Diary of a Grumpy Old Git Page 9

  ‘Again, it was a decent effort,’ I said.

  The next diary that Trevor pulled out of the box was so old that the front cover had fallen off. ‘April 1st. “Dave Cross told me that a bird had done a shit on the back of my blazer. When I took it off to look he grabbed it and threw it in one of the large bins. I had to climb in to get it and when I did Dave got everyone to spin the bin round and round.” Was that one of the greats?’

  ‘OK,’ I said. ‘That one was a bit mean. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Well, don’t be,’ said Trevor. ‘While I was lying in that bin, watching the grey clouds spin round and round, I made a vow to do something with my life. And now I own the second-biggest industrial bin supplier in the south-east. Do you have your own business?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘You know I don’t.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Trevor. ‘Because I’m a winner and you’re a loser. Now for the real April fool joke. I do want you to write me another brochure, after all. I want it to cover our full range of galvanized wheel bins and I want it by close of play tomorrow.’

  TUESDAY 2ND APRIL

  Three hours. That’s how much sleep I had because of that shitty brochure. I went to sleep at four, and had to set my alarm for seven to have any chance of finishing the thing.

  I couldn’t even make myself a coffee this morning because my kettle broke. I tied it in a plastic bag, chucked it in my wheelie bin and ordered a new one. I felt a slight twinge of guilt over this. I’m sure there was a time when, if something broke, you’d take it back to the shop and ask them to mend it.

  But where would I have taken that broken kettle? Did I pay for a guarantee when I bought it? Did I fill out the little warranty form in the box? Did I even keep the receipt? Would the men in short-sleeved shirts in the electrical megastore look at me like I was bonkers if I showed them a broken kettle? I’ll never know because new ones were only £20 on Amazon. And even if I’d had enough sleep the humiliation of begging for help in that aircraft hangar wouldn’t be worth £20. But at least I felt mildly guilty while chucking it in the bin. That’s something.

  I was in the office even before Jen, and I got on with the brochure as soon as I sat down. I was hoping to take some time out for lunch, but my computer rudely interrupted me just before eleven to tell me it wanted to update its operating system. I foolishly clicked ‘accept’ and as a result I spent my only break of the day staring at a progress bar and willing it to speed up.

  My laptop obviously sensed weakness because it kept telling me I had to install ‘critical’ updates for all my other programmes. I clicked ‘Accept’ on everything and agreed to the endless lists of terms and conditions. I had absolutely no idea what I was agreeing to, and I doubt anyone does. We’ll probably just be woken up one night by armed soldiers with Apple logos on their uniforms, demanding that we hand over our first-born children as detailed in the iTunes small print.

  At a quarter to five, I send the brochure copy through to Trevor and slumped forward on to my desk. While I was drifting off to sleep, Jez invited me to his party on Saturday. I was so tired I told him I didn’t want to go, which was surprisingly mature of me.

  I’m right, I shouldn’t go. The only reason I’d want to go would be to make another pathetic attempt with Jo. And now I’ve accepted that will never happen, I don’t have to waste a night shouting over the top of dance music in some sweaty council flat. I can settle back in bed with a mug of cocoa and a Jane Austen novel and wait for the sweet release of death, just as someone my age should.

  WEDNESDAY 3RD APRIL

  I had to go to a presentation about new media in a hotel in town today. It was unbelievably dull but I kept myself awake by imagining how I’d kill Trevor if I had an unlimited amount of time and a full Black & Decker toolbox.

  Jen came along too and she spent every coffee break introducing herself to people and commenting on what a great networking opportunity it was. You’re not supposed to admit you’re networking. That’s like admitting you’re chatting them up.

  She kept bringing people over to meet me, which I suppose was nice of her. I could always call them and beg them for work if Trevor gets me fired.

  Jen gave me a lift home in her Land Rover afterwards, which was also nice of her.

  ‘Leave the car at home?’ she asked. I was so used to her sentences ending with an upswing that it took me a while to realize she was asking a question.

  ‘Oh, I er … don’t have a car.’

  ‘Really?’ asked Jen. ‘I thought you’d be one of those car men. Is it an environmental thing? I know this one’s a bit naughty, but it’s fab for hills.’

  ‘Nope,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t drive a car if they invented one that farted out rainforests.’

  ‘So why don’t you have one?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just … Don’t get me started on cars.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jen.

  ‘Well, it’s the speed cameras and the fines and the congestion charges and the sleeping policemen and the “Baby on Board” stickers and the pigeon shit on your windscreen and the pedestrians who veer out into the road without taking their eyes off their phones and the difficulty of maintaining a speed that’s slow enough so you won’t get a fine but fast enough that you don’t end up annoying everyone else and getting stuck behind caravans on bank holidays and Sunday afternoons in Halfords and conversations with distant relatives about whether A roads are quicker than motorways and traffic wardens fining you for being a millimetre over the white lines and the garages that say they’ll have your car ready by Tuesday and then pretend they have to send off for some parts because they didn’t get it done on time and men with squeegees who throw filthy water over your windscreen and demand money to wash it off and people who sneak into the parking space you’ve been waiting half an hour for and getting a puncture on a motorway at night and trying to work out how to use the jack so you won’t have to make a humiliating call to the AA and getting stuck with an ambulance behind you and a guy who doesn’t seem in much of a hurry in front and not knowing what the button next to the steering wheel does and pressing it only for nothing to happen and drivers who’ve somehow passed their tests without learning how to signal and drinking mineral water because you’re the designated driver at a party that would need at least three bottles of gin to get through and BMW drivers who can afford to pay the fine so they double park and stick their hazard lights on while they pop into Waitrose for some sun-blushed tomatoes…’

  ‘OK, I get it, grumpy bear,’ said Jen.

  ‘But I haven’t got on to cyclists yet,’ I said. ‘They’re the part I hate most.’

  THURSDAY 4TH APRIL

  Another of Josh’s ‘kickstart’ meetings this morning and this time the finger quotes went into overdrive. Apparently our latest account wins show we’re ‘on the runway’ and we’ve got the ‘bandwidth’ to succeed. If he doesn’t stop using these buzzwords soon, he’ll give himself repetitive strain injury. He said he’d like more of us to ‘take ownership’ of accounts to foster an environment of ‘co-opertition’.

  Josh used the phrase ‘what I like to call’ so much that he even started saying it before perfectly normal words like ‘results’. When he’s at home he probably asks his wife for ‘what I like to call a cup of coffee with what I like to call two sugars’.

  I drifted off about ten minutes into Josh’s bullshit, but I’m sure I heard him mention the word ‘hotdesking’ at one point. I think that means everyone has to move desks all the time for no reason other than to introduce the stress of musical chairs into the workplace. If he thinks I’m going to give up my spot against the back wall just so he can trot out more jargon, he can shove it up his bandwidth.

  This afternoon I told Jo I wasn’t going to the party, and I think she was upset. Actually, I have no idea if she was upset or not. She never gives anything away. But what if she was? What if she’s going through the exact same thing as me? What if she’s writing a secret diary about her feelings for an older
man in her office? After all, she was the one who started it with that Valentine’s card. It was probably ironic, but what if she really meant it?

  I tried to take my mind off things by watching a film tonight. I browsed through all the film channels I subscribe to, and at first it looked like good news. There was Arthur, Get Carter, Straw Dogs and The Wicker Man. All movies I wouldn’t mind seeing again. Unfortunately, they all turned out to be appalling remakes. Who exactly are these remakes for? Do modern filmgoers find they can’t follow the plot if the actors have outmoded clothing and hairstyles? They have no problem believing that costume-wearing vigilantes can defeat criminal gangs with their homemade utility belts, but show them a pair of flares or an unruly sideburn and you’ve lost them.

  FRIDAY 5TH APRIL

  Josh came over this morning to tell me that Trevor thinks I’m doing a great job on the brochures. He said this was a terrific example of someone taking ownership of an account, and he was glad someone had been listening to his talk about co-opertition.

  On the surface, it seems strange that Trevor should flit between threats and praise, but I think it’s just another childish bullying tactic. If you punch someone in the arm every time you pass them in the school corridor, they learn to expect it and it stops having an effect. But if you randomly alternate between punching and friendly greeting, it’s much worse. It’s the hope that you might not get hit or your brochure copy might not get rejected that really gets to you.

  Jez reminded me about the party before he left today. I told him I’d changed my mind and that I wanted to go. I was looking at Jo today as she fumbled her pretend glasses around. Then she looked over at me and I turned back to my screen. I’m sick of all this. I’ve got to ask her if she’s interested. And Jez’s party could be my last opportunity for a while.

  Yes, it will probably end badly. Yes, it will make everything at work awkward. But I’ve got to do it. Life is not a rehearsal. Though if it is, I’ll be sure not to start watching Lost again in the hope that it leads up to a satisfying conclusion.

  SATURDAY 6TH APRIL

  I’ve just bought eighteen cans of lager, a crate of red wine and a bottle of vodka. Now it won’t matter how much gets nicked, I’ll still be able to get trollied.

  I’ve just had a thought. What if I make a start on all this booze now?

  The only times I’ve ever managed to get anywhere with women have been when I’m plastered. So what if I start tucking in to all this now? I’ll probably wake up in Jo’s bed tomorrow morning with a huge smile on my face.

  Is that a good plan?

  Probably not. But it’s worth a try. I’ll start with the vodka.

  SUNDAY 7TH APRIL

  It’s one in the afternoon and I still have absolutely no idea what I did last night. I think something terrible happened, but I don’t know what.

  I’ve got to go now. It’s going to be difficult for me to write between the bouts of vomiting.

  I had a flashback while I was throwing up. I was dancing to ‘London Calling’ by The Clash. I think I’d chosen the track, and everyone was dancing too. They were having a great time. Maybe I actually had a good night. Maybe nothing terrible happened after all. Excuse me a minute.

  Another spew, another flashback. This one wasn’t so good. I was talking to Jo. It was much later in the night, and I was clutching a half-empty bottle of vodka. Sorry, I mean a half-full bottle of vodka. Must try to be positive at times like this. I’m not sure how well I was explaining myself, but she didn’t look pleased.

  Oh Jesus Christ. I made a move on her. I actually tried to snog her. I lunged forward, turning my head and opening my mouth. Imagine the vodka reek that must have been leaking out. No wonder she pushed me away. At least I’ve remembered what the terrible thing was.

  I think I’m going to be sick again, but why? I’ve already barfed up everything from last night. Maybe I agreed to store somebody else’s food in there for them.

  That one was just stomach bile. Soon I’ll only have this thumping headache and crushing humiliation to cope with. I had another horrible memory while I was chucking all that up. I was sitting on a sofa and watching Jo snogging a man of her own age. I think I was crying for some reason. Jez was sitting next to me, and forcing me to drink a pint of Coke. So that was the terrible thing.

  I’m just dry heaving now. Can someone tell my stomach that there’s nothing else to come out? Perhaps it would like to stop telling me to rush to the bathroom to mime throwing up. This is a hangover, not a drama workshop.

  The last flashback I had was really strange. It was much later in the night and I think…

  I think I was snogging Jen. Jen!

  Did that really happen? Did she even go to the party? Or am I remembering an alcohol-fuelled dream?

  Another flashback came with that last heave. I was staggering away from Jez’s house. I must have been so drunk I forgot that cabs exist. And that I live in the opposite direction.

  Oh. That’s why I was going the wrong way. And that’s what the terrible thing really was. I was heading back to my old house. The house where I lived with Sarah for ten years. The house where she still lives.

  Another flashback. I’m ringing the doorbell. Stop it, brain. Don’t show me this. I don’t care what I did. I just don’t want to know.

  Brad is answering the door. I’m ranting at him. I think I’m confessing about the spam, the fraping and the prank call. Sarah is coming to the door and pushing him away. She’s talking to me in soft voice, saying she understands how hard things have been for me, and that they’ve been hard for her too. She doesn’t seem angry at all. Until I projectile vomit through my fingers and it splashes all over her dressing gown. Then she gets angry. So that was the terrible thing.

  For some reason my mind is telling me that I still haven’t remembered the terrible thing yet. But what could be worse than what I’ve already remembered? I haven’t lost a limb. My teeth are all still there. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t rip my scrotal sack open on a barbed-wire fence. So what could it be?

  Ah. That was the terrible thing. When I finally arrived at home I sat down in front of my laptop instead of going to bed. Thankfully, I didn’t manage to remember my Facebook password. But I did get into my email. I know because I saw the following in my ‘sent items’ folder:

  To: Trevor Chalkley

  From: Dave Cross

  Subject: YOU ARE A TWAT

  WHAT I SAID YOU ARE A TWAT MATE. SO WHAT IF IM DRINK I DON’T CARE. I HATED YOU THEN AND I HATE YOI NOW CHALKY BALLS DICKHEAD. AHHH.

  OK. I’ve finally managed to get the childproof lid off the Anadin, and I can think straight again. A lot of terrible things happened last night. There will probably be some embarrassing consequences. But they will only be embarrassing if I let them be. It’s not too late to revive my New Year resolution to be positive about everything. Trying to deal with this in any other way would result in mental breakdown.

  MONDAY 8TH APRIL

  When I got in this morning I dashed down to Graham’s office and asked him if it was possible to delete emails you’ve already sent.

  ‘It’s perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You just need to travel back in time and hit yourself on the head with a frying pan before you click “send”. But make sure you don’t speak to yourself, or you’ll create a quantum paradox and doom the universe.’

  I forced out a high, squeaky laugh as if I were enjoying the way the pedantic little loner was milking his rare moment of superiority.

  After that I sat down at my desk and said hello to everyone as if I had nothing to be ashamed of. Jo ignored me, Jen smiled awkwardly and Jez patted me on the back and called me a ‘legend’. Quite a few people giggled when they saw me today. Even Josh asked if I was ‘always that shade of red’.

  OK, so maybe I blushed a little. But I’m still going to look on the bright side, just as I resolved to do. I’m still alive. No one killed me. And as far as I know, I didn’t kill anyone. That’s something.

 
I was watching the news tonight and there was a feature about binge drinking. It was shot in the town centre on Saturday night, and it showed a group of girls shrieking and showing their bras to the camera. I noticed a familiar figure moving through the back of the shot, and I peered at the screen.

  It was me. I was staggering down the street with my hands planted firmly in my pockets. Yet I had no memory of being anywhere near the town centre on Saturday.

  The report cut to an interview with a paramedic who was complaining about the strain all these drunks were putting on his resources. There I was again, ambling around in the background with my hands in my pockets, hitting a lamppost with my shoulder.

  Finally, the reporter delivered a piece to camera. Once again I staggered past, only this time I was going the opposite way. Was this some sort of editing trick? Or had I really been walking aimlessly back and forth?

  OK, I need to look on the bright side again. No one has called or texted me since the piece was broadcast. No one has posted it to YouTube or tagged me on Facebook. So I can safely assume that no one else saw it.