British Winters

by Andrew Turner

  Chapter Three

  Living Space

  My flat is a haven, a haven that soars up amongst the clouds. It is the top flat in a five-storey building and it has no lift. This negative is, in fact, a positive as it deters the pop-in or drop-by, depending on how you like to label the action of the unannounced visit. My friends call before ascending the black metal fire escape, which is the only access to my dwelling. They call to avoid a needless climb and I don’t pick up to avoid a needless interruption.

  I’m not a hermit, though I can totally see it going that way. It’s just that I’ve got to that part of life where all my friends have settled into who they are. They never have anything new to say; every week is like a replay of the week before. Maybe that’s how it’s always been and I have just started to notice it. Either way it leaves me with the same feelings that can best be described with unnecessarily noisy intakes of breath e.g. YAWN!

  And so I fester here in my fortress of solitude: Flat D, 7 Gateswood Avenue. Away from the world, away from ungrateful tramps, disappointed sisters, angry mothers and away from the season of good will to all men. I’m sure there is a little good will for women too. Unfortunately, it’s not stated anywhere.

  I have the urge to claim that my characterisation of a ‘home’ is true for all of us, in some veiled attempt to unify us all. ‘A man’s home is his castle’ and so on, but there’s no truth in that.

  Some of you dread to come home after work; some of you find the four walls confining, you’re renting a cell and you’ve chosen your inmates. I’m not mocking you, I’m saying that to tell this tale of mine with some arrogant air of, ‘My life is this way, yours is too, right?’ would be idiotic and I will try to steer clear of it. Yes, now and then, my ways and actions may coincide with yours. Our thoughts may seem as one, but at all times this is a story of one man’s delusions of self-importance. Those delusions are mine alone. Though, in those odd moments where there are overlapping similarities between you and me, know that I embrace you in our symmetry. Even though I relish a unique thought, by definition, they are lonely ones.

  My fortress is made up of five rooms, all but one should be too obvious to list but here it is anyway. Kitchen, a rarely used utility that is painted both day glow yellow and baby blue from when the previous occupants had started to redecorate and had given up halfway through. Not too sure which colour is the original and which is the new invading army. Bathroom, equipped as expected with added benefit of a shower separate from the bath. The room also, most notably, houses the aforementioned cat intruder. Front room, lounge, living room whatever you want to call it, I got one of them. It’s not situated at the front of the building though and I wouldn’t call what I do in there living, so I’d say lounge is more apt. Bedroom, it’s got a bed in it; I sometimes sleep there. And the mystery room is… a second bedroom? Probably what it’s meant for… an office? I’m a barman, so no… a games room? Any games I do, involve the TV, a pad, and are played as I lounge in the lounge. No more guesses, as it’s not like you’re doing the guessing, it’s just me guessing what you may or may not be thinking. The room is a mausoleum to past fads, fashions, flights of fancy, frivolous fantasies and fictitious something or other starting with an f. Propped in the corner is a cheap acoustic guitar I bought at a car boot sale over ten years ago. Unused, out of tune, dust covering the unheard of brand name, my guitar doesn’t gently weep it uncontrollably sobs its little heart out, figuratively speaking. There’s an exercise bike turned clothes rack, which at certain angles looks more like a hobby horse. Behind it is a real bike; twenty-one speed, hydraulic bicycle disc brakes and flat tyres that have only felt the open road once, back in 2002. There are cameras, both still and video; canvases and paints, water-based and oil; my own personal pool cue; dart flights; bowling ball… the list goes on and on. I won’t call it endless as it does end but not where I’d like, somewhere before the room’s centre piece, my writer’s desk.

  A writer writes. I on the other hand buy the perfect office chair - old red leather, well-worn, it breathes character. My desk is not from Ikea; it has scuffs and scratches and it has been well used by its previous owner. I have a tea mug just for writing and I have a writing jacket that has corduroy elbow patches. I have an old style typewriter that sits to the left of my PC; I have a poster of George Orwell that stares down at me. My work environment is all decked out for when I write; ‘when’ being the operative word. A writer writes. I am no writer.

  “BBBBUUUZZZZ!!!!”

  The doorbell. Someone didn’t call. Someone climbed to the door of my fortress, the drop-by, the pop-in, or whatever. Can’t be - has to be a someone selling something; selling their double-glazed windows or a new electrical provider or their God. Either way, it’s something I don’t want or need or both.

  “BBBBUUUZZZZ!!!!”

  I stand silent in a dimly lit hallway, back against the wall like I’m in a TV cop’s shootout. “Go away.” I scream it in my head but it’s a whisper that slides through my teeth.

  “BBBBUUUZZZZ!!!!”

  Who rings the bell three times? What kind of hard sell is this?

  “BBBBUUUZZZZ!!!!”

  Four rings?

  “BBBBUUUZZZZ!!!! BANG, BANG, BANG!”

  Five rings, three bangs? If I open the door, I’ll end up buying what they’re selling out of trepidation.

  “Open the door, Noel, I saw you going up the stairs!”

  It’s Debbie, the girlfriend; she’s long-term and completely wrong for me. We met as most ‘young people’ do; drunk in a badly lit nightclub with bad chart music bouncing off every wall. If people want to know why most relationships fail, try questioning the venues you choose to hunt for your sexual partners. I once tried to end the relationship and she started shouting: “Are you trying to break up?” I found myself abandoning the idea and I haven’t tried since.

  “What took you so long to answer the door, babe? Who did you think it was?”

  “Salesman for God.”

  “Ha, silly, didn’t you get my message?”

  She strides into my fortress of solitude; the flat is now an enemy occupied state. Deb stands by my answering machine waiting for me to lie; the machine is empty which means I erased the message before I heard it or I got the message and did not respond.

  “I hit ‘delete’ instead of ‘play’. Sorry, what did it say?”

  “Huh, funny, when I didn’t get a hold of you I called The George. Leonard said you were just there, said he locked himself out again. I guess you got his call?” She doesn’t call Leonard Nails, it’s kind of a guy thing I guess.

  “I did, he called after I deleted the other messages.”

  “Oh well, never mind. We need to talk about tonight.”

  Debbie is part of the Borg society we now inhabit. Sorry for the Star Trek reference but it felt appropriate. One collective way of thinking, follow the leader without a leader, everyone doing what others are doing without any thoughts of why. I’m not saying it’s bad to enjoy taking part in the same things as your peers, it’s just if we all do so without any thought process it will bring about the end of life as we know it. I’m not saying I don’t watch things and read things and buy things all based on the suggestions of others. I do, but then it’s up to me as to whether I agree with them afterwards and whether or not I trust their opinion ever again.

  How to know if you are Borg: A man, let’s call him Dick, thinks pink is a girl’s colour and if he were to see another man wearing this colour Dick would feel it’s his duty to out this man as a gay. One year later Dick begins to wear pink shirts. Now if pink is still seen by the masses as an effeminate colour then this is a sign of mental growth. Dick has seen his pink bigotry and has made a conscious decision to defy it. However, if this is instead a change in fashion, then Dick is still a slave to the collective. He does not question the change in mass opinion; he just adds the needed information into his hard drive. He is Borg. He thinks that chart music is artistic and well wr
itten, he believes that the last movie he saw was the greatest film ever made; he is Borg. Side note: pink is neither male nor female, it’s just plain awful.

  “You’re orange?”

  “What? Noel, this is a natural earth tone tan.”

  “Yes, yes, it is, it’s the natural tone of a Satsuma.” You know why they call modern day vanity upgrades ‘fake’ and not ‘substitute’ as in tanning substitute or breast substitute? It’s because the word substitute implies adequate replacement, whereas fake implies not real as in a ‘fake’ wax apple. They kind of look like apples but are in no way an edible fruit. Guess what, fake tan is nothing like a real one. It may be safer but if the end result is in no way the intended one, cut your losses and remain pasty. In my opinion, the same applies for breasts. I’d rather have a real cherry than a fake melon and, may I add, you know the fruit is ripe when it’s a little softer.

  “Why are you like this? At least I try to look nice for you.”

  “I feel that’s a dig at the beard.”

  “Well, I don’t like beards.”

  “Then don’t grow one.”

  She then lets out a high pitched squeak; four dolphins in the Pacific Ocean rush to her aid then get distracted by a brightly coloured cow fish. Debbie gives me a nasty look that would have been a lot more effective if I hadn’t see it so often and storms out of the room with her hands up in the air as if she is placing an invisible box onto a shelf.

  “Noel, why is there a cat in your bathroom?” Looks like Deb’s met John.

  “Oh yeah, it’s not mine. He came in through the window.”

  “Why did you have your window open, it’s the middle of winter?”

  “Nails crashed here one night and stank out the toilet, I had no other option.”

  “Well, it’s asleep on the toilet. Could you move it?”

  “No way, that thing’s feral.”

  John is the name of the cat that now lives in my John, get it? It’s another term for… oh you get my humorous use of a name with double meanings. So why did I name a stray cat that has commandeered my washroom? The proper response would be to leave the window up and wait for him to leave. I did. He never left. I peered through the keyhole that is available in the old rustic door of my bathroom; I peered through and watched him for four hours, watching his mixed messages of happy purring and angry tail swishing. After waiting for him to leave of his own accord failed, I took a more aggressive approach. Pan lids in hand, I tried to force him out; this ended with the shedding of my blood. He didn’t get a vein but the blood flowed as though he did. We were at a stalemate so I did what I had to. I put a litter tray down and I fed him twice a day. In hindsight, I should have called the RSPCA though, at this point, they’d probably question why he has his own litter tray if he’s not my cat. I just don’t want to have that conversation.

  “So, what am I supposed to do?” Debbie cries in the deep angry voice that girls put on when they really mean business.

  “Go in the sink and be happy he lets you do that.”

  “What do you do if it’s not a number one?”

  “I go to The George.”

  Not to be too descriptive, but I have now completely synchronised any of those kinds of bodily movements to my work hours, and more than the hours, I’ve somehow synced my ablutions to the place. I so much as step one foot on The George’s well-worn emerald green carpet and I begin to percolate.

  I know that’s gross but it’s also kind of amazing to know that for the time being I have that much control over my body. I mean I’m not holding it in, my body just knows when it’s an option and right now the only time it’s an option is within the walls of The George.

  Debbie returns from her toilet visit. Did she pee in the sink? She doesn’t look pleased. I think she actually peed in the sink. Do I ask? Am I allowed to ask?

  “So, this is my Friday which means no staying in and no sitting in The George until closing and then claiming that you’re too tired to go anywhere else.”

  In Britain, as I assume in most other countries with similar loose morals, Fridays are a big drink night. This makes sense for those people who work a nine to five weekday job, but it seems sense has gone out of the window, as most of the people you will see out on a Friday night are us minimum wage six-work-days-a-week people; the sixth day being a day after the ecstatic quest to kill our livers. This is the reason that large numbers of the shop staff you come across on a Saturday look like raped corpses. I think that’s a good choice of word, as they would have spent the night poisoning themselves and even though any sex they may have had was not rape it was most likely regretful and shaming. Not that I am implying rape victims should have those feelings, it’s just that for some reason they do. Anyway, enough with the rape talk.

  “Did you pee in the sink?”

  “No!”

  “So you still need to pee?”

  “I shoved the cat off the loo, as you weren’t man enough to do it.”

  “I find that highly unlikely. That cat took its pound of flesh when I tried to move him, yet you just shove him off with no retaliation?”

  “With animals you have to show no fear and never back away.”

  This is bullshit; TV ‘How to teach your pets’ bullshit. John isn’t a pet; he’s a wild cat and a big, fat wild cat. As far as I’m concerned I’ve got a fucking ginger panther sitting on my toilet and a panther that if it gets shoved, then eats the one doing the shoving. I’m British. I was raised on David Attenborough.

  “Yeah, I don’t buy that.”

  “I don’t care, Noel. Tonight we are going to Blazers, so dress smart and remember you need to be in shoes to get in and don’t think that if you turn up in trainers you can get out of it. I will march you back here and make you change. It’s my Friday.”

  If you are under thirty the Friday night drunk-a-thon seems mandatory. I’m over it, but unfortunately Deb’s twenty-six so we do alternate weekends. On her weekends, I’m forced into a shirt and shoes. On my weekends she’s forced to watch movie marathons like the complete works of Stanley Kubrick. It’s hard to gauge which of us has the hardest time. I guess when you take into account that I make Deb watch 2001: Space Odyssey when her favourite film is How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days - though on her weekends I’m normally too drunk to distinguish the two films - you may come to the conclusion that it is her that is getting the raw deal. But hey, this is my story so let’s just call her an idiot and feel sorry for me, as I allow an idiot to talk all the way through a masterpiece, telling me that “Nothing’s happening.” It’s 2001: Space Odyssey - everything is happening!

  Sorry, that was a total rant. It’ll probably happen again but I will always apologise or at least feel a tad silly when the dust has settled.

  “I told the guys I’d meet them in The George at eight.”

  “What? Ok, that’s fine. I’ll meet up with you there but we’re not staying any longer than ten.”

  “I know.”

  She looks at her phone and then rattles off a bunch of things she needs to get done before tonight. Why is it that now everyone has got a mobile phone they act like they’re in the West Wing? “Oh God, my life’s so hectic,” like every call, every text is vital. “Oh, there it goes again. What, my friend’s niece has just fallen over and scraped her knee? I’m sorry I have to go, this needs my attention right away.” She hasn’t said this, I’m just mocking - mocking the fact that people fill up their days thinking and worrying about things that they would not even know about if everyone else in their lives didn’t have this instant access to them. I don’t need you to call me when I am walking down the street; I can wait for that information until I get home. And why do people feel the need to text me to tell me their every action? What the hell are we supposed to talk about when we do meet up? I’m not saying sorry for that rant, I’m totally justified.

  Her pocket dictator starts to flash and vibrate which is a relief as she always has the worst ring tones.

  “Shit, i
t’s Karen; it’s a hair catastrophe code red. Sorry, babe, I got to go.”

  She does one of those over exaggerated fake kisses on my cheek, again another fake thing that is nowhere close to substituting the real thing, and rushes out the flat. Well, as much as a person in high heels can rush. The fortress is mine once again. She’s been here for less than fifteen minutes and yet has put me on trial for not returning her call, aired her dislike of the beard and assaulted my stray cat. Shit, John! If she did win the right to pee where she wanted she must have killed him. No, there he is like a ginger gargoyle, throat purring and tail swishing, laying on the closed toilet lid. Scanning the room I see all the evidence I need: exhibit A - a pink woollen thread caught on one of John’s front claws, the very same shade of pink as the wool cardigan worn by one Deborah Wilks; exhibit B - a puncture mark in the stack of magazines by the sink, a puncture mark with a 1cm radius, the same radius as let’s say a stiletto heel also worn today by Miss Wilks. Oh yes, Deb pissed in the sink.