Authors: Jon Rance
Tuesday, January 10th, 8.00 p.m.
In the shed. Eating a scotch egg. Emily watching TV. Pain in side excruciating. Must make appointment to see Dr Prakish tomorrow.
I had one of my episodes today. I don’t know the official term but Emily calls it my ‘man-tention span’. I was reading an article in the newspaper about tri-sexuals and Emily started asking me something. I should have told her I was reading or put down the newspaper and listened, but instead I attempted to do both. Big mistake. I was trying to find out what tri-sexuals were and then the next moment Emily was standing over me.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I obviously hadn’t heard her question but I didn’t want her to know so I replied.
‘Whatever you think is best, baby.’ This was my second mistake.
‘And what did I ask you?’
I looked up from my paper but what could I say? I hadn’t heard a word she’d said and I was no nearer to finding out what tri-sexuals were. I was firmly in a lose/lose situation.
‘Sorry.’
Emily was fuming.
‘You never bloody listen to me.’
‘I do.’
‘No you don’t. You hear but you don’t listen. I’m sick of being ignored, Harry.’
‘But, Em, I love you.’ This was my third mistake.
‘If you loved me, Harry, you would listen to me.’
She, of course, had a point.
I still have to find out what tri-sexuals are and I’m in the dog house with Emily (again). A truly unsuccessful evening on every level.
Wednesday, January 11th, 4.00 p.m.
Doctor’s waiting room. In pain.
Today the pain got worse. I left school as soon as the bell rang and rushed to the doctors. The pain is searing, burning, numb and sharp. I might be dying. I hope Dr Prakish can save me.
6.00 p.m.
Back home. Dr Prakish said that I’m fine. I explained what had happened and that I had a searing, burning, numb, sharp pain in my side.
‘Give it to me straight doctor, am I dying?’
‘Mr Spencer, if you didn’t smoke, drank much less, ate a healthier diet and exercised regularly, you would be fine. As it is, you’re just very unhealthy and doing a couple of sit-ups made you feel as if death was converging on you. I would suggest a complete lifestyle change. More salad, less booze, quit smoking and walk for a half-an-hour every day.’
I think I might have to start looking for a new (more sympathetic) doctor.
Friday, January 13th, 7.00 p.m.
Today, on my way home from school, I popped into the newsagents to buy a magazine and found myself embroiled in the philosophical debate that has haunted man since the beginning of time. Intellectual stimulation or tits? Or in this case,
GQ
or
Loaded
?
I’m in my thirties now and so I should be buying
GQ
. It has better articles, great advice on fashion, health and fitness, but on the other hand,
Loaded
has a lot more tits.
If I purchased
GQ
I would enjoy it, but a part of me would feel empty, while if I bought
Loaded
, another part of me would feel neglected. So, not wanting to disappoint any facet of my psyche, I decided to get them both. What is life without intellectual gratification and what is life without tits?
I also found out what tri-sexuals are. They’re people who will literally try anything. The Urban Dictionary says:
A person or persons actively engaging in sexual intercourse with anyone or anything, be he, she or it, animate or inanimate.
Inanimate? How does that work? Hello mug, fancy a quick shag? Fruit bowl, any chance of a threesome with the television? Very odd.
Sunday, January 15th, 1.00 p.m.
In the kitchen. Waiting for Yorkshire puddings to cook. Emily watching TV. Pain in side still loitering with intent. Squirrel in the garden eating an olive (it seems we have Wimbledon’s only bourgeois squirrel).
Emily had morning sickness for the first time today. She looked bloody miserable, poor thing. It was, however, a good chance for me to show her how sensitive and caring I was. I asked from the other side of the bathroom door if she was alright and needed anything.
‘Do I fucking sound alright?’ she shouted back.
‘Love you,’ I replied supportively, but all I heard was Emily throwing up last night’s dinner. That’s the last time I push the boat out and buy free-range organic beef. It’s much too expensive to not stay down.
I went to see my octogenarian Granddad at the old folks’ home yesterday and the first thing he said when I walked in was, ‘It’s so hard not to be a racist these days, Harry.’ When I asked him what he meant he replied, ‘I was talking to this darky fella. From Africa he was. I mentioned I thought Sammy the Paki had stolen my apple. Next thing the darky fella said I shouldn’t use the word Paki because it’s derogatory. I told him Sammy was from Pakistan and a thief. Things aren’t what they used to be, Harry. It’s not like the good old days.’
Granddad is always going on about the good old days, like there was a magical period of time when people would stand on street corners and give out money. When you could buy a house for a shiny penny, a car with a cheeky smile and there was a good old knees-up at the pub every night. Sort of like Eastenders but without the drama and violence. The only problem with the good old days is that no one actually knows when it was, where it was and if it even existed.
‘How’s everything going apart from the racism and theft, Granddad?’
‘I need to have sex, Harry. I need to feel the pleasure of a woman’s touch before I die.’
‘Emily and I are having a baby.’
‘Sex, sex, sex!’ Granddad said before Sammy (the Pakistani fella) walked past eating an apple and all hell broke loose. Granddad had to be restrained by two staff members. ‘I didn’t fight in two world wars to have my apple stolen by a bloody Pakistani!’ Granddad shouted across the lounge as he was escorted away. For the record, he didn’t fight in either war.
As I was leaving the home I heard someone shout, ‘Spirit of the dam busters!’ And I’m sure it was Granddad.
Monday, January 16th, 10.00 p.m.
In bed. Eating a pork pie. Emily asleep.
I got the dreaded text from Mrs Crawley today: ‘NW meeting. 8pm. My house. Urgent!’ I’ve been expecting this since our new neighbours moved in, but when it finally appeared in my inbox my heart sank.
Mrs Crawley, despite her kindly Miss Marple demeanour and religious leanings, is something of a suburban tyrant. She takes her role as head of the neighbourhood watch committee to ridiculous lengths, which does mean we live on one of the safest streets in South London, but as Emily always says, at what cost?
The meeting lasted an hour and consisted of her talking about the new neighbours without actually mentioning the new neighbours (heaven forbid she is perceived to be a racist). She said things like:
‘Recent changes need to be noted with regard for the on-going safety of our street.’
‘It’s been brought to my attention, due to recent activity on the street, that we need to be more diligent than ever.’
‘We must, at all costs, be sure we not only watch those that appear to be, shall we say, up to no good, but those that live right under our noses.’
When Brian from number fourteen innocently asked, ‘Are you talking about the new people who moved in next to Harry?’ Mrs Crawley looked appalled.
‘Of course not, Brian, what made you think that?’ Then she made more tea and gave everyone a single digestive biscuit.
After the meeting, I felt even guiltier about mistrusting my new neighbours because of their race and appearance. I’m not a racist bigot like Mrs Crawley. I’m going to make more of an effort to get along with them.
Emily was sick again today. She was in bed and asleep by eight o’clock. Poor thing.
Tuesday, January 17th, 7.00 p.m.
At home. Eating bangers and mash. Emily nibbling on a sausage (unfortunately, not a euphemism).
Begin rant.
We had to use the ladies’ toilet at school today because of a blockage in the gents. No doubt Bill Jenkins (Maths) was to blame. That man has the bottom of the devil. Still, it was quite an eye-opening experience. The ladies’ toilet is lovely. They have pretty, pink towels, pictures of quaint English countryside scenes on the wall, they have hand lotion, hand moisturiser, the cubicle actually has toilet roll (and how soft it was) and they have a little box of potpourri next to the basin. I had no idea the female staff had it so good in the lavatory department.
Going into the gents is like visiting someone in an East European jail. Hard sandpaper towels, grey paint peeling off the walls, there’s never any soap, there’s always one half-square of toilet roll left (who uses half a square of toilet roll?) and the smell. The thought of having to pee or worse starts a spiral of thought which can take up an entire morning of teaching. Do I really have to go? Can I wait? Just bloody well clench up and keep it in.
We’re intelligent human beings. We’re responsible for educating the next generation of industry leaders, artists and sports personalities, yet we have to defecate like monkeys in the rainforest, while the ladies get their girlie bits pampered like bloody royalty. It isn’t right. Just because I’m a man, it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a bit of potpourri and hand moisturiser from time to time.
Rant over.
Wednesday, January 18th, 6.00 p.m.
In the bathroom. In shock. Emily in the bedroom laughing.
I’ve been going to Dave’s Barber Shop for the last eight years. Dave is middle-aged, a bit camp and possibly gay (although married with two kids) and does a great haircut, quickly, cheaply and with very little conversation. An average Dave appointment goes something like this.
‘Alright, Dave.’
‘The usual, is it?’
‘Yes please, Dave.’
‘Right.’
Then Dave goes about his business until it’s time to pay. I always give him a two-quid tip and then he says, ‘Thank you, thank you, bye, thank you, bye, thanks,’ about eighty times. On quiet days, I can still hear him outside on the street thanking me and bidding me farewell. It’s probably the most comfortable relationship in my life. However, today when I went to Dave’s there was no Dave and in his place was a spotty youth.
‘Where’s Dave?’
‘Holiday, innit. I’m the trainee, Troy.’
‘Troy the trainee?’
‘Yeah, izzit.’
Then Troy the trainee went on to explain what he’d like to do to my hair. He seemed keen to shave most of it off. I thought about leaving and returning when Dave was back, but something about the desperate look on Troy’s face made me sit down in the chair and let him loose with the scissors. Thirty minutes later and I was looking in horror at his handiwork.
‘Whatdoyerthink?’ said Troy with a proud look on his mottled face.
Basically, it was a fucking shambles. He had shaved parts, cut other parts and none of it seemed to match or be level, but I didn’t have the heart to ruin Troy’s grand vision.
‘Yeah, great, perfect, just what I was after.’
I gave Troy the trainee a two-quid tip and then left. Troy didn’t say thank you or bye once. I left with a feeling of emptiness and embarrassment, which wasn’t helped when I got home and Emily started laughing at me. For the record, she still is.
Wednesday, January 25th, 4.00 p.m.
Burn’s Night, Scotland
At school. Raining. In need of a cigarette.
Miss Simpson (Dictator Headmistress) called me into her office today. She was concerned I seem distracted (I am). She lectured me on being professional, taking time off ‘nilly willy’ and the importance of classroom discipline. She said she’d received a complaint from a parent. When I asked her what the complaint was she said, ‘Certain students are being allowed to literally sleep through lessons and their snoring is upsetting the other pupils.’
I lied and said to the best of my knowledge, no student had ever fallen asleep during class. She gave me a look of such vile contempt that I actually felt physically violated.
The pupils call her Miss Hitler, which is especially pleasing to me being a history teacher. She said she’d be keeping a careful eye on me. When she said this, she narrowed her eyes until I could hardly see them anymore.
8.00 p.m.
On the sofa. Eating a cheese and onion slice. Emily lying next to me. Watching the telly.
Will my future son/daughter look like me? Will they have my looks and Emily’s brains or vice versa? Will they be a ginger? Emily’s grandmother was a redhead. Maybe it’s a recessive gene. I’ll have to Google that.