You're kidding? - Why?!’
‘I like ze people. They’re so friendly.’
‘You’re joking. They’re bloody awful.’
‘Why?’
‘Too fat, too vulgar, too many tattoos.’
‘But that is what is good about England. It is okay to express yourself there. Nobody cares. In France, unless you look a certain way, people judge you. The French are too judgmental.’
‘I never thought about the English like that. Maybe you’re right.’
‘Anyway,’ she says, ‘I have a tattoo.’
‘Really? Where?’ This could be good.
‘ - It is very discrete.’
At this point, you can imagine my train of thought. I go -
‘Show it to me.’
‘Non.’
I'm searching her body for any signs of ink: ‘Tell me where it is.’
‘Haha,’ she says, ‘you will not find it.’
‘Tell me!’
‘It is on my leg. What is that plant that creeps up a house, and has little feet that stick to the wall?’
‘Ivy?’
‘Oui. This is how I am, when I get a man, I hang on and never let go.’ She wiggles her fingers at me, a clawing gesture, right in my face.
It’s funny, and I laugh. She then indicates her ankle.
‘And I also have a butterfly there. It is a symbol of Guadeloupe, where my family lives.’
‘Guadeloupe? Isn't that in South America?’
‘It is in ze Carib.’
‘Is that their holiday home?’
‘Non, they live there.’
‘Wow, what do your family do there?’
‘My dad, he makes those - how you say? - those things you pull down on windows?’
‘Blinds?’
‘Oui.’
‘Does he export?’
‘Non, he just sells to people on the island.’
‘How come you don’t live there?’
‘I don’t like the people. The Men. I thought I might like an English boyfriend...if I ever get another boyfriend.’
‘If you ever get one? How long have you not had a boyfriend?’
‘Two years.’
‘Good grief! Why is that? What’s wrong with you?’
‘I am a strong, sex-ee woman. Men don’t like that. I am sex-ee, non? Look at me!’
She’s gesturing for me to look at her body: ‘Completely sex-ee!’
The sibilance of the word sexee is easily audible over the loud drone of the plane. People are starting to listen in, because they can tell we only met five minutes ago.
‘Sexee!’, she shouts, and then makes herself comfortable in her seat, satisfied that she has pointed out something so obvious. Maybe it is.
‘Men are weak, feeble,’ she continues, and once again motions for me to admire her figure. ‘Zey cannot handle zis.’
Frankly, I'm not surprised.
‘Okay, so come on, how come you haven't had a boyfriend for two years? You’re an attractive woman..?’
‘My last boyfriend cheated on me. He had a girlfriend the whole time.’
‘Bastard!’
‘Ah, oui. I even found were he lives, and went there to give him back some things. His woman was there.’
‘Did you say anything?’
‘Non.’ She waved away the notion dismissively. ‘He is my greatest love. We are still friends. I have nothing against him.’ She shrugs.
‘Really?’
‘Oui. Besides, ‘e is dying.’
‘Dying?! - Of what?’
‘Oui. How you say? - Arterio - ?’
‘ - Arterio sclerosis?’
‘Oui.’
‘Is he fat?’
‘Non. It is a condition.’
I decide to get off the subject. ‘So, were you in Birmingham for business, or - ?’
‘Non, to see my friend.’
‘What does your friend do?’
‘She’s a student.’
‘Studying what?’
‘English.’
‘Okay. So what did you do in Birmingham?’
‘We went to Mondo’s’.
‘Isn’t that expensive?’
‘Oui.’
‘Any good?’
‘Non.’
‘What else did you do?’
‘Went shopping.’
‘In Birmingham? Why?’
‘I buy the things I cannot get in France. I got a black dress. It’s beautiful, like - ’
She sits up straight in the chair, arches her back, and motions behind her, indicating that the dress is open right down to her arse, - ‘and zen down ze front’ - and she then indicates with both hands a deeply low-cut V-shape to her belly button, and then mimes the subsequent exposed cleavage ( or decolletage, as it’s called ).
I take a few moments to picture it. Believe me, it’s a bloody great dress. ‘Sounds fantastic.’
‘Oui, it is.’ She sits back in the seat, evidently very pleased with her purchase.
At this point, readers, I have to revert to type. I'm sorry, but the guys reading this will understand.
‘Are you on Facebook?’ I ask. ‘I have to see this dress.’
‘Non,’ she says flatly. ‘I am not on Facebook. There’s not enough control. Too much work.’
‘Oh.’ Damn.
‘But I am on MSN.’
‘Oh really? Me too!’
‘Then maybe I show you the dress. If you're good.’
‘Ha. Great. Okayyy... so how long does it take for you to get home after we land?’
‘Maybe two hours.’
‘You get there on the TGV, or local train?’
‘Local.’
‘What will you do today when you get to Grenoble?’ I always want to know how the Europeans manage that seemingly-idyllic lifestyle. They haven’t completely lost the plot, and devolved into waddling, trans-fats-processing mutants, like the English have.
‘I go get my cat. He is staying at my friend’s.’
She’s a cat-woman! I LOVE cats, so I have to ask: ‘What’s your cat’s name?’
It’s a ridiculous, multi-syllabic name so long, that with her hand in the air, she chops it up into roughly five digestible chunks. However, with the noise of the plane, I still don’t catch what she’s saying.
‘..but for short, I call him Bobo,’ she says.
‘Ah.’
‘He’s - how you say? - genetique..?’
‘Er, a pedigree, you mean?’
‘Oui, a pedigree. An English short-hair. He will be so happy to see his mama.’
In the middle of talking about her cat, we notice that the very striking flight attendant, a beautiful black lady with stylish, square glasses, begins the tea-run at the far end of the plane.
In anticipation, my companion flips the table down in front of her, and folds it out, fully extending it. She then inexplicably starts folding it back in, getting it out, folding it back in. I think about the poor guy in front, whose seat she’s rattling as a result. Frankly, I’m annoyed on his behalf. I put my hand on hers, and whisper as best I can, over the droning engines: ‘Please don't do that. You’re shaking the guy’s seat.’
She pauses for a second. I take my hand away.
Then she starts again - !
Jesus Christ.
The subject of beverages, reminds me that, by this point, I am dehydrated, bordering on organ failure. My pre-flight anxiety, as usual, prevented me from taking adequate food or drink, and there is No Way On God’s Earth I’m ever gonna pay airport prices for any kind of sustenance, either on a plane or in an airport. I am a starving artist – literally.
Minutes later, as she hands me the tea, the flight attendant tells me that she found a safe place for the painting that I am to give to my aunt, which is now stashed at the back of the plane. I thank her, and the tea turns out to be pretty good, which is unusual. Normally, aeroplane-tea is bloody horrible.
Moments later, the trolley comes back in the opposite direction, with everybody handing over their empties along the way.
Unfortunately, I realise that I need a second drink, as I am still horribly thirsty. I desperately look up and down the plane for the customary second run of the tea-trolley, but it appears to have been stashed away.
I tell my companion that it simply does not do, to deny an Englishman his second cup.
‘Zen ask for anuzzer one,’ she says, doing the usual Gallic Shrug.
I don’t know what to do. I REALLY need another cup, but now feel like I would only inconvenience the crew if I asked for more. I feel like a blasted airborne Oliver Twist.
After a few minutes of indecision, I give up, and slump back in my seat, defeated. ‘I don't know what’s the matter with me. I normally always ask for more. Something’s disrupted my thought-processes.’
Then I turn to her: ‘It’s you. You’ve done my head in.’
She shrugs again, not even looking at me, in that oh-so-fucking-French way. ‘Just ask for anuzzer. What is ze problemme?’
Even when the beautiful attendant leans over my companion to speak to me directly, I still can’t summon the courage. Instead, the lady hands me a pen and a questionnaire to fill in..!
‘Er, wait,’ I say, ‘- am I the only one doing this..?’
‘No, we choose three people on each flight.’
I look at the paper, and after the tea denial, decide I want to tick all the boxes marked ‘Crap’.
1 ) What do you think of the Air France Crew? [ Crap. ]
2 ) What do you think of the condition of the cabin? [ Crap. ]
3 ) What do you think of air travel in general? [ Crap. ]
My pen is poised to strike, and then the hideous realisation dawns: I brought one of my latest paintings on board - intended as a present for my French Aunty - and handed it to the crew to keep safe during the flight. The bastards have got my painting! The cheeky French swindling bastards have a hostage!
4 ) What do you think of the snacks provided on this flight? [ Superb. They couldn’t be more generous. ]
5 ) What do you think of the flight attendants? [ Gorgeous, can’t get enough. Hope to marry one, in fact. ]
My companion waited for a while in silence, then took out a paperback. I looked over to see what it was, but she had opened it right out, so I couldn’t see the front. After filling a couple more questions, my curiosity gets the better of me, and with my pen, I lift the corner of the front cover to see what exactly she’s reading.
I’m expecting Proust. Sartre. Or at least – please God! – ‘The Sexual Life of Catherine M’.
Instead, it’s – ‘You are kidding me? Sophie Kinsella?!’
‘Oui! You know of her?’
‘‘The Lovesick Shoplifter’?’
The cover is – you guessed it – bright pink with floating hearts and poodles. Or something like that.
‘Why are you reading this?’ I ask.
‘It’s funny, non? Besides, it helps with my English.’
‘Well, I suppose. Loads of women read them in England. I don’t know why. They sound awful.’
‘Oui. Well, I read it because it is funny and romantic. I am a romantic!’
‘Yeah. I bet you are. Okay, so when you’re not working, or reading, or playing with your cat, what do you do in Grenoble?’
‘I walk. I cook.’
This reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day, let alone had a proper drink. I say this to every woman I ever meet: ‘What’s your best meal?’
‘All kinds. My parents are both Italian. Even though I’m French, I’m actually totally Italian. We love to cook.’
‘Oh God…don’t. I love Italian food.’
‘Then maybe I cook for you.’
The attendant returns for the questionnaire, and – oddly – says ‘keep the pen.’ She has a big smile on her face, like it’s a great souvenir or something.
Curious, I study the pen closely. Nothing. No Air France logo, nothing of any interest – it’s just a plain blue and white biro.
Then I get it. I see a sick bag protruding from the pocket of the seat in front of my companion. I reach over, and take it out. The bloody French. Always randy. The flight attendant is one step ahead of me..!
‘As we’re close friends,’ I say, ‘give me your details.’
She takes the bag and the pen, and starts writing. When she’s finished, she goes through every letter and digit with me, to make sure that I clearly understand her handwriting:
‘V-i-r-g-i-n-i-e.’
A typical PA’s attention to admin: You can always block any future correspondence if you change your mind or get cold feet, but with a bouncing email, that’s it – game over.
Then she takes the sick bag from in front of my seat, and hands it to me. ‘Give me your details, too.’
While I write, she tells me that in my inbox, I will see the name Esperanza, and to not be confused by it.
‘That’s beautiful,’ I say. ‘Is that your last name – or a middle name?’
‘Non. It is a name used by both Sicilians and North Italians, like my parents. I use it for my jazz singing.’
‘Woah - you sing?! I love jazz! Do you have any recordings? – You must send me some!’
‘Non, non, non. I just do it for myself.’
‘Please. You have to let me hear you. Send me a disk!’
‘I can’t. It’s just for me. It makes me happy to sing. That’s all.’
‘You don’t do concerts?’
At this point, dear reader, my notes seem to fail me. But I don’t think she did any local gigs, either.
‘What music do you like?’ she asks me.
‘Anything dark and heavy. Heavy metal.’
She pulls a face like a five-year-old, and I laugh. I seem to have been doing a lot of laughing on this flight, and people are still looking around to check where all the noise is coming from.
In the seat directly in front, La Binoche turns around, sees that it’s me, then looks at my companion, and turns back.
I scrutinize the typically-loopy and embossed female scrawl of Virginie's handwriting.
‘From now on,’ I declare, holding up the sick bag, ‘whenever I see one of these, I will think of you.’
She laughs, and retrieves the one with my details. ‘And I will think of you.’
Now it’s her turn to scrutinize my writing. ‘It’s a Greek name,’ I say. ‘I’m half Greek.’
‘I didn’t think you looked English. I thought maybe you were Italian, like me.’
Then it occurs to me - all the hand-gestures: She may sound French, but her mannerisms are pure Italian.
She combs through my writing. On my phone number she’s confused, and after a quick check, she does that horizontal strike-through, that differentiates the sevens from the ones.
The captain announces that we are beginning our descent, and for the first time on the trip, we both stop talking. Being in the window seat, I am mesmerized by the French mountains, and the glorious countryside. France is so huge. I turn to Virginie, and remark at how much space the French have. She nods.
The flight attendant hands me my painting. A cursory feel through the wrapping, and it appears unharmed.
Ten minutes later, we have landed. Being an impatient-type, Virginie stands up in the aisle immediately, and collects her bag from the overhead locker. She gets mine for me too, as I decide to stay in my seat until the doors are opened.
I wonder if she will just disappear off the plane, or if she has to wait at the carousel. I’m already thinking: I’m going to miss her.
‘Avez-vous une baggage?’ I say.
Looking down at me, she raises her eyebrows, impressed.
‘Was that correct?’ I ask.
‘Are you sure you don’t speak French?’
‘No, I don’t. But my aunty says my accent is good.’
‘Oui. It is.’
We file off the plane, and wait for several minutes on the bus parked on the runway, below. I motion for Virginie to hold on to the pole next to me, but she shakes her head. From the way she is standing, I can see she will fall over as soon as the vehicle starts forward. I insist that she holds the pole, but again, refuses.
Two personalities, clashing already. A volatile mix, perhaps?
Sure enough, the bus lurches, and she’s nearly thrown over her luggage. But she grabbed the pole in time, and manages to steady herself.
We disembark into Lyon Saint Exupery Airport, and begin queuing for the passport check. I’m thinking about how much I love France, and how - for some seemingly mystical goddamn reason - I am so fucking horny every time I visit this country.
I feel her hand in the small of my back, and realise it’s my turn to go over to show the guy my passport. A momentary glance, then he hands it back. ‘Merci,’ I say, and walk through into the carousel area.
I can’t even remember what plane I was on, I just keep walking until I realise I’m nearly out of the terminal, so I turn back. I don’t see her anywhere.
Then, over on an empty expanse of shiny floor, I see a silhouetted figure repacking her bags, right by the glass cubicles where they checked the passports.
I walk over to her. ‘Okay?’
‘Oui.’
After the amount of utterly tedious flights I’ve been on, I’m truly grateful for her company, and the irony is of course, that it was merely a short city-hop. What a pity it wasn’t a thrombosis-inducing transatlantic flight: We’d have probably met, flirted, gone for romantic walks, got engaged, had kids...and that’s before we even got as far as Nova Scotia.
I hold out my arms. ‘Come on. Give me a kiss, then.’
We embrace and kiss cheeks, European-style. Worst case scenario, I suppose Virginie could be annoying, petulant, stubborn and arrogant. But also very entertaining, and undoutbedly sexy in a hysterically French way.
‘You’re a very lovely person,’ I say. I can’t think of anything else. I’m talked-out.
‘Au revoir,’ she says.
‘Au revoir.’
She leaves, not looking back. Or at least, I don’t think she did, because I didn’t look either. I was wondering where the hell my luggage was.
Wait, what flight was it again?
.........................................................
Epilogue
Being the romantic soul that I am, I sometimes think back wistfully, to the hour-and-a-half with Virginie, and the first flight that I have truly enjoyed - probably ever.
I imagine that somebody as highly-strung as that would be a nightmare to live with. But of course, she’s French, so they’re allowed. It’s what we English expect. Anyone who’s seen Betty Blue knows that. Why go out with a French woman, if you don’t want to get plates hurled at you, or have stand-up screaming matches in the town square, that only conclude with a single sharp slap across her face in front of three hundred onlookers? Whereupon she would melt into your arms and thank you for bringing her back to her senses?
You can see, I've thought about this a lot.
Last week, I unexpectedly got an email from her. I say ‘unexpectedly’, because I've heard nothing since a couple of how-are-yous? during that week in France.
Subject heading: ‘RIP’.
In the body of text, the word ‘morte’ is repeated several times.
Oh shit.
...And she appears to have copied in about fifty other people. All of them are shown by their full email addresses, except me. I am just...my name.
She’s fucking killed herself. The daft French tart has fucking killed herself, no doubt over some completely trivial romantic entanglement.
Or maybe she hasn’t? Maybe she’s on a bloody bridge right now, in Grenoble, trying to steel herself for the plunge into the icy waters, rocks loaded into the pockets of her winter coat? In her gloved hands, she may even be clutching that sick bag with my name on it.
I look at the list of names at the top of the email. Which ones look like colleagues? Which ones, friends?
There may still be time - !
I Google the Gendarmerie in Grenoble. What do I say? Like I said, my French isn’t that good.
No, who am I kidding? Put this girl out of your head, I tell myself. I have a perfectly lovely girlfriend now, who is more than enough. So what if the French girl is about to kill herself? She’s just a random stranger you met on a flight!
I try to put it out of my mind, but I can’t. My conscience is really bothering me.
Then, I have a great idea - I copy the email, and send it to a French friend on Facebook, explaining the situation, and that I'm worried that the girl was crazy, and finally did herself in.
A day later, my friend replies:
‘It is nothing...
...she is just saying her laptop has died.’
Finis
'...Whenever I see one of these, I will think of you...'
Sickbag, courtesy of Air France. Pic by the author.
Saturday, 1 January 2011
Commuted Sentences: I ]
Interior, Train, Evening.
Woman gets on. Plump, but attractive. She sits a few seats away. It’s the quiet London commuter train, that passes through Birmingham just after the local one that’s usually packed, so there are plenty of seats.
She obviously doesn’t use this train very often, because the protocol amongst its regulars, is to not use the phone, or if you do, keep your voice down. She takes out her phone -
- ‘HELLO IT'S ME!’
- ‘...’
- ‘KNACKERED. BEEN ON MY HANDS AND KNEES ALL DAY - AND NOT IN THE WAY I LIKE, HA!’
- ‘...’
- ‘BEEN DOING A NO-HANDS MASSAGE.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH, I USE MY TONGUE, HAHA - !’
- ‘...’
- ‘NAH, I USE MY ELBOWS.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH, JUST BEEN TO AN AA MEETING.’
- ‘...’
- ‘GOT A BACK WAX BOOKED. EXTREMELY HIGH END. DON'T KNOW HOW THAT’S GOING TO WORK. A BIT LIKE NICKY CLARKE’S. TWENTY QUID HAIRCUT, FORTY QUID FACIAL MASSAGE. BUT I HAVEN'T SOLD ANYTHING YET, AND YOU KNOW WHAT I’M LIKE WITH SALES.’
- ‘...’
- ‘OH, I WAS ALWAYS BOTHERED.’
- ‘...’
- ‘CHEEKY COW.’
- ‘...’
- - ‘BUT I’M OFF THE POP, NOW.’
- ‘...’
- - ‘NO, I’M GONNA HAVE A UNIFORM, PINK AND BLACK. VERY RETRO.’
- ‘...’
- ‘ANTON KNOWS. MY DAD KNOWS. THAT’S WHAT THEY TEACH YOU IN AA: ONE DRINK IS NEVER ENOUGH. I’VE NEVER HAD JUST ONE DRINK, EVER.’
- ‘...’
- ‘IS SHE LIKE ME?’
- ‘...’
- ‘DOES SHE HAVE PIZZAZZ?’
- ‘...’
- ‘DIDN'T THINK SO. I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ DOWN THE PHONE.’
- ‘...’
- ‘I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH.’
- ‘...’
- ‘I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ DOWN THE PHONE.’
.....................................................................................
You can see from the above example, that just a few minutes of half a dialogue, and the listener’s mind starts to construct a story. It also explains, perhaps, why so many thrillers are set on public transport: People naturally give away huge chunks of exposition, either directly with speech, or more subtly, with body language.
In the examples following this, we will see other stories spun out of the occasionally bizarre public behaviour of total strangers.
We will also explore, in a later episode, what happens when the observer becomes an participant in one of these scenes.
Woman gets on. Plump, but attractive. She sits a few seats away. It’s the quiet London commuter train, that passes through Birmingham just after the local one that’s usually packed, so there are plenty of seats.
She obviously doesn’t use this train very often, because the protocol amongst its regulars, is to not use the phone, or if you do, keep your voice down. She takes out her phone -
- ‘HELLO IT'S ME!’
- ‘...’
- ‘KNACKERED. BEEN ON MY HANDS AND KNEES ALL DAY - AND NOT IN THE WAY I LIKE, HA!’
- ‘...’
- ‘BEEN DOING A NO-HANDS MASSAGE.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH, I USE MY TONGUE, HAHA - !’
- ‘...’
- ‘NAH, I USE MY ELBOWS.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH, JUST BEEN TO AN AA MEETING.’
- ‘...’
- ‘GOT A BACK WAX BOOKED. EXTREMELY HIGH END. DON'T KNOW HOW THAT’S GOING TO WORK. A BIT LIKE NICKY CLARKE’S. TWENTY QUID HAIRCUT, FORTY QUID FACIAL MASSAGE. BUT I HAVEN'T SOLD ANYTHING YET, AND YOU KNOW WHAT I’M LIKE WITH SALES.’
- ‘...’
- ‘OH, I WAS ALWAYS BOTHERED.’
- ‘...’
- ‘CHEEKY COW.’
- ‘...’
- - ‘BUT I’M OFF THE POP, NOW.’
- ‘...’
- - ‘NO, I’M GONNA HAVE A UNIFORM, PINK AND BLACK. VERY RETRO.’
- ‘...’
- ‘ANTON KNOWS. MY DAD KNOWS. THAT’S WHAT THEY TEACH YOU IN AA: ONE DRINK IS NEVER ENOUGH. I’VE NEVER HAD JUST ONE DRINK, EVER.’
- ‘...’
- ‘IS SHE LIKE ME?’
- ‘...’
- ‘DOES SHE HAVE PIZZAZZ?’
- ‘...’
- ‘DIDN'T THINK SO. I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ DOWN THE PHONE.’
- ‘...’
- ‘I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ.’
- ‘...’
- ‘YEAH.’
- ‘...’
- ‘I CAN SMELL PIZZAZZ DOWN THE PHONE.’
.....................................................................................
You can see from the above example, that just a few minutes of half a dialogue, and the listener’s mind starts to construct a story. It also explains, perhaps, why so many thrillers are set on public transport: People naturally give away huge chunks of exposition, either directly with speech, or more subtly, with body language.
In the examples following this, we will see other stories spun out of the occasionally bizarre public behaviour of total strangers.
We will also explore, in a later episode, what happens when the observer becomes an participant in one of these scenes.
Thursday, 30 December 2010
Pillow Talk
Some people have unusual sleep patterns. Lack of sleep is widely acknowledged to be a scourge of modern society, and it is recommended that people should ideally get eight hours of sleep a day, yet most get barely six. For some, sleep can be a period of turmoil, usually due to some kind of worry or crisis in waking life, filtering through to the subconscious.
Consider the following examples:
Case 1 - ( As told to me by D ):
Not only does D’s boyfriend talk in his sleep, he occasionally wanders around the house, visiting the fridge etc. The following morning, he has no idea what happened. Obviously, for D, it’s very disruptive. As a result, she rarely gets a good night’s sleep, and more often than not, complains at work about being exhausted.
One night, she got her revenge. Her boyfriend awoke to the sound of trickling water. He couldn’t place it at first, then realised D was not in bed. Again, he heard the trickling noise, like there was a leak. He scrambled to put the light on, and found her, crouched by the end of the bed. She appeared to ignore him, even when he tried asking her what was going on.
He went closer, and saw that she was crouched like a feral wolf-child, peeing on the floor. Still ignoring him, she crept along on all fours, found a corner, and squatted again, peeing on the floor.
She did this two more times before climbing back to bed.
He couldn’t be bothered to mop up the puddles. Instead, he made her clean it up the following morning.
Case 2 - I recounted the above story to Kev. He said his girlfriend is always talking in her sleep.
This is a typical example:
Girlfriend: WHAT’S THE FUCKING POINT?!
Kev ( suddenly awakened from sleep, having a minor heart attack in the process ): What?! What’s the matter?!
Girlfriend: What’s the point of picking it up and putting it down again?
Kev: Uh? Do what?
Girlfriend: I said, it’s pointless, picking it up to put it down again. And that bloody CIGARETTE man!
Kev: What ‘cigarette man’ - ?
Girlfriend: Shall we fly away?
Kev: - Wha - ?
Girlfriend: FOCK OFF!
- and then, apparently, she goes -
‘I’m pouring curry on you..! - I’M POURING CURRY ON YOUUUUUUUU - !’
‘My god, man,’ I said, ‘Even in her sleep, your woman’s got an attitude on her.’
‘I know. One day I’ll wake up and find her hands around my neck.’
Kev paused, a pensive look on his face. ‘You know what, though? I don’t think I’d like it if I found my girlfriend pissing on the floor. I think I’d be furious. I’d go, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I said, ‘You’d have to be careful, though, if you startled her. Apparently it’s dangerous if you try to wake someone up while in they’re in a trance-like state.’
‘God yeah, it’d be like…’
Kev acts out his version of such an event - one that entails a large amount of somnambulistic bowel activity, complete with explicit sound effects - and his subsequent horrified reaction.
He pauses, mulling over the ramifications, shaking his head solemnly.
‘Yeah, man…if your girlfriend shat on your face…that’s out of order.’
Consider the following examples:
Case 1 - ( As told to me by D ):
Not only does D’s boyfriend talk in his sleep, he occasionally wanders around the house, visiting the fridge etc. The following morning, he has no idea what happened. Obviously, for D, it’s very disruptive. As a result, she rarely gets a good night’s sleep, and more often than not, complains at work about being exhausted.
One night, she got her revenge. Her boyfriend awoke to the sound of trickling water. He couldn’t place it at first, then realised D was not in bed. Again, he heard the trickling noise, like there was a leak. He scrambled to put the light on, and found her, crouched by the end of the bed. She appeared to ignore him, even when he tried asking her what was going on.
He went closer, and saw that she was crouched like a feral wolf-child, peeing on the floor. Still ignoring him, she crept along on all fours, found a corner, and squatted again, peeing on the floor.
She did this two more times before climbing back to bed.
He couldn’t be bothered to mop up the puddles. Instead, he made her clean it up the following morning.
Case 2 - I recounted the above story to Kev. He said his girlfriend is always talking in her sleep.
This is a typical example:
Girlfriend: WHAT’S THE FUCKING POINT?!
Kev ( suddenly awakened from sleep, having a minor heart attack in the process ): What?! What’s the matter?!
Girlfriend: What’s the point of picking it up and putting it down again?
Kev: Uh? Do what?
Girlfriend: I said, it’s pointless, picking it up to put it down again. And that bloody CIGARETTE man!
Kev: What ‘cigarette man’ - ?
Girlfriend: Shall we fly away?
Kev: - Wha - ?
Girlfriend: FOCK OFF!
- and then, apparently, she goes -
‘I’m pouring curry on you..! - I’M POURING CURRY ON YOUUUUUUUU - !’
‘My god, man,’ I said, ‘Even in her sleep, your woman’s got an attitude on her.’
‘I know. One day I’ll wake up and find her hands around my neck.’
Kev paused, a pensive look on his face. ‘You know what, though? I don’t think I’d like it if I found my girlfriend pissing on the floor. I think I’d be furious. I’d go, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’
I said, ‘You’d have to be careful, though, if you startled her. Apparently it’s dangerous if you try to wake someone up while in they’re in a trance-like state.’
‘God yeah, it’d be like…’
Kev acts out his version of such an event - one that entails a large amount of somnambulistic bowel activity, complete with explicit sound effects - and his subsequent horrified reaction.
He pauses, mulling over the ramifications, shaking his head solemnly.
‘Yeah, man…if your girlfriend shat on your face…that’s out of order.’
Sunday, 26 December 2010
Update: Unattainable Love Interest #1
Text Messages; Inbox; Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 23:18:21
Hi, it has been ages since ive heard from. I'm a bit concerned. i hope all is well. I'm beginning to believe you must have a new lover, and you've gone all googly eyed. Lol. Plus, u must b at it like rabbits as u have a very high sex drive. Get in touch. x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 23:50:38
Yes i will come and c u, as long as you don't come on to me. Lol. x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:01:28
Shut up you miserable old man. I'm trying 2 sleep. If it's any concilation i'm sleeping all on my own tonight. Plus i'm wearing a very very short slinky see through slip. I'm feeling very hot tonight. Want to join me? X
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:11:12
Hey where have u gone? Was my last message 2 much 4 u. Did u need 2 make the trip to the bathroom? Lol x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:48:27
Filth, i can't believe you've just admitted that. No i don't respect u 4 admitting that. Wash your mouth out. Sp soon x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 15:32:31
The reason i'm telling u this because i thought you'd like 2 know that i'm back on the market. Not that i'm looking, so don't get your hopes up. Lol.
Hi, it has been ages since ive heard from. I'm a bit concerned. i hope all is well. I'm beginning to believe you must have a new lover, and you've gone all googly eyed. Lol. Plus, u must b at it like rabbits as u have a very high sex drive. Get in touch. x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 23:50:38
Yes i will come and c u, as long as you don't come on to me. Lol. x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:01:28
Shut up you miserable old man. I'm trying 2 sleep. If it's any concilation i'm sleeping all on my own tonight. Plus i'm wearing a very very short slinky see through slip. I'm feeling very hot tonight. Want to join me? X
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:11:12
Hey where have u gone? Was my last message 2 much 4 u. Did u need 2 make the trip to the bathroom? Lol x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 00:48:27
Filth, i can't believe you've just admitted that. No i don't respect u 4 admitting that. Wash your mouth out. Sp soon x
Text Messages > Inbox > Unattainable Love Interest #1 / 15:32:31
The reason i'm telling u this because i thought you'd like 2 know that i'm back on the market. Not that i'm looking, so don't get your hopes up. Lol.
Babysitting
My brother and his wife left the house twenty-three seconds ago. Yes, seconds. Because I hear the front door slam as I'm taking a piss.
Then I hear someone try the bathroom door. To me, that is the most off-putting thing to happen if you're trying to perform a bodily function. When I'm out in public, I will spend extra minutes finding a completely empty restroom, so I can focus. Now there is a knock.
- Just a minute.
- Uncle Lex..?
- Yeah, just a sec.
I finish up in the bathroom, and open the door.
It's Theo, the six-year-old. He's holding out his chunky forearm. On it, is a raised, angry-looking scratch, several inches long.
- The puppy did it, Uncle Lex.
He looks embarrassed, because we keep telling him the dog is not an action-figure, and he has to stop hassling it.
Great, I'm thinking. Shall I just call my brother back? He's probably only just got into his car. All I can think of is to wash the wound, but it seems too simple. My brother probably has a whole procedure in place. They're like that, parents. A hotline, even, to a specialist unit, in case anything happens.
- Let's just wash it under the tap, and get it clean.
- Okay.
We wash it, making sure the water is hot, but not too hot. We dry his arm with a stiff towel. It still looks pretty bad for a scratch. I'm starting to think, blood poisoning, septicaemia.
I'm giving him twenty minutes to live.
Then, for the rest of my life, I'm gonna be one of those babysitting relatives who let a kid croak on his watch.
He rubs it with his other palm.
-It itches Lex.
I point out that he has been stroking the dog with that hand, and we will need to wash the wound again. He slaps his forehead and exclaims -Doh! - Homer-style.
After we have repeated the procedure, I ask where the plasters are. He knows straight away, they're right by the pile of fresh laundry, next to us. I delve into the box, and retrieve a long plaster that will just about cover the entire length of the scratch.
- This will teach you not to harass that dog. It's not a toy, you know.
With the over-size plaster, it now looks like the kid has been in some kind of knife-fight, or a child vs. rottweiler incident. Or maybe they're doing Trainspotting for the Christmas play.
I start thinking: I don't want my brother to suspect that I can't even look after his kids for a couple of minutes - let alone a couple of hours. He pays me in curries, so I can't afford to lose this gig.
What we need is a story. One that Theo needs to be able to recite, so we're consistent.
- What shall we tell your dad?
It needs to be something that sounds good. I'd just seen the first Narnia film, so right there and then, I'm inspired.
- Why don't we say we went for a walk, and you were attacked by a lion?
Theo nods. But not quite enthusiastically enough for my liking.
- Or maybe you were walking in the woods, and were savaged by some kind of ferocious beast?
He purses his lips and looks up at the bathroom ceiling. He usually does this when either coming up with a humdinger of an idea, or being completely bewildered - usually the latter.
Meanwhile, my imagination is getting the better of me.
- Maybe you fought it, and ripped it's leg off? Hence the scratch?
A pause. Then he goes -
- I think we'll just tell the truth, Uncle Lex.
- Really? - Damn, I'm kind of disappointed.
-Yeah. We'll say it was a wolf.
Then I hear someone try the bathroom door. To me, that is the most off-putting thing to happen if you're trying to perform a bodily function. When I'm out in public, I will spend extra minutes finding a completely empty restroom, so I can focus. Now there is a knock.
- Just a minute.
- Uncle Lex..?
- Yeah, just a sec.
I finish up in the bathroom, and open the door.
It's Theo, the six-year-old. He's holding out his chunky forearm. On it, is a raised, angry-looking scratch, several inches long.
- The puppy did it, Uncle Lex.
He looks embarrassed, because we keep telling him the dog is not an action-figure, and he has to stop hassling it.
Great, I'm thinking. Shall I just call my brother back? He's probably only just got into his car. All I can think of is to wash the wound, but it seems too simple. My brother probably has a whole procedure in place. They're like that, parents. A hotline, even, to a specialist unit, in case anything happens.
- Let's just wash it under the tap, and get it clean.
- Okay.
We wash it, making sure the water is hot, but not too hot. We dry his arm with a stiff towel. It still looks pretty bad for a scratch. I'm starting to think, blood poisoning, septicaemia.
I'm giving him twenty minutes to live.
Then, for the rest of my life, I'm gonna be one of those babysitting relatives who let a kid croak on his watch.
He rubs it with his other palm.
-It itches Lex.
I point out that he has been stroking the dog with that hand, and we will need to wash the wound again. He slaps his forehead and exclaims -Doh! - Homer-style.
After we have repeated the procedure, I ask where the plasters are. He knows straight away, they're right by the pile of fresh laundry, next to us. I delve into the box, and retrieve a long plaster that will just about cover the entire length of the scratch.
- This will teach you not to harass that dog. It's not a toy, you know.
With the over-size plaster, it now looks like the kid has been in some kind of knife-fight, or a child vs. rottweiler incident. Or maybe they're doing Trainspotting for the Christmas play.
I start thinking: I don't want my brother to suspect that I can't even look after his kids for a couple of minutes - let alone a couple of hours. He pays me in curries, so I can't afford to lose this gig.
What we need is a story. One that Theo needs to be able to recite, so we're consistent.
- What shall we tell your dad?
It needs to be something that sounds good. I'd just seen the first Narnia film, so right there and then, I'm inspired.
- Why don't we say we went for a walk, and you were attacked by a lion?
Theo nods. But not quite enthusiastically enough for my liking.
- Or maybe you were walking in the woods, and were savaged by some kind of ferocious beast?
He purses his lips and looks up at the bathroom ceiling. He usually does this when either coming up with a humdinger of an idea, or being completely bewildered - usually the latter.
Meanwhile, my imagination is getting the better of me.
- Maybe you fought it, and ripped it's leg off? Hence the scratch?
A pause. Then he goes -
- I think we'll just tell the truth, Uncle Lex.
- Really? - Damn, I'm kind of disappointed.
-Yeah. We'll say it was a wolf.
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