When Matthew Met Jim

They were stood together, talking at the bar. Matthew was alternating swigs from his JD and coke, bottle of white wine and champagne, listening intently while Dad spoke at length between each sip from his shandy. The bar didn't have any Gay Beers on the tab -non-alcoholic beer that is, given the un-PC name by the tee-total semi-homophobe I call 'Daddy'- so he had to make do with that instead. 
'We', being the women of the family, were watching from a safe distance, judging, guessing and waiting for it to be over so that we could coerce the men into moving side to side to the Macarena without treading on our bare and blistered party feet and, of course, to be filled in with the details of the intriguing conversation we'd been shunned from.

"Do you think Uncle Jim is lecturing him?" my cousin Tanya asked.
"I can't tell from this far away," I replied, "Dad's not frowning, so he's not angry . . . Plus is it just me, or is Matthew smiling inanely? Surely it can't be a history lesson or, you know, worse."
"Go over and investigate," Mum nudged me, already tipsy from her second champagne and unwilling to tread the dangerous territory across the room in her Jimmy Choo's, that had cut her feet to shreds, but looked 'fabulous darling!' 


I was worried about Matthew, and rightly so. Dad usually grilled each unwilling suspect that I brought home, leaving them frowning, spluttering or just rudely chillin' on the couch completely oblivious to what he was saying while he made up his mind that they were pitifully under-par as their eyes glazed over.  


I wanted to know how he was coping, so sidled over to them under the pretence of getting my sixth free drink. I'll add here that, unlike my usual light-weight self, the alcohol hadn't affected me. It couldn't be absorbed into my blood stream you see, thanks largely to the canapés, Parma ham and strawberries, assortment of fish, new potatoes with garden vegetables and the near tastiest chocolate pudding and ice cream I've EVER tasted, lining my stomach and bursting the seams of my dress while I smiled contently. 

I approached them with tentative steps and attempted to eavesdrop but they stopped talking before I was close enough to hear. 

"You boys alright?" I asked, more to Matthew than Dad. I was hoping our telepathic connection would kick in and Matthew would blink once for 'he's boring me to death, get me to the dance-floor quick-sharp', but he just did the smile again.

"Yeah, we're fine." Then they both smiled. It was creepy. "Go have fun, dance."

They were definitely trying to get rid of me. . . 

Ten minutes later he found me, just in time for the Grease Mega-Mix and a lovely rendition of some of the words in some of the right places. He was pretty smashed by now. 

"So, what were you talking to my Dad about?" 

"Oh, you know, secret stuff."

"Matthew, tell me! Could he tell you were drunk?"

"No, not at all preeeetty. It was just men stuff," 

"Ok, if you say so," 

And I left it at that.

Two days later I was in the car with my parents as they brought me back to Derby and we began talking about the party.

"So what were you talking to Matthew about then?"

"Oh, just funny stuff. He's a nice lad."

"But what was it about?"

"Mostly 'coitus-interruptus' and horses."

"What?"

"Well, Matthew was pretty gone, bless him. We were talking about drinking in our teens - I told him about the time I came back to the flat and the kitchen was filled with chickens and a leg of lamb on the table because they'd done over the butcher's - and yeah, he told me some things too."

"About sex though? He told you about sex?" I said it quietly, hoping it wasn't true.   

"I think it was from the farmyard tangent, yeah. He said something about a horse looking at them in a field?"

Matthew's side of the story was a bit different.

"We hadn't been having sex!"

"But he said coitus interruptus,"

"Yeah! I know! I didn't know what that meant."

"Oh, right. It's Latin, see."

So maybe it was a bit of a misunderstanding, but they were still in a dangerous, weird territory if you ask me. They should have been talking about careers, or music, or me even, in an affectionate, complementary, 'God, isn't she ace' kind of way. Anything but that sort of men stuff. It's like they were both nineteen, and one wasn't my father.   

It's fine though, I've got a Plan Of Action. I'll never leave them alone together again. Not without an approved list of topics anyway.  

   


[And then this happened the next morning, which was thankfully not a sickening coincidence - Room Service]

If You Say 'Please'!

A young man walks towards us and throws his polyester sports jacket onto the floor next to the cash point. He sits down and swigs from his bottle of Fosters.

Man: 'Ere love, got any spare change?
[All three of us turning away simultaneously while we use the machine] . . .
Man: You there, you three girls!
[Looking at the floor]
Man: Scuse me! Can I have some change darlin'? You THERE! In the black JACKET! OI! I'm talking to you three, you wankers!

Option 1: Toss him some coppers and avoid catching his eye.
Option 2: Be polite and say we don't have any change . . .
Option 3: Tell him where to go... [namely back to his nice flat on Uttoxeter Road if he forgot his wallet and next time pretend to be homeless with a little more finesse. Then start running before he tries to bottle us].

We choose Option 4 in the end:

Continue to ignore his slurs of abuse aimed at the backs of our heads for five minutes while we each get a crisp ten pound note out, resisting the urge to waft it in his face and engage in a bitch fight with the faux-homeless that would probably have ended in a similar way to Option 3.

This happens quite a lot in Derby. It's a lovely place.

An Indecent Response

Wandering through town . . .

J: Fancy a quickie when we get back?

In a black and white 1940's romance/an ideal world:

M: Of course I do sweetie, you don't need to ask!

[Sweeps me into a full blown kiss in the middle of Saddlergate that makes even the passers-by go weak at the knees]

What He Actually Replied:

M: No, I can't. I'm going to clean my bathroom.

Well, at least his mum will be pleased . . .

As Young As . . . Take 2

[Wearing a flowery summer dress and a smile. Approaches the bar, leans on the rail to get a bit of height]

Jess: Hi, can I get a chicken burger and a lemonade please?
Girl: Have you got any ID?

Scenario 1] The Way it Could Have Gone:

Jess: Are you being serious? This is a fucking joke right? I'm 20 years old!
Girl: If you can't provide any identification I'll have to ask you to leave,
Jess: For a LEMONADE??

Scenario 2] The Way it Should Have Gone:

Jess: I don't need to show you any ID; I'm not attempting to purchase an alcoholic drink and even if I was and you thought I was sixteen it would be perfectly legal for me to do so as I'm with three 'adults'. If you thought I was fifteen then I would be well within my rights to purchase this meal as I'm actually seated in the designated children's area, with, again, the two adults from my UNIVERSITY FLAT. Oh yeah, and I only want a lemonade!

Girl: Fair point. I really am just a stupid power-tripping blonde bitch aren't I?
Jess: Yeah, just a tad.

Scenario 3] The Way It Went:

Jess: [handing provisional licence over the bar, muttering under breath...] Gaaaaaay!
Girl: [narrowing eyes] Here's your change.

So, on a brighter note, in the past few months I've gone from looking fourteen to fifteen. Soon I'll nearly be legal at this rate.

Two Brunettes and a Mixing Bowl

We were bored, so the logical thing to do was to bake something. The only problem was we didn't have any scales, so used mugs instead. Or a recipe actually, but we never stick to them anyway... We didn't have  eggs either, but we soon realised that mixing some flour, caster sugar and flora light together in a bowl nearly closely resembles the mixture for shortbread. Izzy put the flour in the bowl, then I began beating the marg'.
"It says not suitable for baking," I notice on the side of the tub, "do you think it will be OK?"
"Yeah, it'll be fine. And it's healthier than butter anyway...right?"
She stirs. I toss in a cup full of sugar.
"Oh, we were meant to mix the butter and sugar together first I think, I wonder if it'll make a difference?"
"Probs not, it'll taste fine."
"Well shall we try separate the flour and the sugar?"
"Erm, I don't think we can really. They're both grainy, aren't they?"
"Yeah, spose."
The mixture turns to a pale dough and Izzy adds a bit more caster sugar, as though somehow that will make it brown and tasty looking. Or tastier, for that matter...
We throw the baking tray into the oven and keep checking every fifteen minutes, leaving it in there for longer than the required thirty, an hour to be exact. It's still white. I pull the tray out and cut a square off, placing it into my mouth. I burst out laughing and Izzy asks what's so funny.
"It tastes like Roti! How funny! Indian things you know, like chapatis? My Grandma used to make them. All we need now is a bit of jam and I almost feel Indian,"
"Jess, you are Indian."
"Yeah, but not really. Accidental shortbread roti's are the closest I'm gunna get..."
"So more sugar then next time?"
"Yeah."
"Oh. They do taste a bit weird. I'm not sure if I like it."

The tray was empty by the next morning, Izzy tried to eat one and it nearly broke her tooth. I never did try them with jam. I might try to make them again sometime. 'Accidental shortbread roti's' I mean, not the biscuits.

So, Four Years Ago I Passed This Test . . .

"I had a customer last week to the job centre Jessie, an African man,"
"I thought you said he was Brazillian?"
"No Jim, African, so he used to trade in diamonds and anyway, he was turning away from me in his seat! So I asked him why, and he said it's just huge, too beautiful!" She wiggles her finger, it catches the light.
"Ha, and it was probably from China or something, built upon the slave trade, like in that BBC show," I scoff
"No, I got it certified actually! from America," dad pipes up,
"Yeah, but I bet it was a lie . . . my friend Laura said that if a man proposed to her with a diamond ring she would refuse it out of principle, because he doesn't know her well enough to know she doesn't agree with them,"
"Yes, but nearly everything is built upon slavery," mum begins
"Well, she's a Veggie as well,"
"And does she wear leather shoes?"
"Dunno . . ."
"What about plastics, hmmm?"
"What's plastic got to do with anything?"
"Come on Jessie, what's plastic made from?"
[Split Second Pause, not long enough for a sufficient thought process . . .]
"Horses?"
[laughter]
"No! I mean, glue!"
"You think plastic is made from glue?"
"No! Horses are made from glue! I mean, wait. . . there was logic somewhere OK?"
"And what's plastic made from then . . .?"
[a longer pause, a 'clever' pause]
"POLYMERS! Ha!"
"And where do polymers come from?"
 "Erm, soil?"

I forget the rest of the conversation, in which the father explained where plastics come from.
But I think I can safely say OH dear. It really has been too long since GCSE science.

The Politics of Paranoia

As I climbed into the front of the car and threw my coat into the back I saw something in the foot-well behind the driver’s seat. A handwritten envelope:
‘Matthew Singleton, Sir Peter Hilton Court, Derby.’
There was an A5 letter scrawled underneath it.

Damn it. I didn’t have my bloody glasses on; I'd never be able to see who it was from. I’d have to ask . . .
“Who are you getting handwritten letters from then?” I pulled my seatbelt across my chest, avoiding his eyes, but my voice was accusatory. He knew me too well. I looked over as his face began to contort.
“What do you mean? I don’t know,”
WHAT?!! He was lying!? I couldn’t believe it. Who the hell was writing him love letters??
And then it happened, the brain kicked in. It was The Ex, Love Of His Life, crawling back into his heart with a well penned verse. I already knew he had a thing for writers, and you have to hand it to the girl, it’s a clever way to pull at his 'heartstrings', reminiscing to the good old days.
He sat in the driver’s and started the ignition.
“You don’t know who you have a handwritten letter from? How many do you get, that you don’t know who it’s from?”
“Look at it if you want!” he spluttered.

Ha. I couldn’t think of anything worse. I began to concoct her lines, asking him to go back to her, being you know, 'poetic', perhaps compiling a dirty limerick. I turned away in my seat. He tried to reach for my hand and I pulled away.
“Jess! What?”
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t believe that you don’t know who it’s from.”

I felt as though it was staring at me. I didn’t want to look back. We sat in silence for ten minutes while he drove. I felt bad actually, that he was trying to concentrate on the windy country road and I wanted a full blown argument. I wondered if I could subtly see it out of the corner of my eye. IT. My nemesis on paper. I peered over in a way that made my eye balls bulge, still facing the road ahead. I strained so much so that the top corner of the letter, where the address lay, just came into focus.
‘Littleover? Who on earth does he know who lives in Littleover??’
Then it hit me. I knew who was writing to him from Littleover. They’d written to me as well. And my flatmates. Everyone in the fricking building no doubt.

I reached over and picked it up, laughing as I saw the date mark:
‘May 2010’ and the words underneath . . .
‘Dear Matthew, this upcoming election…’
It wasn’t even handwritten, but printed in that style in order to confuse unwitting students into believing Mummy dearest had sent them a cheque in the post for more baked beans and alcohol.
“It’s the Lib-Dems! The bloody Lib-Dems, making me crazy.”
“Jess! I can’t believe you’ve given me the silent treatment over that!”
“Well, it looked bad!”
“Who did you think it was from?”
“I don’t know. You know, people.”
I had to tell him eventually, of course I did; I couldn’t really talk my way out of it. Paranoia, neuroticism . . . I can only keep it under wraps for so long.
“You owe me an apology.”
“But I didn’t think you’d done anything wrong…One day we’ll laugh about this you know,”

I just didn't know it would be so soon. We pulled up to my house and could see my dad getting out of his car. He met us on the path and Matthew immediately retold the story. Then they had a laugh at how foolish and crazy I had been. In fact, I think they even both said ‘Women!’ in that way that men do, just to sum everything up in two syllables. Ha . . . ha, so I’m crazy. It still hurts just thinking about it. I either need to be committed or NOT SAY ANYTHING EVER.

Room Service

We had only arrived home four hours ago and I was still knackered. It had been such a good party but I was too tired. I’m not a ‘night-bird’, in case you didn’t already know. The alarm hadn’t gone off yet but I could feel him watching me. I opened an eye and there he was, inches from my face. I looked over at the clock and groaned as I saw that he had another hour before he had to leave for work.

I heard the telltale splash from the toilet upstairs, as its contents ricocheted down the pipes above my head. We weren’t the only ones awake then. It wouldn’t be long before dad came down and began loading the dishwasher, cleaning the kitchen in the next room. I stretched and rolled around the bed. Matthew was still watching me, laughing at the noises I was making.

“Bugger off,” I said with my eyes closed. “Let me sleep!”
He kissed me on the forehead and settled beside me.
Dad came down the stairs and the familiar banging began.
“It’s cold,” I mumbled, pulling the duvet across us.

Then there was a faint knock on the door, the creak of the hinge as it swung open. No pause to wait for a ‘bugger off!’ or similar response. I huddled into his side, mentally picturing myself from the doorway, hoping I was concealed. Matthew twitched obviously, his hand moving downwards.
“Cup of tea, coffee?”
“No dad!”
“Bacon sandwich, breakfast, Matthew?”
“No, I’m OK thanks.”
“OK, if you say so.”
The door finally closed. We both exhaled and I whispered,
“Did it look like we were wearing pyjamas at all, do you think?”
“No, probably not.”
"Ah."

An Introduction

I live in picture perfect English suburbia, on a nice estate with large detached houses. There are asphalt driveways instead of picket fences, but every generation has a trend, right? The nieghbours make small talk and children play in the street without their parents fearing they’ll be run down or kidnapped. Peado’s just don’t seem to exist in Tranmere.

But then you get to my house and it’s a bit, well, unsightly. I often get the feeling that there will be a neighbourhood coup to run us from town for being the blight on their Middle-class protentious bliss. I can see why though: overgrown garden, disused race-car on the lawn, exposed brickwork, and that’s just the outside. As soon as you walk through the front door you see more plaster, a garish '80’s green and brown carpet and rooms that have always, in my twenty years of life, been in the process of being redecorated.

I never used to care about where I lived, but then I went to University with a large collective of rich Londoners, dated a public schoolboy and became a tad self conscious. I know that anyone worth befriending shouldn’t judge me by the house I live in, but you try telling yourself that when the ceiling has caved in and you have a conversation with your mortified best friend with the background noise of your dad on the toilet directly above, I shit you not.

My boyfriend Matthew lives in a large, three storey new build on an estate set back by a forest in the country. When I first went there it was quiet, relaxed and cream enough to make me worry that I might have had the smallest spec of dirt on my shoes and instinctively left my leopard-print pumps by the door. It’s quite unusual for anyone to do that back at the building site. You’d be more likely to trail plaster dust behind you as it clung to your clean white socks than deposit any dirt yourself. So you can see that the two environments are rather different. The people are, too.

I met Matthew’s parents a week after he’d broken up with his ex-girlfriend and was greeted with what I believed was a confused look from his father and rightly so, considering that I was a short mixed race brunette and not a skinny, back-combed blonde with a nose stud. But despite the hasty, perhaps inappropriate beginning to our relationship, they politely welcomed me and I began to see the intricacies of the family over a wonderfully cooked dinner. Flip to Maison Macdonald and you’ll be lucky if there isn’t fifty swear words, two arguments and three complaints that dinner is crap in the first five minutes.

I honestly believe I have the most amazing, semi-dysfunctional family that anyone could wish for and usually my friends feel the same way about them. My brother has a summer house in the garden, home to X-box gaming marathons and other illicit activities, the acceptance of which has pushed my parents up to legendary status among his 24 year old friends. They are relaxed to the point of hosting house parties, always providing the witty banter, chilli, nacho’s and beer bong.

My mum is 4 ft 11 with size 2 feet. She changes between children’s trainers and army pyjamas to go to the supermarket, and prostitute heels made, (for some strange reason),for minors, with co-ordinated shift dresses for work. She is my best friend and confidant and is the same to anyone who comes through the door. Dad is the most knowledgeable person I know, closely followed by the know-it-all brother with a memory of the great lawyer he is destined to be. Both are well adept at the Spanish Inquisition, even if they don’t always employ it.

So when it was time for Matthew to ‘meet the family’ I was nervous to say the least. Especially because my track record isn't exactly glowing and they presume everyone I bring home will be an immature tosser with poor conversational skills and more worryingly, teenage hormones. Did I mention that Matthew is nineteen? But I could never have been prepared for what happened when they got together . . .