It's All Just a Joke Really

          I had my second date with Fiona tonight. She texted me last night to sort it out. She couldn’t wait until Saturday. She decided we should go to the cinema. I’m not sure why anyone thinks that’s a good idea, especially for a second date. You spend over two hours sitting next to someone who is more or less a stranger, without being able to talk to them. Fine, you can tentatively try to slip an arm around the shoulders, or glance your hand against theirs, but only if you want to. What do you learn? At least I didn’t have to concentrate for that part of the date.

            After the film we went for a drink. After the compulsory discussion of the film she asked me my plans for the weekend.

            “I think I’m going to be doing a fair bit of packing.”

            “Oh, wow! How exciting! Where are you going?”

            “New Orleans.”

            “Wow, how simply lovely. How long are you going for?”

            “I’m not sure, maybe a month.”

            “What? That long?” she said, plainly concerned.

            “Probably.”

            “I see.”

            “Are you okay?” I asked. She seemed to be acting very strangely.

            “Of course,” she said. I watched her. She drew breath. “That is… not exactly. You could’ve told me.”

            “I could?”

            “Yes. Well, you know. We do matter don’t we? I’ll miss you.”

            “Miss me?” I asked, shocked. “You hardly know me.”

            “I know that, but don’t you feel a connection already?”

Sure, I thought, we really got down to the deep and meaningfuls during that film. “It’s okay, I’ll be back before you know it.” Once I’d said it I wasn’t so sure I needed to be encouraging her.

“Why are you going anyway?” she asked, a little petulantly.

I told her all about the adventures and explained this one. I began to notice, towards the end of the explanation, that she’d become very quiet and was shaking slightly.

“Is everything okay Fi?”

“Okay?” she said. “Okay?” she yelled.

“Calm down. I’m sure there’s no need…”

“There’s every bloody need. How can you talk about pursuing another woman right in front of me? Why would you be so cruel as to flaunt it like that in front of me? I thought we had a good thing going!”

“We’ve only had a couple of dates Fiona! Besides, it’s all just a joke really.”

“A joke!”

“The Sharona adventure I mean!”

“You don’t know what you mean, Tom. We’ll see if Timothy thinks it’s all a joke.” And so saying she stormed out leaving me to get home by eleven.

At least that’ll hopefully be the end of that.

Dreams

          Ed got home this evening with a black eye.

            There was an awkward moment at first, we hadn’t really spoken since my outburst last night. I broke the tension by laughing at his eye.

            “Mate, no more bets involving Jane, alright? That’s a new rule. It’s now as good as inciting violence, which I understand is against the law.”

            It was my turn to laugh. “Fine,” I said, “but at least tell me you got the next song.”

            “Well, she wasn’t really in the talking mood.”

            “So?”

            “So, she punched me under a billboard. It was advertising The Game’s old album, The Documentary.”

            “How do you know it’s old?” I asked.

            “What do you mean mate? I’m as black as they come. I’m down with all that rude, sick shit.”

            “Right,” I said, “well ‘Dreams’ is clearly the best track on that album so…”

            “Mate! How the fuck do you know that?”

            “I too am down with the rude, sick shit, my nizzle. And further, dog, that song is clearly about following your creative dreams, alongside handing out the props to the most hippety hop characters of history. So, Ed, what’s your dream?”

            Ed had been laughing but this last question stopped him in his tracks. He looked suddenly pensive. He looked up at me. “It’s easy for you to have dreams Tom; you have means.”

            I laughed at him. It was all pure jealousy. “This is what I’m talking about Ed. Fine, I’ve had help, but mine are self-made means in the main, but all you do is destroy.” Though I didn’t say it, I meant that he destroyed both of us.

            “Right,” he said, ignoring my words completely, “I’m going to write down what I dream tonight and in the morning we’ll type it into Google.”

            At this moment I got another text from Fiona.

 

            Well?

 

            Shit. I’d forgotten about her text. I told Ed about it and he laughed raucously.

            “I can’t bring myself to fully reject her; it’d be like kicking a baby pony.”

            “Don’t then. I mean, mate, from what you said of your date the other night it looks like a guaranteed free shag. Make the most of it.”

            “Fine,” I said, dubiously, and replied.

 

            Sure, but I’m not free until next Saturday…

 

            Naughty, she replied, playing hard to get eh? I’ll make the wait worth your while! ;-) xxx

Hi-Fi

          Today I got a text from Fiona, the girl I dated on Friday night, Tim’s daughter. After all the excitement on Saturday I somehow forgot to deal with her.

 

            Hello Tom! Thanks for our date on Friday, I had ever so much fun! I thought perhaps you would have phoned me by now, you should know you don’t have to play it cool with me, we’re on the same page. But now I’ve made the first move so you need not feel nervous anymore. We should meet again soon, wouldn’t that be super? Fi X x x

 

            Wouldn’t it just? Each line dripped with misunderstanding, I was at a loss for how to respond. In the end, all I could manage was:

 

            Hi Fi! I had a lovely time, thanks. I’m sure we might get in touch again. X

 

            She’s almost worth it just for the opportunity to start every conversation: “Hi Fi!”

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.”

Facial Violation

          I awoke at 6:30am this morning to the sound of a text message. I was not amused.

 

            “Tom, would you join me for dinner tonight, I’m coming into town today and would appreciate it ever so much. Please don’t disappoint me! Fi xxxxx.”

 

            I stared at the message in utter disbelief. What the hell was the girl on? Did she think that by bombarding me at this time of day I’d be incapable of refusing? Further, I’m not exactly sure how she even got my number.

            I thought about it for a minute. I still hadn’t heard from that girl at the bus stop, so I guess that pipe dream’s over. On top of that, Annabell clearly hates me now. With these points going through my befuddled early morning head I decided to run with what I had. I texted Fiona back and accepted her invitation, before going back to sleep.

 

*

 

            Fi’s flat in Baron’s Court is absolutely gorgeous. When I arrived there last night I was dumbfounded. It was a beautiful old Georgian terrace building with marble floors and chandeliers inside. I must admit it all made an impression on me. I couldn’t quite believe it was only a part time home. She later explained that it was a legacy from her dear departed father. It certainly got me thinking. If I could just knuckle down a bit and earn some money then perhaps I could live in a place like that. If Fiona had it already, maybe I should be taking her more seriously. Wouldn’t it be amazing to show a place like that off?

            Fiona and I went to dinner and had a pleasant but unremarkable date. We talked about her teaching and she spoke intelligently enough about the books she taught to her students. I realised with some quiet personal amusement that she could recount more about her lessons in one hour than Ed had ever done in all the time I’d been living with him. Dinner ended awkwardly as Fiona attempted to insist on paying for everything herself. Timothy had apparently presented me as an impoverished member of the junior bar. At least she wasn’t after me for my money! In the end I managed to halve it.

            On Fiona’s doorstep we paused silently for a moment and I realised I was meant to lean in. Ninety percent, right? I remembered my failures of late, following the same train of thought as when I had awoken to her text. Taken in the moment, happy to be involved in anything at all, I inclined my head slightly toward her. She snatched the chance, grabbed the back of my head and pulled me straight down onto her tongue. Literally. She’d extended it out and moved so quickly that I hadn’t had time to even open my mouth. She stabbed my lips and cheek with her tongue. Far from embarrassed at this faux pas she wouldn’t let go, but continued in her attempts to violate my face. The full horror of the matter struck me and I pushed her firmly away. I smiled weakly at her and saw within her eyes a kind of glee, or triumph. She was apparently impervious to my reaction. I said goodnight and politely but firmly refused her invitation for coffee.

            “You needn’t be such a gentleman,” she said, “but it is ever so sweet!”

Camels and Mules

          A typical insight into the last day of a criminal trial, a junior barrister’s perspective:

            08:30 – Have a conference early in the morning to discuss the case. Point out some clever points that your leader can make in his closing speech.

            10:30 – Listen to the Judge recount every boring detail of the entire case thus far. Struggle to stay awake.

            12:30 – Listen to various barristers making earnest speeches apparently from the heart.

            12:48 – Listen to your leader use all of your own brilliant points.

            13:25 – Listen to your leader take the credit for all of your own brilliant points over lunch with the others. Sit in respectful silence.

            14:00 – Incredulously watch the jury acquit some of the Defendants but not others, apparently at random.

            15:24 – Sit in the robing room watching all the barristers count up their various spread bet earnings. They each bet on various different outcomes and events throughout the trial and settle at the end.

            16:02 – Get to the pub and watch all these grown men get drunk on self-satisfaction and wilful ignorance of reality or meaning.

            17:56 – Listen to your leader practically offer a dowry of camels and mules if you’ll take his step daughter.

 

            The worst thing is. I’m no better, deep inside. I feel myself hurtling towards these people on a runaway train of social conformity.

Lovely

          This morning I sat quietly to the side in the robing room (where barrister dress up in their gowns and wigs) pretending to read my book while listening to the common talk. I call it common in earnest. They were discussing the vulgar topic of money in an open and obscene fashion, each comparing notes on hours of completed work to be billed to the legal services commission.

            “You have to make the most of it you know. Those bastards will stop you earning anything if you’re honest with them. Have to keep them on their toes, occasionally bill a 25 hour day, if you know what I mean. Honestly, you need it just to survive; I very nearly missed out on the big 200 last year!” He meant £200,000. I raised my eyebrow briefly before restraining it lest I be spotted.

            I never think about money myself, if I can help it. I had to the other day, and I almost regret posting about it. I can hear you saying I can ignore it because I’ve got it, so I’ve no need to worry. Perhaps. It’s important for the sake of image. Image must be preserved both by the employment of money and by treating it as an invisible inconvenience at the same time. These things are important.

 

*

 

            At lunch Timothy asked me for my thoughts on ‘Fi’.

            “She’s lovely,” I replied, weakly.

            “Yes yes. She is. Perhaps you’d like to see her again?” he suggested. “She’s mentioned you a couple of times,” he added.

            “Er…” what could I say? “That would be lovely.”

            “Splendid!” He smiled warmly and patted my hand with his, dabbing at his lips with a handkerchief in the other hand.

Would a Can of Wood Can You or Would it Only Can Wood?

“Freedom to act as we wish is not only compatible with determinism but requires it: we need things to behave predictably to have any chance of realising the simplest intention.” – Norman Bacrac

 

          I woke up at 8.00am this morning just to get to Sunday lunch at Timothy’s house. He lives out in Salisbury at the weekend. Maybe one day I’ll be able to have one property in the country and one in the town…

            In the end I arrived early before any of the other guests and had to sit through a rather awkward four way conversation where Timothy’s wife and step daughter asked me all sorts of obvious and ordinary questions. I used to feel perfectly at ease in these situations but now inappropriate images of the past few months keep jumping into my head at all the wrong moments and cause me to stutter or look vacantly drugged up.

            At an appropriate break Timothy’s wife gave him a Significant Look and they departed, leaving me alone with Fiona, her daughter. Fiona was pretty in an upper class cliché sort of way. She had straight perfectly conditioned blonde hair cut into a choppy layered style. I’d guess she was about 22, and this was important. She looked to be the type of girl that could keep a tidy enough figure at that age, but I fear that even now there’ll be a couple of love handles available.

            She asked me about sport, a simple pretext to introduce her love of riding. It turns out she makes a living by riding, teaching riding and tutoring some local posh children in a few GCSE subjects. Amazingly she also has a flat in London, in Baron’s Court ‘for when I simply have to do a spot of shopping!’

            Despite some obviously shallow qualities Fiona turned out to be a fairly interesting conversationalist. I asked her about her life and whether she happened to be satisfied with her lot.

            “The wonderful thing about my life, Tom, is that I can change it at any point. Nothing keeps me tied down. I can give up tutoring or riding any time. I can live in London or Salisbury. With my degree from Cambridge I can walk into any job anywhere anytime, no problem; I’m free.”

            “But are you? Would you do any of these things?”

            “Does it matter? It only matters that I can.”

            Timothy and his wife returned with a number of new guests at this point. The formalities were disposed of and Timothy came to join us with a senior barrister I didn’t know. He seemed to think it important we meet. The barrister in question gave Fiona and me an appraising look.

            “What were you two discussing when we came in, it looked absorbing.”

            “We were just talking about Fiona’s flat in London,” I said.

            “Actually,” Fiona averred, “Tom was asking me to play dice with my life.”

            “Really?” the barrister said.

            “Yes. Let me ask you: would you walk back out of the door and go to Scotland for the week?”

            “Well of course not.”

            Fiona turned back to me, “isn’t that the point?” she asked.

            “Perhaps,” I answered. I turned to the barrister and asked, “would it bother you if I told you that you were forbidden from, or incapable of, going to Scotland right now?”

            “Certainly not. Why would it bother me?”

            “Alright, suppose I said you weren’t allowed to leave this house until dinner had concluded and our gracious host, Timothy, permitted you to? Suppose, further, that I forbade you from saying anything remarkable, offensive, disruptive, controversial or simply unusual for the next few hours. Doesn’t it bother you in the least?”

            “No. I plan to operate within those parameters in any case.”

            “I think it would bother me,” I said. “I’m not sure.”

            The rest of lunch proceeded unremarkably. I got a grip and behaved myself. Timothy stopped me on my way out.

            “I hope you enjoyed yourself Tom, thanks very much for coming.”

            “No problem, yeah, it was great.”

            “I know Fiona will have appreciated your company,” he said, then paused. “She doesn’t usually have young company at these things,” he added.

            “Yes, I can imagine.”

            Pause.

            “Did you two get along?”

            “Just fine, thank you.”

            “Yes. I see. Are you… that is… well, don’t let me keep you! Thanks again!”