Creaking down the stairs I can hear a low murmur of conversation being pierced at irregular intervals by the cold, harsh clinking of cutlery against china. This is always the moment I think about turning back and eating something on the road in my car, for fear of the moment when I walk through the door and a room full of faces stare up at me as I enter. I know they are just guests here as I am, yet they manage to make me feel as though I am interrupting a special family meal. Will I have to wait to be seated or do I simply grab a table? I am somewhat particular about where I sit to eat; ideally I would like to be tucked in a corner somewhere looking out at the room. This is either cowardice or else I had secret ninja training when I was a child that I have since forgotten about.
As I enter, I make eye contact with nobody. To my left there is a table with cereals and juice and a door leading to the kitchen, from which emanates a warm egg-scented air, with a sizzle of bacon and the faint sound of an old radio playing new music. Nobody comes through to seat me so I pick a seat at a table made for one (presumably for me, though in my paranoia I imagine she only cleared the second place setting once others had already been seated. ‘He booked for two, but he’s on his own … I know, the cheek of it!’).
At once I am struck by the gaping chasm between my life and the film version of it playing in my head. In the film version I am sitting in a small, boutique-style coffee house which serves breakfast but does it in an ironic way.
Can you believe it? Beans! From a tin! If it were any more random it would be uniform. Right?
In the film I would slowly fall in love with the French waitress who brings me my coffee but who always seems to have a tear forming in her eye because she longs to make a career from the paintings she works on in the evenings. But this is not a film. Here, in the unedited, straight to DVD version that is my life, my order is being taken by a sour-faced, thrice-divorced mother of four who wishes I were anywhere in the world but here. She takes the order and heads back into the kitchen, leaving behind a silver rod with a stand at one end and a brown-sauce-stained piece of card with the number six clipped on to the other.
With the acceptance of the truth of my situation comes a far more painful, real memory of a chance I had to avoid the eight years of solitude that have just drained by. The girl who didn’t join in with the chattering in the hotel I worked at, serving breakfasts when I was twenty-one – Rita – a small and heartbreakingly beautiful Spanish girl who tended to the dishwasher and made round after round of toast.
She, like me, worked silently in the corner and there were moments I can remember as clearly as if they happened yesterday in which we would exchange a knowing smile across the room as one of the older ladies shrieked her dismay at how greedily the sausages were being snaffled up from her buffet. Rita is typical of many girls who got away, the ones I call the ‘near mrs’, but in truth the near miss was theirs, not mine.
Eight years on I still wonder if I saw someone I liked in here now, whether or not I would have the courage to do anything about it. Back then there seemed to be a world of opportunity before me, so I suppose it didn’t seem as important as it does now to engage with everyone I like. Now I realise how rarely those situations arise, but that only means the pressure and implied importance of each one would get the better of me.
But I’m forgetting Gemma. My chance has come around at last, like thinking that you have missed your bus only to find that it was running late. Not that I’m comparing Gemma to a bus, and certainly not the back of one. Although maybe the bus will turn out to be full, or as it gets closer I will see that the sign above the driver reads ‘Sorry – Not In Service’. I can’t fall into the trap of thinking that Gemma is the answer to my problems because I know that just because you wait eight years to like someone does not mean that they will necessarily feel the same way when you do. Besides which, having been single for eight years I can tell you that girls simply find such a long period on the sidelines a little weird. A couple of years lying fallow after the breakdown of a relationship implies that you committed properly to the last one and needed some time to regain yourself after its end, but eight years suggests some time spent at Her Majesty’s pleasure after a horrific incident which ended the last one.
I can’t ever believe that the girls I like could be attracted to me and, even if I could, and if they had been, all I see is an inevitable descent from a perfect beginning into the hatred and disappointment with which all relationships must surely end. I don’t know if this is right, but sitting down at my table I am trying to stop the dark thoughts and focus back on the here and now. Have I just cheated on Gemma already by thinking back to how things might have been with Rita? If it is true that there is ‘the one’ for all of us, could it be that I missed mine?
From my seat, I look down upon four items on the table: the silver pole with a card held in place at the top displaying my table number (six), a fake purple flower in a small blue vase and salt and pepper shakers. I am finding it almost impossible to position these items satisfactorily on the round table on which I now find myself. They have to go somewhere in the middle, obviously, or things will be all lopsided, but where? If I can’t look at the table without being distracted then I am never going to be able to get through breakfast comfortably.
I can put the salt and pepper either side of the flower in the centre of the table, but then I don’t know what to do with the silver spike. I could just put it on the floor, but I would know it was there, laughing at me while I was eating my food. That would be no worse a sign of defeat than painting over the sides of a Rubik’s Cube. Out of sight, out of mind is something lazy people say to pardon themselves from having to tidy up. If it genuinely worked as a philosophy then adults would continue to close their eyes, put their fingers in their ears and sing ‘la la la!’ at the top of their voices whenever they felt intimidated.
Things have to be faced up to eventually and so this situation will have to be resolved and the number will have to go somewhere. If I remove it from its base it will lie flat and I can deal with the base later. The problem then is the writing – which way should it face? And will it still be visible when my breakfast is ready?
The longer this puzzle goes unsolved, the more the noise coming from the other tables is starting to annoy me. As hard as I try to concentrate on the important matter in hand, fragments of the tedious conversations of strangers bounce off the walls and the ceiling and ricochet into my brain, invading my headspace. I can hear two old ladies who seem to be discussing the recent death of a third. I do pity them that they are already having to talk of such things at breakfast, but somehow I don’t get the impression they are upset as they seem keen to portray.
‘It’s Peter I feel sorry for – they were inseparable.’ Then there are groans of agreement. Their grief doesn’t seem genuine. It strikes me that the commiserations and the ‘woe-is-me’s are really there simply so that they don’t feel guilty about being glad just to have something to talk about. How long will this enforced period of politeness about the recently deceased hold strong before they can both be honest about what they always thought about Old Lottie? It is so much easier to grieve for the dead than to care for the living. At least in death we are all perfect.
‘When did it get like this, eh? We used to go to parties and weddings, now it seems it’s just funerals.’
Perhaps I am being too harsh. This soulless breakfast room in the middle of somewhere is no place for two women to be facing up to their own mortality and the realisation that things only will get worse for them as they grow ever older. I know this time of life will come to me and if I am not careful I will have wasted my youth on mornings like these. I will make a conscious effort to kick a ball across a field the next time I get a chance, or something equally spritely.
I can also hear three businessmen, much younger and more confident voices than those of the old ladies. I can hear them mainly because they want me to hear them; me and everyone else in the area. I doubt there is anyone in a twen
ty-mile radius who really gives a shit about the consequences for DIM Logistics of the new figures from Japan and yet we are being subjected to them anyway. The volume of their conversation is designed to show their importance, but they are kidding themselves if they think any significant business deal has ever been brokered over beans and runny eggs in a bed and breakfast hotel. I think that even the men discussing the figures know deep down that they are of no importance whatsoever, but they are also aware that if they acknowledged that to themselves they would have no reason to get out of bed in the morning. We all have to constantly repress the idea that there is no point to our lives and these men are no different, just a lot louder and with a lot more gel in their hair.
I am definitely getting distracted. Concentrate, Jon! If I stood the order number up, facing me, I could line up the other items in front of it with the flower in the middle. This is undoubtedly the best option, but still not perfect as, although the view from my seat is fine, the view from above would reveal the table to be unsymmetrical.
My skin starts to tingle with the frustration of it all and so I take a deep breath and move up to a higher level of concentration to prevent myself from screaming and kicking the table over. There is a simple solution if I could just be allowed to concentrate for a moment. I remind myself that this is important. If I can’t even get something simple like this right, then how can I possibly begin to deal with everything else the world will throw at me today?
Another elderly couple are having an impassioned debate in what sounds to me like Turkish. I think it must be about something very important, but that’s probably just the effect of the foreign accents. They seem to care so much, flailing arms and furrowed brows on both sides. At one point the man reaches over and encloses the woman’s hands inside his; a powerful passive-aggressive gesture. I imagine it makes her feel claustrophobic and unable to escape but seems to show such love and affection. Without thinking I extend all the fingers and thumbs on my hands, just to prove to myself that I can.
There is a Freudian theory that men are inherently attracted to waitresses and barmaids because they serve hot foods and beverages like your mummy used to when you were a child. If this is the case, then my breakfast order is delivered by a mummy who clearly thinks I am a total prick. She slams down a plate of food and takes the number away without saying a word.
Not to worry, the removal of the number has won her affections quite enough for me. Lined up across the centre of the table in a neat line are now salt, flower and pepper. Perfect! Back on track.
Eating out can be a source of incredible stress for the more fastidious amongst us. I have been so upset by things like grammatical inconsistency in the past that I have chosen to eat elsewhere. I can tell you that most other people don’t see the errant use of apostrophes as a valid reason not to eat somewhere. It’s not that the mistake itself is that important – I’m not a fool enough to believe that someone’s ability to spell is connected to their ability to cook – but it shows an unwillingness to ask for help.
A conversation flashes in my mind. It took place towards the end of my last relationship, over a particularly gruelling cooked breakfast designed to clear the air after another Saturday-night drunken argument. In an attempt to lighten the mood on entry I commented, ‘Look! They’ve put an apostrophe on the beans’, pointing to the board behind the counter. ‘Bean is on toast … stingy portions!’
‘Well, we’ve got to eat fucking somewhere!’ came the reply.
Another comic misfire, that joke detonating somewhere over the road in Boots. It wasn’t meant as a criticism really, just a manifestation of the fact that I cared for her so much that it was no effort at all to try and make sure that everything around us was perfect. My hunting around for ideal restaurants, my careful seat locating at the cinema, my planning our evenings so far in advance; everything had a purpose, everything was designed to make our time together more pleasant by reducing the risk of unwelcome neighbours, bad food, rushed service and the myriad other things which, although they might not make or break an evening, could serve to take the gloss off the memory.
Life has quite enough unpleasantness in store for all of us without taking risks with that which could easily be controlled. Perhaps I missed the point, which was that we should simply have been glad to be together whatever our surroundings, and that actually the more challenging the situation, the greater the test of our relationship’s ability to withstand heavy weather.
I believe there are two types of people in this world: ‘Putters’ and ‘Leavers’. You can find out which one you are by how you respond to a question such as, ‘Where are your keys?’ If you pat your left front trouser pocket, realise they are not there and then point to a hanger, bowl or table and say the words, ‘They’re there, where I put them’, then you are a putter.
Congratulations! Putters are people who think about all their actions and are annoyed by losing things, which they consider to be a failure on their part and not simply something that happens from time to time.
If, on the other hand, you respond by raising your eyebrows, shrugging your shoulders and crying, ‘I don’t know! Wherever I left them!’, then you are a leaver.
Oh dear.
Leavers flit through their lives dropping and losing items they profess to care about because chasing down something shiny or going to stroke a dog was more important to them than looking after their keys. As much as I hate these people, I cannot help but enjoy their affection for life and confess to being attracted, in the main, to people who live differently to me.
It is the case in most relationships that one partner will be classified as a putter, with the other being a leaver. This is simply because a partnership of two putters will result in the murder of one by the other over an argument about which direction the tins in the cupboard should face. A coalition of leavers will result in both parties dying of dysentery. And so the rules dictate that a leaver will ensnare a putter, who will chase them around from one furious passion to another, picking up things that were knocked over and shutting doors and locking them behind.
My last girlfriend and I fell firmly into this category, she wanting me to help her be less impulsive and I wanted her to help me enjoy my life more and worry less. Sadly, opposites, while they may attract, cannot be maintained and we grew to hate each other.
Looking back now, years later, I can’t believe she ever let me touch her to begin with. When I think about it now – the thought of my bony, white body pressed up against hers, and of her having to tolerate my wet breath against her neck – it’s a wonder to me that she was never sick into my face. In truth I have never had a relationship that lasted any more than two years before all excitement faded away completely and all that was left was routine.
Could it be different this time? She might be fed up with me after two weeks, let alone two years, and whatever peace of mind I have built up for myself over the last eight years would be shattered. She might of course turn out to be even more of a putter than me, and cling to our relationship with such tenacity and ferocity that I will become a Born Again Leaver.
Loving someone is very different to staying with them because at least you don’t hate them. By the end of two years you probably know most of what there is to know about who you are with, certainly all of what they want you to know about them, so that all you can do is grow more annoyed by the things that bother you. What started as an amusing slurping sound your partner makes when they drink from a bottle, a quirk of their personality that makes them the person you love, will eventually be nothing more than a disgusting, gutteral punch to your solar plexus every time you see them even reach for a drink.
Watching her grow less happy around me was devastating. At first, she just got bored of what I was and questions I asked became rhetorical, but slowly that indifference turned to frustration and hate. You can’t see when someone is happy – there isn’t an outward sign with humans like there is with sexual arousal or a dog’s wagging tail.
/> However hard it may be to spot, you can certainly see when it has gone missing though. Some argue that perfection occurs at the point when there is nothing left to take away, and perhaps it is true that happiness occurs simply as a result of a lack of unhappiness.
In my case, I always seem to be able to find something else to complain about, some other small imperfection to fuss over. My fastidious attention to detail, which can be amusing in the beginning, eventually becomes grating and sooner or later creates an atmosphere where my intolerance of failure is so claustrophobic that no single event can bring any joy.
Cooked breakfasts are a perfect case in point.
When we first got together my girlfriend (along with my friends) took great pleasure in watching the way I would eat, eyes transfixed and grins wide. My goal when eating any meal is at first to identify the nicest parts of that meal, and push them aside to eat at the end. Many people will grab instantly for their knife and fork and begin shovelling inconsistent mouthfuls of food into their greedy faces, but that serves only to deny themselves the pleasure of the logistical phase!
Ordering my mouthfuls gives me a process, an incentive to get through the meal, a reward for finishing, and ensures that my final memory, in this case of breakfast, is of triumphantly lifting a forkful of perfection into my mouth before folding my napkin neatly underneath my fork and knife which are placed together in the centre of a cleaned plate.
This can be done with most meals, except for those which offer no variation – the boring foods – porridge, soup, cereal and so on. Bowls full of indeterminate slop to be ingested until full. Where a plate has different elements, job number one is to identify ‘the headliner’.
The headliner is the best part of the show, the main attraction, and as such must take their place at the top of the bill. I would no sooner begin eating a chicken jalfrezi by eating all the pieces of chicken than I would programme a festival with ‘Derek Mickleton and his Mystical Mouth Organ’ headlining over the Gipsy Kings. Don’t like the Gipsy Kings? Fine, screw you! Don’t come to my festival.
It's Not Me, It's You Page 9
