Love... From Both Sides (A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy)

by Nick Spalding

  Before my next speed date sits down – a tall, chiselled looking individual called William - I shuffle my butt cheeks around a bit, which provides temporary relief.

  I’m tempted to lean sideways to see if that helps, but this will look like I’m letting out a fart, which probably wouldn’t be the kind of thing that’d impress a prospective husband.

  William turns out to be the kind of guy Graham the mountain biker would get on with like a house on fire. This one’s more into wind surfing than mountain biking, but displays the same idiotic propensity for casual sexism and random shouting.

  I’m very relieved when the buzzer goes, because it gets rid of William and means I can seat shuffle again for a few moments.

  Swiftly following William is Greg the PCSO, who spends five minutes telling me all about Section 4 of the Harassment Act. As far as conversation topics at a speed dating event go, this must take the brass ring for the most inappropriate. He seems quite disappointed when the buzzer sounds and he’s forced to move away.

  To me, the buzzer is becoming the countdown to my salvation. The sooner I hear the eighth and final buzz I know this hell will be temporarily over and I can go to the ladies loo.

  Next in line is Tom.

  Tom seems like a nice lad, but frankly he could have told me he was a millionaire a-la carte chef, who could breathe through his ears and loved giving sensual massages and it wouldn’t have mattered.

  Buzz!

  Adam could have shown me a foot long tongue with prehensile abilities, talked about his volunteer work saving the lives of abandoned puppies and African orphans, and told me he worked for Smirnoff and I couldn’t have cared less.

  Buzz!

  Malik is another nice guy, who I would quite happily have chatted to in less trying circumstances.

  Turns out he’s a graphic designer. I’ve been thinking about getting one in to improve the shop’s image so he could’ve been a useful person to know.

  What prevents me from handing over my phone number and going out with him again on a night when it doesn’t feel like I’ve got a nest of ants in my underwear, is the fact he stills lives at home with his mother.

  I once made the mistake of dating a guy who lived with his parents.

  Never again.

  The memory of seeing his mother’s face from the doorway between my upturned legs still haunts me to this day.

  Buzz!

  Just one more… just one more…

  ‘Hello beautiful Laura, who’s name is a shrub.’

  I feel like crying.

  Angelo proceeds to tell me all about his father’s vineyard, his mother’s singing voice and his own Maserati. It’s just as well he loves the sound of his own voice because I’m not contributing much.

  Buzz!

  ‘Let me buy you another drink!’ Angelo cries, before the strident buzzer tone has died.

  ‘No, no, that’s okay,’ I tell him, getting up from the horrible wooden chair for the first time in an hour with indescribable relief.

  ‘Please, you are such a good listener and I think we have a real spark together. A drink is the least I can do for such a wonderful conversation partner.’

  Seriously?

  He calls mono-syllabic responses, a pinched face and a constant jiggle the hallmarks of a great conversationalist?

  Before I can protest further though he’s got an arm round me and is propelling me back to the bar.

  Now, frankly I blame you for this, Mother.

  You always told me that when a charming man offers you a drink you should accept.

  So despite the piles, the fact I’m already far drunker than I should be on a school night, and Angelo’s towering narcissism, I stand there for another five minutes necking my second bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

  I elect to avoid more vodka for reasons which should be obvious.

  I couldn’t bring myself to ask for a soft drink though. Not on a night like this…

  Angelo has just started telling me all about the funk band he sings with when my resolve – and my reserve - breaks.

  ‘I’m sorry Angelo. Would you excuse me? I need to - ’

  To what? Whip down my jeans and have a good rummage?

  ‘I need to… powder my nose.’

  I may as well have said ‘I need to take a big shit’.

  I slam the half empty Smirnoff Ice on the bar and hurry out in search of the toilet.

  I won’t detail what goes on in the course of the next few minutes.

  Suffice to say I am granted some small relief from the discomfort in my undercarriage by the application of cool water and warm air.

  Those multi-directional hand dryers are a Godsend, I can tell you.

  There’s no way I intend to spend another minute dodging Angelo and speed dating another eight single men tonight, so I head out of the toilet (nearly crashing into Mr Artichoke as I do) and make a bee line for the exit, hoping and praying Angelo doesn’t spot me.

  I let out an audible sigh of relief as I leave The Cheetah Lounge.

  I don’t even mind that it’s started to rain like crazy.

  When you’ve just been sat in a hard wooden chair with the itchiest bottom in the known universe, getting soaking wet in a downpour is almost a pleasant experience.

  I spent altogether far too much money on suitable ointments and creams the next day in Boots.

  Love you and miss you Mum,

  Your relatively comfortable daughter, Laura.

  xx

  Jamie’s Blog

  Thursday 19 May

  Somebody once said that a woman only comes your way when you’re not looking for her.

  After my experience today, I’d say a woman only comes your way when you’re minding your own business doing a bit of shopping and she runs you down on a clapped out moped.

  Her name is Laura and despite her attempts to murder me with a Vespa I gave her my phone number.

  Yes indeed, it has come to the point when I’m willing to give potential homicidal maniacs a chance if it means I might get laid.

  In fear of you tutting with disgust and moving on to a blog written by somebody less pathetic, I will now attempt to justify my actions:

  I woke up this morning with the overwhelming urge to spend money on new pants.

  Sadly, I had an entire day of work to get through before being able to sally forth into the local Primark, so had to wait a full eight hours before getting my hands on ten new pairs of knock-off Calvin Kleins.

  With a hop, skip and a jump I left the office at five thirty and drove into town to take full advantage of the Thursday late night shopping hours.

  While the purchasing of pants was my main aim, I was also after something to liven up my living room, which has been looking depressingly empty for some time now.

  I’m reliably informed that plants are always a welcome and attractive addition to anyone’s house, so I went in search of something suitable.

  Whether or not the six foot rubber plant I wound up purchasing could be considered ‘suitable’ is something you’ll have to decide for yourself.

  It was certainly a bugger to shift…

  I always make terrible decisions like this when presented with too much choice.

  I stood in front of more decorative flora than you can shake a stick at, wondering which one would look best in my front room window. At least ten minutes went by before I decided to go for the biggest bargain.

  As the rubber plant was half price I dragged it over to the till and slapped down twenty quid.

  I also made the schoolboy error of buying a large item before I’d done the rest of my shopping, so I had to negotiate Primark carrying my brand new green monstrosity, trying my hardest not to concuss the collection of reprobates that shop there with a huge, rubbery leaf.

  It wasn’t easy I can tell you.

  I had one near miss with a walrus of a woman covered in tattoos. I’m fairly sure she could have broken me in half over one knee, so it was just as well I managed to divert the
flailing plant away from her head as she stood deciding which pair of combat trousers to buy for three quid.

  Primark is a dichotomy of a high street store.

  It sells everything at dirt cheap prices, yet you always manage to spend far too much money while you’re in there.

  It’s just so hard to resist a bargain, isn’t it?

  I picked up my ten pairs of fake Calvin Klein boxer shorts – along with four two quid t-shirts, two pairs of jeans for a tenner, a pair of cargo shorts for seven, some cheap looking gym trainers for nine, four short-sleeved work shirts for sixteen, and an absolutely disgusting Hawaiian shirt (perfect for a fancy dress party I’ve got coming up) for six.

  So now I’m trying to negotiate a busy store carrying a gigantic rubber plant and enough clothes to fit out an entire African village.

  I get to the cash desk without committing any acts of rubbery assault and plonk down my purchases.

  The acne ridden depressive behind the counter spends a few moments deciding whether to charge me for the rubber plant, before deciding that Primark probably hasn’t expanded into the horticulture sector and starts scanning and bagging my other wares.

  ‘That’ll be seventy six pounds please sir,’ it utters in the tones of one sick of living.

  Seventy six bloody quid!?

  This is Primark isn’t it?

  How the hell can I have spent that much in sodding Primark?

  Not entirely sure I haven’t been conned, I hand over my debit card and start to regret my tendency to impulse buy.

  I only came out for some pants.

  I’ve now spent almost a hundred quid on a massive plant and a wardrobe of clothing produced by malnourished five year olds in a tin shack.

  Out I stumble into the mild evening air, rubber plant in one hand slapping me in the face with every step I take, bulging recyclable bag of horrendous garments in the other.

  I leave the pedestrian part of the shopping centre, my arms starting to ache under the weight as I amble along.

  As the Green Cross Code man terrified me as a child, I stop like a good boy at the kerb and look both ways before walking across the road in the direction of the car.

  This is the perfect time for the recyclable Primark bag to break.

  Both handles give way under the weight of my new purchases and the bag drops to the tarmac, spilling its contents.

  ‘Bollocks!’ I tell the whole street.

  This is when Laura McIntyre enters my life… and nearly ends it in short order.

  Laura’s Diary

  Thursday, May 19th

  Dear Mum,

  You may remember a conversation we had when I was thirteen, when I told you how I’d like to meet my future husband.

  I don’t remember all the details, but I’m sure there was a desert island involved, along with a gleaming white stallion and a box of chocolates larger than my head.

  Teenage girls are simple creatures, so I guess the rampant clichés were to be expected.

  Fast forward fifteen years and cold, hard reality has set in.

  I’m not really bothered if there’s a desert island anymore, horses tend to smell bad anyway, and the box of chocolates would mean another month in the gym.

  Frankly I’d settle for meeting my future husband without suffering embarrassment, personal injury or high financial expense.

  I did meet a guy today Mum, and while I didn’t spend much money, it was bloody embarrassing and I only just avoided serious personal injury by the skin of my teeth.

  It started with panic.

  I’m not usually a forgetful person, but it’s been a hard few weeks at the shop and my mind’s been full of stock returns, balance sheets and advertising space, so I hope I could be forgiven for forgetting my God daughter’s birthday, surely?

  It was mortifying.

  I walk in the door at six o’clock virtually dead on my feet, with plans to spend an exquisite evening doing absolutely bugger all, stretched out on the sofa watching soap operas. My flatmate Charlie is away for the week with her new boyfriend, so I have the luxury of an empty apartment.

  Then, as I pass the fridge, I spot the picture of me, Melina and her beautiful little girl Hayley, taken at Thorpe Park last year – and my heart stops.

  It’s Hayley’s fourth birthday tomorrow! I haven’t bought her anything!

  I’m invited to the party that starts straight after closing at six o’clock. With my current workload I’ll have no chance to get out tomorrow and buy something before it.

  I can’t just pull something out of stock, as my chocolate is squarely aimed at the adult market. I can’t see Hayley being all that impressed with a luxury praline gift box or truffle selection – at least not until she hits her twenties.

  There’s nothing for it, I’ll have to go back out now and get over to Toys R Us before it shuts.

  This would be enough of a chore if my car was working, but it’s still knackered thanks to the ongoing saga of the head gasket, so I’ve got no transport.

  I’ll have to get a taxi.

  Then my eyes fall on the bowl of keys by the microwave.

  One set belongs to Charlie. On it is the key to her 1982 Vespa moped.

  Charlie has been nursing this monstrosity around for the best part of a decade. Not quite vegetarian enough to ride a push bike everywhere, Charlie has nevertheless decided that riding round on a clapped out scooter is better for the environment than owning an evil, polluting car.

  I’m reminded of a conversation we had a few weeks ago:

  ‘You should have a go sometime, Laura. You’re more than welcome,’ Charlie says to me.

  ‘Yeah… maybe.’

  I have no intention of ever taking her up on the offer.

  Until today.

  I could (and should) just order a taxi, but things are tight at the moment money-wise, so I could do without the extra expense – especially because I’ll probably end up spending a small fortune on Hayley’s present.

  I spy Charlie’s bright red crash helmet down by the recycling bin and my decision is made.

  It’s a moped.

  How hard can it be?

  Indeed, things go fine for the first few hundred yards:

  Twist throttle and off you go.

  I’d owned a little Honda Melody step-through as a student, so was familiar enough with mopeds to know how to ride one.

  Sadly, the Vespa is a lot more powerful than the Melody.

  A fact my neighbours are now acutely aware of, thanks to the ear piercing screams that emanated from Laura McIntyre as she careened down the road, having opened the throttle a little too hard.

  With heart hammering in my chest, I apply the brakes and resolve to take things a lot easier.

  The rest of the twenty minute journey into town is relatively incident free, other than an expletive filled exchange with a white van driver and a hairy moment involving a Peugeot 106.

  I pull into Toys R Us with only a slight wobble and park in the motorcycle bay.

  I’ll be the first to admit that buying a four foot doll’s house when you’re on a moped probably isn’t the wisest move, but every little girl should have a doll’s house, right?

  I could just picture little Hayley’s eyes lighting up as she opened the front of the house to see all those little rooms, with their miniature furniture and tiny glass-eyed dolls. I loved mine when I was a kid, so what better present for Auntie Laura to buy her?

  I even got the gangly sales assistant to help me lash the thing to the back of the moped with some parcel tape and the collection of fraying bungee straps Charlie kept in the seat.

  The look of terror in his eyes as I started the engine and moved (very slowly) away was entirely unjustified as far as I was concerned.

  …as were the repeated car horns as I pootled my way along the road, wobbling all over the place as the doll’s house unbalanced the Vespa with its colossal weight.

  I was sure I could handle it though, and it was only a short journey home.
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  Everything would have been hunky-dory if the crash helmet hadn’t decided to fall back off the top of my head and nearly strangle me.

  I knew it was too big when I put it on back at the flat, but cinching the chin strap up as tight as I could seemed to stop it moving round too much, so I though it’d be okay for the trip to the shops.

  Nope. Not the case.

  As I’m turning into the road that leads out of the shopping centre the bloody thing slips slowly backwards, nearly throttling me with the chin strap - and making my head tip upwards.

  I’ve barely been in control of the moped / doll’s house combo anyway, so this latest development makes the situation ten times worse.

  I lurch and weave across the road – now mercifully empty at gone eight o’clock in the evening – wailing like a banshee as I fight to avoid an enormous accident.

  There are many effective ways to break the ice with a new man, Mum.

  A compliment about his clothes, for instance.

  A light touch on the forearm, accompanied by a warm laugh is always good.

  The wearing of a brassiere designed to lift and separate is even better.

  Side-swiping him with a £50 doll’s house in the middle of a road isn’t a good way to break the ice – though you’ll certainly end up breaking something if you’re not careful.

  I barely have time to register the guy standing in the street holding a gigantic pot plant before I’m steaming right at him, applying the brakes for all I’m worth.

  Luckily, I’ve got the speed down sufficiently to avoid serious injury to either of us - but I’m still thrown off the damn moped, earning a nasty scrape on my knee. My luckless victim is hit by the doll’s house and is sent sprawling to the concrete, hugging his pot plant like it’s his first born.

  Apologising isn’t something I’m keen on, but I also don’t like the idea of being sued for every penny I’m worth, so I get up a good head of apologetic steam by the time I’ve dragged the moped to the side of the road and helped him carry his ridiculous rubber plant and bag of shopping over as well.