Computer Dating

Digging through some old files marked "work in progress" and I found this story from 2005. I suspect the plan was to polish it a bit more and send it off for publication in some magazine's Coffee Break Fiction section. Having scanned over it, it does indeed need some editing, but here it is anyway.

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 E-mails, e-mails, emails. I hate returning to the office after holiday. Hundreds of e-mails clogging my in-box make it even worse. It’s Monday morning and my holiday seems so long ago already.

I’m glad I had the foresight to block my diary before I departed for the golden sands of Corfu. So, I have no meetings today, which means I can take my time looking through my e-mails, putting off the reality of work until tomorrow.

Clutching my mouse like it’s an alien rodent, I click on the first memo and glance over the opening sentence for any relevance. The words are on the screen but I just can’t read them. All I see is a pale reflection on the monitor staring back. Didn’t I have a tan a few minutes ago?

I sigh but no-one rushes over with tickets for the next flight out of here and back to the lazy sun-blessed life I had got used to.

Evidently, I am not ready to deal with even the most basic of tasks, so I decide to search for personal memos and any funnies.

Thinking about the last funny email I got brings a hint of a smile to my lips. It wasn’t so much the content that made me smile, rather who sent it; The office new boy, Adrian. Fresh out of university and a welcome breeze in a stuffy office monopolised by early thirty-something women, like me.

Funny e-mails in the office were unheard of until Adrian joined a couple of months ago. 

It is also nice to have a bit of male eye candy around the place.  Perhaps there are 

some perks to this job after all.

‘I bet you’re missing him already.’

The words disrupted my thoughts. I turn to see my boss, Sandy, perched on the edge of my desk.

‘Who?’ I ask, fearing what the gossip mill has churned out in my absence, ‘Your holiday romance!’

‘Oh.’ Breathing a sigh of relief I say, ‘Mr Non-existent, you mean.’

Sandy is clutching a thick wedge of paper and I realise the small talk is leading to something. 

‘That’s a lot of paper,” I venture. “Not intended for me, I hope.’

Sandy glances at the pile in her hands and back to me, a grimace evident.

‘Afraid so. Sorry to do this to you on your first day back, but I need this collating in a spreadsheet for tomorrow’s board meeting.’

My already deflated spirits sink further and I can’t postpone reality any further.

‘I’ll need to take the team laptop to work on it at home tonight.’

‘That’s fine. Adrian has got it at the moment. You can collect it from him later.’

With any luck Sandy didn’t sense my heart jump at the mention of his name. 

‘I bet he’s using it to find some funnies on the internet,’ I say.

Sandy smiles and walks away, leaving me with a wad of paperwork and 

trying to interpret the meaning behind her smile. Sandy was recently divorced and certainly had a soft spot for Adrian. How else would he get away with searching the net so much at work!

I get home and all I want to do is curl up and fall asleep, but the pile of paperwork is too big to ignore.

“Oh well,” I announce as I heave the laptop on to my desk, “let’s get started.”

The task is easier than I let on to Sandy because I’ve done it many times before, and it’s finished in half an hour. 

After saving the file I decide to see what other files are on the laptop. Noticing a folder called “Adrian’s Stuff” curiosity gets the better of me and I open it. 

The screen displays a dozen files and I suspect I have found the latest batch of funny e-mails. I can’t help treating myself to a sneak peak at one or two, so I check through the names to see what takes my fancy. My eyes freeze on a file curiously titled “Jan, you must see this.”

Taken aback, I start to contemplate all names similar to my own: Jane; Jen; June? John?

Despite my apprehension I click on the file, and after a long pause the file opens. Nothing. Well, nothing except for a single line of text that I recognise to be a link to an internet page. Though I don’t know what I hoped it would be, I’m disappointed. A voice in my head stops me rolling the cursor towards the exit button, telling me to click on the link otherwise it will bug me forever if I don’t. The voice is right; I’m easily antagonised by such things. 

Nerves flood my stomach as the laptop starts connecting to the internet and negative thoughts start to swirl around my mind. What if it’s a computer virus; or an internet scam; maybe Adrian is trying to steal my identity. Or worse still, he could’ve obtained some embarrassing pictures of me. 

That’s it. He’s got hold of the one of me in a belly dancing costume. What was I thinking? I’ll never live it down, and Adrian is making sure of that.

On the internet page in front of me a message pops up to tell me I have downloaded some software. Great. Now I’m really in trouble at work if it turns out to be something seedy.

An egg-timer rotates in front of my eyes. I blink to focus because I have been 

staring at the screen intently.

I’m almost squinting by the time the spinning egg-timer stops. In an instant it is replaced by a video; a large bed occupies the screen but there is no-one there. 

Despite my predicament I can’t help thinking the owner of the bed needed lessons in folding sheets.  Didn’t his mother ever…. his mother? How could I tell it was a he? But I knew. It was Adrian.

What am I to do? I’m looking at the bed of a young man about 10 years younger than me via an internet link he may or may have intended me to find.

I hear myself call softy, ‘Adrian.’

He probably won’t hear that but I haven’t the courage to call any louder.

‘Jan? Is that you?’

The speaker resonates with his voice and he sounds so close to me, yet he’s not even on the screen. Correct that. He’s walking in wearing a headset.

‘Y…yes,’ my voice falters at first as I fumble for words. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes.’

Jesus. That sounded full on. I meant because of eye strain, and perhaps the fear of viruses and fake smutty Britney Spears downloads. 

‘I could say the same, but I can’t see you.’

Adrian is now sat down on the edge of his bed and I remember the glass of 

wine in my hand. A large swig hits my taste buds and reminds me why wine is for sipping.

‘So, what do you want to see?’ Adrian asks.

He is always so confident, but right now he looks more nervous than I feel.

 His words sink in and my interpretation of them makes me feel even more nervous.

‘Pardon?’

‘What do you want to see?’ he repeats.

‘Erm… I’m not that kind of girl.’ 

Yes I am! The voice deep inside returns, bursts from my mouth and shrieks, ‘take off your shirt.’

Adrian seems taken aback by my blurted request. I doubt he’s ever read 

Bridgette Jones. 

Adrian clears his throat; ‘I was asking you out to see a movie.’

My cheeks flush and I’m glad he can’t see me right now. But perhaps he can sense my acute embarrassment and a wry smile curls the corners of his lips.

To my surprise (and delight!) Adrian removes his shirt anyway.

Tossing it aside he asks, ‘do you want a sneak preview?’

I realise I haven’t said yes to going out, but I’m enjoying the performance so far!

Super Soaker

Ally gave Peter a steely stare, a look he dare not engage.

“Give me that water pistol now,” Ally demanded, holding out her hand.

Peter shuffled forward. He risked a quick upward glance to his mother’s face before returning to the safety of shoe-gazing.

Ally felt bad for giving her only son these glowering looks, especially when he wore his best ‘who, me?’ expression. But discipline was something the boy sorely lacked.

“Give,” Ally repeated the instruction, maintaining the forceful tone in her voice.

The Super-soaker 2000 felt quite heavy despite being nearly half-empty. Ally wondered how her little 7 year-old tearaway could carry it when it was full.

“Now go next door and apologise to Mrs Compton for soaking her cat, then get straight to bed.” Ally gestured towards Peter’s bedroom window, then added as an after thought, “and no Television.”

“Aw Mum! David Beckham’s on the telly later. Can’t I watch that?” Peter pleaded.

“No. No Television, no supper, and no bed-time story.”

Peter’s bottom lip began to quiver. “I hate you,” he screamed, and ran upstairs slamming doors behind him.

Ally emptied the water pistol then placed it in the confiscated toys cabinet.

He doesn’t realise it now but I’m putting him on the road to better things, Ally told herself. Ally knew this was for her own good too, because she’d let Peter get away with too much since his father abandoned them.

And last term’s warning at school for disruptive behaviour was never far from Ally’s thoughts.

Peter sulked all through breakfast, but it was a different story after school. He seemed much happier, and better behaved.

“Mum, after dinner can I help wash the dishes?” Peter said before cleaning his plate of remaining greens.

Keen to go with this positive flow Ally rewarded Peter with 30 minutes television after he helped clean and dry the dishes. When the 30 minutes were up Peter promptly went to his room to do his homework.

Ally couldn’t resist peaking around the door to make sure he wasn’t playing computer games. A floor board creaked and Peter turned around.

“Hi Mum. How many sides has a decahedron got? It’s the only question I can’t answer. Look.” Peter held his maths homework aloft.

Blimey, thought Ally. There’s proof if I needed it.

“Erm, I think it has 10, but check it in the dictionary to be safe.”

At bedtime Ally tucked Peter in and read him his bedtime story.

“As you’ve been a good boy today I’m going to let you have your water pistol back, on the condition you don’t spray Mrs Compton’s cat again.”

Peter threw his arms around her neck and hugged tight, and Ally held him close to her, keeping the embrace for as long as she could.

The next day, just after 1pm, Ally received a phone call from the school secretary requesting Ally to come and see the Headmaster. Something to do with Peter and his behaviour.

Ally’s heart sunk, and a list of scenarios scrolled through her mind, but they were all versions of one: Peter was in trouble again. This time it could be suspension, or worse, expulsion. Just as things seemed to be improving. This is the last straw, Ally decided.

When Ally arrived Peter was already sat outside the Headmaster’s office.

“What have you done this time?” Ally yelled as she stormed down the corridor.

“I haven’t done anything, Mum, I promise,” said Peter, shifting in his chair and hiding his hands behind his back.

Ally wanted to say, I know you’re lying, and as soon as I find out what you’ve done you’ll be grounded for weeks and ALL of your toys will be confiscated and only a modicum of control stopped her.

“Show me your hands,” Ally demanded.

Peter was slow to respond, and looked down at the ground as he showed his palms to his mum. Guilty! Peter’s fingers were stained red. The cliché was lost on Ally.

“Why do you do it, Peter?” Ally said, wiping away an unexpected tear. “I am trying to bring you up right and this is how you repay me.”

Ally wiped a tear away, surprised by her instant change of mood.

“But I really haven’t done anything, mum. Honest.” Peter was close to tears too.

Sniffling into a tissue Ally remarked, “Your Dad was always trouble. I thought I could bring you up better without him but I was wrong.”

Peter stood up and hugged Ally, reminding her of last night’s affection. How close we were to a break through, and how wrong was I.

“Mrs Robins?” asked the secretary.

Ally prised herself free from Peter’s embrace and cleared her throat. “Yes.”

“Mr Parker will see you and Peter now.”

The secretary held the Headmaster’s door open. Immediately Ally clocked the Supersoaker 2000 on Mr Parker’s desk.

“Mrs Robins, Peter, please sit down.”

Ally gulped hard while managing a polite smile. She felt Peter’s small hand grip hers. His touch made her realise how clammy her palms were.

“Mrs Robins, this weapon was confiscated from Peter at playtime.”

“I’m sorry Mr Parker. I didn’t realise he had taken it into school.”

“Be that as it may, I must take action. I have decided to dock 10 house points and Peter will be in detention at lunchtime for 2 weeks as punishment.”

Ally almost sighed with relief but she could tell there was more to come.

“I would not have discovered Peter’s water pistol if it wasn’t for his ingenious misuse of it.”

“Ingenious misuse?” Ally heard herself say, confused and intrigued.

“Peter’s teacher, Miss Gilder, who suffers from diabetes, collapsed at playtime. Peter soaked her with his weapon which brought her around and she was able to request her medication.”

Surprised by what she just heard, Ally turned to Peter. “What about the red hands?”

“We had art class before playtime,” Peter said.

Ally looked at Peter, unsure whether to smile or wince.

“Peter’s actions may well have saved Miss Gilder’s life, so I’m awarding 50 house points on one condition. The water pistol must never return to school.”

“Oh it won’t!” Ally said as she stood up. “Thank you, Mr Parker.”

“No, the thanks go to Peter today.”

Ally followed Peter out of the room, still holding hands. At the door Ally turned and asked, “Incidentally, how has Peter's behaviour at school been this term?”

“Impeccable.”

As soon as the door closed Ally swept Peter up in her arms, her eyes soaked with pride.

Angie

Written in December 2003, the short story, Angie, was written as a writing assignment. I've put it under the coffee break fiction section, but to be honest I'm tempted to create another section entitled "humour/offbeat".
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Absolutely stunning, darling," Angela said to the rear-view mirror as she applied the finishing touches to her make-up. She badly wanted to prove to her daddy that she could pay her way, and so she was desperate to make a good impression on her first day at Lemmi’s Parlour.
A quick splash of CK1 and she was ready. Angela picked up her Gucci handbag and got out of her gold Audi TT.
A short walk down Clarkson Road gave her precious moments to think about her job, though she found herself pondering why an up market beautician would be located in an area like this. Angela had seen places like this on television, but she wasn’t aware Chester incorporated its own down-town Bronx.
Angela observed the street numbers as she teetered along on china blue shoes that complemented her eyes and ensemble perfectly. 175. 177. 179. 181. 181? There must be some mistake, thought Angela as she checked and rechecked the job centre’s advice slip. The name above the shop enforced the grim reality. Lemmy’s Tattoo and Piercing Parlour.
“You must be Angie, eh lass” said a burly pony-tailed man approaching her.
Immediately Angela reached for her pepper spray. Too late. Lemmy (one of his arm tattoos gave his name away) grabbed her wrist and dragged Angela into the shop.
"Sylv," Lemmy yelled. "Your new assistant, Angie, is ‘ere."
"Actually, my name is Angela, and I’m afraid there’s been a terrible mistake.
You see, I…"
"Flamin’ ‘eck!" exclaimed Sylv. "You’re a bit tarted up for this job, aintcha."
Angela approached Sylv, thinking it might be easier to explain to her, when she caught a whiff of Sylv’s perfume. Or to more precise, bog water. Angela imagined Sylv bought it by the gallon from a garage forecourt. She didn’t mean to, but Angela couldn’t help squirming under the nasal attack.
"What’s up with you?" Sylv asked.
"I’m sorry. Your perfume is very," Angela searched for a subtle yet accurate word, "overpowering."
"Ta very much."
"Sylv," the coarse syllable scratched at Angela’s throat. "As you can see from my attire," Angela’s manicured nails indicated her pristine Prada suit, "I’m not cut out for work at a tattoo parlour. The job centre intended to allocate my services to a beauty parlour."
"More’s the pity," Lemmy said.
Angela prickled at the colloquial use of the Queen’s English, and turned to Lemmy in time to see him pick some wax from his ear and brush it across his yellow teeth. She could not believe how unreservedly disgusting Lemmy was.
How typical of a greasy low life oath, Angela thought. He’s probably a biker and listens to heavy metal. Oh yes, his Metallica t-shirt confirms that.
She felt angry towards the job centre, but also very scared of what Lemmy and Sylv could do to her, and she had an unerring distrust of anyone in leather trousers.
Lemmy took several slow steps towards Angela. She noticed a stand-up fan rotating behind him just as his body odour washed over her.
She had only smelt a similar stench at a restaurant whilst on holiday in Hong Kong, however this smell was ten times stronger, and her delicate senses were telling her to be sick.
"Y’see Angie. We need someone today because it’s the first week of University, and we always get a rush of students coming in."
If she thought his body smelt bad, she could almost taste the dog dirt stinking from his mouth.
Angela thought about her predicament. At least this greaser is conceding a mistake has been made, and if I agree to suffer a day’s work here then I may get out here alive, she resolved. I guess Princess Diana had to put up with worse things when she went to Somalia, and besides, my girlfriends will lap up this story for months.
"I’ll work for you today only, and on one condition."
"What’s that then Angie?" asked Sylv.
"Call me Angela."
"Fair enough, Angela." Lemmy emphasised her name, showing a yellow toothy grin as he did. "You’ll be ‘elping Sylv with piercings. You done any before?"
"Oh, you mean earrings? No, I have not, but if you show me your handiwork I’m sure I could give it a whirl, just as long as I don’t damage my nails."
A strange smirk came across Lemmy’s face as he asked, "so, you want to see an example?"
"Yes please."
"Okay," Lemmy laughed and promptly dropped his trousers to expose an intimate piercing.
Sylv and Lemmy laughed raucously and even more so when Angela exclaimed, "Oh my giddy aunt" and fainted in a heap.


**** Update October 2012****
I've just looked at the stats of this blog and this post is the most popular of all posts! Whilst I think it is a great coffee break story, I was surprised.

Want to more coffee break fiction?

Surprisingly Useless Man

Surprisingly Useless Man - This story was written in April 2003 ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 

 Sally turned the radio off as soon as she realised Alan was calling her, but continued brushing her hair until he called again. 

‘Come on, Sal,’ Alan shouted up the stairs. ‘If you hurry up we can get a couple of drinks in at the Wool

pack.’ 

Sally tossed the hairbrush aside and thundered across the landing to confront him. 

‘We are not going to the pub tonight,’ Sally said, intent on keeping their anniversary a pub-free event. 

He looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’ 

 Sally threw up her arms in despair. ‘You know why not. If we go for a couple of drinks you’ll be rowdy at the theatre.’ 

‘Nice new bra, dear,’ Alan said to change the subject. ‘Should the frilly bit be tucked in on just one side?’ 

Sally looked down, snorted in contempt and buttoned up her blouse. Alan changed the subject back again, believing he’d thrown Sally sufficiently. 

‘Just one drink then? One little beer won’t do me any harm.’ 

Do him any harm? Sally pondered this for a moment and then it all clicked into place. 

‘I know what you’re up to, you sly beggar. You’re plotting to get out of driving tonight.’ 

‘Me?’ 

‘Yes you.’ Sally smiled at the thought of catching Alan out. 

‘Well that’s not the case because I’ve booked a taxi. He’ll be here any minute.’ 

Outside a horn sounded, startling Sally but not Alan, who seemed to be expecting it. 

‘Ah. That’ll be him.’ Alan said. 

‘But I’m not ready! I need another 15 minutes at least,’ Sally insisted. 

‘You look fine, Sal. Tell you what, I’ll talk to the driver and let him know you’ll be ready in a couple of minutes.’ 

Sally sighed. She wanted tonight to be really special. It was their tenth anniversary after all. She rushed back to the bedroom and finished brushing her hair, grabbed her vanity case and squeezed into a pair of sleek heels. Sally gazed down at the silver shoes that she bought especially for tonight. Not cheap, unlike Alan! She picked up her handbag on the way out and popped the vanity case inside. 

As she came downstairs Sally heard the distinct bleeping of Alan texting on his mobile. 

Suspicious, Sally asked, ‘Who are you texting?’ 

 Alan looked up from his phone and said, ‘Baz. I’m letting him know we won’t be going to the pub tonight.’ 

Sally tried to hide her satisfaction but she could feel the corners of her mouth crinkle into a smirk. Five minutes into the taxi ride Alan’s phone rang. 

‘Hello?’ Alan said. ‘Hi Baz. No mate, I’m taking Sally to the theatre tonight.’ Alan fidgeted with his tie as he waited for a response. ‘What? Oh, alright. See you in a bit then.’ Alan pressed the call end button, leant forward and spoke to the driver. ‘Change of destination, mate. The Woolpack on Wellington Street.’ 

Sally could hardly believe her ears. ‘What’re you doing? We agreed we weren’t going to the pub tonight.’ 

Her special night was going down the plughole right in front of her. How could he do this to her? 

‘Baz has got us both a drink to celebrate our anniversary. It would be rude to not go now.’ 

Sally’s pulse was racing. Alan always made decisions without her agreement. He held his wristwatch close to her face and clicked the illumination button. 

‘It’s still an hour before the play starts. Loads of time.’ 

The pub was only five minutes walk from the theatre so Alan was right, but it was the principle of it. Sally had hoped that for once her husband was going to deliver on his promise. 

‘Just the one,’ Sally sighed. 

 Sally knew she should’ve seen this coming. His previous anniversary efforts were not memorable because they mainly involved going to the pub. But at least on those occasions he hadn’t deceived her into going there. Sally wasn’t going to forget this in a hurry. The taxi pulled up at the pub entrance. Sally could see Alan’s mate Baz peering through the window, a half drank pint in one hand, a cigar in the other. 

‘That’ll be a fiver, luv.’ 

Sally looked around and noticed Alan had already made his exit. She fumbled in her purse and pulled out a £5 note. In the pub there was no sign of Alan. He wasn’t at the bar or on the fruit machine. Baz was still standing guard over the drinks. Perhaps Alan was desperate for the loo, Sally considered, giving her husband the benefit of the doubt. 

‘Sally! Happy birthday! ‘ Baz cheered, and lurched forward to give her a bear hug. 

‘It’s our anniversary, Baz,’ Sally said, snatching her drink off the table and taking a big gulp. 

‘Really? I thought you married Alan, not me!’ Baz let out and uncontrollable laugh. 

Sally ignored Baz’s attempted humour. ‘Where’s Alan?’ 

‘Err, I think he went through to the backroom to play darts.’ 

‘I’m going to kill him,’ Sally snarled, and she stormed off towards the backroom. Baz followed her and shouted, ‘Don’t use the darts for that Sal. They’re heavy barrelled ones!’ 

Okay, killing him was drastic. Sally’s thoughts turned to thinking what she could do to him. Her heart was thumping in her head, but her thoughts became clear on what she would do. She was going to….

‘SURPRISE!’ 

Sally was taken aback as 50 plus friends and family converged on her, setting off party poppers over her head. She spotted Alan in the crowd and raced over to him, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

Killing him with darts had turned into hugging him to death. Now this was an anniversary to remember! ‘I love you,’ Sally sobbed. 

‘I have a confession,’ Alan admitted. ‘We’re not going to the theatre tonight. We’re going tomorrow. The party was your mother’s idea.’ 

Typical, Sally thought. The best thing Alan’s ever done for me, and it was a great woman behind it all along.

Back on the Market

Written in late 2004, Back on the Market is along the lines of the "women's fiction" that appears in weekly magazines. 

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The ink on my divorce papers has been dry for less than a month and I don’t feel ready to move on. Yet here I am, getting ready to put myself on the market again. My friend Nigel has persuaded me to attend a nightclub he’s been frequenting recently to “put Richard Milligan back on the map.” His words. Nigel’s a good friend. 

He’s been through similar problems, except in his case there’s a kid involved. Messy, to say the least.

He’s been going on at me for months to attend this club with him but I decided to wait until the divorce was final. I can’t help feeling I’ve gone over the top with my appearance; new suit, shirt, tie, big bottle of CK1 and a trip to the barbers. 

Catching myself in the mirror my initial reaction is “very smart” but staring a little longer my opinion rapidly transcends to “desperate.” I’m nervous and sweaty. What if I can’t pull? I already look desperate and over-keen to impress; adding sweat and profuse nerves will really tip the odds against me. 

Okay, deep breath. I’m overreacting – I always do. Julie, my ex, cited this in the divorce proceedings; however I feel that finding Julie in bed with her boss was just cause for chucking a brick through the windscreen of his Porsche. Getting her fired from her job was cited too. 

The doorbell chimes and I let Nigel in. ‘Wow. You’re a little overdressed, Richie,’ Nigel says stood there in jeans and shirt, sports jacket and sneakers. 

‘Erm, I do like to make a good impression. Anyway, you told me to be smart and funny. I’ve boned up on a few if the jokes I remember from college.’ 

‘Forget them. Women like Frank Skinner funny, not Frank Carson. And when I said to be smart I meant intelligence.’ Nigel chuckled. 

My nerves were even more shredded now, and my faith in singles night at nightclubs is faltering fast. In my day we always wore suit and tie (okay – a Don Johnson grey-flecked suit with t-shirt, granddad shirt and a boot lace tie) and you couldn’t hear yourself above the music (Miami Sound Machine, ABC, New Edition etcetera – proper music.) So I’m a bit dubious about Nigel’s smart and funny approach. Experience tells me all I need is some good pick up lines. I guess things have changed a lot in the past two decades. 

‘What’s the women to men ratio at the club?’ I ask. ‘Pretty much 50:50. There are loads of fit women to talk to.’ 

‘We’re not going to a gym are we?’ I joked. 

‘That’s more like the humour you need to display!’ said Nigel. 

Nigel boasts he always chats up about 10 to 20 women at this place. At least the odds are encouraging. We order a taxi, sit down and have a drink while we wait. The alcohol helps me to relax and I start to feel more comfortable with the idea of clubbing at my age. After all, I’m not exactly over the hill and I like to think I’ve still got the moves too, though I suspect big box little box hand gestures are old hat now. One thing still bugged me about where we were going. 

‘What type of music will they be playing tonight?’ I ask, hoping it’s not “jungle” as I don’t think I’ll be able to make-out to that. ‘It’s pretty much a case of requests all night. So you need to get in their first. They’ll play the whole “Best of Talk Talk” album if you want.’ 

‘That’s cool, but won’t it be too loud to chat?’ I must admit, if they were to play Talk Talk I’d dance my pants off all night anyway. 

‘Don’t worry about the music, Richie. Just focus on the ladies.’ 

The taxi arrives so we finish our drinks and leave my house. At Nigel’s request the taxi drops us off at Ginola’s Citybar. 

‘Good thinking,’ I say, recognising Nigel’s game plan. ‘Let’s sink a few more lagers here before hitting the club. After all, I’m not sure I can afford to re-mortgage just to pay nightclub prices.’ 

Nigel opens the door and we step in to the bar. 

‘Actually, we’re here already,‘ said Nigel. ‘What? You said we’re going to a singles night at a nightclub?’ 

‘I said we are going to a singles club. You interpreted that as a nightclub. I played along because I knew you wouldn’t go for this.’ 

 ‘And what exactly is “this”?’ 

‘Speed dating!’ I want to walk out right now, go home and play Talk Talk, and turn it up loud. 

‘Hang on a second. What about the music? You said there’d be request music.’ 

As I spoke I already knew the answer, but Nigel pointed towards the jukebox in the corner anyway. Resigned, I follow the clockwise rotation of table hopping around the bar, engaging each lady with polite chat. It doesn’t take them long to figure out I’m not enthused by the task. And it was a task. This isn’t dating, I tell myself and after 5 unsuccessful attempts I retreat to the safety of the bar. Perhaps switching to shorts or mixers might help. 

Sipping on a JD and C I look around the room and spy on Nigel. He seems to be in good form and it looks like he’s forgotten about his marital worries. 

‘Looking for someone?’ said a soft voice to my right. ‘Not really I was just seeing how my mate was getting on,’ I reply before slugging down the rest of my drink. I feel the need to cough but resist.  ‘Having a competition, eh?’ she asks.  

I sense a touch of vitriol. Perhaps it’s aimed at me because I haven’t turned to acknowledge her, or maybe she has burned once too many times.  

‘Well if we are, he’s winning,’ I respond. 

‘Do you come here often?’ 

This sounded like a chat up line and I was determined not to bite. ‘No. It was his idea to come.’

‘Whose?’ ‘His,’ I point accusingly at Nigel. 

‘Stinky Parkinson!’ she squeals, and I spin to see a brunette covering her mouth as she rocks in hysterics. 

 ‘Pardon?’ 

‘Oh, I’m sorry Richard. I didn’t mean to be rude about your friend. That was his nickname given to him at school.’ 

‘But I was at school with Nigel and I don’t remember that nickname, yet you know my name…’ 

 She’d stopped laughing, anticipating my next words, and catches me with her emerald eyes. 

 ‘….And I remember you, Mrs Keenan.’ 

‘Please, call me Suzie.’ Her smile lit up her face and it dawns on me she is only about 10 years older than me. 

‘Do you want to get out of here,’ I ask, surprising myself more than Suzie. I mean, she was a teacher at my high school. 

 ‘Definitely. It’s not really my scene.’ 

‘How about a nightclub?’ I suggested, hating the thought of it.

‘I’d rather sit in a pub and chat.’ 

‘That sounds good.’ 

So we leave Nigel “Stinky” Parkinson in a bar half populated by single men and women and walk to a nearby pub, and spend the evening catching up on old times. 

Not exactly the evening I expected, but Richard Milligan hopes to be taken off the market very quickly. Perhaps I’m over-reacting but I think I’m ready to move on.