All you need is a little ...

I’m not looking. I’m not looking. I’m not. I’m not looking. NOT. NOT. NOT. NOT. NOT!  I joined the agency to INVESTIGATE. To see what the market was like. Just a bit of research should I ever want to start looking, which at 25 I don’t, it’s too soon.
“Yeah Pete, only six months since your last sh…”
“Shut up!” I interrupt my thoughts, didn’t like the direction they were taking.  They’re like my flatmate Gary, annoying, interfering, little imp on my left shoulder and nearly always right. Git.  He set me up. I agreed. RELUCTANTLY, I agreed because it was a double date and I was doing him and his girl a favour.
Gary and Michelle were hot to trot and trot away they did as soon as I walked into the pub and sat down.
“Oh,” I said to this short, pasty face Goth girl. “You’re Michelle too are you?”
“Did you just call me Michelle two?”
“No,” I smiled my best first date smile. “Not number two. Too, as in as well as, also.”     Did she snarl or did the pins in her face pull her lips up higher on one side?
“Anyway, I’m older so that blonde cow is number two.”
“Isn’t that blonde cow your mate?”
“Did you just call my mate a cow?”
I shrugged and pretended I couldn’t hear. I waggled my hand in front of my face.
“Oooh.” She mocked. “When in doubt, order a shout! Bacardi.”
“And?” I asked.
“Double.”
“Double Bacardi?”
“Are you thick?”
“Double Bacardi coming up.”
I walked over to the bar and the queue was so long I kept on walking till I got home.

“What you doing here?” Gary shouted in my face as Michelle one screamed naked around the living room picking up bits of pink clothing.
I nodded sagely. “I see through your plan grasshopper.” 
Normally my Kung Fu impression makes Gary wet himself, but as he stood there, sausage shrinking, I could see it wasn’t the time for Comedy Hour. I brushed past the scowling, screaming couple, went into my room and put my headphones on to watch ‘Invasion: Planet Earth!’ again.
I could hear the male in the other room coaxing the female and after a few minutes, the noises resumed. I turned the volume up.
Now Gary only does his frolicking in the living room cos his bedroom is a nuclear dump.  He used to beg me to clean it. Then he started to offer money. He never thought of cleaning it himself. I should kick him out, but he’s been my best mate for about twenty of my twenty five years.  His parents and my parents, blah, blah. Me and his sister… ok we won’t go into that.
Anyway, Gary can clean his own funk or arrange to have his own funk cleaned.
If the housing association ever do a spot check, they’ll chuck me out before I can cry ‘single white man’s working class injustice’.
I keep my room clean by not having anything. I got my TV, some DVDs, all the clothes you can fit on one clothes rail, a bed and all the toiletries you can fit into one bag.  Everything else is still at mums’. She can dust them, burn them, or stick them in a bag for Oxfam. But when you have your first and only child at forty two, you tend to keep everything they ever shed, spat out or crayoned.
In my kitchen I have, optimistically, got two of everything. When they are dirty, I have to wash them or not eat. Simple. I give some Swedish bird I met putting up cards in Tesco’s, a tenner every week to clean the bathroom and kitchen, hoover my room and chuck Gary’s shit out of the living room.
I asked her out for a drink once. It went wrong from the start.
I had smiled down at her and she had smiled up at me as she scrubbed the toilet. I nodded. She smiled again. I felt hopeful. I felt in charge of my destiny.
“Now mate,” my left shoulder imp prodded.
“Erm, Ikea, would you…?” Gary appeared from the wastelands of his bedroom and slapped me on the back.
“Mate! Did you just call her Ikea?”
I laughed my ‘oh shit’ laugh. “Course not!” They both stared at me and waited. What was her name? Meatballs? Baklava?  Gary turned purple as he tried not to splutter all over me. He spluttered out of his arse instead as he fell on the floor in a contemptible heap. Farting and falling and struggling to say ‘Ikea’ and ‘Helene’ into his mobile.
Whassername, sorry Helene, hung her head and scrubbed the white off the toilet. I put the tenner in an envelope and left it by her coat. We nod at each other now.
Saturday, after the Michelle Two Friday, I went to mum & dads’ sat amongst my childhood trophies and framed certificates and wished the Great God of Accidental Fire would visit this place when my parents were out getting their pensions.
Mum put a big plate of something brown floating globularly in something white, in front of me while dad patted me on the head and gave me the “I’m glad you’re here, but will never say it till my dying day and beyond” one shoulder shrug. He picked up his plate and trotted over to his armchair. My parents were both 67 and acted like they were 100, they always had. Every Saturday you could feel the excitement build up as the evening wore on.  Some game show followed another game show followed by some music game show followed by the Lottery (game show).  Lottery was good. Dad got some exercise when it was on as he would pace the room nervously, smiling at mum who would smile shyly and giggle.
“This could be it luv.” He would say. “We could sort out Pete’s student money thing and live it up in sunny Miami.”
Mum always put her tray down slowly and thought about dad’s comments. “Hmm, not Miami, dear. Too many flies.”
“Awww! Well, whaddya know.” Dad would nod proudly at mum.
“And alligators.”
“Oooh, vicious.”
“And those people off the boat, just looking for a better way.”
“Ooh, better way.”
Every, bloody Saturday for as long as I can remember, and I have tried very hard not to, remember that is. The destination would change, depending on what documentary they had watched in the week. Dad would say all the good things about a place and then mum would remind him of the plague and pestilence the Gods of the Apocalypse had visited on the place he wanted to move to.  I suppose after spending your childhood in outer Skegness, a bit of plague and pestilence is nothing, especially if it’s sunny.
My parents moved to London with some brewery back in the day when companies kept their staff. In my 25 years I’ve had more jobs than both of them put together. My parents never stopped being Northerners. Dads’ favourite expressions are “Nowt wrong with a bit o’ that.” And “Oooh.”  I do love them; just wish they wouldn’t give me a plate of lard for dinner every Saturday. Don’t have to come though do I? I wouldn’t if I had a girl. But I don’t. There’s nothing wrong with me. I think I’m normal. I’m funny (sometimes) ha ha, not funny weird. I’m ok looking.
“Looks like Brad Pitt.” Mum says.
“Oooh,” agrees dad. “A skinny Brad Pitt.”
“I think they call it size zero now, luv.” Mum smugly astounds us with her worldly knowledge and use of twenty first century phrases.
I stomp my feet as I sit balancing a tray on my lap.

“I’m not a size zero. It doesn’t apply to men anyway, I’m not even skinny.” Mum looks at my still full plate and bites her lip. Dad tries to catch her eye and avoids mine.
Vernon Kaye announces the families up for TV humiliation and I start to eat the food. From the corner of my eye I see mum smile.
“We should do that Family Fortune thing, luv.”
Mum nods and tries to talk and chew quicker. “You know a bit, don’t you dear?”
I roll my eyes. Life in slo-mo-repeato.

“We need five family members. There’s only us.”
“What about your Stan.” Dad forgets he asked mum last week.
“Canada’s a bit far. Now if Pete had a girl we could get her family to join.”
“Hee hee our Pete’s a sly one.” Vernon Kaye asks something and dad shouts at the TV then slaps his head as the TV rejection fart echoes around the room.
“He’s from up North, you know,” mum says. “Married that one on the BBC.”
“That Carol from Countdown?”
“No that’s Channel Four.” Mum snorts and wipes her nose with the edge of her skirt. “Your dad is such a joker.”
Dad tries to prove mum right. “What? He’s married? Thought he was a gay.”
Mum sits up straight and looks at me. “Don’t suppose you’d tell us if…” She looks at dad.
“What?” I yell, dropping my tray. “I’m not gay!”
“I wouldn’t mind.” Mum smiles.
“Well, I wanted to be a bloody granddad. But I suppose you and your … partner could always adopt.”
Mum picks up my tray, I follow her to the kitchen and we chat about nothing. Dad calls us back to heckle the wannabe singers. We watch the lottery. Dad promises me half a million, more if I give him three grandkids… “One of each.” I’m too scared to ask what the third will be.
I leave after ten. Mum gives me a Tupperware and an extra tight squeeze and asks if I’m alright for money. I squeeze her back and pinch her cheeks. She giggles.  I take the food home and leave a note on the fridge for Gary and Michelle. Later I hear them sneaking around the living room and giggling. I turn up the volume on another 1950’s classic horror. Saturday night.
Sunday morning I contemplate going to church.  Always loads of fit birds there. I stay in bed instead and watch World Wrestling Entertainment. Later there’s a quiet knock on my door. Michelle One pokes her head round.
“Hiya Pete.”
I nod from under the quilt.
“Erm, I’ve got another friend.”
“No thanks.
“Sorry about Michelle walking out.”
“No. I walked out.”
“Oh, ok.”
“I’ve got loads of mates.”
“Bye Michelle. Shut the door.” I pull the quilt over my head and hum until I hear the door close.
I poke my head back out. She’s sitting on the floor by the door.
“Whhaaat?” I ask.
“She’s nice. Into saving and stuff like that.”
“So she works in a bank?”
She looks at me weirdly.
“No, whales. Countryside. The ambient. Those kinda things.”
“I’ll give you three seconds then I’m gonna stand up and I go to bed commando.”
She backs out the room. I think talking to a guy she wasn’t shagging was hard work for her. Six out of ten for effort. But Nil Pois for sneakiness, I know they want me out of the flat so they can do what they want. If only Gary cleaned his room.

Monday, I leave the office early where I do some IT shit selling some shit for someone else to get shit rich. I go to a pub on the Wharf and I join up for a speed dating evening. Why? I dunno. Why not? Because.
The room is full with sad looking guys on one side and the fittest of fit birds on the other. Why are they here? To ridicule us? To show us what we could have, then snatch it away at the last minute and bring on the female desperados? No!!! Ha ha!!!!
The palaver starts. You’ve got 3 minutes to talk to this person. If you like them you write their number down and then hook up at the end. I could just write 1 to 30 now on a piece of paper and hope one of them would write 17. That’s me.
We sit facing each other and start.
Girl 1: Whaddya do?
Me: Work in IT.
Girl 1: That is so awesome.
Me: Don’t you have a computer?
Girl 1: I use one at work to make bookings, so I don’t want to use one when I get home too.
Me: What do you do?
Girl 1: Bookings. Just said.
I watch her mouth move for the remaining 2 minutes 35 seconds then cross her off my list.
Loud whistle. Shuffle shuffle move along.
Girl 2: Do you drive? I only date guys who drive. What kind of car do you have? I hate those small cars. If you need to go away for the weekend or go to the airport how can you get your stuff in the back end… erm.
Me: The boot.
Girl 2: Oh, smart too.
Whistle. Where is the whistle?
Girl 11: Hi I’m Patience.
Me: Pete. (We shake hands).
Girl 11: You look like you’ve lost the will to live.
Me: I can’t think of anything to ask and when I do I don’t want to ask it.
Girl 11: What would you ask me?
Me: Why are you here? I mean you’re gorgeous. Can’t you just meet someone normally?
Girl 11: Well no one beat you with the ugly stick, so why are you here?
Me: It’s not just looks though, is it? I mean numbers one to ten are very lovely, but they’ve managed to bore me to thoughts of suicide in 3 minutes each.
Girl 11: So?
Whistle.
Me: Shit.
Girl 11: What?
Me: The whistle went.
Girl 11: Oh. So?
I look at her, really look at her. She’s short. Black curly hair, dark eyes, sharp nose. Dark brown skin that shines under the pub lights.
Me: Let’s go.
Girl 11: I don’t think we can do that. (She stands and grabs her bag).
I take her hand and we walk out.
Once outside we look at each other. She mumbles something about me looking like Brad Pitt only skinnier and not as tanned and I tell her she looks like she could do with a meal or two.
We walk to the station and start talking about our lives.