Who’s The Daddy?
‘Dave, don’t look around now….but I think the man by the stairs might be my father.’
If these words had come from anybody else, it would have been an incredible, life-changing moment, one of those moments that you always remember….like you’re always going to remember the day Cliff Richard finally goes bad and knocks over a post office.
But the words have come from Dean, and – as my friends go – he’s not the most emotionally stable horse in the paddock. Dean thinks everyone is his father, and I feel for him: I really do. I grew up in a single-parent family with no dad around, and although there were odd times when I could have maybe benefited from a father-son chat, I certainly never felt in any way deprived of some great advantage.
Dean did.
The Other Ginger
I’m at Jungle Jim’s, one of my favourite soft play hangouts (I have two small children, otherwise going there for lunch would be creepy) when a woman I knew at school wanders up and starts to chat to me. She now has a sprog of her own, but she’s still cute and I immediately remember why I found her so attractive at school. So, we start talking and we get on really well: I’m a lot more con dent than I was back then, and I have no trouble turning on the charm in polite conversation.
Going Downhill
One day after my daughter found an entire crop of grey hairs in my beard, something pretty terrifying happened to me. I don’t think I’ve ever seen my wife laugh so much... but I still haven’t recovered. Here’s what went down:
It started with the beard. My daughter is exactly like my wife when it comes to pointing out things that are happening to me as a result of the ageing process. Often, she will pick at my face as I’m talking, occasionally in the middle of important conversations.
Most of the time, it’s dirt, flakes, anything she can rip out.
When the Furniture Moves: Chronophobia, Regret, and Depression
I’ve never been able to cope with the passing of time, and over the years this single fact has got me into so much trouble I can barely even describe it. When I make a decision or don’t follow my heart, or even occasionally when I feel I’ve made the RIGHT decision, I still absolutely yearn to go back and do things differently. It’s like a sort of emotional heartbreak, and without any exaggeration, I find it practically impossible to cope with. For me, chronophobia (or the fear of time) is very real.
The Running Man
Terrible things can make you laugh.
I mean it: truly horrible things, when they happen suddenly and are beyond your control, can make you burst out laughing before your conscious mind has even had time to process what’s happened and start to empathise or prepare to help.
So there I am, typing away at a computer console behind the counter at Blockbuster Video on King Street, Ramsgate, sometime during a really sunny day in 2000. I haven’t been there long, and I’m checking in videos with the scanner and occasionally typing codes if the scanner doesn’t pick them up.
I’m happy and working away quite efficiently. I can’t remember who else was on shift that morning: possibly Kaz, maybe Nige. I’m not sure.
THEN it happens… quickly, but with enough warning that I get to see the whole thing in glorious detail.
Socking It To ‘Em
It's a Wednesday morning, and I'm running the shift at Blockbuster Video: I'm one of the three assistant managers, and Wednesdays are pretty quiet, so it's just two other guys and me: one is working down at the front of the store while I'm cleaning at the back. The store in Ramsgate is pretty big, so he'd have to shout to be heard. It turns out that on this occasion he does shout, but I don't hear him, so he scares the living hell out of me when I turn around, and he's suddenly just STANDING there in a mad panic.
'Dave, you've got to come to the counter. Quickly.' 'What? Why?'
'Some woman just barrelled in...and she's REALLY pissed off .'
Granny’s Relish
It’s Saturday morning, and both my kids are at a local birthday party: I’m not going, because it’s a Two Party Saturday and I’ve pulled the late shift. I’ll be at Jungle Jim’s tonight, watching all the sweaty midgets get high on e-numbers before bedtime. It’s no big deal: I’m used to it.
What I’m not used to is making lunch at my nan’s house. My nan lives very close to the party location, so I’ve escaped to grab a quick bite to eat…
…except it’s not proving to be quick. In fact, it’s proving practically bloody impossible.
‘Nan! Have you got any cheese?’
‘What’s that?’
‘CHEESE!’
‘I’ve got MY cheese. It’s in the fridge. You don’t have any of YOUR cheese here: you live somewhere else.’
‘Can I have some of yours?’
‘I don’t want to go out shopping tomorrow!’
‘You go out shopping EVERY day.’
‘Yeah, well, cheese isn’t f**king cheap.’