I’m A Modern Day Robin Hood: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

“Wow! Al, you’re actually like a real life hero!”. Those words, uttered today, were spoken with honesty, gratitude, relief and, in no small measure, admiration. Admittedly they were uttered by me; but they were uttered nonetheless.

So why was someone (me) referring to me as ”real life hero”? The reason is simple: Today I overcame adversity and possible capture by a terrorist organisation to rescue a small child from an uncertain future. Although that may sound far-fetched and somewhat ludicrous, I swear, hand on heart, every word of it is true.

Today started like most other days: I woke up. Having spoken to a very beautiful and positive woman yesterday, I decided that, as I had a fairly free day, I should go for a run. Actually, I decided to go for a run because the aforementioned beautiful and positive woman had told me that she couldn’t really understand people who didn’t exercise and let themselves become unhealthy. She claimed, in that sense, that she “was fattest”. I resisted the Jimmy Carr gag and decided, instead, to head to the local woods which I’d discovered only recently after moving down south. So that’s what I did. I went out for a light run for an hour or so before returning home to my ordinary day. Well, that’s what I thought I was doing. What would actually happen next would change the way I would be described (by me) forever.

The weather was lovely when I stepped out the door of the house. In fact, as if to back up my claim, I distinctly recall thinking to myself that it was ”quite warm”. As I walked the brief journey to the woods’ opening, I passed a whistling workman who smiled and greeted me as I went by. This idea of spending time in the local forest (it’s become a forest now, I’ve decided) was becoming more appealing by the second. As I came around the corner, I could hear the birds tweeting in the lush, green foliage of the majestic trees high above: their branches aloft as if anticipating a giant hug that would welcome me into their ever joyous family. I smiled a smile of contentment and self-affirmation that I was about to spend the next hour embarking on carefree pastime. It felt good. It felt positive.

I began to run. Now, I feel that I must confess that I am not something who could be described as “sporty” or “athletic”; it’s just not a natural part of my personality. I don’t want you picturing someone who has been described as “a hero” (by himself) and imagining a Bruce Willis or Donny Wahlberg type. I’m just a normal guy who has ordinary days. As I ran down the muddied footpath into the belly of the wooded canyon(!), a broad smile embraced my face. “This is fun”, I thought as I gathered speed. “I feel totally free”, I elated as the wind whistled past my ears. “I’m going to hit a tree”, I exclaimed as I nearly hit a tree.

At the bottom of the path I came to a crossroads. Not a crossroads in life; an actual crossroads (although ironically the idea to be out in the open was to clear my mind and have time to think about what I was doing with my actual very life). I stood there in the clearing. It was so peaceful and so clean. It was a beautiful moment. “How could anything bad happen here?” I asked myself. Now, if you remember where the terrorist organisation I have previously mentioned, this is where it comes in. The peaceful glade wasn’t as peaceful as you may imagine.

At the beginning of the week I was explaining to my housemate and friend that I’d only just seen the nearby woods. ”They’re beautiful,” she’d admitted, “we’re so lucky to have them”. I agreed and explained that I was planning to start walking there regularly so that I could free my mind and encourage my creativity. “What a lovely idea”. Her softly inspiring Bury lilt that had once graced the biggest selling UK debut single of all time was matched by her calm yet firm reassurance that I was making a positive change in my life. “But you know there’s been loads of murders in there, don’t you?” I’ll be honest: I didn’t. “Oh, and a load of terrorists got caught plotting in there and there was a massive police raid. So be careful”. Right then. That took me by surprise, in all honesty. I’d visited the neck of the woods just once before but I’d only ever seen a woman walking her dog; even then it was on a lead.

Stood there, surrounded by serenity and nature, it was hard to imagine anything untoward taking place. I put those words of advice to the back of my mind, I chose a hilly path and I ran. I ran onwards and upwards. I ran and I ran, higher and higher, stronger and… eventually found a tree and slumped against it.

I sent a text to the beautiful positive woman: “As I slump against a tree I have only just realised that women REALLY like chubby men who do silly jokes. You and your clever tricks.” I looked at the view. Stunning.

I received a text. “Running and exercise can only be good and make you feel good… Xx”

Yes, TWO kisses. The flirty little minxtress. I replied, “You’re right. Plus it gives me loads more time to think of ace jokes. Are you SURE you still want to meet on Sunday.. ” I’ll admit, I’m not that great at text flirting…

I decided to run some more. I didn’t really have a route, just a feeling of freedom and a continuing bemusement that I was actually fitter than I had been believing. It was peaceful, it was carefree and it was fun. I stopped to take pictures. I went to a nearby tree. I jumped up to its branches and I did pull ups. I looked around and hoped that nobody was there to see that I could only manage three. It began to rain and I held my face to the skies. I didn’t have to be anywhere and I didn’t have to do anything: I was lost in my own little world.

That’s when I remembered: I DID have to be somewhere and I DID have something to do: I had to pick up my housefriend’s (that sounds so much lovelier) little boy from school. I checked the time: one hour. That was fine. I would just turn around and start jogging back. In fact, as my fitness wasn’t actually as amazing as I was beginning to believe, I could walk at first. So that’s what I did. I got to the path and I walked. I walked a few minutes before thinking it was time to jog. So I jogged. I jogged and jogged. Except, as I jogged, I began to realise that I didn’t recognise this path. Hmmmm… Could it possibly be that I was no longer lost in my own little world but lost deep within an almighty woodland with its dark, sinister trees pointing their unwelcoming branches down at me and mocking as the wind blew through them? Yes. Yes it could.

I had a fair idea of the direction I’d come from and, with the rain falling into the earth, I jogged towards the opening from which I had arrived. I jogged, sliding as the ground below me gave way to the water from above. I jogged and jogged until I reached the opening. Well, I say “the opening” but I actually mean, “an opening”. I hadn’t actually arrived back where I’d set off from. I thought I’d check my iPhone’s map. I expected a walk around the corner but I received a shock. I was 5 miles away and directly on the opposite side of the forest. I checked the time. It hadn’t ceased. Why would it?

I reckon everyone has Apps on their iPhone that they don’t use and, for me, it’s the compass. Well, it WAS the compass; until today. I was at the westside of the forest and I needed to be at the eastside. It suddenly occurred to me that this probably played a large part in the murder stories that the locals had mentioned. I had believed them to be one of those folklore things before but now it seemed that there could be some credibility to the tales. After all, US rap had its turf wars and we all know what happened there with Biggy and Tupac. For West Coast and East Coast read West King’s Wood and East King’s Wood. I steadied my mind. My safety wasn’t important here; getting back to my friend’s child was. Anyway, if a would-be attacker came upon me then I could handle myself; as long as they could only manage two pull ups.

I pointed the compass in the direction of east but the pathways didn’t go that way. They went either side; they didn’t go east. I had to make a choice: do I follow the pathways and work my way back or… do I just follow the compass and go whichever way it takes me? I checked the clock. I only had 45 minutes to get to the school gates. There was no time for questioning or being anything less than a man: I was going into the forest.

Wiping the rain from my eyes, I looked up and I set off. I ran. I ran with purpose and with the heart of a man who knew nothing of himself but the simple fact that he had to arrive at his destination so that a child would feel safe and warm. My feet pounded the ground; occasionally sinking into the muddy forest earth below that had once been my encouraging friend but was now a treacherous demon hell-bent on stealing my energy. The rain poured: faster and faster, heavier and heavier. I looked at the clock. Minutes were flying by; my heart raced. I leapt over fallen trees, ducked under reaching branches, exploded through barricades of holly bushes, slid down growing rivers of mud and…

… I waved hello to a passing elderly gentleman who was walking his dog. He doffed his cap. People don’t do that enough these days. Lovely chap, he seemed.

Time was against me. Conspiring with the ever darkening trees that cowered over me; drooling their droplets of rain upon my increasingly heavy clothes. I wasn’t going to give in. I ran. I ran, leapt, focused and breathed. There was a battle between the living forest and I but we were evenly matched. I felt safe. This forest wasn’t going to stop me getting to where I wanted to be; where I needed to be. The leaves flew by, the branches smacked my body as I dashed past them and the twigs below my feet crackled and snapped with my gathering pace. I was winning this battle. Human versus nature. Desire versus defeat. Nothing could beat me… until something leapt out from behind a tree.

It’s ok, it was just a little squirrel. Quite cute, really.

I checked the time. The slow realisation crept upon me; I wasn’t going to make it. I had let my friend down, I had let a child down and, so I felt, I had let myself down. From the midst of the ever darkening wood I would have to make a phone call and explain my situation. I was trying to make it but, if I couldn’t, a close family friend may have to pick up the child. That wasn’t good enough. I had been given this responsibility. As the rain fell down, dampening my spirit far more than my now sodden clothes, I felt defeated. It was at this moment, staring upwards at the surrounding trees - now nature’s bullies – that I received a text. It was from the beautiful and positive woman.

“Just found out my friend died of an indigestion medicine overdose.” The shock jolted my body like a shot of adrenalin to my heart. “Can’t believe Gav is gone…”.

That poor woman. That beautiful, positive, devastated woman. I replied immediately, “Oh beautiful and positive woman (I did use her real name), I am so sorry xx If you need anything – someone to talk to or at – just call me xxx”.

I looked at the clock. There were mere minutes until I had to be at the school gates. I looked at my map. I had come a long way. I could do this. No; I would do this. If beautiful and positive woman had received that news then what I had to achieve was nothing. “I will be there for that child”, I said to myself.

Just then, three chocolate labradors ran up to me and surrounded me. That was weird.

I set off. I recognised the path. That tree stump had been there. I knew because it was the one I had almost ran into earlier. I ran upwards, onwards. Nature’s rain may have been beating down on me but, by love, I was beating nature. The energy that had been stored from my breakfast of Nutella on toast kicked in. My legs were getting heavier but my heart was getting lighter. I was going to do it. I knew where I was. I could actually see the light at the end of the, erm, woods.

I got to the top. I rang along the footpath, onto the road, along the pavement and to the house. I showered, I changed and I got to those school gates bang on the dot, my friend’s son’s smiling face unaware of the drama that had so recently unfolded. “Wow,” I thought, “Al, you’re actually like a real life hero.”

So, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: when you’re deep in a forest, you really should take time to read your texts before replying. It may just turn out to be a silly joke…

What DO I Do? Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

It has come to my attention in recent times that I don’t actually know what I do. Career-wise, I mean. I am very aware of what I do on a day-to-day basis. I know when I am showering, putting on socks or eating a Bourbon biscuit in an all too cavalier fashion. On a daily basis I am very aware of the things I am doing. No, what I mean is that when it comes to knowing what my career is, well, I don’t. I know that sounds ridiculous, like a frog that can matchmake with the help of marzipan and some berries; but it’s true. Here is a quick list of what I do/can do/have done; Presenter; event host; writer; producer; film maker; pork pie maker (did it once, to be fair); but upon being introduced to people and them asking what it is I do… I’m stumped.

My “career” has always been in radio: firstly as a producer and then as a presenter. However, as of January 2011, I left radio. Or radio left me. I suppose we both agreed to go our separate ways. Sometimes (quite often, actually), I miss radio. I miss the way she made people smile, her encouragement when I wanted to have fun and the way we shared mutual friends. I miss her free spirit, spontaneous nature and, if vanity will allow – and it will – I miss her attractive figures. I know the time was right to leave each other but, if she asked me back, I’d be a fool unto her all over again. Radio is the Ava Gardner to my Frank Sinatra, the Liverpool to my Kenny Dalglish (but with better results) or the Tonight Show to my Jay Leno (although I’d prefer Conan were still there if I’m honest. Which I am).

The point of this being that if someone asks me what I do now I no longer reply “I’m a radio presenter”; no more than I’d reply, “I’m such and such’s boyfriend” after 3 or so years of being single (I did actually know here name, by the way; that wasn’t the reason we broke up). I have never understood on TV game shows or the news when people are described as “an out of work builder”. surely if you’re not working as a builder anymore; you’re not a builder! Mind you, that said, I suppose Sir Paul McCartney hasn’t been a Beatle since 1970 but you’d still allow him to say he’s a Beatle. Ah man! I am more confused by the second…

Getting back to where this blog once belonged, I do have friends who introduce me to people as a writer (to be fair to them they do introduce me by my name first. My friends are good like that). I always find this a bit awkward because, although I have written scripts, (local) magazine articles and various ideas or press releases; I am no more a professional writer than you are a reader. Simply because you’re reading this, I dare say you won’t go around telling people you’re a professional reader. If you do then that is all and well; but I wouldn’t claim to be a fireman just because I’ve blown out a few candles in my time. Actually, that said, I may start to tell people that because firemen do sound fun.

Don’t get me wrong: I love to write. I’m not one for bragging (ok, apart from the hint at the radio figures but that wasn’t me: that was just people choosing to listen) but if I had to be forced into it, I would probably be able to claim that I can spell at least half of the words I know. In fact, on this very page, I probably know about 97% of the words I have written (I’m pretending to hear your onomatopoeic “gasp” as I type…). Just because writing is my hobby and, in certain aspects, I’m not horrendous enough at it that it warrants accidental glimpsers the desire to set fire to their very own eyeballs, I am still not sure I can call myself a writer. I’d like to; I just don’t think I can.

By a similar, if not the same token, I love playing football. However, if a Premier League club saw me playing I very much doubt that I’d be approached to sign for them (“very much doubt” gives a hint that, despite being over 30, I’m not ruling the possibility out entirely) because, by my own admission, I’m not really very good. In fact, if they DID approach me then I’d probably have to have a word and decline. “Look,” I would say, “I appreciate you have seen something in me that I haven’t seen in myself but this isn’t a Karate Kid and I’m not Daniel”.

That said, if a magazine or blogging site approached me to write for them, I would recognise it as being something that not only I would want to do: I could probably do it better than extremely badly. I could do it “almost well”. Good, at a push. In that respect I recognise that I could indeed be a writer. I probably wouldn’t even mention Karate Kid at all. Unless I was asked to write about Karate Kid. Then I would definitely mention it.

Following a recent and eventful move to Buckinghamshire, another aspect of my career – albeit a false one – has arisen from the lips of those around me. As previously mentioned in earlier blogs, I moved down there to be with friends and to work alongside them on a variety of projects: one of which was the co-writing of a sitcom (of which some has, indeed, been written). An additional agreement of my moving southward was to help look after my friends’ child when they were busy. Now, without going into details of any sort (there was a press release which took care of all that), events unfolded which meant I was frequently involved with school runs in the morning and after school. I enjoyed this. For me it was novel, it was fun and my friends’ child is a proper little wing man when the school run Mums are at the school gates. However, it was only when I was in the local pub one evening (little man was with his Mum: I didn’t just wander off like a forgetful squirrel) that I discovered what my supposedly new career was.

I walked into the pub and introduced myself to the lovely barmaid with the twinkling eyes and the ability to give me a drink that wasn’t simply orange juice.

“Hello”, I said, “I’m Al”.

“Ahhhh…” replied sparkly bar eyes.

This is where I thought she must have heard of my previous career. My friend must’ve mentioned that I hosted a live stage event with Will Smith or that I’d been to Number 10.  Maybe my friend I was writing the sitcom with had told her that it had recently been picked up by a global distributor. I will readily admit that in my radio days I would have bored on about such things. Now, though, in a more mature light, I don’t do that. It’s not actually very impressive or, more importantly, gracious. Instead, upon hearing her question, my plan was to nod coyly, make a throw away remark about nothing in particular and engage her in general chit chat…

“Ahhhh…” she said, “You’re the manny!!”

“The what???” I replied, as fallen as any crest that had gone before.

“Yes. You’re the manny”, her eyes still twinkling but now suddenly less alluring.

“I’m not a manny!” I protested, not entirely sure what I was protesting about but assuming “manny” was a male nanny.

“Yes, you’re Al. You’re the male nanny”.

Well, at least I had got that right.

“I’m not their manny. I used to be a radio presenter. Will Smith spat on my microphone!” I unashamedly splurted. “I’ve been to Number 10… JK Rowling spilt my tea!!”

“Number 10?” she thoughtfully pondered, “That’s next to the pond, isn’t it? Where such and such live…”

Such and such you say..?

In the current present of the now, it has been agreed that I am no more a manny than I am an established writer or a still-existent radio presenter (although I do actually have more experience of those two things). One of my friends from the little village in Buckinghamshire, upon hearing my description as a manny, came forth and announced that I “work in media”.

“Really? What do you do in the media?” asked one of the locals.

“Oh, you know… ” I replied, “such and such”.

So, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: Bourbon biscuits are better eaten if you scrape the chocolate centre off with your teeth. Oh, and it’s always better to find out what other people do instead of offering up what you do. If nothing else, it gives you time to think of an answer other than, “Oh, you know… such and such”.

Women Drivers As Potential Brides: Here’s What I Learnt Today…

Today I took what should have been a pretty nondescript journey into High Wycombe in Buckinghamshire. My friend had called and asked me to get her a birthday card for someone and, as requests go, this is a pretty easy one to carry out. All I had to do was drive into town, buy a birthday card (I knew which one and where from as we’d been in the shop a couple of weeks ago), drive home and then relax in the garden as the sun shone down to the tune of peaceful bird song. As uneventful trips go, this was pretty textbook. Except it wasn’t uneventful. Something went on that involved members of the opposite sex and which has possibly changed my perception of them. Forever.

So, I got into the car and set off. Not a problem. I parked up and headed to the shop. Again, not a problem. In the shop I got to the card section but, to my horror, the card had gone. Umm… hold on for a second. This isn’t really relevant. So, here’s what happened in a nutshell (or, rather, a shopping centre): the assistant said the card will come in-store tomorrow; I bought sweets; I got back in the car; I left the centre; I approached a roundabout. That brings us up to where we need to be. Thank you.

So, as I approached the aforementioned roundabout, my car shuddered to a halt. Actually, “shuddered” is far too descriptive an action to attach to my car. My car “choked” to a halt. However, luckily for me, the place it decided to rest was upon double yellow lines. On a roundabout. Opposite a police station. In rush hour. I think you’ll agree that any one of those scenarios wouldn’t have been great; all three are pretty damn unlucky!

There is one, minor detail I am forgetting here. Literally. You see, for all I was on a roundabout, illegally parked and opposite the home of people who are more than aware of how to catch people who do illegal things (even when they’re not parked on their actual doorstep), something else added to the feeling of impending panic that was descending. That something was actually a someone. Because what I’ve neglected to mention here is this: I was looking after my friends’ 7 year old boy and he was in the back of the car. The one time I take him out in the car (ok, 3rd time but I wanted to add to the drama) and it breaks down. If we were playing Worst Break Down Scenario Top Trumps, this would easily be top card.

Generally, by my very nature, I am a laid back, relaxed, positive person. I think about things. I look on the bright side of life. I don’t stress. I don’t panic. That is, I don’t panic unless my car (which has a broken steering lock so there are wires hanging down to suggest that I’ve actually stolen it. I haven’t) breaks down illegally at rush hour on a roundabout opposite a police station with the most precious thing in my friends’ life on the back seat. When that happens, I now know, I make the evacuation of Titanic look like a group of pensioners stepping of the Guided Tour of York bus on pension day. In fact, and this may have been a stress related, but I could have sworn I saw Leonardo DiCaprio clinging on to a bit of wood under the sign giving directions to Slough.

“Keep calm. Just, keep calm”, I said to my friends’ son in that calm way that fills your voice with every confidence that there is nothing to be calm about.

“Why?”, he replied.

“My car has broken down,” I told him, “and we’re going to have to get out but don’t worry because the police are just there”.

“Are you going to go to prison?” he asked.

“Not if we stay calm”, I answered. Inexplicably.

“Is that Leonardo DiCaprio underneath that sign for Slough?” he may have asked.

I don’t actually know if he did because within seconds I was out of my car door, opening his, whisking him out of the seat and over a nearby railing and onto the safety of a pavement. What a relief! Crowds cheered. Women threw underwear. Men slapped my back; an elderly woman baked me a cake and a man without legs suddenly found the inspiration to tap dance. Or, possibly… nothing happened; my son’s friend just asked to play with his Sonic toy and I called the breakdown services.

It is at this juncture that I should point out (finally) the relevance of this blog’s title. As I stood, roadside and waiting for assistance with a 7 year old, I witnessed a difference in men and women. Then I noticed the difference between women and women. Men, for example, walk or drove by and looked at the car: either sporting a grin of self-satisfaction that it hadn’t happened to them; or a look of sympathy which denoted that brotherhood is united in the constant let down it suffers from automobiles. Women, however, are different. Not only to men; to each other.

It was cold and the little fella was resting on my shoulder as he played merrily; oblivious to the world around him. And what a world it was. There were, I counted, four different types of women driver passing by us constantly during the 30 minutes or so we were stood there. They are:

Type 1 – The woman driver who looks over, craves to know what’s going on, then accidentally makes eye contact and stares, intensely, straight ahead.

Type 2 – The woman driver who looks over, sees the broken down car, looks at y0u with a cute child, makes eye contact and smiles in a friendly manner as she pulls a sort of “awww…” expression before she drives away.

Type 3 – The woman driver who looks over, makes eye contact, thinks you’re checking her out (well, to be fair..) and so throws you a look which says “as if” before taking a drag on her cigarette as she roars off to the next red light (which, incidentally, clashes with her more-often-than-not orange complexion).

Type 4 – The woman driver who looks at your car, makes eye contact, smiles, sees you’re with a child, smiles again and then coyly bites her lip as she drives off, smiling.

I like to think of myself as an honest person and so I shall be completely honest here: I like Women Driver Types 2 & 4. I think Woman Driver Type 2 and I could be good friends. We’d hang out and have coffee as I wax lyrical about my flourishing feelings for a Woman Driver Type 4. Woman Driver Type 2 would like that because, I imagine, she’s happily married and sees me as a companion in that brotherly type way. In fact, Woman Driver Type 2′s husband and I would probably have a night in with a few beers and play X-box as she goes for a night out with fellow Woman Driver Type 2, um, types.

Woman Driver Type 4 has a fun sense of humour. One of the Woman Driver Type 4 drivers looked at me, then looked at my car, then looked back at me and pulled a face which said, in a good natured yet mocking way, “unlucky”. The cheeky minx. I like Woman Driver Type 4 because she’s be supportive and encouraging; but she’d reel me in before I got too big for my boots. I need that sometimes. Woman Driver Type 4, I have to admit, is someone I imagine I’d probably be quite smitten with.

As it was, I didn’t actually talk to any of these Women Driver Types. For one, they tended to be in cars on a busy roundabout at traffic lights where they couldn’t park anyway because it was double yellow lines and the police were probably watching from across the road. Plus, they’d seen my car. Actually, only Women Driver Type 3 would be bothered that I have a slightly, neigh, very rubbish car. They would probably make me drop them off around the corner from the bar they were about to drink Jagerbombs in so that their friends and nearby “fitties” wouldn’t see them. Fair enough; we can’t all be the same now, can we?

In the end, minutes before the breakdown team were due to come, I tried the car and it started. I bundled my friends’ boy into his car seat with the intense focus of a major about to take his troops into battle and we crawled off into the distance. Oh, and by “the distance” I actually mean “the nearest petrol station”. It turns out that my petrol gauge is a bit dodgy and, despite it claiming I had a quarter of a tank worth of petrol in there; it actually had none. Also, because I was only nipping out to buy a £2.50 birthday card, I only had £4.55 in change in my pocket (and my wallet was at home) and so we tootled to the petrol station where I blew my entire £4.55 on unleaded petrol. In the word’s of my small accomplice, “How embarrassing!!”.

So, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: Somewhere there’s a someone for everyone; you just have to hope they stop and pull over if you’re ever broken down on a roundabout.

If you haven’t already, I hope you find you Women Driver Type Soon (or your male equivalent) and share happy journeys together without breaking down in awkward circumstances. As the song goes (not really): My Car Will Go On.

Making New Friends: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

There are some songs that have lyrics you connect to like no other: “I Am The Walrus” by The Beatles to name but one. However, the tune that has got me thinking in particular is Soul II Soul‘s “Keep On Moving” and that is because, tomorrow, I am moving. Again. That’ll be the 7th time in less than ten years – that’s not including the bit in between moves where I’ve just sort of “stayed” places. I think it’s fair to say that wherever I lay my hat, that’s my home (ah, see, THAT should have been the song I referenced)!

I don’t wish to bore you with details so I shall be brief (the other option is, of course, to be entertaining with details but I’m not sure that is entirely possible when, essentially, all I’m doing is explaining geographical changes. Tell you what, you have a cheeky little read on and decide for yourself, how’s that? Why not have a biscuit too? Go on, you deserve it.). My most recent move pans out a little like this.

I lived in Nottingham in The Camp Little Cottage By The Canal. Nottingham wasn’t my home but I loved it like it was my home. My home is where my parents live in Beverley in the East Riding of Yorkshire. I also love Beverley. It is my home. I moved from Nottingham (like my home) back to Beverley (actually my home) in November for a month or so before I move down to Beaconsfield (my future “like home” home). I am writing a TV show with my friend and also working on other things with another friend. Both these friends live in the same house because they are married. To each other. They also have a son. I’m not working with him on anything at the moment (although we’ll probably do homework). These three people are like extended family and I am moving into their house so we can all work and play together. There ends the details bit. Thank you for sticking with it. Did you have a biscuit?

So, the big move. Unlike previous moves where I have moved because of my radio job and then have met friends (and, in some cases, loves) through the office environment and networking; this move shall be different. That is because, with this move, I don’t know anyone. Well, obviously I know my friends I’m moving in with; they’re largely friends because I know them. I mean I won’t be working in an office environment so won’t know anyone through work, as such. When I am writing with my friend (I’ll call her Suzanne because that’s her name), we sit opposite each other at our laptops, typing away at the kitchen table. It is rare that the cute girl from sales walks by, In fact when I say “rare” I actually mean “never”. That’s because there isn’t a sales department in the home. That would be odd. Likewise, when I am working with Jason (I’m calling him Jason because he was named that as a child), it has never been known that a work email has gone round suggesting post-work drinks. It would only be either himself or I who could send it. Usually I’d just ask him or vice versa. So… how do I make new friends in a new place?

Well, whenever I take my friends’ son to school and pick him up, there are Mums in the playground. I was thinking maybe the Mums and I could form some sort of daytime club. I saw a film years ago called Mr Mom with Michael Keaton (by which I mean he was in it; I didn’t watch it with him. I watched it with my sister. They don’t even look-alike) whereby he has to take the kids to school and in the daytime he forms a beer and poker club with the other Mums (or Moms if you’re in the U.S. or, weirdly, Birmingham). I could give that a go. I could… but there is one large flaw that comes with asking a group of women I’ve only just met in a school playground to come back to mine at 10am to play poker and drink beer; I don’t own any cards. We’ll scratch that plan.

My other option is to be the Social Network hanger-on. You, like I, have probably been in a social situation at one time or another where you’re with friends… and one other. One person who, when you’re trying to have a good chat, just chips in with comments to try to get in on the conversation. If you can’t think of that happening then, chances are, you’re that person. I’m only joking; you’re not really: you’re lovely, you are (although I am struggling to think of an occasion where it’s happened to me now so that means that person is probably me). In order to make friends in Beaconsfield (my future “like home” home) I was considering going on the town’s Facebook page and just chipping in with a comment when someone posts an update. Then I realised that’s not going to make me friends at all, is it? That’s just going to make me look like the local strange person who shouts random comments from a bench. Except I’ll not even be out the house because I’ll be doing it from the kitchen table. So that’s another idea scrapped.

My third idea – and please bear in mind I’ve only been thinking this through for a few hours – is to make friends whilst dog walking. Luckily the friends that I am living with have a dog. Unlike the poker/card situation, this is a massive boost to the plan actually going ahead. The village where my friends live… ah. Let me explain something here.

I fear I’ve led you a merry dance by referring to the town I am moving to when, in actual fact, I am moving to a village 2 and a bit miles away. I’m sorry about that it’s just, well, I don’t want people from the village reading this and then not befriending me because they don’t think I’m spontaneous enough. You understand, don’t you? You do? That’s what I love about you. That and your eyes. Thank you.

Ah, fresh air and ducks.

Where was I…? Ah, yes. Right… So the village where my friends live is beautiful and picturesque. It’s the sort of village that has a huge duck pond in the middle of the village green just by the church that you could well imagine having idyllic picnics on as you quaff lashings of home-made lemonade (actually, there’s idea #4). It’s a perfect dog walking village in actual fact and we all know that walking dogs is a perfect way to meet people. At least, we all know it if we believe 101 Dalmations is more of a true story than many believe it to be. Dog walking would be an ideal chance to meet people and make friends wouldn’t it? Or would it? Would it not just mean that I am with a dog that isn’t actually mine and talking only to people who own dogs about dogs when I don’t know anything about dogs or, as I have stated in this very sentence, even own a dog of my own. I would be sat at home at night reading up on dog things so I could have something to talk to them about. It wouldn’t just be about the pressure I’d be putting myself under; I would have to have drinks with people based on a lie. That’s no basis for friendship. Dog may be man’s best friend but they’re not the best basis for making new ones.

I have thought about joining a yoga or pilates class but then I’d just be friends with fitness people who probably wouldn’t want to eat as much cheese or drink as much mead as me. I could go to the pub and make friends there but then I’d probably have to remain constantly drunk so I was always in the same state as I was when my new friend saw me when they met me and, therefore, was the person they thought they were befriending. I think. I could dress as a giant marshmallow and stand outside the village shop; but that’s just silly.

So, one night before my move from Beverley (actually my home) to Beaconsfield (my future “like home” home) and I am none the wiser. However, I do know one thing: I have some amazing people in my life already but now I have a brilliant opportunity to have even more special people enter my life. Hopefully, I’ll get the chance to have a positive effect on theirs too. I’ll know people this time next year that I haven’t even met yet: we all will. How brilliantly exciting is that?

I have always felt so fortunate to know this and, thinking about the future, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: I get by with a little help from my friends. Now, if only there was a song that had lyrics to that effect…

Al

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Lacking Confidence In The Head: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

Confidence is a strange thing, isn’t it? In certain situations it can be there in abundance and, in others, it seemingly crawls away to leave you exposed and shy; the metaphorical pair of trousers in the worryingly realistic dream of school assemblies.

For example, today I have been updating a worky thing which has photos of me on-stage in front of thousands of people. In one case, it was with someone who’s regarded as an “A-list actor” (has anyone ever actually seen these lists? Are they like shopping lists? Do you suppose someone from a press agency has ever arrived home after compiling such a list and realised, “Oh no! I’ve forgotten Burt Reynolds”?). The point is this: in those situations, I feel completely at home. Completely self-confident. It’s the career path I chose and it’s what I have loved and do love doing. On-stage, in front of people, talking and generally messing about, that’s somewhere that I wouldn’t ever worry about being. On the flip side, going to the hairdresser’s is somewhere where I don’t have that same level of confidence (although now I’m wondering what would happen if I got my hair cut on stage..?).

I would like to point out at this juncture that the place I go to have my hair cut is brilliant. It’s relaxing, it’s beautiful and the staff are not only friendly but they’re talented with it (if you’re ever around Beverley in East Yorkshire, I recommend it – www.delacyspa.co.uk – they have fish that eat your feet too). It isn’t the venue or the people who make me lack confidence, far from it; it’s me. From the day I first started getting my hair cut at a salon called Renaissance (where I had a constant stream of teenage crushes on all the stylists that worked there) I have always struggled with the big question: “So, what are we doing today?”

What are we doing today? As I sit and type here, with time to think about it, I still have no idea how to answer that question. If at some point in the future there’s an iPhone app which can relay what you see in your mind onto a screen so other people can see it, that would be one of the most thank-worthy inventions of all time (I was engaged once and I designed the ring just as I saw it in my mind; except that when I drew it it was nothing like I saw in my mind. Luckily the engagement didn’t last otherwise we’d have faced a lifetime of people seeing that ring and me having to explain, “that’s not what it really looks like in my mind” to very confused faces). What are we doing today? I have been going to get my hair cut on my own for probably 12 or 13 years now and in all that time I haven’t learnt how to answer that question correctly. For over a decade this has, pretty much, been the ensuing conversation:

Hairdresser: (after initial pleasantries and my failed attempt at humour) So, what are we doing today?

Me: Um… just, erm… (I wave my hands around my hair in a manner that makes me look like I want to perform the YMCA but can’t remember how) kind of… like it is but a bit shorter.

Hairdresser: Shorter?

Me: Well, yes, obvious, I know… but not too short. Just, erm… kind of…

Hairdresser: Right, ok. So, would you like to follow me and I’ll wash your hair?

Me: Brilliant!

The hair washing bit. Now, I like the hair washing bit. I do enjoy thinking and the hair washing bit is a very relaxing place to do a bit of thinking. Obviously, depending where you go and how good the salon is depends on how enjoyable the hair washing bit is. There have been countless places I have been to where my Britishness has led me to have a very sore scalp afterwards.

Trainee: (through a cloud of billowing steam) Is the water alright for you?

This is where I struggle with my own thoughts. “Ouch! That is boiling. How can she not feel that is actually boiling water? Mind, if I couldn’t tell the hairdresser how I wanted my very own hair cutting, I stand no chance of explaining to the trainee how to perfectly combine cold and hot water to reach the most comfortable temperature attainable. How do I… ARGH! Ah well…”

Me: Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.

Today was nothing like that scenario. In fact, before the water had even begun to run, the stylist (I shall call her Saffron because that is her name) asked, “Would you like me to put your legs up?” I must admit, I hadn’t expected that. “Put my legs up? Like in a hotel?” I thought momentarily before realising that I was, in fact, sat in a reclining chair and so Saffron’s request had made perfect sense. “Yes, please. Do they go all the way up?” I enquired. They didn’t. Why would they? It was a stupid question (although, to her credit, the stylist didn’t point this out. To be fair, the stupidity of my question was self-evident in itself and so she didn’t really need to). So, with my legs now in the most comfortable “up” position imaginable and with the massage chair doing its funky little business, the hair washing bit commenced. The water was running at a perfect temperature, the music was calming and the hair washing was as relaxing as could be: a perfect opportunity to escape into the world of thought that I have previously mentioned.

Except that I didn’t. That is to say, all the time my hair was being expertly washed, I just had one thought in my mind. At this very point in my life there are lots of things to think about. I am moving away on Saturday; I am in the middle of writing a comedy which needs material; I am waiting to hear if a network is going to pick up said comedy; I can’t remember where my favourite tie is. There is a lot to think about. However, none of that was in my head as the hair washing bit expertly commenced. There was only one thing in my head.

Me: When you’re washing people’s hair, do you make a mohican out of shampoo?

That had never crossed my mind before today. I doubt there is anyone reading this(!) who has not, at some time in their life, made a mohican out of shampoo when in the shower or the bath. I know I have. In fact, this Saturday just gone I was listening to Elvis in the shower and was 20 minutes late meeting friends because I’d been trying to style a King of Rock ‘n’ Roll quiff out of shampoo. Even so, I’d never wondered whether hairdressers do it.

Saffron: No. (polite laughter) I can’t say I ever have.

Politely, she replied in a way that suggested it was a perfectly good question and that she genuinely never had thought about it. I think we both knew that it was, as rightly hinted at, a perfectly good question and I only hope that I have sewn seeds of experimentation into the shampooing hands of that very salon. I’m not saying that if you do go there they shall try it; I can only hope that is the case.

Having been taken from the washing hair bit area, I sat in my chair, scissors happily crafting the very hairs that had out stayed their lengthy welcome upon the only head I dare possess upon my shoulders. I relaxed. I’d got the whole awkward non-explanation of how I’d like my hair cutting done and I had enjoyed the hair washing bit without (a) falling asleep in a relaxed slumber or (b) drooling due to (a). Admittedly, I’d asked a couple of daft questions but at least one of them needed addressing. So, there I was sat in my chair, imagining that David Frost probably asked questions when he was getting his hair cut. I like David Frost. “I’d like to be a bit like Sir David,” I thought as I sat in front of the mirror with the stylist displaying her talent for hairdressing. Just then, I felt it. That akwardness was coming back.

I had another question that I wanted to ask but, again, that whole self-confidence thing took me back to school and a time where I didn’t ask questions for fear of it just being silly (I know: where was that thinking prior to the “Do they go all the way up?” query?). I didn’t ask. I kept it inside. Saffron was busy attempting to create something out the nondescript description I had given her and it wasn’t right to ask another silly question. Sir David Frost wouldn’t ask silly questions. I wouldn’t ask another silly question.

Me: Where should someone look when they’re having their hair cut?

I’d asked another silly question.

Saffron: Sorry, how do you mean?

Me: Well, I don’t want to look at you cutting my hair. If someone is stood over me when I’m typing then I make all sorts of mistakes. That said, if I just look at myself in the mirror as you’re styling away then that’s odd too. A grown man having a staring competition with himself? I’ll probably start making those polite-yet-awkward acknowledgements like you do with someone who gets in the same lift you’re in…

Saffron: Um… I don’t really know…

Why would she? Why would she know the answers to such an array of inane questions that were coming out of the mouth of a 34 year old but were clearly being thought up by the mind of a 5 year old? I continued to look ahead. Vaguely.

Light chatter continued. Pleasant, friendly and without awkwardness (except the point where she combed my hair to one side and I pointed out how it looked very suave when David Beckham did it but had resulted in me looking like a non-moustachioed Hitler). She asked me if I liked it and I did. I really liked it. Not only had she shown a true talent but she’d displayed it in the face of mindless waffle.

Despite the wavering confidence that comes with not knowing how I want my very own hair to be displayed and the fact that I know I’m going to give the impression that I’m as sophisticated as a trampled mushroom, I do enjoy going to get my hair cut. Actually, I love going to the place I currently go to because they couldn’t make you feel happier if they tried; it’s just a shame my mind has to go with me. In fact next time I’m going to let it look around the shops whilst I go to get my hair cut.

So, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: Although hairdressers say they don’t actually make mohicans out of shampoo when they’re washing your hair, we can’t know for sure. Not unless there’s a mirror nearby.

The Girl In The White Shirt: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

Today, it seems, fate kindly offered me its hand and led me to someone who, unexpectedly but quite possibly, could be my soul mate. One and a half days before NYE too. How’s that for timing?

The big question of what to do on New Year’s Eve seems to have been looming over our heads since October (I checked my Facebook timeline and that’s when it appears to have cropped up. The things you do when it’s raining, hey?). Now, having left the Camp Little Cottage By The Canal Where I Lived On My Own, I have returned to my sleepy hometown of Beverley in East Yorkshire before heading south after Christmas. Is this relevant? Well, a little bit.

I love home. Beverley has the Minster and, although I am not religious in any way, whenever I return home from “the south” it is always the most welcoming sight. Driving over the pasture land of Beverley Westwood the Minster shines like a beacon of sanctuary. It warms my heart and calms my mind as it lets me know that I am back home with the freely wandering cows, the gas lit pub in the town centre and the many take-aways that serve chip spice. In many ways the Minster has the same effect on me as it would have done an Elizabethan thief who sought solace within its walls having stolen some peas or a Lord’s oxen (perhaps). However, at my age, I am one of the few of my friends from back home who remains single. Oh, and by “one of the few” I do actually mean “the only one”.

Home Is Where The Single Heart Is

So being back home where all my coupley coupled up couple friends are doing coupley things in their couples for NYE, my options are narrowed down. A quiet night in watching other people celebrate on TV is fine – after all, throughout this year I plan to have much to celebrate as a result of friends and hard work – but, if I am honest, “fine” isn’t “great”. I was dwelling on this, choosing which slippers to wear and which mug to drink my midnight warm Ribena out of when something happened. Something potentially life changing. I received a text!

The text came from an unrecognised number. A number that is perfectly recognisable as a standard mobile phone number; it just happens that it’s not a number stored in my phone. You know the type; the ones sent by people who haven’t updated their address book since mobile phones were accompanied by briefcase sized batteries. The sort of message that is a “cleverly typed picture text” text of an angel wishing you a Merry Christmas before encouraging you to send it to 5 other unfortunates less your legs fall off in the next 24 kilometres or some such thing. So, an unrecognised number at Christmas? Standard. But… no!

I opened the message. It began thus: “Hi, sexy..”. Hi sexy?!? I re-read it. “Hi sexy..” Yes, that IS what it said. Now, who do I know who’s number I don’t have that would call me sexy? Hmmm, could be anyone from days gone by but (a) it was too early for anyone to be drinking and (b) if they were drinking at that time they were probably feeling depressed rather than flirtatious. Oh, and (c) I can’t recall anyone ever starting a message to me in that way. As it was a text message I probably should have waited until I’d read a little bit more before I began to analyse things. So, I did…

“Hi sexy, it’s Leigh”. Leigh? I like the name Leigh. Leigh sounds like someone who’d be a laugh. I imagine Leigh would wear one of my shirts to walk around the house in on a morning whilst I make freshly brewed coffee. Leigh sounds sophisticated but fun. Now then, do I know a Leigh? In short; no. I don’t. I read on…

“I saw you and you sound HOT”. Wow! Leigh saw me and she thinks I sound hot does she? So… hold on! Does that mean she doesn’t think I look hot? To be fair it HAS been Christmas and I have allowed myself to indulge fully so, actually, I admire Leigh’s honesty in that sense. So far I like what I know of Leigh: fun, stylish, she enjoys coffee and she isn’t a sycophant. That said, despite the honest opinion that she doesn’t think I look hot, she does think I sound hot. I did work on radio and had some good figures along the way (ooh, cheeky) so maybe I know her from then. Maybe my carefully planned topics of discussion and witty banter won her over. Yes, that’s probably it. She is attracted to my mind and my choice of shirts in which to lounge in. I like Leigh even more. I think I may reply. In fact, she has asked me to…

“Wud luv to chat. Txt me”. Hmmm, I’m not a fan of the text speak but then I have been ridiculed for using “proper English” before. If I let my grammatical snobbery stand in the way of what could be a true, soulful, shirt creasing romance then I’d be a fool. I have a feeling Leigh doesn’t suffer fools. Why should she? I imagine she is a successful woman who is following her dream but grounded enough to know she has to work hard to get it. She is clearly focused and confident in life. Obviously; that’s why she feels comfortable using text speak. We haven’t even met (at least, I can’t recall if we ever have) and she is already teaching me to be a better person. Leigh is making me the sort of person that wants to give her my best going out shirt to eat a bacon sandwich in on New Year’s Morning and to hell with the dangers of dropping tomato sauce down the front (not that she’d spill sauce because I imagine Leigh is at home in high class restaurants. Although, even if she did, she wouldn’t feel awkward about it. She’d laugh and that would make me laugh. I like that about Leigh).

So what made this vision soon to be in a (possibly) ketchup stained shirt text me out of nowhere? Had she smelt an aftershave that reminded me of her? Had someone discussed an observation during one of her sophisticated lunches with the girls that reminded her of something I’d done on the radio in days gone by? Had she confused me with someone she had previously referred to as “sexy” and this was just a beautiful example of fate text talking its way to two strangers meeting? I looked again.

“HI sexy, it’s Leigh. I saw you and you sound HOT. Wud luv to chat. Txt me.” Well, there was nothing in that message that could possibly lead me to be mistaken: Leigh wanted me to text her. I’m not usually one for meeting someone on a blind date but, that said, there was a chance Leigh and I had already met. Even if we hadn’t, I knew the sort of person Leigh was and I liked that sort of person. In fact, if I had to invent an image of my ideal partner then it would be Leigh. Leigh would be the person I’d come up with in my mind. Leigh with her long, brown hair and her doe eyed look that belied wickedness and innocence in equal, enticing measure. Leigh with her knowledge of the finer things in life but her love of the daft and the random. Leigh who takes life as seriously as it needs to be taken but who’s love for friends, family and life outweighs everything else. The more I thought about it, the more I found it hard to imagine Leigh having any flaws at all.

Then I found it. The one flaw that made Leigh less than perfect. The one flaw that, in an ironic twist, would take Leigh from the pedestal I was in danger of viewing her upon. The one flaw came in a part of the text I’d not noticed at first.

“150p for each message received. Text STOP to end”.

And like that, this blossoming romance was over. Over before it ever began. Leigh didn’t want me. Not really. In fact it’s possible that Leigh isn’t even a real person. I deleted the text and checked the TV listings to see if there were any repeats of Darling Buds Of May showing at midnight tomorrow. Goodbye, Leigh. Goodbye forever.

So, Here Is What I Have Learnt Today: if a girl wants to wear your shirt to lounge about in, don’t give her your best one; she’ll only get your hopes up and ketchup down the front.

Al

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Mistletoe and Why? Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

“Christmastime. Misteltoe and wine“, sang Sir Cliff Richard knowingly. How right he was. Christmastime is indeed a time for both mistletoe and for wine (although wine is something to be enjoyed all year round and, as he actually owns a vineyard, I can’t help but feel that Sir Cliff possibly doesn’t consult his marketing department as often as he should do. Surely it would be his own interest to promote wine’s all year round qualities. Anyway, he’ll work it out. He’s IS a Knight Of The Realm, after all). Justin Bieber is similarly obsessed with mistletoe (although I am not entirely sure he knows what it is and he isn’t old enough to drink wine).

Enough of Sir Cliff’s wine for now because it is the mistletoe that intrigues me. I am happy to drink wine – a bottle of white, a bottle of red, maybe a bottle of rose instead – at any time of the year. I enjoy it. In fact, I enjoy sharing it; this is where the quandary comes in regarding mistletoe. Mistletoe by it’s very festive nature is something to be shared. The question I have is this: When? When should mistletoe be shared and, whilst we’re on the subject of questions: When actually is “Christmastime”?

I have long been led to believe that the time for mistletoe is in the lead up to Christmas day. By “the lead up” I mean the month before Christmas when the radios start playing Bing Crosby and the shops start putting up their trees. Actually, not the shop bit; the shops start putting up their trees in October, don’t they? If I was coming down an escalator in a shopping centre prior to Halloween and thrust some mistletoe in the unsuspecting face of a fellow shopper escalating in the other direction, I would fully expect to be carted off by security. Yes, I would explain my reasoning and hope that a thoughtful discussion like the one I am typing now would ensue; but I would expect that to happen whilst being fully chastised in the shopping centre’s “behind the scenes” area because it wasn’t actually “Christmastime”. Then, gauging the mood, I’d offer the attractive security lady a cheek as I held the Yuletide shrubbery above her doe-eyed face (which would probably restart the whole process. It really is a minefield, isn’t it?).

So, mistletoe then. I would think it can be used in the immediate days leading up to Christmas without any repercussions given that you’re accepting of certain social etiquette (it would be almost definitely frowned upon to pounce upon a mourning widow outside cemetery gates and proffer a sprig above her veiled hat as she wiped the tears of memories from her wind kissed cheeks). I would feel that suggesting a cheeky use of the festive plant on Christmas Eve would be, in the very least, acknowledged with a fun-loving grin or mischievous wink. I would say that clears up the “time” quandary; even if the “place” is uncertain (although I would hedge a bet that a cemetery is almost always a definite no-no).

As I write this, Christmas Day has been and gone (ooh, that reminds me; I hope yours was happy and full of love) and we are now in the period between Christmas and New Year. Of course, Christmas goes on for 12 days and I am uncertain for sure but I would suggest this is still part of the very “Christmastime” that had Sir Cliff so excited that he forgot about the profitability of his wine business. However, even if it is “Christmastime”, I still don’t feel that it would be right going up to someone with mistletoe at any time after Christmas Day. It would be, well… awkward!

There are a few reasons I believe this. Mainly because the pre-Christmas Day mood is heightened with anticipation of a day of being happy with loved ones. Prior to Santa dropping of his goodies down your chimney, the festive party clothes probably looked great on you and you were probably running around juggling Christmas shopping with work or the gym; or all the aforementioned. I imagine you were the height of fun and confidence and open to the merrily flirtatious advances of like-minded revellers. Now, and I am typing this from my own, personal viewpoint, there is one very distinctive reason for not approaching someone with mistletoe in the post-Christmas Day period. That reason is this: there has been a lot of turkey, chocolate, pudding, drink, anything that looks like it may be vaguely edible (and some things that don’t) consumed since Christmas morning. Those party clothes and the “running around” has very recently been replaced by “looser clothes” and a slow reach for the left overs of the selection box. The cheeky suggestiveness of holding some pre-Christmas Day mistletoe above an attractive face has now been replaced with the post-Christmas Day thought that, if you’re going to reach for anything, reach for another chocolate for your own face which is beginning to show a worrying hint of possessing another chin.

I have to confess at this stage that I don’t think I have ever used mistletoe (“use” doesn’t sound quite right. “Suggested” is probably a better word; if not less honest). There isn’t any particular reason why I haven’t (other than the whole dilemma of how, where and when) and it does seem fun. It’s just that, well, what do you do after you’ve used it? Prior to the actual “moment” I suppose there is some sort of eye contact with someone you’re attracted to, you hold the mistletoe above their head and then you kiss them on the cheek or (and I blush at the very thought in my unmarried state) on the lips. Then what? I assume you can’t just walk away. Don’t get me wrong, I have talked to and had romantic moments with strangers before (wow, is it hot in here…?) but never with mistletoe. Usually, in a non-mistletoe state, there has been some sort of conversation beforehand and it’s all very easy (for want of a better word again). With mistletoe you don’t need conversation. That’s the point, isn’t it? A devilish glance upwards, an acknowledgement and then a kiss. As I have said before… then what?!? Do you start a conversation? How? About what? Do you relay facts about the history of mistletoe; about how awkward the use of mistletoe is; that you have been fortunate to meet that person before Christmas Day because after then you’d be wearing elastically waisted pants?

Of course, if you’re in a relationship then none of this matters; mistletoe is fun and you don’t need a time, a place or a reason. You can one minute be suggesting who to get what for Christmas, whack out the mistletoe, have a smooch and then discuss how you’re going to use the turkey’s giblets the next. Even if you’re single, you may be a mistletoe aficionado bemused by my dilemma whilst reading this and thinking, “I’m a mistletoe aficionado and I am bemused by his dilemma”.

Or you may be like me; single and curious to use mistletoe but unsure as to the ethical nature of how to go about it. Or when.

So Here Is What I Have Learnt Today: yes there is mistletoe but, as Sir Cliff says, there is also wine and if all us single people drink enough wine, we won’t even need to worry about mistletoe in the first place.

Well, not until October anyway…

Merry “Christmastime”

 

Al

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I Am A Grown Up: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

There are signs that you’re a “grown up”, aren’t there? Signs. There is a saying, favoured by the late Bob Monkhouse which goes,”Getting old is compulsory. Growing up is optional”. I love that saying. I think it’s one of the few rules that should be adhered to throughout life (one of the optional, philosophical rules I mean. Obviously “not stealing” or “not smothering a politician in Nutella” are the type of rules which we should definitely adhere to. Unless the said politician has requested it).

A few of the things that make me realise I have been an adult for some time are (aside from my birth certificate) the fact that I can – and do – make my own soup without adult supervision (pop by, I shall make some for you). Often I will walk around, even use, scissors because I’m an adult and that’s what adults do. Another aspect of being an adult and one I embrace frequently (although not to a worrying degree) is my right to buy alcohol without having to give some shifty looking guy a fiver for doing so whilst I hang around outside. In fact, it was this very deed that led me to realising I have taken on some mannerisms of grown-upness (using made up words isn’t one of them).

Now, my little camp cottage where I live by myself is next to a canal. A lock keeper’s cottage, in fact; although I am not a lock keeper. At the side of my house, over the little bridge, is the canal tow path which leads like a Yellow Brick road to the bright lights of the village shop and local pub. To the left of the tow path are the watery depths of the canal and, to the right various bushes, most of which appear to be displaying Winter White Berries (just Googled them. I was going to write “white berries” but the “winter” bit makes this tale all that more Brother Grimm-esque, don’t you think? No? Ok then…). It was here that the whole situation occurred.

As usual, I pass people on the canal path. By which I mean they’re walking in the other direction. I don’t give birth to people as I go; that’s a preposterous accusation! So, as I was saying before I so rudely interrupted myself, I pass people on the path (you know what I mean!) and, earlier, I passed two boys who were about 14. They were lobbing these winter white berries at each other by the handful and, to the look, having quite a lot of fun doing it. They would, wouldn’t they? So as I got nearer they continued to pelt away but then one looked up and saw me. “That’s good,” I thought, “that’ll mean he’ll stop as I pass and there’ll be no awkwardness”. However, he didn’t stop. Admittedly he didn’t aim them at me but, as he flung this cluster bomb of winter white berries at Teenager Number 2 (who, in all fairness had his back to me), rogue winter white berries flew in my general direction. Although still smirking, Teenager Number 2 apologised as, following on from his more responsible chum, did Teenage Number 1. Or “King Flinger”.

I know they apologised because I could see them mouth it. At the time, as I do when I walk to the shop/pub (The Red Lion in Sandiacre. Pop by, I’ll buy you a drink), I had my earphones in and was listening to tunes on my iPhone. Ironically, the song I was listening to was “When We Were Young” by Take That; a song all about the innocence of youth before responsibility and grown-upness (I’m sticking with it) took over. The reason that is ironic is because of my reaction to the Teenagers’ apologies.

As they both apologised in well-meaning ways, I reacted in a way that affirmed my stature as a grown up. For I could have met their light-hearted jauntiness with a raised eyebrow and a half-smile which would have indicated, “You scamps. I was like you at your age. Now, have away with you, go on..” to which they would have undoubtedly replied, “Cheers Mister!” before running after each other and getting up to more innocent japes to fill their time. I didn’t react like that though. I reacted as a grown up would react. Not a grown up who, by his own admission, is carefree and, well, yes, “jaunty” himself. No. I reacted like a bitter man who’d been interrupted on HIS way to HIS local shop and was probably wearing beige clothing and still had to wax his car before Countdown started.

As they smilingly mouthed “sorry”, I glared. Glared! I don’t glare. I can’t glare. My Dad used to glare at my sister and I if we were in trouble or over stepping the mark (which was, I would like to point out, invisible. We were really playing in an unfair game there). Dad’s eyes would widen, his jaw would tighten as his teeth ground together and his forehead had a brilliant knack of shooting back. It was at that point that we knew to stop messing about. To be honest, he rarely did it but it was such a sign of his disapproval that we knew not to push it and it has stayed in my mind to this day. My friend Jason has managed to do it too. In fact, he did it the other week when he was just wearing pants. There are fewer things more confusing yet frightening than a man glaring at you whilst only wearing pants.

So that’s what I tried. I tried a glare (fully dressed I would readily like to point out) but I knew, as I was attempting it, that I looked an idiot. I am not someone who carries that weight of fear in his eyes/jaw/forehead. I am someone who would’ve been more respected if I’d have done the whole mock shaking of fist. Or even laughed. As I walked off, the Teenagers no doubt mocking my poor attempt at being stern/tough, I regretted the way I reacted.

I made a pact with myself there and then that, the next time Teenagers are throwing Winter White Berries in my general direction, I shall laugh in a sort of “yeah, I did that sort of thing when I was your age” manner (I didn’t. I stayed in my bedroom, played Football Manager and listened to the radio).

So, Here’s What I Have Learnt Today: Don’t be a grown up unless you HAVE to be a grown up.

As a little footnote to this tale, as I was walking back along the canal path when I saw the Teenagers again. By way of showing that I wasn’t some sort of wannabe authority figure, I nodded them a friendly, “Alright?”. They, in turn, looked at me with a sort of, well, glare. Of course, they had just seen this man – this grown up – who had previously tried and failed to be stern now being happy and “jaunty” whilst clutching two bottles of wine and a box of Coco-Pops.

I think I’ll just take a different route to the shops from now on…

What’s In A Title? Here’s What I Have Learnt Today…

Earlier today I had to write a letter to my old insurance company asking them something grown up about No Claims proof. Due to an aspect of my personality which isn’t as grown up as the subject I was referring to, I had lost the proof of No Claims. Although I am hoping my new insurance company read this and believe that I am telling the truth. That would be a lovely way to solve the problem, wouldn’t it?

Anyway, the lady I had to address was called Caroline Thomson. I know this because the non-personal letter which I’d been sent was from someone called “Caroline Thomson”. No signature, admittedly, but she was confident enough to have her name printed on the non-personal letter. It’s almost as if she was playing mind games with me. Sure, she’d tell me her name but would she go that little extra and add a personal touch by adding her actual signature? No. She would not. I’m not sure entirely where I stand with Caroline and, if I’m honest, I quite like that about her.In fact,  this is where my compulsion to share comes in.

Although I had her name, her lack of personal signature led me to believe I couldn’t address her as, “Dear Caroline”. Not now. Not yet. So, instead, I would have to address her the formal way, as if I didn’t know her name or as if she didn’t know mine. I should point out at this stage that she DID know my name. In fact, she knew my full name and she wasn’t afraid to use it. “Dear Alistair..” began Caroline. She may as well have continued, “… I am in control in this relationship and don’t you forget it”. As if I ever could.

My dilemma was this: How should I start the missive? With a man I would write, “Dear Sir” and I would be right to do so. With a woman – a firm woman – how should I begin? “Dear Mrs” would be presumptuous. What if she wasn’t married? What if Caroline hadn’t met Mr Right yet? I must admit, I was rather selfishly hoping that this may be the case. Even so, “Dear Miss” would come across as if I were trivialising her relationship. Maybe Caroline has been in love with the same man – or woman – since college and the two of them are now inseparable.

Truthfully speaking, I can’t help but feel a tinge of personal sadness at this thought but, as Jimmy Nail said, “If you love somebody, set them free.” Maybe that is what Jimmy Nail meant all those years ago. Maybe he too had need to write to an insurance company chasing up important documentation and, in doing so, maybe that’s how he ended up with a number 1 hit single. Maybe he was hoping his old insurance company would hear his song, “Ain’t No Doubt” and believe that he too, had 9 years no claims. Only he knows that.

So what were my options? How should I address Sweet Caroline? “Mrs” would push her away. It would give the impression that I thought she was married and, thus, nip any chance of romance in the bud. Her heart may feel sad that I’d dismissed her when, all along, I wanted to do anything than. “Miss” would look callous and jealous, as if I were disrespecting her true love. There was only one option, something I vaguely recalled from a school lesson. It didn’t seem right but it seemed less wrong than the other options. So, to Caroline, sweet, darling Caroline, I wrote this:

“Dear Ms,”

That was it. The die was cast. Was I right to do it? “Ms”!!!! Was I right in addressing her in a manner which, to all intents and purposes suggest Caroline Thomson to be a spinster?  It is clear she works hard from the position she holds. That doesn’t mean she is a spinster though, does it? When I was young I always wanted to fall for someone with drive, with ambition. I still do. I wouldn’t ever assume someone like that to be a spinster so why Caroline? No, she’s not a spinster.

Thinking back over that letter, mulling it over and over – the way she asked for the return of my insurance certificate, the request for payment of the outstanding amount – I struggle to find any affection in her tone. Although I struggle to find anything that doesn’t suggest warmth and a comforting need to do what’s best for both of us. Caroline tells me her name, she addresses me by mine; surely that’s a sign of affection? Then again, she doesn’t sign it and the pre-paid envelope suggests no signs of S.W.A.L.K.

So here’s what I have learnt today. 1) If you don’t know the correct way of addressing a woman in a letter you should use, “Dear Sir” (it’s true – daft as it sounds). 2) As much as I hate mind games, they are effective. Certainly in this case.

I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the situation is with Caroline. Maybe she is happily married or, as I can only hope, maybe she is still waiting for Mr Right. Or Mr Writer… (by that I mean me, because I have written this. It’s a bit of a play on words. You got that, didn’t you..? Yes, sorry).

As Jimmy Nail once said, “A woman like you’s no good for me”.

Snow Makes You Care: Here’s What I Have Learnt Today

So, here in sunny England the snow continues to be the main focal point of our attentions. As I look outside my office window now I can see the beautiful evergreen trees with the powdery, white dressing covering the branches. The quaint humpback bridge over the canal that connects my little lane to the main street looks like it has been white washed and icicles are hanging from the bottom of my car. Snow really is quite a magical scene setter.

However, when snow falls we are also requested by the readers of news that we remember those people who find it less magical and more, well, “dangerous”. Every year these groups are highlighted in the same way. The Elderly: make sure they’re warm, make sure they have milk and bread (I think, somewhere down the line, newsreaders confused “the elderly” with “hedgehogs”). The Homeless: help out at a local shelter or give them some tea and/or coffee (but not crack). Lorry Drivers: They get stuck on the roads in “arctic (or “artic”) conditions” and struggle to make deliveries so help them with shovels. Office Staff, Shop Workers, Postal Workers… the list is endless.

Of course, all year round, it is right that we remember those less fortunate than us. What irks me when the snow falls is that, year after year, one group is left out of the equation. Sure, we should think of all the aforementioned groups of people. I’ll add in there parents with children who can’t make it to school and the emergency services. All of these groups deserve the concern and thoughts of us all. However, as I say, there is always one group of people who continually gets overlooked. People With Vices.

“But who are these people with vices?” you may have never wondered in your lifetime. Well, to help explain I shall give you some examples I have made up with my own brain.

Imagine, if you will, Peter. Now, I should point out at this instance that Peter is a fictional character and doesn’t actually exist. He is, however, based entirely on my friend James Chambers, 112 Victoria Lane, High Wycombe, HP13 3RT but, in order to protect my friend’s identity, I shall call him Peter. So, imagine “Peter”, a hard-working family man with a beautiful wife who I shall call “Amy” (who isn’t really the wife of James, Karen). Peter and Karen Amy life in a lovely 3 bedroom house that they bought based on their combined incomes from their respective jobs. Peter is a freelance journalist who writes for overseas publications, Amy is Head of English at the local secondary school. They live a contented and uneventful life together with their comfortable jobs and their small but perfectly formed social circle. Or, at least, that is what Amy believes.

Owing to the current global financial situation, the publications that Peter writes for ceased to use his material 11 months ago. Unable to face breaking the heart of his wife, Peter didn’t tell Amy this. For the past year, Peter has carried on the facade that he is a successful, well paid writer when, in actual fact, Peter hasn’t had an article published since December 2009. Peter relies increasingly on credit cards which his wife doesn’t know about. Each morning Peter waits for Amy to go to work and, 10 minutes after her car has disappeared around the corner, Peter heads to the local bookmakers because Peter’s vice is that he gambles.

Now, once again, I highlight the plight of People With Vices at this time of year. Imagine the past week. Peter has gone upstairs, Amy has gone to work, Peter has then gone to the bookmakers. However, upon arriving in the warmth of the bookmakers welcoming bosom Peter then finds that the day’s racing has been cancelled because of the snow. Peter has the money in his pocket to spend – he survives off an increasing number of credit cards Amy doesn’t know about and he can not well afford – but he doesn’t have the races to spend it on. He will be unable to chance making any profit today. Or the next day. Or the day after if the snow continues to lay on the ground.

In this situation, what does Peter do?  He drinks. He takes the money he has in his pocket and, in an attempt to numb the confusion and disappointment, he goes over the road to the pub and he loses himself in whisky. Whisky after whisky. He comes home late, drunk, depressed. Amy can’t understand why he’s in this state and Peter won’t explain. This goes on for days until finally, when the snow is still thick on the ground and the money in is pocket is jingling more than folding, Peter has to explain. To confess.

Peter tells Amy, his beautiful, trusting wife everything that has happened. Amy can’t understand why he lied, he can’t understand it either; surely marriage is about honesty and sharing. Amy is confused, she can’t trust him and Peter doesn’t blame her because, in a rare moment of honest clarity, he knows he can’t trust himself. Amy goes to her mother’s for the night; maybe longer. Peter is left at home, he sits in the dark and unscrews the whisky bottle. This time he needs to drink to erase the pain of her leaving, the pain of his lies, the pain of not knowing why he got to a point in his life where he’s feeling so much pain.

Sat in the lonely darkness, Peter turns on the television. It’s only 6 o’clock, although it seems later, and the BBC News is just beginning. “Good evening”, says the announcer in a jovial way that suggests she hasn’t been outside her warm studio since the snow began. She will, once again, overlook People With Vices for another year.

So, please, when the snow is falling and you’re rushing to help and elderly person get that last loaf in the Co-Op, do remember the People With Vices. People Jim, a 65 year old financial manager who’s been married to Jean for 43 years. For Jim is a good man and a man who couldn’t love his wife more. Jim and his wife, although they love each other deeply, haven’t shared carnal pleasures for almost 5 years now and Jim, still an attractive and charismatic man, has needs and desires. This is why Jim’s only vice is that, once a week, he visits a “massage parlour” because, in his mind, paying a professional to see to these needs is the best solution.

Imagine Jim’s situation this week. He can’t make that drive to the massage parlour for “physical relief” because the snow has made the roads too dangerous. Instead, he sits at home, frustrated. Guilty for feeling that way, but frustrated all the same. Jim can’t get out, his 27 year old divorcee neighbour asks him to help with her heating, Jim’s natural charisma charms her, she seduces him and, in a regrettable moment of frustrated desire, Jim concedes. The snow has caused this man to risk everything and, even though the snow will eventually melt, the love child that he has now fathered will remain with him forever.

At this time of year it is easy to remember the elderly, the poverty stricken and the workers who are struggling through the cold. All I ask is that you remember one other group too. Those People With Vices. Have a look now and, if you suddenly realise there haven’t been any kids on your street corner for the past few nights, have a root round and see if you can find a few cans of cider. It may just be that they haven’t been able to get to the shops.

I can guarantee, you’ll feel better just for knowing you’ve helped.