Logging Off

by Spalding, Nick

‘We’ll have to pull her out.’ Ham not of Bog thinks for a second. ‘I know, I’ll get Cob to come up here with his tow truck. He’s got one down at the station in Bog.’

  ‘Cob of Bog has a truck?’

  ‘Yep. We’ll have you out of there in a jiffy, my friend.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Ham.’

  ‘Ham’s my first name, young fella. Surname’s Giles.’

  Farmer Giles.

  Of course, of course.

  ‘How will you get hold of Cob of Bog?’ I ask. ‘We’re miles from any phones.’

  Ham Giles now looks at me like I’ve just stepped off the boat. ‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’ He reaches into his trouser pocket and pulls out an iPhone. ‘I’ll just text him.’

  By the time the sun has gone down, Cob of Bog has arrived and has pulled my poor car out of the duck pond. While he did this, I borrowed Ham’s phone and called McGifferty’s Pies to apologise for my non-attendance. Paul McGifferty was quite understanding – and agreed to speak via Skype tomorrow afternoon. He seemed to take great pity on me when I explained what had happened. I guess if someone tells you they couldn’t get to their appointment with you because they drove into a duck pond, you kind of have to give them the benefit of the doubt.

  Ham asked me why I had no phone of my own, so I had to explain the digital detox to him.

  He nodded when I’d finished my story. ‘Yep. I know what you mean. I spent way too much of my time playing that there Crossy Road on the toilet. Gave me piles, it did.’

  ‘Sounds painful.’

  ‘Yep. Sure was. Cob over there still has one of those old Nokia phones. Does nothing except make phone calls and send texts. He’s never had piles, as far as I’m aware.’ Ham nods sagely and gives me a meaningful look. ‘I’d say what you’re doing is a bloody good thing there, Andy. Your arse will thank you for it.’

  Quite possibly, but my car insurance premium won’t.

  And neither will my prospects of holding down a job.

  Today has been an unmitigated disaster, all thanks to my attempts to live a tech-free life.

  I don’t get back in my front door until after midnight.

  The journey with the AA guy was interminable, as he drove very slowly (for an AA guy, anyway) and liked to listen to late-night Radio 4. By the time we arrived in my street, I’d endured a documentary about tectonic plate movement, a study of Russian art from the nineteenth century, and the recollections of a pumpkin farmer. This last one – you’ll be amazed to discover – mainly involved recollecting pumpkins.

  I end the day with a large glass of wine. I never normally drink this late, but I’ve earned it, I think. No one should have to get through an entire day where they miss a job interview, ruin their car and have a run-in with a self-aware duck, without some kind of alcohol to cushion the blow.

  As I sit here on my couch, letting the tension of the day slowly seep out of me as the wine seeps in, I try very hard to justify continuing the detox, given the detrimental effect it’s had on my work today.

  If I don’t have a job, I’m likely to be a hell of a lot more stressed and have a lot more sleepless nights than have been caused by my reliance on technology.

  I know I made a promise to myself (and Fergus, in a roundabout way) to see this detox through, but for all the good it’s doing me physically, the cost might just be too damn high.

  As I get to the bottom of the glass, I resolve to keep the detox going for the time being – but it had better not lead me into any more sticky situations!

  Mind you, what could be worse than a day spent going insane in the Mendips?

  If we peer into the future, we will see that the answer to this question involves a toilet window and the local police force.

  You might want to strap yourselves in . . .

  Chapter Six

  DATING AND THE DEEP STATE

  It has now been a shameful eleven months since my last romantic encounter.

  Nearly a year since I had the pleasure of a woman’s company.

  The woman in question was Christa, and we met on Tinder – back during a time when I was allowed to use such a thing.

  Christa was quite nice. I didn’t have much time to assess her further than that, as we only went on two dates. The second one did end with a heavy make-out session on the bonnet of her Mazda, though. There wasn’t a third date. I can’t for the life of me remember why, right now.

  Christa was not the first lady I have met this way.

  In fact, I’ve had a series of four dalliances with women – all thanks to swiping right.

  All of them were quite nice.

  . . .

  . . . . . .

  Sadly, there’s not a lot else I can say, if I’m being brutally honest. Tinder is an excellent way to make the process of meeting women easy, but it doesn’t lend itself to deep and meaningful relationships. Not in my experience, anyway.

  People rarely tend to actually chat to one another on Tinder – which is definitely part of the problem. I can’t tell you how many conversations I’ve started, only to get total radio silence, or for everything to peter out after a few bland Hey how are yous. It’s either that, or you just go straight to arranging a meet-up without getting to know one another via a bit of online chit-chat first – at least, that’s been how it’s worked out for me.

  It’s all very casual, very throwaway and very temporary. I struggle to think of a meaningful relationship I actually have had – in the last six or seven years, anyway.

  Now, I know this is starting to make me sound like an awful misogynist, but let me reassure you, the women in question were just as blasé about the whole thing as me. Tinder is the kind of place you go to for sex, and maybe a little short-term companionship. It’s not really the venue for finding the love of your life.

  Prior to Tinder, I tried dating on Match.com, and that resulted in a couple of more long-term relationships – both of which ended with me being on the receiving end of the dumping.

  The first one hurt.

  The second one hurt more.

  That’s why I was so delighted when Tinder came along. After a couple of heartbreaks, the idea of just engaging in periodic casual flirtations seemed terrific. Much easier on the heart.

  And that’s been the situation with Andy Bellows and his love life for the past decade.

  And right about now I would be spending a lot more time on Tinder – if I were allowed to. It’s been too long since I had the thrill of meeting somebody new . . . and hopefully engaging them in some carefree, casual sex.

  But Tinder is strictly off limits, as we all know. So, sex – casual or otherwise – is sadly also off limits.

  And it’s not even like I can . . . er . . . enjoy some gentleman’s entertainment to take the edge off. That’s barred from me as well.

  I can’t remember the last time I actually owned some pornography on physical media. I threw out my last DVD years ago. It was called Backyard Barbecue Bone Session 3, as I recall. What barbecuing that actually went on was not done in a safe or hygienic way, I remember that.

  So, then, I am left in something of a bind.

  I would dearly love to enjoy the company of a new woman, but do not have the capacity to find one.

  ‘Why don’t you just go clubbing?’ Fergus asks me over a coffee, on one of our periodic trips to the local Costa. This is where we tend to meet up most of the time. It’s the only place that does a half-decent flat white. England is full of cafés claiming to make a flat white – only to then deliver you a bloody cappuccino.

  ‘Clubbing? Me?’ I shake my head. ‘Not a bloody chance. Not my scene at all. I’ll just have to accept that until the detox is over, I have no way of finding new love,’ I say, with a mournful little sigh.

  Fergus thinks for a moment. ‘You could try the personal ads.’

  I give him a confused look. ‘The what?’

  ‘The personal ads at the back of our paper.’

  I let out a disbelieving chuckle. ‘You still d
o those?’

  Fergus nods. ‘Oh yes. Right next to the classified ads for cars.’ He scratches his nose. ‘I mean, there’s not many of them any more. Almost everyone does everything online now. But there’s still a few people out there who don’t. And there’s enough of them to fill up half a page or so.’

  ‘Old people, Fergus.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll all be old people. They’re the only ones who would still use something like a personal ad.’

  Fergus sniffs. ‘That’s a bit ageist.’

  I give him a look. ‘Are you telling me that they aren’t likely to be old people?’

  ‘I don’t know for sure. But you don’t know until you look.’

  He leans over to one side and rummages around in his big, brown leather man bag for a second, before producing a copy of the Daily Local News. He opens it up and looks through a few of the pages, before folding the paper in half on a particular open page and handing it to me. ‘There you are. Personal ads.’

  And would you believe it? He’s absolutely right!

  There are six of them.

  Four I instantly dismiss as being from those of a middle-aged or older disposition. The fifth is from a bloke called Brian, who’s forty-two and enjoys having fun and long walks. Possible serial killer potential there, and no mistake.

  The sixth and final choice actually sounds quite interesting.

  Henrietta is twenty-nine, an antiques dealer and a fan of travelling and cookery. She writes in a very erudite and intelligent manner, and manages to pack a lot of information into the small square of text she’s afforded in the paper’s column.

  What Henrietta is not a fan of is online dating, or the Internet in general.

  ‘I believe the World Wide Web is turning us into soulless robots, and I want to meet someone with a good, kind soul,’ she says. ‘I’m hoping there might be somebody out there who will see this advertisement who feels the same way.’

  She would probably quite like me . . . I am, after all, Captain Detox. And while I don’t have quite the dislike of the Internet that she clearly has, I am someone who is currently eschewing the delights of the online world, and that might be good enough for her.

  Henrietta also describes herself as tall and brunette, with a slim figure, and the type of person who enjoys intelligent conversation with stimulating company.

  There’s something about her use of the word ‘stimulating’ that is quite . . . stimulating.

  All in all, it actually sounds like Henrietta might be a real possibility for a potential date. This is quite, quite unbelievable.

  But . . . I can’t meet up with her.

  ‘Why not?’ Fergus enquires, after I read the advert to him.

  ‘Because it’s not 1994, Fergus. This isn’t how things are done these days.’

  ‘It’s how Henrietta seems to do things. And it’s how you do things as well, mate. For the moment, anyway. Why don’t you want to give it a go?’

  I squirm in the seat a little. ‘Well, I have no idea what she looks like, for starters. On Tinder you get a picture.’

  ‘Oh? So you’re just about the looks, are you?’ He gives me a look of admonishment. ‘A bit shallow, don’t you think?’

  I look up to the ceiling in disgust. ‘Of course I’m shallow, Fergus. I use Tinder.’

  ‘Well, maybe this would be a good opportunity for you to not put looks first for a change,’ he suggests.

  ‘Hmmm. Possibly,’ I reply, still staring at Henrietta’s advert.

  Fergus is probably right.

  I shouldn’t be so shallow.

  And I have to admit, there’s something quite thrilling about the idea of meeting up with someone on a real, proper, 100 per cent blind date.

  I haven’t been on one of those since I was seventeen and my mate Kevin set me up with his sister’s friend Hannah. Hannah was way out of my league, and I never saw her again, but that hour I spent staring at her boobs in the local McDonald’s was one of the happiest of my teenage life.

  What the hell. Let’s give it a go.

  ‘I see by the speculative look on your face that you’re considering it?’ Fergus says, obviously very pleased with himself.

  ‘Yes. What harm could it do? And when you get right down to it, it’s really not that much different from swiping right.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Fergus’s eyes flash. ‘And if it goes well, I can write about it for the paper.’

  I point a finger at him. ‘I am not meant to be a source of constant material for you, Mr Brailsworth.’

  He feigns a look of disappointment. ‘But you’re so good at it.’

  ‘Yes, well. I’m just going to hopefully go on a blind date with a nice lady from the antiquated personal ads. I’m sure nothing newsworthy will come of it.’

  There are two ways I can respond to Henrietta’s personal ad. There’s an email address set up by the paper that I assume will forward my response on to her. Or there’s an actual phone voicemail service I can leave a message on.

  I’d like to use the former, but am of course only allowed to do the latter. This requires me to make a proper phone call. I don’t think I’ve done that since the dinosaurs ruled the earth.

  Nevertheless, I construct what I intend to say on a bit of notepaper and give the number a call. At the sound of the beep, I recite the few paragraphs I’ve hastily scrawled down that explain a little about myself. Most of the information is cribbed from an old draft of my Match.com profile I found in my Word documents, and contains the usual platitudes and rather bland pronouncements you always use on dating profiles.

  I also mention a brief bit about the digital detox, as I can see that working on good old Henrietta. If nothing else, it should explain why I’m using this ancient personal ads service, rather than the far more normal and up-to-date online method.

  The whole experience of leaving my reply to her ad is like stepping back in time. I even have a bemused half smile on my face as I recite my landline number, so Henrietta can call me back if she’s interested in a date.

  If I’m being honest with myself, I think most of the reason why I’m doing all of this is just to experience the nostalgia of the pre-Internet age of dating. Surely not even Fergus’s Daily Local News can keep the personal ads up for much longer, and I want to give it a go before it becomes a completely extinct practice. I’m like the man who travelled on the last steam locomotive all those years ago. I’m enjoying the journey, rather than being all that concerned about the destination.

  It’ll be lovely to meet Henrietta, and who knows what might come of it. But even if it’s just one date and I never see her again, at least I will have got to experience something the singletons of yesteryear would have gone through all the time.

  Henrietta calls me back in the evening.

  She sounds extraordinarily pleasant. Speaking with an upper-class accent that is instantly exotic to my decidedly working-class ears, Henrietta is clearly an intelligent woman, with a bright personality and a very dry sense of humour. I stammer a little during the conversation, but manage to just about acquit myself in an acceptable fashion overall, I think.

  Henrietta must think so, as she agrees to meet me for a coffee – not in the local Costa that Fergus and I frequent, but in a cute little café she knows about, tucked away on the high street of a village called Longfield, not too far from town.

  Not a village like Bog, I hasten to add. This one is just off the main road, and very easy to get to, thank you very much. Which is just as well, as I doubt my insurance company will be too pleased if I drive the courtesy Polo into a bloody duck pond.

  I’ve never heard of Heirloom Coffee, but Henrietta says they do a very nice Colombian blend there, which instantly piques my interest – not just in the café, but also in Henrietta. She’s obviously a coffee lover, and that definitely gives us something in common. If nothing else, we can talk about our favourite roasts for an hour.

  I agree to meet her at Heirloom Coffee at 11 a.m. on Sund
ay morning, and hang up the phone with a smile on my face.

  That went very well. Very well indeed.

  I can feel a real blossom of excitement in my gut. Far more than before the last date I went on, with Christa. I can only put this down to the fact that I know so very little about Henrietta, beyond what I’ve gleaned from one phone call and a brief personal ad. With Christa, I knew what she looked like before I’d even met her, and had a good working knowledge of who she was based on a light bit of Facebook stalking.

  That’s the thing about modern dating. You go in armed with a lot of information about the other person, as they no doubt do with you. It’s robbed the experience of some of its mystery.

  Not the case with Henrietta, though. I’m walking into the unknown, and that’s quite a thrilling prospect.

  When I venture into Heirloom Coffee, I get a gorgeous whiff of that Colombian blend Henrietta mentioned, and am instantly delighted she suggested the place.

  The coffee shop is housed in a very old terraced building along the medieval high street in Longfield, and is just about the quaintest place I’ve ever been in. It certainly has a lot more personality than the bloody Costa that Fergus and I go to.

  Just look at those exposed wooden beams, would you? And that hardwood floor is a wonderful shade of dusky brown. The tables and chairs look like antiques, and are covered in long, lacy tablecloths that must be a right bugger to put on a hot wash.

  The walls are painted in a fresh white that contrasts nicely, and several large, arty black-and-white images of coffee cups and coffee machine parts are hung on them. These instantly appeal to the designer in me. They’re very well composed, and it’s a nice juxtaposition with the rest of the decor.

  The place is about half full of very content-looking coffee imbibers. As well they should be, given the rather lovely atmosphere the place has.

  Along the back wall is a wide counter, on which is placed a large shiny barista machine – the only truly modern thing in a space otherwise full to bursting with antique British character – and a small cabinet containing all manner of delectable treats, like muffins and flapjacks. Other than these, though, nothing in here breaks the illusion of being transported back to a bucolic, olde worlde period of English history.