Wonderful film from 1976 of a man stage directing London.

‘Oh,’ I replied, the thorny stem of the rose still prickling my mouth as I clambered to my feet and slipped the little black box into the inside pocket on my blazer.

‘I suppose this means I should cancel the party?’ I asked, remembering how much money I’d spent getting a spot in the ‘announcements’ section of the local paper.

She fired me a look of utter disbelief.

‘Incidentally, if you get a visit from a congratulatory barbershop quartet this afternoon, just send them my way, I’ll settle up their fee.’

The entire office had stopped working and were staring by this point. I performed some sort of over the top curtsey, as if the whole thing was meant to be one silly joke, went back to my desk and began working on that other proposal.

*

It’s always been this way, perhaps it’s that link to starting school again each September when I was younger.

I will eat healthier. No more potato waffle sandwiches, I promise myself, forcing a spoonful of porridge and banana into my mouth.

And I will quit smoking this time. (Or maybe I’ll wait until Christmas is out of the way and save this one for the new year.)

I will stop wasting precious work time spying on ex-girlfriends and former classmates on Facebook, I decide, trying to find a picture of her where she maybe looks as though she misses me.

I will tweet something of actual worth some day soon.

I will stop watching repeats of various comedy shows on Dave and read more books instead. I’ve got a pile of so-called ‘classics’ that have so far primarily been used for collecting dust.

And I’ll quit with the constant Alan Partridge impressions. (Nb. If a girl I like has never seen the show, quoting it completely out of context isn’t as funny as I think it is in my head. They just look at me like I’m mental.)

Finally, I’ll stop spending my days writing lists of resolutions I am never going to stick to.

*

But I played my part in helping Newlyn Non Athletico win the Mining League 2 Championship in 2009, in front of a tipsy crowd of eleven, four of whom were substitutes.

And I’ve never hitched across America to see the sun set over the Grand Canyon, all the while necking whisky straight from the bottle and sucking on a fine cigar.

But I’ve watched it rise over Newlyn quay in the autumn, all pink skies and silhouetted seagulls, as I finished off a bowl of porridge.

Granted, I still haven’t got around to creating the genre-defying musical masterpiece that will top the charts, sell out arenas and unite people all over the world with its staggering lyrical content.

But I’ve performed to a few hundred people at Glastonbury and other venues here and there. And sometimes friends and family will come up to me after a gig, sounding somewhat surprised when they say: ‘Yeah, you were quite good actually… Much better than I expected.’

And I’ve not yet managed to have sexual intercourse with the French actress Audrey Tautou. In fact, I’ve not so much as had the chance to even introduce myself.

But I’ve held the naked body of the only girl I’ve ever truly loved, looked into her eyes and not needed anything else.

*

My dirty little secret, like a sordid love affair with an older married woman. Or a middle-aged man trying to conceal his penchant for downloading cheap European porn off the internet.

But this sort of thing is impossible to hide away for too long.

And when the evidence is this conclusive, denial just appears an act of sheer desperation.

It was recently brought to my attention that I’ve started to groan aloud when I have to reach down and pick up heavy objects.

And I’ve taken to complaining about the youth; starting sentences with things like ‘I remember when I was young…’

When friends first began pointing this out to me, I was ashamed. I’d defiantly refuse to accept their claims that I was ‘always grumpy’ and ‘such an old man’ or that I ‘dress like a golfer’.

But I recently spent £22 on a dressing gown, and it’s getting harder to defend my corner.

So now I embrace it. (Getting on, I mean. Not the dressing gown. That I just wear around the house.)

I’ve also purchased a tweed jacket and splashed out on some expensive spectacles. (Although these are more a practical necessity than a lifestyle choice. Without them, I can’t see properly.)

And I don’t really mind the fact that I’m getting older, because sometimes it’s nice to get to bed at a reasonable hour on the weekends.

So I can then listen to Jarvis Cocker’s Sunday Service on 6music without feeling like my head is about to explode due to excessive pill popping the night before.

And to be able to eat a Sunday roast without wanting to chuck it back up immediately.

And look forward to watching Match Of The Day 2 with a clear head, cup of tea and slice of lemon drizzle cake, despite not really liking Colin Murray, or the fact that Arsenal lost 8–2.

*

No reply. She just carries on sitting there, watching a repeat of Changing Rooms on BBC One. (It’s the one where Handy Andy loses his temper with Laurence Llewelyn-Bowen).

‘Yeah, reckon we might get a Chinese after. Check out that new place on the high street.’

Still nothing. Just the sound of Carol Smilie patronising an unhappy couple.

‘Maybe head out to a club later on. You don’t mind… Do you, babe?’

‘The one thing I said was no green,’ Rob from Norwich says to the camera, having just been introduced to his newly-decorated lime green bedroom.

‘Thanks, babe. I’ll text you later.’ I say, giving Pam a peck on the cheek, grabbing my keys from the basket on the table and heading out the front door.

There are definite upsides to having an inflatable doll for a girlfriend, I think to myself, while pondering the sort of shenanigans Macca and I might get up to.

*

• Wake up
• Hang out washing.
• Feed kids and get them off to school.
• Drive to Mabe and track down Phillip Burns. Punch him in the face for getting off with Sandra Williams all those years ago.
• Drop folder off at work.
• Pick up wages.
• Set Bargain Hunt to record on Sky+.
• Sit at bedroom window watching Mrs. Mooney next door while she does her daily aerobics.
• Possibly eat a baguette. Maybe salad and cream cheese.
• Fetch kids from school.
• Spend an hour learning French with Michel Thomas.
• Cook dinner.
• Put the bins out.
• Prank call Phillip Burns pretending to be his dead grandfather.
• Put kids to bed.
• Tell Suzie I love her.
• Try not to snore.

*

I suppose you had a right to intervene.

After all, it’s just as much your flat as mine. And you’ve got several bags of stuff that you’re yet to unpack.

It’s difficult trying to sort through what’s worth hanging on to and what isn’t though.

If I could, I’d keep it all. But you’ve already warned that if I do that, you’ll leave me.

So it’s time to make some decisions.

But despite what you say, I love every single one of these so called ‘awful woolly jumpers’.
Plus winter is on its way soon.

And though I haven’t got round to it yet, I have every intention of reading Popular Marine Fish For Your Aquarium ~ Volumes 1–8.

And The Beginner’s Guide To Philosophy.

And that Dickens collection might be worth something someday.

I may not own a record player, but it’s only a matter of time. So while it may seem impractical to you, I’d prefer not to get rid of the multiple stacks of vinyl and cassette tapes.

That Talking Heads single is a rarity.

And I bought the Mousehole Male Voice Choir LP because I liked the cover, but also because my granddad used to sing with them. Although he was a bit of a dick, he’s dead now, so it’s nice to have a little something to remember him by.

Still, you’ve no sympathy when it comes to my predilection for nostalgia. And even I find it difficult to justify keeping a sculpture of an owl constructed from the different parts of a dismantled clock.

So you’ve given me a deadline. If at least half ain’t gone by Sunday, then it’s goodbye.

In hindsight, I probably shouldn’t have arranged to go rummaging in my favourite Causeway Head haunts this afternoon.

But it’s been a while since I’ve visited Barnado’s.

And my mum’s already tipped me off about an old tweed jacket in Oxfam.

As well as a box full of family portraits from the thirties languishing on the bottom shelf of Cancer Research.

*

My lips have been bragging ever since you first lay a smacker on them.

Now they won’t stop banging on, asking questions, anticipating when it might happen again.

Because the first time felt like I’d been sucker-punched. Or like when I try to execute a bicycle kick on the football pitch but fail to arch my back properly and end up winding myself. It knocks the stuffing right out of me.

And it’s left me with a sense of uneasiness. Like when you trap a wasp under a glass. What do you do then? Leaving him to suffocate seems cruel but the second you try and set him free elsewhere he’s going to go mental and attempt to sting you, right?

And that feeling isn’t something that I would usually enjoy, but when it’s you doing the damage I can’t stop myself coming back for more.

*