by Jon Rance
‘Do I fucking sound alright?’ she shouted back.
‘Love you,’ I replied supportively, but all I heard was Emily throwing up last night’s dinner. That’s the last time I push the boat out and buy free-range organic beef. It’s much too expensive to not stay down.
I went to see my octogenarian Granddad at the old folks’ home yesterday and the first thing he said when I walked in was, ‘It’s so hard not to be a racist these days, Harry.’ When I asked him what he meant he replied, ‘I was talking to this darky fella. From Africa he was. I mentioned I thought Sammy the Paki had stolen my apple. Next thing the darky fella said I shouldn’t use the word Paki because it’s derogatory. I told him Sammy was from Pakistan and a thief. Things aren’t what they used to be, Harry. It’s not like the good old days.’
Granddad is always going on about the good old days, like there was a magical period of time when people would stand on street corners and give out money. When you could buy a house for a shiny penny, a car with a cheeky smile and there was a good old knees-up at the pub every night. Sort of like Eastenders but without the drama and violence. The only problem with the good old days is that no one actually knows when it was, where it was and if it even existed.
‘How’s everything going apart from the racism and theft, Granddad?’
‘I need to have sex, Harry. I need to feel the pleasure of a woman’s touch before I die.’
‘Emily and I are having a baby.’
‘Sex, sex, sex!’ Granddad said before Sammy (the Pakistani fella) walked past eating an apple and all hell broke loose. Granddad had to be restrained by two staff members. ‘I didn’t fight in two world wars to have my apple stolen by a bloody Pakistani!’ Granddad shouted across the lounge as he was escorted away. For the record, he didn’t fight in either war.
As I was leaving the home I heard someone shout, ‘Spirit of the dam busters!’ And I’m sure it was Granddad.
Monday, January 16th, 10.00 p.m.
In bed. Eating a pork pie. Emily asleep.
I got the dreaded text from Mrs Crawley today: ‘NW meeting. 8pm. My house. Urgent!’ I’ve been expecting this since our new neighbours moved in, but when it finally appeared in my inbox my heart sank.
Mrs Crawley, despite her kindly Miss Marple demeanour and religious leanings, is something of a suburban tyrant. She takes her role as head of the neighbourhood watch committee to ridiculous lengths, which does mean we live on one of the safest streets in South London, but as Emily always says, at what cost?
The meeting lasted an hour and consisted of her talking about the new neighbours without actually mentioning the new neighbours (heaven forbid she is perceived to be a racist). She said things like:
‘Recent changes need to be noted with regard for the on-going safety of our street.’
‘It’s been brought to my attention, due to recent activity on the street, that we need to be more diligent than ever.’
‘We must, at all costs, be sure we not only watch those that appear to be, shall we say, up to no good, but those that live right under our noses.’
When Brian from number fourteen innocently asked, ‘Are you talking about the new people who moved in next to Harry?’ Mrs Crawley looked appalled.
‘Of course not, Brian, what made you think that?’ Then she made more tea and gave everyone a single digestive biscuit.
After the meeting, I felt even guiltier about mistrusting my new neighbours because of their race and appearance. I’m not a racist bigot like Mrs Crawley. I’m going to make more of an effort to get along with them.
Emily was sick again today. She was in bed and asleep by eight o’clock. Poor thing.
Tuesday, January 17th, 7.00 p.m.
At home. Eating bangers and mash. Emily nibbling on a sausage (unfortunately, not a euphemism).
Begin rant.
We had to use the ladies’ toilet at school today because of a blockage in the gents. No doubt Bill Jenkins (Maths) was to blame. That man has the bottom of the devil. Still, it was quite an eye-opening experience. The ladies’ toilet is lovely. They have pretty, pink towels, pictures of quaint English countryside scenes on the wall, they have hand lotion, hand moisturiser, the cubicle actually has toilet roll (and how soft it was) and they have a little box of potpourri next to the basin. I had no idea the female staff had it so good in the lavatory department.
Going into the gents is like visiting someone in an East European jail. Hard sandpaper towels, grey paint peeling off the walls, there’s never any soap, there’s always one half-square of toilet roll left (who uses half a square of toilet roll?) and the smell. The thought of having to pee or worse starts a spiral of thought which can take up an entire morning of teaching. Do I really have to go? Can I wait? Just bloody well clench up and keep it in.
We’re intelligent human beings. We’re responsible for educating the next generation of industry leaders, artists and sports personalities, yet we have to defecate like monkeys in the rainforest, while the ladies get their girlie bits pampered like bloody royalty. It isn’t right. Just because I’m a man, it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a bit of potpourri and hand moisturiser from time to time.
Rant over.
Wednesday, January 18th, 6.00 p.m.
In the bathroom. In shock. Emily in the bedroom laughing.
I’ve been going to Dave’s Barber Shop for the last eight years. Dave is middle-aged, a bit camp and possibly gay (although married with two kids) and does a great haircut, quickly, cheaply and with very little conversation. An average Dave appointment goes something like this.
‘Alright, Dave.’
‘The usual, is it?’
‘Yes please, Dave.’
‘Right.’
Then Dave goes about his business until it’s time to pay. I always give him a two-quid tip and then he says, ‘Thank you, thank you, bye, thank you, bye, thanks,’ about eighty times. On quiet days, I can still hear him outside on the street thanking me and bidding me farewell. It’s probably the most comfortable relationship in my life. However, today when I went to Dave’s there was no Dave and in his place was a spotty youth.
‘Where’s Dave?’
‘Holiday, innit. I’m the trainee, Troy.’
‘Troy the trainee?’
‘Yeah, izzit.’
Then Troy the trainee went on to explain what he’d like to do to my hair. He seemed keen to shave most of it off. I thought about leaving and returning when Dave was back, but something about the desperate look on Troy’s face made me sit down in the chair and let him loose with the scissors. Thirty minutes later and I was looking in horror at his handiwork.
‘Whatdoyerthink?’ said Troy with a proud look on his mottled face.
Basically, it was a fucking shambles. He had shaved parts, cut other parts and none of it seemed to match or be level, but I didn’t have the heart to ruin Troy’s grand vision.
‘Yeah, great, perfect, just what I was after.’
I gave Troy the trainee a two-quid tip and then left. Troy didn’t say thank you or bye once. I left with a feeling of emptiness and embarrassment, which wasn’t helped when I got home and Emily started laughing at me. For the record, she still is.
Wednesday, January 25th, 4.00 p.m.
Burn’s Night, Scotland
At school. Raining. In need of a cigarette.
Miss Simpson (Dictator Headmistress) called me into her office today. She was concerned I seem distracted (I am). She lectured me on being professional, taking time off ‘nilly willy’ and the importance of classroom discipline. She said she’d received a complaint from a parent. When I asked her what the complaint was she said, ‘Certain students are being allowed to literally sleep through lessons and their snoring is upsetting the other pupils.’
I lied and said to the best of my knowledge, no student had ever fallen asleep during class. She gave me a look of such vile contempt that I actually felt physically violated.
The pupils call her Miss Hitler, which is especially
pleasing to me being a history teacher. She said she’d be keeping a careful eye on me. When she said this, she narrowed her eyes until I could hardly see them anymore.
8.00 p.m.
On the sofa. Eating a cheese and onion slice. Emily lying next to me. Watching the telly.
Will my future son/daughter look like me? Will they have my looks and Emily’s brains or vice versa? Will they be a ginger? Emily’s grandmother was a redhead. Maybe it’s a recessive gene. I’ll have to Google that.
Friday, January 27th, 9.00 p.m.
Having a cigarette by the back door. Emily asleep upstairs. Drilling noise from next door. Almost a full moon tonight.
I had a drink with best mate Ben in The Alexandra tonight and he had some staggering news. He’s fallen madly in love with an Aussie girl and they’re leaving for Australia in less than a week!
‘I’m in love, mate. I think she’s the one.’
I’m in complete shock. He’s always been the single one. A confirmed life-long bachelor. He was never going to settle down, get married, have kids and do all the normal stuff. While I was busy creating a sensible suburban existence in south-west London, he was off bungee jumping in New Zealand, scuba diving in Australia and hiking the Himalayas. A part of me has always been jealous of his freedom and exciting lifestyle, but now he’s going to be just like me. It doesn’t feel right. I need to live vicariously through Ben, but if he’s doing the same mundane shit as me, it isn’t going to work.
‘I never thought I’d see the day. She must be something special.’
‘It was love at first sight. I’ve never felt this way before. She’s going back to Australia next week and I’m going with her.’
‘But what about your job? What about your flat? What about me? Are you coming back?’
‘I don’t know. I just know I need to go. Work’s giving me some time off. My flat will be fine and I think you’ll be OK.’
‘We’ll see about that.’
I can’t believe Ben is abandoning me in my hour of need. He invited Emily and me to his flat tomorrow night to meet Katie.
Sunday, January 29th, 10.00 a.m.
Drinking tea in the garden. Emily still asleep. Squirrel up and about. All quiet next door.
We had dinner at Ben’s flat last night. Katie is exactly what I expected. She’s tall, beautiful, interesting and I fell madly in love with her in about five seconds flat. Her life story reads like an action adventure. Mountain climbing, skydiving, scuba diving, iron woman competitions and surfing. Fitness oozed from her body like the smell of laziness seeps from mine. She’s gorgeous, funny, intelligent and absolutely perfect for Ben. It doesn’t mean I’m happy about him traipsing halfway across the globe though. Who will I go for drinks with now? When I said this to Ben he replied sarcastically,
‘In case you’ve forgotten, mate, you’re about to be a dad. You’ll have about as much use for pubs as I have for talcum powder.’ Then he laughed hysterically. I’m glad the smug bastard is going to Australia.
Monday, January 30th, 6.00 p.m.
In the lounge. Eating a Pot Noodle. Emily lying on the floor in pain. Raining.
I came home from work to find a stack of baby-related books on the coffee table. Here’s a selection:
50,000 of the Best Baby Names. It makes you wonder which names were omitted. Adolf would be one I assume.
The World’s Best Baby Names. A second baby name book seems a tad excessive. Do we really need names from North Korea and Iran? We’re unlikely to call our child Chung-Hee Spencer or Farzad Babak Spencer. I imagine we’ll probably stick to something a bit more traditional.
The Bloke’s Survival Kit for Being a Dad. This jovial-sounding book was, I assume, purchased for me. I flicked through and even I was offended by the level of immaturity it presumes all men possess. I mean, seriously, it had a chapter called, ‘Babies v Beer – You think it’s all over, it is now!’
‘You expect me to read this rubbish?’ I said to Emily.
‘Fiona said Steve loved it. He couldn’t put it down.’
‘But Steve’s a moron.’
‘Just read the bloody book,’ Emily replied and it seemed a bit churlish to argue with a pregnant woman lying on the floor in pain. Admittedly the pain was not baby related. She twisted her ankle coming down the stairs, but she’s still carrying our child and is, thus, untouchable.
Tuesday, January 31st, 8.00 p.m.
Full moon. In the study. Emily asleep. Drinking wine alone.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to become a dad, or because Ben is leaving, or maybe it’s just the wine, but I’m feeling a tad wistful. Emily went to bed at six o’clock because she was knackered. She didn’t even eat dinner.
I’ve been going through my box of memories and reminiscing about my good old days. I found some old photos of me as a young boy with really awful clothes and a dodgy haircut (the late eighties wasn’t a good time for me).
I also dug up my old sixth-form yearbook. I skimmed through until I found pictures of Ben and me. We were trying our best to look cool and aloof, but obviously we looked stupid and inane. Ben had one of those half-goatee chin beards, which he thought made him look interesting and intelligent. Ironically, he was interesting and intelligent, but the half-goatee chin beard made him look like a bit of a knob.
Then I stumbled across a picture of my old girlfriend, Jamie O’Connell. God she was beautiful. Slender body, long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes and breasts that seemed to literally defy gravity. Bouncy yet firm, pert but well rounded, large, but somehow just the perfect handful. She was also the first person I’d ever met who’d really travelled and who knew about obscure indie bands and not because she wanted to sound cool, but because she genuinely loved music. She had read just about every novel ever written and watched every film, including the black-and-white French ones (and not just because they’re occasionally a bit mucky). She created style instead of following it, spoke her opinion without ever preaching and while we were trapped in a sort of post-secondary school whirlpool of identity crisis, she knew exactly who she was. She somehow managed to be strong, vulnerable, sexy and intellectual all at the same time.
How she became my actual girlfriend will always remain something of a mystery. She was like a sixth-form Brigitte Bardot, while I looked bloody awful with my slightly long hair (curtains, as we called them) and extra-large glasses (they literally covered half of my face). She was also Scottish, which made her even more exotic and desirable, but somehow (sheer luck I’d imagine) I managed to woo her. Jamie was my first love and like all first loves I thought we were going to be together forever.
I start wondering about the girl I loved so much. Is she married? Does she have children? Where does she live?
In a moment of inquisitive melancholy, I manage to find her on Facebook. Unfortunately, her page is blocked and so I have no choice but to request we become friends. I doubt whether she’ll even remember me. She’s probably married to a rock star/actor/millionaire/model and living it up in the south of France. C’est la vie.
4.00 a.m.
I woke up in a terrified, sweaty panic. I’m going to be someone’s father! They’re going to call me Daddy and expect me to know how to mend things, know about photosynthesis and take them fishing. I don’t know how to fish. I went once when I was seven. I don’t know how to change a plug and God knows about photosynthesis. Something about light, carbon dioxide and plants, but I don’t know. How can I possibly be a good father if I don’t know about photosynthesis?
About the Author
Born in Southampton, England, in 1975, Jon Rance is the author of the bestselling romantic comedy novel, This Thirtysomething Life. He graduated with a degree in English Literature from Middlesex University, London, before going travelling and meeting his American wife in Australia. He drinks a lot of tea and spends far too much time gazing off into space.
Please visit his website at www.jonrance.com or connect with him on Twitter @JRance75.
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sp; Also by Jon Rance
This Twentysomething Life (A sort-of Prequel Short Story)
This Thirtysomething Life