G.S.O.H Essential

by Matt Shaw

  G.S.O.H ESSENTIAL

  For Anne

  Hopefully they’ll have Kindle up in Heaven.

  If not, I’ll bring one with me when I come and visit x x x

  * * * * *

  A Big thank you to Julie Shaw for proof-reading and editing

  An even bigger thank you to Nick Steinbuch for allowing the use of his artwork for my front cover.

  You can see more of his work at www.photogenick.nl

  or contact him at nick@photogenick.nl

  © Matt Shaw

  The right of Matt Shaw to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any format without written consent from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for insertion in a magazine, newspaper or broadcast.

  The characters, and story, in this book are purely fictitious. Any likeness to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

  INTRODUCTION

  My hair is still wet but not enough to cause it to drip down my neck; good enough for me. It’s combed back but will flop forward when it dries. Both styles suit me.

  I think the wet look goes better with my suit; black Armani. Class. Expensive. Obviously expensive.

  Sort of.

  A cheap Armani knock off purchased from a dodgy backstreet market years ago.

  Looks genuine though.

  Most people can’t tell the difference.

  A slight shave earlier - barely touched the surface of my facial hair; a nice amount of stubble I reckon. Rugged. Not too tatty. Manly. I couldn’t do a full shave; I always seem to get a rash and, even so, I don’t want to look too try-hard.

  Nothing screams desperation more than a perfect shave.

  Desperate for the job.

  Desperate for the look of approval on the First Date.

  Desperate to impress the in-laws.

  Desperate to look good in the eyes of our Lord...

  Besides, my razor is blunt.

  Mental note to self - pick up new razor blades.

  Scratch that - get new razor.

  Normally it is cheaper to get a new razor than to buy the blades and you normally get a handful of blades free with a new razor too. A bargain.

  Look after the pennies and the pounds look after themselves. I can’t remember who said that to me years ago but it stuck in my mind.

  Aftershave. Hugo Boss. Soul. My favourite. One of them at least. There’s a few scents that suit me. This is the one for tonight, though. A bit on my wrists and a bit lightly misted onto my stubble. Not too much, just a couple of squirts.

  Aftershave can give a good first impression but too much can give the opposite effect.

  Two squirts.

  Just right.

  A quick swirl around my mouth with the Listerine before I step into my polished shoes that wait for me in the bedroom.

  Good dress sense, clean hair, nice aroma and fresh breath. Clearly a guy who knows how to look after himself.

  A final check in the bedroom mirror confirms I’m ready.

  In record time too.

  Good going but I can still beat that time. I can still get ready faster.

  Regardless, I’m ready.

  Ready for my monthly food shop.

  G.S.O.H

  ESSENTIAL

  1

  BEFORE YOU CAN HAVE YOUR HAPPY EVER AFTER you need to find true love; easier said than done. I know the rules for finding this true love but I struggle to use them to my advantage.

  A lot of singles use the internet to find their perfect partner but the idea turns me off. It’s still early days but I’ve never been desperate enough to go to the hassle of filling in a profile in the vain hope that Miss Right will pick me out of all the other thousands looking for love (or just a fuck).

  Even if it did come down to it – I’d worry that the person I was meeting wasn’t who they said they were; the whole exchange of messages as we bond with each other being nothing more than a long series of lies hiding the ‘ugly’, ‘fat’ truth. The internet is nothing more than a smoke shield for paedophiles and monsters. I am not a monster. Nor do children ‘float my boat’.

  Meanwhile, other people go from nightclub to nightclub hoping to find their perfect partner. I’ve never agreed with finding love in a nightclub. Experience tells me, well – my friends tell me at least, that it’s more about finding a quick bunk up in the dirty toilets or back alleys with strangers who have consumed too much alcohol. Fun, for a while, but would you really want that person to be in your life on a daily basis?

  Not me.

  They’re impure.

  They’re ruined before they’ve started.

  For me, it’s all about the supermarkets.

  You walk around the stores and they’re crammed with ladies. More ladies than men and that is a fact. As they pass, holding onto their trolleys, you can clearly see any rings that may or may not be on their fingers too – saving you the embarrassment of discovering they are engaged or married after you’ve gone to the hassle of speaking to them.

  And don’t forget the trolleys they are pushing. A quick glance in the trolley clearly shows whether they are shopping for one or a family – helping you rule out the possibility of wasting your time again. When you do find a lady you like the look of, you just need to follow her around for a bit. It’s never long before they need help fetching something from a shelf that’s too high for their dainty little frames and, if they don’t need help with anything, you can ensure you’re standing behind them at the check-out – giving you plenty more opportunities to initiate a conversation before you part ways.

  My favourite conversation opener comes after they put the little plastic stand behind their shopping, allowing you to start loading your goods onto the conveyor belt.

  “Thank you,” I said to my potential Miss Right as she placed the stand at the end of her shopping – allowing me to load the microwave meals onto the belt.

  She smiled at me.

  Manners cost nothing – and that’s why I thanked her for separating our shopping with the stand. I had already decided further conversation would be pointless when I clocked the toddler’s outfit that hung from the back of her trolley, as she passed me in the vegetable aisle.

  First I noticed her beauty. Second I noticed her trolley was near empty. Third, with a bitter feeling of disappointment, I noticed the outfit.

  When I first noticed her beauty – I imagined what it would be like to walk down the road with her. I pictured the jealous looks from other males; I had something they could only dream about possessing.

  When I noticed the empty trolley – I imagined many nights of dining out; romantic, candle-lit meals – gradually going to the finest restaurants when I could trust she wouldn’t waste any of the food.

  And then, when I noticed the toddler’s outfit, I imagined what her head would look like on a stake.

  “It’s busy in here tonight, isn’t it?” she asked as we stood at the checkout.

  “It sure is,” I replied, not wishing to be rude.

  Yes, for me, it’s all about the supermarkets – this supermarket especially. I like this store with its friendly staff, nice layout which helps to prevent me from wasting precious time hunting for the items I am after, reasonable prices and, more importantly, an adequate “own brand”.

  Whilst looking for Miss Right, I don’t want to waste the good food. Not to begin with; not on the first few dates. Not until I know she is the one - having said that I don’t want to give her stomach gripes by dishing up some disgusting, cheap alternative.

  This supermarket’s own
brand at least tastes a little like the real branded goods they are attempting to substitute. I remember trying this alternate brand, once, that looked like cat food even before you emptied it onto the plate. My then-date didn’t finish her meal; complaining that the mere sight of it put her off. I couldn’t argue with her, as much as I hate people wasting their food. It did look disgusting. Even so, I didn’t offer her a pudding.

  You don’t get pudding until the main meal is finished.

  The goods on the conveyor belt move towards the cashier’s scanner as the lady in front of me packs the last of her own loaded bags into her trolley and walks off.

  “You must eat hundreds of these,” said the pretty cashier as she scanned through the first of the own-brand microwave meals.

  This particular store’s own brand is somewhere between “too cheap” and “too expensive” – just right. It looks good, it smells good. It’s the perfect substitute to serve up until you know they’re the one and then, when you’re confident they are, and they’re already thinking you’re Mr Perfect – you surprise them further by getting out the good food.

  The Birdseye Turkey Roast.

  Tonight is date number two.

  She hasn’t earned Captain Birdseye yet.

  Soon, I hope, although truth be told, I don’t hold out much hope.

  I found her on the internet… managed to entice her out on a date without even needing to set up a proper profile.

  2

  SEVEN FIFTY-EIGHT AND TWENTY-THREE SECONDS. I can’t go in yet; we agreed eight o’clock. I don’t want to appear too keen. According to some random dating sites I found, ideally I should knock on her door about ten minutes late.

  ‘Fashionably-late’ I think they call it.

  I wonder, at what point does ‘fashionably-late’ just become downright rude and insensitive to peoples’ schedules.

  It doesn’t matter.

  I’m not sitting in the car for another twelve minutes – it’s cold and I’m hungry. Just a couple more minutes and then I’ll go up and press the doorbell. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with just being ‘on time’. If anything, I think it’s more polite and helps to set me apart from other men – the ones who go around believing they are the alpha males.

  “Peter? Is that you?”

  I look out of the car window – she’s stood in the doorway waving at me. I wonder how long she’s been there for. I wave back and smile. Do I still wait the final minute, I wonder.

  “Are you coming in?”

  I guess not.

  She walks down from her porch, towards the car – beaming me a smile that makes me forget about the awkwardness of the first date. She’s prettier than I remember. A split second’s moment of weakness makes me question whether I purchased the right brand of meal or not. Maybe she is worth the Captain.

  I climb out of the car.

  “What were you doing?” she asked.

  I can’t think of a lie.

  “We said eight. It’s not quite eight yet.”

  She laughed.

  “Did you get the take-away?” she asked, peering into my car.

  “Take-away?”

  “The food, you said you’d bring some food.”

  “It’s in the boot,” I walk to the boot and pull two carrier bags of shopping from it.

  “Well, come on in, it’s freezing out here!”

  She leads the way to the comfort of her house.

  “What did you get?” she asked.

  I presume she is talking about the food, “Some microwave meals.”

  She laughed as she stepped into her house before turning and holding the door open for me, “Microwave meals?”

  “Microwave meals,” I repeat.

  Peter - the broken record.

  She laughed again, “Really? Microwave meals?”

  I held the bags up so she could see I was being serious. My heart skipped a beat as I realised that, maybe, she might not have a microwave. Impossible. Everyone has a microwave.

  “Oh, okay,” she says. “Microwave meals it is. To be honest, I’m glad you didn’t get us a curry, I had a terrible feeling you’d bring curries.”

  “I don’t eat curry.”

  Dirty food.

  I don’t eat the edges of any meat product. The edges, to me, are the dirty bits. I don’t eat things that I don’t perceive as being fresh, like packet sandwiches. If I am to eat a sandwich, I need to see it prepared in front of me - partly to ensure the ingredients used are fresh and edible but also to ensure there aren’t any foreign entities put in by bored workers in the sandwich shops.

  I believe curry is made, mostly, from edges that no one else eats. I believe the ingredients aren’t as fresh as they should be. I believe curry to be the dirtiest of foods.

  She took the bags from me and lead the way to the kitchen, “Where are the boxes?” she asked as she peered into the carrier.

  “I left them at home.”

  “Home? How will we know how to cook them?”

  “I think I can remember how to cook them...”

  “Why on Earth did you leave the packaging at home?”

  “I didn’t want to clog your bin up with the boxes. They’re quite bulky.”

  I also didn’t want her to see it was the cheap brand.

  She laughed again, “Has anyone ever said you’re not right in the head?”

  I smiled at her.

  “Once or twice,” I replied.

  “Well, after you,” she said as she pointed to the microwave in the corner of the room. I took the bag from her clammy hands and approached the microwave.

  “Didn’t you want to sit and have a drink first?” I asked.

  That was how the dates normally went; enter the house, sit down, have a drink and a bit of a chat, get to know each other and then continue the chat whilst eating our dinner. I often found that starting with dinner, before getting into the swing of conversation and the awkward first few minutes of getting to know each other, lead to more silences or pointless small talk.

  “Sure,” she said as she walked through to the lounge. There was no invitation to follow but I let her lead the way regardless. She sat down on the sofa in the corner of the shoddily decorated room and beckoned for me to join her by patting the empty space next to her.

  I chose the chair opposite. A slightly disappointed look falls upon her face.

  “How’s your day been?” I asked, not really interested but trying to get start some sort of conversation that will hopefully form into something more worthwhile.

  “It was okay,” she replied.

  And, just like that, my dreams of an intellectual exchange were dashed.