Category: Recollections (Page 1 of 3)

I started a new job this week.

It is, to use the common parlance, about bloody time. I’m aware some people have been off work for much longer, but – as much as I complain about it – unemployment does not suit me. I’d be happy sitting at home drinking tea and playing HuniePop, with the occasional foray into sex blogging, but I need the routine and innate satisfaction that my chosen industry gives me.

Before you ask, no, I’m not in porn. I’m also no longer an actor. But still.

Like most other things in my life, this came along basically by chance. I got the call last week, and this week has been effectively a trial week. I was told I’d get more work this morning while making the coffee that’s been sustaining me.

When I mentioned the workplace a couple of weeks ago, my mother (who has the same sort of mental Rolodex as I do) instantly mentioned somebody I haven’t thought of for years. She had worked there too, and might have been able to give me some information. Did I want her contact number?

What my mother doesn’t know is that I already have her contact number.

For a while – and when I say “a while” I’m referring to the fact that I’m not entirely sure how long – I was sort-of-kind-of trying to date her. My mother, who had seen her crying at work and felt her parenting instincts kick in, invited her around for dinner at one point and I promptly spent the entire evening flirting being friendly. A month or so later, we went to see my mother in concert together (she was in a wind orchestra for a while); after filling up with millionaire’s shortbread, we exchanged numbers.

I wasn’t sure where to go from this point. I was recently out of a relationship and didn’t really know how to ask someone out (long-term readers may remember that I don’t). But, after weeks of dithering and indecision, my dad – who is a wizard – told me to ask her out.

But I’m an idiot who doesn’t know how to do that, so I asked my mother to ask her if she would like to get a coffee with me at some point. Mother reported back that coffee sounded nice, and to just text her to ask.

Which is, incidentally, what I should have done to begin with.

We never did go for a coffee. Our available dates didn’t match up, and the one time they did, she had a death in the family during the preceding week. She eventually moved into a relationship, as did I, and what we were left with was a distant friendship.

So I got in contact with her. Her cheery voice shines through her texts – in every letter. Her use of emoji radiant. Her positive attitude infections. By my second day at work, I felt confident in dropping her name. Everyone has something positive to say about her. Everyone says hello, so I have more excuses to continue texting.

Maybe I’ll get that coffee after all.

You’ve got infinite patience
And the scent of the sea
Love these days when I’m near you
Watering hole, watering hole

Scene: It’s 8pm or thereabouts, and it’s autumn, so it’s already dark outside. I’m sleepy – leaning to the right, my head resting against the cool glass. The rain rolls down the window, and as I let my eyes blur, the watery shades of cars going past become little, indistinct lights. The M1 is busy – it’s always busy – but I’m in my little bubble here, so I’m all right.

I’ve got James’ seventh studio album Whiplash in my Sony Discman, my trusty, battered headphones putting up a valiant effort and filling my ears with the familiar music. I’ve listened to this album so many times in the past couple of years. Among all the tracks, hidden behind things like She’s a Star and Waltzing Along, sits Watering Hole. I have no idea exactly what the recording process for this was. But it’s trippy.

The rumble of the coach’s wheels, the whoosh – whoosh – whoosh of the cars beetling down outside, the constant patter of rainfall on the pitch-black windows and the deadpan mumble of Tim Booth all blend into one.

I may be chill, but I’m not content. The weekly coach trip back to London means that I’ve had to leave Rebecca, once again. The trip there, on Friday evenings with my magic box, is a fun one, full of anticipation and excitement (and perhaps a little horn). On the way back, it’s a feeling of deflation. I may, of course, be filled with good memories, accomplishments, achievements and a general good feeling (and, let’s be honest, probably well-fucked, too, as we tended to have sex just before I left).

But it’s not a good feeling. Nothing positive is awaiting me at home. I have work tomorrow and I hate it there. I’m not fond of school right now, either; it’s far too stressful and doesn’t really let up. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends, but that’s about it. Whiplash is my saving grace. I’ve got Gold Mother in my box as well, so I might put that on next.

I do this every week, so it shouldn’t come as any surprise. It doesn’t, really. I’ll do it again next week. And the week after that. And the week after that, as well.

A cloud shifts and the dark, rainy M1 is temporarily bathed in milky moonlight. This makes me feel better, for some reason.

And I start planning next week in my head.

I don’t remember her name. In all honesty, I don’t remember much about that night. What with the amount of free alcohol involved, I’m almost certain she doesn’t remember me at all… but I don’t drink, so I remember her.

It was the first and only time I’d ever been to a party held by members of the British aristocracy. I wasn’t aware, for a few years, that I was friends with Lord Grey’s daughter. She had mentioned a signet ring a few times, but I didn’t think much of that, either. I think it was the mention of the name of her house that tipped me off… but, in any case, I was surprised – if pleased – to be invited.

I told her once that I had a crush on her, so I think she may have felt weird about it. That was never mentioned again, though, so…

In any case, there I was, on the dancefloor getting down to Make Me Smile by Steve Harley & Cockney Rebel – incidentally the song I’d gotten dressed to that morning – and waiting for the inevitable roar that accompanies Mr. Brightside, as a song about being cheated on is really what you want accompanying a joyous party.

Wait, what was this blog post about again?

So, yes. I don’t remember her name. I remember that she was shorter than me (but then a lot of people are); I also remember frizzy hair, a wide smile and, of course, that she was very pretty. But then everyone was. Everyone who’s unattainable is fucking beautiful. In my defence, she started talking to me first.

“Hey!” she beamed. “How old are you?”
Yes, it’s an odd opener, but at least it’s one I was able to answer.
“Hi! I’m nineteen,” I said. “How old are you?” I added, a split-second before realising that this was probably a rude question to ask.
“You’re nineteen?” she said, aghast. “You look older. I’m thirty.”
“You look younger,” I said, as I assumed that was the right thing to say. She certainly did look younger than thirty; I wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered or insulted that she had decided I look old. I settled for being politely befuddled.
“I want a drink; do you want a drink?” she ejaculated, at which a servant (yes, I know) appeared with a tray of beverages. I took a Diet Coke, which was probably the only thing without any alcohol in it.
“So, I…” I started, at which point she interrupted with, “see you later!” and swanned off. Which was probably a good thing, as I didn’t really know what I was going to say.

“ILB! Come dance!” yelled my aristocratic friend from the middle of a mill of bodies.
“I thought I was?”
“No, you’ve just been talking to…” [I forget her name, as I said above!] “…come here and dance!”

I took a swig of my Diet Coke, and went to dance.

About an hour of wearing my legs out later, she found me again. She had had a little more alcohol by this point.
“Here’s an observation,” she said over the music (which had somehow become exponentially louder – I suppose that the manor house we were in wasn’t exactly in a residential area), “you’re nineteen, I’m thirty, and that shouldn’t matter!”
“It doesn’t,” I agreed, “time is a concept.”

I didn’t talk to her again, although as my level of blood sugar began to wane, it slowly began to dawn on me that I may have been being flirted with. It’s the right environment to do it, as well – if everything goes wrong, you can use the music as an excuse to get out quick. But this wasn’t your average student disco – it was a birthday party at a manor house, hosted by the aristocracy – so what exactly was she trying to achieve?

Let’s assume, for impossibility’s sake, that she was flirting with me, but put off by the fact that I was indecently young, and that I reciprocated. Now let’s assume, further to that, that we pulled. Where were we meant to go from there? Everyone was going to be in sleeping bags in a huge marquee out on the lawn after the party, so what exactly would we do? Get into one together and hope that nobody noticed?

As it turned out, it didn’t matter. She vanished after a while. As it turned out, she lived in the local area. So she just walked home.

I quaffed a few more Diet Cokes before realising that I’d forgotten my sleeping bag… and that Meg, who had driven me up there, had hers clearly visible.

So I did end up in a sleeping bag with someone else that night, after all.