Six Months to Get a Life

by Ben Adams

  I am not a complete football anorak but I do love the World Cup. I have been known to hang a flag out of my bedroom window for at least the five minutes that England are still in the tournament. Obviously I would tell the neighbours that the kids twisted my arm to do it but really I am the one that enjoys showing his patriotism.

  Brazil beat Croatia thanks, in part, to a Japanese referee.

  Both boys went to school this morning looking absolutely knackered. So much for my good intentions after the parents’ evening.

  I was knackered too. Watching the football and having a few cans of London Pride wasn’t the ideal preparation for my job interview.

  After queueing for the shower and washing the sleep out of my eyes, I dusted off my best suit (literally), picked out my most conservative-looking tie and took the tube to Old Street to go and talk about protecting assets. This was my first job interview for a few years. I don’t mind interviews but I usually prefer the ones in which I know a bit about the subject in hand. My basic Google searches didn’t exactly qualify me as an expert in preventing fraud, in buying CCTV systems and training staff in asset protection but I reckon I managed to talk the talk at least to the extent that I didn’t look like a complete twat. The one question I struggled with was when they asked me what experience I had in conducting interrogations to identify staff engaged in criminal activity. I resisted the urge to talk about my degree in waterboarding, my fanaticism with Spooks on the BBC and my apprenticeship at Guantanamo Bay. In the end I opted to talk about my problem-solving abilities.

  Apparently they will let me know whether I got the job or not next week. I won’t be waiting with bated breath for their call.

  I went straight to work after my interview. The most productive thing I did all afternoon was organise the office World Cup sweepstake. I got a few dirty looks from Daniel boss-man who thought I should have been spending my time pouring over some vital spreadsheet or other. Still, it was worth the dirty looks. I got Argentina so at least I am in with a chance of winning a few quid.

  Saturday 14th June

  Today’s big event was the walk on Wimbledon Common with Jack and Sean. How can walking the dog be ‘a big event’? Well, in my book it can if it involves an ‘accidental’ meeting with Amy, her daughter Lucy and Susie the shih poo. Jack and Sean are normally quite happy to take the dog for a walk, so long as they get at least one cake at some point on the walk. Today for some reason they weren’t too bothered about going out but once I upped the ante to the promise of a take-away pizza when we got home, they agreed to come.

  The nerves had kicked in big time before this meeting. Would I show myself up in front of Amy and her daughter? Would my kids show me up? Would the presence of the kids hamper mine and Amy’s efforts to get to know each other? Would the whole thing go tits up? I was particularly nervous about meeting Amy’s daughter. My experience of interacting with teenage girls was practically zero. Even including when I was a teenager myself. I haven’t got a clue what you talk to teenage girls about. They generally don’t do football, curries and arm wrestles. What if Lucy turned out to be a brat?

  I had a shave this morning and then put on my best chinos and the shoes that the boys had made me buy. I even dug out a bottle of aftershave that my ex had bought me ages ago and splashed it on in all the right places. I even groomed the bloody dog.

  ‘Dad, you stink,’ Sean told me in the car on the way to the Common. Thanks son. I had thought about nagging the boys to dress up too but I couldn’t work out how I would justify it so in the end I left them to choose their own clothes – an Angry Birds top for Sean and an already dirty rugby shirt for Jack. Not exactly designer clothing but it could have been worse, I suppose.

  As luck and a few surreptitious text messages would have it, just as we arrived at the Windmill Amy was strolling across the car park with her entourage. Lucy was a pint-sized version of her mum. They both wore cut-off jeans. Lucy had a sparkly crop top on (I could have sworn I caught Jack checking her out) and her mother wore a cosy-fitting black top (Jack almost certainly caught me checking her out).

  Much raucous barking ensued as Albus and Susie reacquainted themselves with each other. Tails were wagged, audible greetings exchanged and backsides sniffed. I wish I could adopt the dogs’ uncomplicated approach and carefree attitude although I would have drawn the line at the sniffing backsides bit.

  Amy and I at least had an excuse this time for not being overly familiar with each other. We had a pretence to keep up. We exchanged the normal pleasantries that you would expect your average anonymous dog walkers to share, we confirmed that we were going in the same direction and began our stroll.

  At one point when it became clear that we wouldn’t be going off in different directions at the next fork in the path, Lucy took her headphones off and introductions were made. Jack and Lucy seemed to be chatting or at least what passes for chatting in a teenage context. Sean was content to throw sticks for the dogs.

  The only downside on the walk came when Albus chased Susie into the most stagnant, repugnant pond on the common. No walk would be complete without Albus getting himself filthy. I have got a clapped out old people carrier that was stained from previous dog walks so I had no problem with my dog’s antics. Amy felt slightly differently and tried to drag Susie out of the pond before the little dog was completely covered in gunk.

  ‘Mum’s worried about the state of her Porsche,’ I heard Lucy telling Jack and Sean.

  God, she must be loaded. Anyway, Amy’s attempt to rescue her dog was doomed to fail as Susie emerged from the weed-infested lake looking like the dog version of the incredible hulk. The kids saw the funny side, even if Amy took a bit more convincing.

  The afternoon stroll ended in a meal at the Hand in Hand. The kids readily agreed to forego their promised pizza so long as I let them have the most chocolate-laden dessert on the menu. The day was a great success, although I was left wondering again about the wisdom of bringing your kids to meet a prospective date before anything romantic had actually developed. Still, Amy and I are going to go out for a drink one night next week without dogs or children so that must be some sort of indication that the afternoon was good for her too.

  Jack is more perceptive than I give him credit for. On the way home, he asked me whether I was going to see Amy again.

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ I replied.

  ‘Because if you are, you need to get a haircut and lose the shapeless T-shirts.’

  Thanks son, you sound so much like your mother.

  The day ended badly. The boys and I watched England lose to Italy in the football.

  Monday 16th June

  So, today I found out that my detailed critique of my work’s strategic review proposals had no impact whatsoever. They have confirmed their original proposals for a ‘restructuring of our operations and a consequent repositioning of our staffing resources’ which, for me, means that I have to compete for a job with short skirt Sarah, the brown-nosing attractive little miss perfect. They are hoping to get all of the restructuring done by the time people go off for their summer holidays. How considerate of them.

  I also got the predictable news that I didn’t get that asset protection manager job. On reflection I think I was a bit naïve even going for it. I need a new job but I probably should be focussing my efforts on vacancies that I at least have some chance of being offered. I did read in the paper the other day that they are recruiting for staff to work in the passport offices. Maybe I should apply for one of those vacancies. Sean’s passport still hasn’t come through. I could process his application.

  It is a bit early to start panicking but I am beginning to fear that my decision to move into a rented flat might have been slightly rash. But shit happens to those that let shit happen to them, so I must keep looking for new jobs and not be thrown off-course at the first adverse wind.

  Talking of the flat, I started thinking about packing today. Friday is moving in day. Having lost most of my stuff to my ex, I a
ctually don’t have much to move so I ended up only thinking about packing. Five minutes on Thursday night should do the trick.

  Tuesday 17th June

  I may have shot myself in the foot again today. This afternoon I was supposed to be filling in a work performance evaluation report on our lorry fleet, but instead I thought I would spend some time discreetly filling in a ‘programme office manager’ job application. Unfortunately, when I went to make a cup of tea, Daniel came over to see my workstation and spotted the application on my screen. He sent me the following email:

  ‘Graham, I happened to pass your monitor just now. We pay you to work, not to search for new jobs on our time. I respectfully suggest that you pull your finger out and complete the logistics performance report before you go home tonight.

  By the way, I found your job application an interesting read, particularly the bit where you claimed credit for ‘single-handedly transforming the company’s operating processes to achieve efficiencies worth more than £1 million per year.’ If I was you, I would suggest that you add ‘excellent imagination’ to the exhaustive list of skills you claim, on page two of your application, to possess.’

  Arsehole.

  OK, so maybe I was being a bit economical with the truth in my application, but who isn’t? Note to self, don’t ask Danny boy to write me a reference.

  Thursday 19th June

  Tonight is my last night living with my parents. Looking back on the last few months, there were some initial teething troubles but we soon got into a routine and coexisted without too many issues. I am grateful to my parents for giving me a place to stay for a few months. Their house was just about big enough for the kids to stay at from time to time although the queues for the bathroom won’t be missed. Neither will the attempts to get me to go back to my ex.

  Without wishing to be ungrateful to my parents for what they have done, I can’t wait to become an independent, fully functioning adult again. I am not sure how often I will use it, but I want the freedom to walk naked around the flat when I want to, to invite my mates round for a few beers (not while I am naked obviously), to eat in front of the telly, to sit on the loo with the toilet door open if there is something good I am listening to on the radio and even to leave the hoovering until tomorrow if that’s what I decide to do. I need my own place.

  The boys came over tonight, partly to show solidarity in thanking their grandparents for their hospitality but mostly to watch the England match. Another World Cup over before it has even begun for England.

  Friday 20th June

  I am writing today’s update from my new abode. I can tick that goal off then. The flat has two bedrooms. The master bedroom has a double bed, a pine wardrobe with doors that don’t shut properly and a scratched up table and chair with a view out of the window overlooking the road and the number 164 bus stop. The walls are off-white, as they are throughout the flat.

  You can tell that a previous set of occupants used the second bedroom as a children’s bedroom. There are two single beds in there already, the pine frames of which are adorned with the remnants of stickers that someone has made a token effort to try and remove. The wallpaper around the beds is beginning to peel off, probably as a result of bored little fingers fiddling with it after lights out. A quirky comic strip light shade – the only lightshade in the whole flat – has also managed to outlast the previous tenants.

  As well as the bedrooms, I have a decent sized albeit completely dull and characterless sitting room, equipped with a sofa and an armchair as well as a basic dining table and chairs. There is a dark wood TV table in the corner that is too small to accommodate my large telly, so I have had to mount the telly on the dining table for now.

  The best thing that can be said for the kitchen and bathroom is that everything seems to work. I am not sure I will be able to fully relax in the bath until I have disinfected it several times. The cooker is filthy too. Looking on the bright side, at least I won’t have to clean the flat to high standards when I move out.

  The move went as well as could be expected. When my ex and I moved to our (now her) detached pad in Surrey, we had two lorries full of stuff. Now, I can comfortably fit my worldly possessions into the back of my car.

  If truth be told I am feeling a bit crap tonight. I can’t help thinking about how far I have fallen. My ex is still in our detached house, the most expensive house in the street. I am in a flat on a main road in Morden.

  I am trying not to dwell on my previous life but I can’t help recalling summers spent in the garden with our huge paddling pool and table tennis table. The neighbours’ kids used to drop in just to play in our garden. There will be none of that here.

  Like missing my ex’s birthday, this move feels like I am hammering another nail into the coffin that contains our relationship. I won’t share time with my ex in this flat. She will have no association with it. I thought I had already got my head around mine and my ex’s separation, but tonight I am really coming to realise the permanence of it all.

  Even moving from my parents’ to here is hard. I have hardly spent any time on my own at my parents’. I am now in a flat where for most of the time Albus and I will be the only occupants. That is going to take some getting used to.

  I am still convinced that in the long run moving out of my parents’ is the right thing to do. Living with my mum and dad always felt temporary. I couldn’t entertain there, I couldn’t make my mark on the property or give it my personality. I couldn’t bring women back. So moving into my own place, however shitty it is, has to be the right thing to do. Maybe I need to feel lonely to give me the push to get off my backside and sort my life out.

  Now that I have moved away from my parents I can do whatever I want. The trouble is, I am now asking myself what ‘whatever I want’ looks like in reality. I haven’t exactly got a queue of women waiting to come over for wild parties. I am not even sure that I would want to bring Amy here (I am being presumptuous even thinking that she might want to come). What would she make of this flat? She drives a Porsche and lives off the Ridgway for god’s sake. Would she approve of the England flag hanging out of the window?

  Because I haven’t lived on my own since god knows when, and because my parents have done the cooking for the last few months, I need to reacquaint myself with a frying pan. My mum bought me a cook book as a house-moving present. She is fretting that I will live off takeaways and ready meals. She may well be right to fret. It isn’t that I can’t cook but I am not sure how inclined I will be to go to the effort of cooking when I am only cooking for one.

  I flicked through the cook book. I am a bit of a snob when it comes to food. I am partial to take-away curries but generally want proper fresh English meat and vegetables. Having said that, I pushed the boat out tonight and cooked a big spag bol – the Italian type that takes hours to cook rather than the British type where you chuck everything in a pan with a jar of sauce. So there!

  Spag bol, a bottle of lager or six and watching the World Cup. It shouldn’t have been a bad night. But I couldn’t get excited by Honduras versus Ecuador. More significantly I can’t seem to shake off the loneliness. And the flat was so quiet when the football had finished and the telly was off. I am not used to quiet, so I put the radio in the kitchen on before I went to bed to create the illusion that I am not alone.

  The kids are coming round tomorrow and then I have dinner with Amy so tomorrow shouldn’t be as bad as tonight.

  Saturday 21st June

  And there was me worrying about how quiet it would be. At about midnight I discovered that my neighbour is also an 80s rock fan. I like Def Leppard as much as the next middle aged soft rock enthusiast, but I could have done without hearing ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ ten times over in the middle of the night. I think he was head-banging too. Personally I never got the point of head-banging. I never got the long hair and studs thing either.

  Jack was playing cricket so only Sean came round in the end this afternoon. We did some web surfing to persona
lise the flat a bit. I hope Jack likes the Chelsea duvet cover. We put a few photos up in their bedroom to make it look more homely and relevant to their lives, and then Sean ate some of my spag bol before going off to a sleepover with some mates. I resisted the spag bol because I am going out on the town tonight with Amy.

  It has been a while.

  Sunday 22nd June

  OK, so I need to tell you how last night went. Well, I should say up front, just to manage your expectations, that it has still been a while.

  Amy and I went to the Spotted Horse in Putney, a fairly unadventurous, traditional pub with a decent atmosphere, particularly in the winter months by virtue of the fact that it has an open fire. The choice of pub was Amy’s and her decision was influenced by the fact that Lucy was ill and was staying at her dad’s in Earlsfield, so Amy wanted to be somewhere fairly close in case she had to jump in a cab and pick her up in a hurry. I did wonder if my ex followed similar logic and went out on dates to pubs in Morden when I last had the kids when they were ill. I doubt it somehow. I also vaguely wondered whether Amy was half hoping that her ex would see her out on a date. I probably shouldn’t assume that Amy is as devious as me.

  Amy looked stunning tonight, dressed in a simple but elegant black number. I wish I could describe it better but I am a bloke after all. Her hair is beautiful and striking, her skin pale but blemish-free and her smile just makes me melt. For the football lovers out there, Amy is undoubtedly Premier League. She might be Spurs or Everton rather than the real top dogs of Manchester City or Chelsea, but she’s certainly right up there. I am probably your Nottingham Forest – had the odd glory day but now a bit tired and dated. If Amy had been your supermodel, your Man City or Chelsea, she wouldn’t have so much as looked at me. As it is, if Amy and I come to anything then I am definitely punching above my weight.