I Write Sins, Not Tragedies

          I woke up very confused this morning. Ed and I were both up early, somehow disaffected and unable to remain lying about in bed. I told him all about my date last night. It sounds a disaster, I know, but on the other hand… she’s got the money, the class and the credentials to make a respectable partner.

            “That’s all very well, Tom, but the whole thing’s just not quite right is it? It’s no different to the Annabell debacle really, is it? Right stats; wrong heart. Honestly, Tom, there’s more to you than these girls can perceive. You need someone deeper.”

            “You can’t compare Fiona to Annabell!” I said, outraged.

            “What’s the root of the offence you take Tom?” he said. I paused, surprised at the question. He had a point though. I was offended because Fiona could never be half the girl Annabell was, and therein lay the solution to any question I might have had. I could never be with Fiona in that knowledge.

            “I see.” I said. “Well, you’re right. I can’t see her again. But her step-dad can make or break my career. What can I do?”

            “Block and delete, Tom, block and delete. And once you’re done with that, try internet dating, might be good for a laugh.”

 

*

 

            A few hours later we were still sitting lazily about. Ed’s not very good at this and was becoming visibly itchy with inactivity.

            “Right,” he said, “that’s it. I’m not taking no for an answer. We’re going on another adventure.”

            “We’ve talked about this Ed.”

            “No, I’ve suggested it and you’ve whined like a fucking girl.”

            “I’ve given perfectly valid reas…”

            “Shut the fuck up. Now listen: if you ever hope to get anything out of life you’re going to have to let go of all these meaningless boundaries you set yourself. We’ll do it by your rules, but do it we shall. Fiona is the final straw. Do you really want to move to the country and become middle aged years before your time? Live a little, Evans.”

            He brooked no further protest and in the indolent haze of Saturday morning the lure of the adventures became suddenly too strong. I felt myself giving in but protested once more.

            “Bollocks, Evans,” he replied, “we’re all mortal you know. You’ll die, with not a worthwhile memory to your name.”

            “Ah, but consider this Ed: what’s the statistical increase in probability of dying young on one of your adventures?”

            “The higher the better,” he replied. I sighed.

            We had been listening to my itunes playlist and at this moment a song began: ‘Here we Go Again’, by Paramore. Ed listened to the lyrics and grinned at me. I was horrified that fate should dare give me orders. I don’t believe in fate.

            “It’s part of the order of the universe mate,” said Ed. “It’s like the streak theory: if 10s and 2s come out over and over again on the flop, then you know you have to play the 10-2 in your hand on the next go. It may be insupportable in probability theory, but it’s the right move.”

            “Fine. I’m in.”

            “That’s my man!”

            “Alright. So: where were we?”

            “Let’s see… Your last adventure was Turkey, obviously. And mine…”

            “…was Jane.”

            “Hmmm. Yes.”

            “Right,” I said, “your next adventure will be determined by the lyrics of Jane, by the Barenaked Ladies.”

            “And yours will be the next song on your playlist.”

            We waited in anticipation reminiscent of our first day at the greasy spoon.

            The next song started.

            “Dude, what the fuck is this?” asked Ed.

            “It’s the Subdudes, dude.”

            “Sweeeeet!”

            The song, Papa Dukie & The Mud People, went as follows:

 

Hippie girls

Taking off their clothes,

Swimming in the river,

Painting beads,

Making rainbows and singing.

 

            “It’s lucky it’s such a beautiful day,” said Ed.

            “Oh dear.”

 

*

 

            An hour later Ed and I were over at the Regent’s Canal.

            “There are no naked hippie girls, Ed.”

            “Indeed there are not, Evans.”

            “How disappointing.”

            “Not at all, mate, it simply falls to you to become the hippie girls. Off you go.”

            I raised my eyebrow. This was just a silly idea. I suggested the pub, namely the one directly next to us and Ed allowed the idea. However, two pints later we were back on the banks of the canal and this time he would not take no for an answer.

A crazy moment came over me. I stripped to my boxers and jumped in as people walked and cycled past. Caught in the moment I threw water up in the air and tried to make rainbows. I tried to sing; the only song I could think of was Singing in the Rain, so I sang that. A selection of pub goers had come to the edge of the canal to watch the scene. I waved to them and jumped out from the side of the canal again, diving into the middle.

Disaster struck. My boxers came off during the dive. I could see them floating away. In a panic I began to swim after them. The crowd was laughing. Eventually I caught my boxers up and swiftly put them on. I was beginning to doubt the funny side of things. I returned to the pub only to discover that Ed had hidden the rest of my clothes. The pub goers were in stitches but I’ll admit I was becoming a little angry. The situation was badly undignified.

“It’s only a joke, mate,” said Ed, as he eventually gave my clothes back.

“If you say.”

“Come on, I’ll buy you a pint.”

I looked dubiously at the pub.

“Alright. A different pub. Come on.” He slapped me on the back and laughed a friendly, intimate laugh. It made me crack a smile.

“Go on then,” I said, laughing too. “Hey!” I said, to a punk-girl passer-by. She wore tight black jeans and white plimsolls with a chequered pink design. “What’s your favourite song?”

She sneered at me and paused. She appeared to be deciding whether I was worth the effort. Eventually she spoke. “I write sins, not tragedies.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “very droll.”