Kissing on TV!

Yesterday, after I got back home from work and got ready to put my feet up for the evening, my three-year-old daughter caught me out with an unanswerable question! She said “dad, why do men kiss women?”
I lazily replied, “Because they love each other”
She said “but why do they have to take their clothes off when they kiss?”
I was alarmed by the directness of the question and the advanced state that three-year-old brain was in, and had to sit up on the sofa and blink at her for a few seconds!

I knew that, one-day, I would have to deal with such queries but in my mind, that ‘one day’ was years away. I was not prepared for such a question and, frankly, did not have a ready-made answer that was not blunt and to the point. It was obvious that honesty will not do here. I may be pensive, slapdash and laid-back but even I know that you can’t be frank about sexual matters when talking to a three-year-old! I did what every father the world over has always done. Told her to go ask her mother.

She cleverly massaged my ego with the words “Mother doesn’t know anything. You know everything” and I almost blurted out everything I knew about sex, which really, now that I think about it, isn’t a great deal and mostly consists of the words bang, bang, bang and much sniggering. With hindsight, I think that would have been a great reply. Wish I let my natural instincts rule my head now.

What I really did however is tell her that she’s too young and that she would not understand even if I tried to explain. She asked WHY! I repeated the ‘too young’ excuse. She shouted “but I’m not a baby you know. I can count to ten”! I got a great idea! I asked her to count to ten in the hope that this would distract her. She did. After much laughing, clapping of hands and praise, we were silent for a few minutes. “You’re a good girl,” I said. She smiled at me and said, “See, I’m not a baby”. I knew where that comment was leading and started asking her about her day and what exciting things she got up to.

Women. They’re the same everywhere and at every age. Once they got the bit between their teeth they never let go! She told me that she spent the day playing with the neighbours’ girls and that they told her about seeing a naked man kissing a naked woman on TV. She said that they told her this was a naughty thing to do or talk about. I nodded my head with relived agreement. “But why is it naughty?” she innocently asked. “You sometimes kiss me when you give me a bath” she added. I started feeling dizzy and wanted to fly (vertically) out the room. She stood there, staring at me with a look that said ‘you better not fob me off with some weak explanation, I’ve got you where I want you’! I blinked. I then put my serious face on, the one that tells her that she did something wrong and that if she does not stop she’ll be in a lot of trouble. She didn’t even notice!

My children being so young and innocent are still at that stage where they think I’m the greatest man on earth. I know everything. I can do everything and I have an answer for everything. Of course, one is never vain enough to believe all of that. However, on this occasion my daughter was right. Even I was amazed at the quickness of my mind and how I plucked out a knockout reply from thin air, that I started wondering if my children were not right about my great abilities after all! I triumphantly told her that “me giving you a shower and kissing you on the cheek is not at all like a naked man kissing a naked woman. I’m always fully clothed, silly”. I gave her a mocking laugh to help drive my point home (with the addition of a couple of na na nana naas). It was the worst thing I could have ever done!

“Why is it different?” she asked with narrowed eyes.
“Because it is,” I replied.
“But why?” she asked again.
“Because the big fat spider said so,” I replied with a smile.
She laughed and said, “You’re silly”.
“You too” I chuckled.
She ran to the other end of the room and shouted as she laughed, “Try and catch me”. I told her that I was tired and didn’t have the energy to run. “If you drink lots of milk you’re going to have lots and lots of energy” she wisely said.
“Really?” I asked.
“Yeah” she said.
“Ok. Go to your mother now” I replied.
She crept slowly to the door and lingered there quietly. I tried not to notice but she started singing to herself. “What are you still doing here?” I said.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Hmmm” I mumbled.
She slowly walked over to me and sat watching the TV.
There was a kissing scene on Hollyoaks! A stupid kissing scene!
I changed the channel and did my best to ignore her gaze.
When I finally couldn’t resist and did look at her I saw that she was not even with me. She was lost in thought. A three-year-old lost in thought! What in the world would induce a three-year-old to be lost in thought? Was she in so much debt that she had to pawn her teddy? Was she contemplating self-employment to free herself from the control of tyrannical and megalomaniacal bosses? Did she oversleep this morning and miss the latest episode of Bratz?


Suddenly it came to me. Of course, I’m making it sound so easy and simple but that’s not how it did happen. To try to guess what a three-year-old is thinking about is like searching for a needle in a haystack. It’s hard but not impossible. Plus those that manage to find the needle in the haystack are probably very happy with their discovery and would boast to all and sundry about their great search skills. I was not happy to find my needle. This needle though not difficult to find was still painful to pick up.

She was thinking of the kissing scene on TV! I knew she was. The minute the idea crossed my mind I knew this was what she was thinking about. I decided to bring her thoughts out to the open and sort this problem once and for all. It’s not a healthy start in life for a three-year-old to be thinking about men and women kissing, naked, on TV.

I was prepared for a long and tedious argument as I asked her “What are you thinking about?”
She turned her head calmly towards me and said “I’m thinking about the man that was kissing the woman in the TV. He is naughty”.

I frowned and said to her “look here girl it’s time you stopped talking about men kissing women on TV or out of it. It’s not nice and it’s very naughty”.
“I know” she said, “It’s very naughty”.
“Good girl” I said.

Her mother walked into the room. She ran to her and shouted “mommy, mommy, if a naked man kisses a naked woman it is very very naughty”.
“Who told you this?” asked the love my life
“Dad” replied the light of my eyes
“Why are you teaching the poor child all this nonsense?” enquired my wife angrily “she’s far too young for this sort of stuff”.
“I didn’t. I was only trying to reply to her question,” said I.
“Stop blaming it on the child. What would a three-year-old know about such things?” said she with the look of someone that was assaulted by the runny faeces of a passing pigeon.

I flailed my arms about, opened my eyes wide and innocently shouted “You think I brought up this topic?”
“I don’t know who did and I don’t care. It’s not an appropriate topic for a three-year-old” she resolutely replied.

“What do you mean you don’t care? You just accused me of corrupting our three-year-old child,” I angrily shouted as I pointed a reproachful finger at her.
She flinched, took a step back and changed the subject with the words “you don’t have to be aggressive. It’s quite hurtful and scary you know”.
“What? And accusing me of corrupting our child is not?” I shouted as I carried taking a few more steps towards.

She started crying. Her daughter starting crying with her and asking me to leave her alone! I panicked. I knew I was right to get angry about her insinuations and knew I was right to tell her so, but I also knew that now she started crying whatever I was right about is wrong. I started apologising to her and, like a cobra tamer, walking slowly towards her with outstretched arms and alert eyes. She recoiled back and sobbed some more; I started murmuring some soothing words and gently walking towards whilst waving my outstretched arms in a clockwise manner until I was close enough to put one hand on her head! I gave her a hug and started apologising for upsetting her and make all sorts of excuses to explain my behaviour (even though I knew I was right). She kept telling me, in between her sobs, that it was ok and I had nothing to apologise for. I was so relived that this episode didn’t last as long as previous arguments that I couldn’t stop myself from showering her with lots of apologetic kisses.
“Eeew, daddy is being naughty,” giggled my three-year-old snitch.

DIY

Last Saturday, after weeks of nagging, I finally agreed to make my wife happy and sort out all my old junk. As I was going through some old books, gadgets and clothes, I came across an old Walkman that I haven’t used for years. With the world of Ipods, portable CD players and even MP3s in mobile phones I knew that I would never dare walkabout with an old Walkman in my hands. So, like any old boy with a toy, I decided to dismantle it.

I looked all over the house for a suitable screwdriver but couldn’t find any. What house in this day and age does not contain screwdrivers? I even looked in my wife’s bag but apart from some scissors, nail clippers, panadols, old bills, photos, twenty-year-old ID cards, out of date chewing gum and a tiny torch! I couldn’t find any screwdrivers.

I stopped what I was doing, got dressed and went out to the High Street. It was important to have screwdrivers in the house. I knew that I could clear the junk some other time, it can wait, but the screwdrivers could not. What if one of the kids locked themselves in the toilet at three o’clock in the morning and I needed some screwdrivers to unscrew the door from its hinges? What if one of them put my beloved remote control in the video and I needed to get it out? Buying those screwdrivers was of the utmost importance.

As I was walking down the High Street, I spotted a friend of my wife’s coming out of the local supermarket. She was carrying loads of shopping and was trying to drag it all home. I’ve only met this woman once before, when shopping with my wife. I wasn’t sure how close they were but they did say hi and seemed happy to see each other. I couldn’t just walk away and watch her drag all that shopping on her own. So, I went over, introduced myself and asked her if she needed any help. She recognised me straight away and was grateful for my help. Once we got to her house, she insisted that I come in and have a cup of tea. I tried to make my excuses and leave but she wouldn’t have it and even offered to lend me her set of screwdrivers! I went in.

I stayed in her house for fifteen minutes and she told me all about herself and how hard it was for her to live in a three-bedroom house in her own. She offered me the screwdrivers again and said that she has no use for them because she was not that good with DIY jobs and had nobody to do them for her. I almost got chivalrous again and was about to offer to help her out but got distracted by her dog that started sniffing my feet. I quickly had to remark that though dogs are cute they have a very bad habit of sniffing people’s feet, even when these people are wearing CLEAN socks.

At the first chance of a pause in the conversation, I decided that this was a good time to leave. I thanked her for the tea, accepted her thanks for the help and politely asked her to come and visit us then left. I forgot to go back to the High Street.

When I got home, my wife was seething and asked me about the mess I made in the house. I tried to placate her by telling her about the screwdrivers and explaining the logic of their importance but she just was not listening. I told her that I was about to clear it all up but she dismissed me with a wave of her hand and said “leave it alone, you’ll only go and make more mess”.

She was upset. She was going to punish me, like she always does, by going silent and giving me accusing looks for eternity. It was only Saturday afternoon! I tried to sweet talk her, tried to make her laugh and even contemplated apologising but nothing worked. Those accusing looks still followed me around the house. I resigned to my fate and slumped my self on the sofa. She started unnecessarily tidying up and mumbling to herself loudly. She went on about some strange kings that make a mess and expect their unpaid servants to clean after them. The woman was losing her mind!

After an hour of this distressing treatment, I couldn’t take it anymore and had to try to convince her that I’m not really all bad. She wouldn’t have any eye contact and kept turning away every time I tried to stand in her line of vision.

“Going to the High Street wasn’t such a bad thing you know. I even got to help your friend carry her shopping”, I said.

“What friend?” she asked.

“Gina! You know, the one you introduced me to when we were in that electrical shop”, I said.

“Why did you have to help her?” She asked, suddenly looking all interested and surprised.

“Erm, because she’s your friend and I thought it would be a nice thing to do” I replied.

“She’s not my friend, she’s only a girl I went to school with,” she answered petulantly.

“Well, I thought she was your friend and I even helped her carry her shopping all the way to her house. She offered me a cup of tea”, I said.

“Did you accept?” she asked, her eyes widening!

“She insisted” I replied.

“Did. You. Accept?” she asked again.

I panicked and whimpered the word ‘Yes’.

If the eyes are the windows to the soul, then my wife’s eyes at that moment were so wide open I could see the bunk bed in her heart compartment, if I stood on tiptoes. And no, it didn’t have my name on it.

“You shouldn’t help such women out you know”, she said calmly and in a motherly voice!

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because Gina is a man-eater and you’re no good around women. She’ll take advantage of you” she replied lovingly.

“No woman could take advantage of me. I’m an African lion and it’s I who is the woman-eater” I replied angrily.

“If you ever see her again, just avoid talking to her” she replied rolling her eyes.

“ But she can’t take advantage of me. I’m not a silly child,” I protested.

“You don’t know what she’s like” she pleaded.

“I don’t care what she’s like. She’s lucky I didn’t jump her right there and then in her living room,” I proudly declared.

“You wanted to ‘jump her’?” She screeched.

“No, No. I’m just saying that if I wanted to and if I were the advantage taking type, I could have”, I quickly explained.

“Stop talking nonsense. You’re no match for her. Just stay out of her way” She replied dismissively and walked out of the room.
I slumped back on the sofa and started planning my scheme of taking advantage of Gina. “I’ll show her DIY” I said to myself with a satisfied chuckle. Just as I was about to get up and go to Gina’s house to offer my services, I heard one of the children shout from the toilet!

Bruce Lee Growl

I have an extra seat in my office. It’s a nice comfortable leather seat that I pinched when some guy that worked in the room next door resigned and wasn’t replaced. This chair is very popular with all my colleagues. Everyone wants to come and sit on it.

Every morning, anytime between ten and eleven, this seat of mine is usually occupied by one of two female colleagues. They come to tell me about their day and ask about mine. They usually talk about everything and no topic is off-limits. I usually sit and listen.

Today, one of them came and sat on THE chair and told me that she’s planning to join a martial arts class! I asked her if she was planning to break concrete with her bare hands. She seemed offended by my innocent question and sat straight on the chair before commencing to lecture me on the beauty and nobility of martial arts! I noted the seriousness in her voice and attempted to lighten the mood a little by making a Bruce Lee sound. ‘Why are you growling at me?’ She asked.
‘I’m making a Bruce Lee sound’ I said.
‘Bruce Lee was not about sounds and movements alone’ she said ‘he was a master of his art, fast, controlled and strong’ she continued.

I growled some more and pretended to break some invisible concrete with my powerful wrists.

‘You have gay wrists’ she said.
‘What?’ I asked. ‘Gay wrists’ she repeated.
‘You mean girly?’ I asked. ‘No. Gay’ she replied.
‘What do gay wrists look like?’ I asked.
‘Yours are the only gay wrists I’ve seen’ she said ‘so I can’t really give you any other examples’ she added.
‘You are lucky we don’t have any gay people in this office or they would be offended’ I said.
‘How do you know that we don’t?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know, but I doubt if we did’ I said.
‘Do you have a problem with gay people’ she asked whilst giving me an accusing look.
‘No I don’t’ I replied. ‘Besides, you’re the one that brought up the gay story’ I added.
‘They have signals you know’ she said.
‘Who does?’ I asked.
‘Gay people’ she said.
‘What sort of signals?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know. Signals to know each other by’ she said.
‘Aha’ I said.
‘Exactly’ she said.
‘Has this got anything to do with my gay wrists?’ I asked
‘No, that’s a different type of gay’ she said.
‘Are there different kinds of gay?’ I asked.
‘Never mind. Want a cup of tea?’ she enquired.
‘No thanks I had one already’ I said.
She left the room and five minutes later the other lady came and sat on THE chair. We talked about recycling and how it became her new hobby. That topic led us to the topic of rubbish collection and from there we went on to compare our local councils then we moved on to the politics of the London Mayor. Just as we reached South American politics my phone started ringing and she quietly crept out of the room.

Later on, on my way back from lunch I got on a bus and went to sit at the back. There were two people sat there, a half naked woman and a guy with very dark sunglasses. They both ignored me as I took a seat next to them. I started daydreaming.

While I was lost in my thoughts, a young man in a suit came and sat opposite me (it was a double-decker bus). I noticed him and thought it strange that he would choose to sit opposite me when half of the rest of the bus was empty. But he was a man in a suit and I had no reason to be suspicious (unless he was a salesman of course).

I went back to my daydreaming when I suddenly felt a gentle kick on my right foot! I assumed it was accidental and paid him no attention. He kicked me again! I looked up at him to gratefully receive his likely apology but none was forthcoming, he wasn’t even looking at me! He was looking at my foot and carrying on with his gentle kicks. I looked around to see if my fellow passengers had noticed anything. They did. Both gave me a look that said ‘what the hell is he kicking your foot for and why are you letting him?’

I wasn’t sure how to react. I knew that, naturally, this kicking should stop. If I was there on my own with no onlookers I probably would have let him carry on until he got bored, his weak kicks didn’t hurt. But now that I had spectators and they were judging me. My image had to take precedence over his fun.

I sat and watched him swinging his foot about and ending the swing with a kick. I looked at his face and saw that he was concentrating very hard on what he was doing. It was as if he was expecting petrol to gush out from my shiny designer shoes. I allowed him to swing and kick me twice and then, just as he was about to make the third kick, I pulled my foot out of the way. That seemed to get him out of his trance and he looked up at me! This man had BIG eyes and he pointed these floodlights of his squarely at my face. He gave me a look as if to say ‘why did you take your foot out of the way?’ I tried to look away but he was still staring.

It’s true that right there and then I was in a real petulant mood and was likely to start an argument with this guy. It was MY foot that he was kicking after all! But, just when I decided to narrow my eyes at him and growl like Bruce Lee, I remembered the conversation I had that morning! Could it be that this guy is gay and this was the signal that my colleague was talking about? Narrowing my eyes and growling at a man that’s giving me signals suddenly seemed like a very bad idea!

Those searching floodlights were still looking at me. I decided to pretend that he was not there. Give him the silent treatment thought I. Then I remembered that silence is a sign of consent. I almost growled in horror.

‘Are you ok?’ he asked.‘Ok! You’ve been kicking me for the past five minutes’ I thought. I didn’t reply. Instead I just nodded and smiled back at him while inwardly making a Bruce Lee growl. He nodded and smiled back at me. Was that another signal? I couldn’t really tell because the bus had reached my stop and I had to get off, man.

HOT HOT HOT

It’s too hot outside. It’s even hotter inside. It’s hot all over. London was not designed for heat. If a bit of Nan bread had a life of its own and could speak I bet it would feel exactly the way I feel now. Then again, maybe I’m wrong. Nan breads have to go through this process to reach their aim in life, or the dinner table. We humans are born, cry and eat for three to four years then finally go to school. Just like a Nan bread goes from being flour and water on some kitchen table to spending a couple of minutes in an oven, we spend eighteen years or so in school! Are we worse off than a worthless Nan bread? But hang on! Nan breads are not that worthless. Every single Nan bread has a destiny and goal in life. Most Nan breads achieve that goal and die like heroes in the mouths of fat men and women. Sometimes, the men are not even fat. Sometimes the women are very pretty and busty. What would I give to die in the mouth of a pretty and busty woman!

Back to the heat. This misery has not just arrived; it’s been here all weekend. I had two very powerful fans on all through Friday night and still couldn’t sleep. I went and sat in a park on Saturday morning, and still couldn’t escape the heat. I spent four hours in a cold bath on Saturday evening but, eventually, the water got warm. It was like wading in one’s own sweat, disgustingly sticky.

Everyone else seemed to be enjoying the heat. Even those that hated it didn’t seem to hate it as much as I did. How do these people cope? Was I a refrigerator in a previous life? There I was, sweating like a hot iceberg while everyone around me looked as dry as a smoker’s throat after he’s had his first morning cigarette! Something had to be done. Something had to be done.

On Saturday evening, after I had a quick shower (after getting out of that sticky bath), I got dressed up and decided to visit a cold place, any cold place. I left the house at six and went walking about the streets. I was determined to spend a couple of hours somewhere nice and cold. I walked into our local supermarket and went to stand by the refrigerators. They were cool but not very cold!

I stood there looking at all the items in them and wondering why nobody bothered to decrease the temperature. Surely at such a temperature the milk will soon go off, I thought. I don’t own the shop and know that if the milk, meats and cheeses were to go off I wasn’t the one facing the loss or having to pay for them. However, the milk, meats and cheeses were the only objects in this whole world that shared my feelings about this ghastly heat and this thought made me feel sorry for them. One can feel sorry for objects you know; have you never looked at a square dinning table with three chairs and felt sorry for it? You know, like a dog with three legs or a blind cat or something?

Anyway, I was standing there mumbling to myself and saying ‘the milk and meat are going to go off if somebody does not hurry up and do something about the temperature’ when I suddenly heard a voice behind me! I turned around and saw a middle aged female shop assistant standing behind me and eyeing the fridge. She repeated her question:

‘where are they going to go off to?’
‘What?’ said I again.
‘Who were you talking about?’ she asked smiling.
‘The milk and meat’ I replied with a tentative smile.
She took a step back and started to eye me up with a humourless look. I carried on smiling timidly.
She gave me a rude sort of smile and asked ‘are they going to run off together then? Maybe get married and give birth to a calf?’
‘That’s not what I meant’ said I looking down on her.
‘What did you mean then?’ she asked, still with that evil smile on her face.
‘Don’t you have work to do?’ I impatiently asked.
‘I do’ she replied.
‘Well go and do it then’ I ordered.
‘Are you planning to buy some milk?’ she asked
‘No’ I said. ‘I think it’s gone off’
‘No it has not’ she said ‘it’s right here’.
‘What’s right here?’ I asked angrily.
‘The milk’ she replied, ‘there can’t you see it?’ she asked as she pointed to the milk.
‘I see it, I see it’ I replied, ‘but why are you telling me this?’ I edgily asked.
‘I thought you wanted to buy some milk’ She said with a puzzled look.
‘No I don’t want to buy anything’ I intolerantly replied.

She didn’t speak. Instead, she took another step back and started eyeing me up again. An hour ago, I was complaining about the heat and how unbearable it was. An hour ago I thought there was no worse heat in the world than that. Apart from the oven heat of course but we already agreed that a Nan bread lives a great life. Now, that heat was nothing, nothing at all when compared to the volcano that was brewing inside me. This woman was staring at me as if I was some tramp’s smelly lost sock or something! What right has she to look at me in such a way? What have I ever done to her? Why?

‘So you don’t want to buy any milk?’ she carelessly said.
‘No’ I rudely replied.
‘Cool’ she said.

Cool? Cool? Of all the words in the world, could she not think of any other than the word cool?
I almost lost my cool at her but, since I had none left and could feel myself bubbling like an overfilled kettle, I decided that the best insult was to just storm out!
As I proudly stomped away, I could hear her laughingly shout after me ‘ are you going already?’ ‘if you hurry, you might just catch up with the milk and meat’. She let out a sarcastic laugh. I turned my head as I walked away and shouted ‘leave me alone’. She shrugged, smiled and said ‘COOL’. I walked straight into some shelf full of sanitary towels. Cool!

Just another Sunny Day!

For no particular reason, I decided to go out and sit on a park bench. Alone. It was nice to watch people walk past and observe how many of them looked happy and smiley. I even found myself envying some of the lovely women for the beauty and size of breasts they have (I know it’s wrong and that envy is not nice and that I’m male and would probably look ugly if I had a nice pair but these things are unexplainable, man).

Anyway, two young and very beautiful ladies walked slowly past me. I was lost in my thoughts as I stared at one of them. She had the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen. Like a bottled calm and clear ocean they were. She held my gaze for a few seconds then a cloud of worry appeared in her eyes! She quickly looked away. I looked away. I looked back to be surprised by a most winning smile! She said, “cheer up, mate”. I beamed. She walked away smiling. It’s either this girl does not know what effect her eyes and smile have on people or she knows and is being very charitable (in which case, please, sir, I want some more).

As I walked out of the park, a little old lady singled me out from the passing crowd and asked me for directions. She’s not a Londoner but her daughter is and works for Virgin Rail. She said that I looked happy, man. I almost told her about the girl with the ocean in her eyes but thought it would be a bit awkward trying to explain it all. I’ll tell you instead.


Keep on smiling....

Refresher Course!

The company I work for had a change of management recently. The new people in charge are not like the old ones. These ones are young, full of ideas and totally lack any kind of world experience and people management. They’re a dream come true.

A few months ago, the top man called me in to his office and started asking me questions about my work and what improvements I have to suggest. I played it cool and was all diplomacy and timidity. I put no clear ideas forward. I shared no great wisdom. I didn’t let him in into my great reserves of common sense and astuteness. In short, I played dumb. He fell for it. He suggested that I should go on a training course! He was heading the way I wanted him to go. But not fully, not fully! I had to employ a tiny bit of my renowned powers of suggestion and skill to convince him to change it from a training course to a ‘refresher’ course. He easily agreed and thought it his own idea!

The next day, he called me again and asked me to come and see him. I went over acting all meek and ready to feign surprise as I convinced him to give me a huge pay rise. It wasn’t to be. As I walked into his office, I noticed that he was holding some kind of prospectus in his hand. He was leafing through and marking various courses. I went over, sat down and waited for him to speak. He passed me the prospectus and asked me to look at the different courses. I had a quick glance and was appalled to find out that the prospectus was not a University one. It was not even one issued by a private College! It was an Adult Education Centre one! I told him that such places are not likely to offer me the kind of knowledge (refreshing) that I was after. He told me that as long as I got a certificate at the end of the course (any course) he would be happy! This man is a quick learner. A bit rough and clumsy in the way he presents his ideas but a quick learner nonetheless. He was using my own techniques against me! We were like two calm looking teenagers, each holding a joystick and hardly moving a muscle, yet still playing Street Fighter and letting out lots of blood. No words were exchanged but I got the impression that in order to get a pay rise I’d have to do this damn course! Sonic boom!

I let him choose the course for me. I phoned the Adult Education Centre and made an appointment to meet the course manager. The course was to start on the following Monday and was going to last for the next twelve Mondays. The helpful course manager asked me to make sure that I bring in my own stationery.

On the Monday, it was my first day back at school. It didn’t feel right at all. Mother was not there to wave me off. I forgot to pack myself some lunch. I had to get in a tube with lots of big people. I had no mates to walk with me. It all was very frightening really.

I got to the college on time and after enquiring at reception was led to the correct class. Once there, I discovered that the class consisted of four housewives and a retired old man! I gave them all a sympathetic smile and pulled a seat in the far corner, away from them. The old man was talking to the Russian housewife about the courses he did when he was younger. He was pathetically regretting not having done more when he had the chance. I’m sure I heard him ask her if they had any schools in Russia! The other three women were talking about the course manager and all agreed that he was a charming, man! Mr bring-your-own-stationery was a charming man!

He walked in. Stood in the middle of the room. Looked at us all. Turned around and cleared the blackboard. Looked at us all again. Pulled a seat and sat down. It must have been a full minute before he uttered any word. The retired old man said hello to him but got nothing back other than a simple condescending smile! This was going to be great fun. I stooped down to the world of Adult Education only to find that my ‘teacher’ was a self-important clown. I pushed my chair back a bit and sat as comfortably as was humanly possible in those types of chairs. It seems the clown had chosen his moment to speak and was just about to do so when I pushed my chair back! The noise of my chair took away from his intended big moment. He didn’t look at all happy as he stared at me and tried to break me with his gaze. I gave him a benevolent smile and almost, gently, patted him on the head with my eyelashes. He scored a small victory by ignoring my smile and pretending I didn’t exist. I was beaming now. This simpleton really thought he got the better of me!

He started talking and explaining the setup of the course and all the other boring details. One of the women was confused as to his role. She asked him if he was a teacher or merely the course Administrator. Hadouken! The poor women didn’t know what hit her. He let rip with a long lecture about the difference between an Administrator and Manager. HE was the course Manager. He hired people to teach on that course. He had his own administrator working under him. He worked hard all his life to reach that position and would like some acknowledgment from his pupils (I was quietly pleased to be referred to as a pupil). The woman apologised but he refused her apology and cleverly indicated that making mistakes was part and parcel of the learning process. YOU all, he said as he pointed us all out with some invisible magic wand, are here to learn. I am going to teach you everything about this course and a few more things that have nothing to do with this course, he added. SONIC BOOM!

The course, as I suspected, turned out to be a pointless one. I could have taught it with my eyes closed. Yet, I was a student in it and had to pass! To start with, I assumed that passing was not even in question. How could I not pass this silly course? How?
However, as the weeks went by and I got to know this course manager better, I knew that passing was not as easy as I assumed!

One day, half way through one of his dull lectures, he finally had the courage to direct one of his questions at me. This question had nothing to do with the course. He was trying to give us a hypothetical example of something or other but then digressed into how people undervalue processes and the importance of following them correctly. This is when he asked me to explain the processes involved in making a cup of tea!

Tea? I asked. Tea, he said. With Sugar and Milk? I asked. Please, he said. In a cup or pot? I asked. Your choice, he said.

I told him that I usually make my tea in a cup not a pot. Told him that I would put a teabag in the empty cup first. I’d then add hot water and follow that with milk, then finally add the sugar.

He screeched the sound “ Aah! Aah! Aah!” and shook his head in disagreement. He said my process of making tea was wrong. I told him that he gave me the choice in choosing my process! He shouted “STOP RIGHT THERE” and stuck out his hand like some irate traffic policeman. Don’t misquote me; I didn’t give you the choice, he protested. I thought you did, I said. No I didn’t, he said. I shrugged. SONIC BOOM!

This is why, ladies and gentlemen, he calmly said as he addressed the rest of the class, PRocesses are important!
WHY? I asked whilst trying to suppress a chuckle.
Why? He retorted.
Because without good processes, without knowing the value of processes and without respecting processes, people like you will shrug and be lost for words when asked about a simple process, he lectured.
I am indeed lost for words, I said smiling.

The whole room were staring at me and looking confused. The poor lambs had no idea what was going on and couldn’t follow the simple PRocess of our argument. I flashed them all their usual portion of my generous smile. He took this opportunity to change the subject to something that felt more comfortable. He started talking about himself and how, even now, he still learns new things about life. He spat out some sort of technical word at us and asked us if we knew what it meant. I had no idea what it meant. The women were impressed (as they’ve always been) with his vast knowledge. The old retired man slowly shook his head, though it wasn’t clear if he was doing it out of resignation or ignorance of the question! The course manager explained to us that the word had something to do with toilets. Apparently, (and this is the most useless and amusing piece of information I ever had the pleasure to learn) joined up toilet seats and non-joined up toilet seats have different names! The word he used described one of those! The reason he mentioned these, he said, was because he was redecorating his flat! Once we safely passed over the bottleneck of technical words, we all had a great time hearing about his flat and what improvements he made to it.

I daydreamt for a bit but when I returned, I noticed that the women in the class were badmouthing someone called Sandra and that the course manager was agreeing with them. I was just about to ask whom this Sandra person was when the old retired man finally woke up and said something I’ve been dying to say from the first day. He said, ‘with all due respect, Mr Razaq, I don’t think most of us joined this course to talk about your private life’. SONIC B.OOOOM!

The clown had a hurt look on his face. He didn’t utter a word in reply. Instead, he stood there staring at the old man. Like one of those nature programs when they speed up the photography and show the clouds gathering in the sky and then suddenly dispersing, we all could clearly see all sorts of ideas and thoughts appear on his face and quickly disappear. He smiled. He frowned. He took a step back. He took a step forward. He looked offended. He looked tickled. He was lost for words. He was bursting with words. The only thing missing was a classic Attenborough commentary!

A few centuries later, an O sound came out of him. It was loud and lasted for a few seconds. It was quickly followed by the sound ‘K’! But this was not an everyday ‘K’. It was not a short and sharp ‘K’. This was more of a raw Pizza ‘K’. He stretched it as far as it would go then stretched it some more. He darted his eyes around the room and tried to find some supporters. He suddenly changed tack and shouted the words “STOP. RIGHT. THERE!”

The worst thing for a good teacher, he said, is when his pupils don’t pay attention to him or follow his lesson, he added. One of your colleagues, ladies and gentlemen, accuses me of wasting lesson times by talking about myself, he shouted. “One of your colleagues, ladies and gentlemen, thinks I have nothing better to do than talk about my next-door neighbour”, he scoffed! “This lesson was about ORganised PRocesses!” He said. “The mention of my flat, toilet and next door neighbour was an illustration of random PRocesses and how misleading they can be”, he added knowingly. One of the women succumbed and started nodding her head as she listened to him. “Sarah, you understand what I’m talking about, don’t you?” He asked. She carried on nodding. This was the sort of backup he needed and it gave him the confidence to look the old man in the eye as he rebuked him. “I would appreciate it, sir, if you paid attention in my lessons. I don’t like to be accused of talking about trivial things and wasting my and your valuable time”, he protested. The old man shrugged. SONIC BOOM! The clown was mortified. He shouted, “ I already told your colleague that shrugging was the enemy of good PRocesses. Don’t shrug again please”. Hadouken!

The old man started packing his books and materials. The clown was affronted! “It’s rude to walkout in the middle of a class,” he said.
“It’s time to go home,” said the old man.
“No it’s not”, argued the clown. The old man shrugged. The clown turned to the rest of the class and said, “ It’s one minute to five. The lesson finishes at five. Leaving at one minute to five is a sign that someone does not understand the meaning of a good PRocess”. He looked at his female supporter as he bellowed these words. She was nodding as usual. But then, suddenly, she somehow remembered something! She quickly looked at her watch and then started packing her belongings too. The clown looked disappointed. He looked at the rest of us and noticed that we were all ready to leave.


He stormed out without saying a word.

Weddings

Last Friday, I received a phone call from an old friend. This was a very good old friend. In fact, once upon a time, he was almost my best friend, beaten only by my authoritative father who always insisted that he’s my best friend. My own view and preference is not to have any ‘best’ friends. In my mind, I always reserved that position for the dog that I was going to buy when I grew up.

My friend’s name is Chris and he phoned to inform me that he was getting married the following day! He gave me a long sob story about what a good friend I have been and how he always liked me better than anyone else. I panicked. As he ranted on, I wondered if the idea of marriage made him confront his real feelings and gave him thoughts of eloping, with me! I was just about to shout ‘no, sorry, I can’t lead you on anymore. I am married, man’, when I heard him conclude his speech with the words ‘..and that’s why I want you to be my best man’.

This was more gratifying than finding out that he fancied me. He wanted me to be his BEST MAN! After years of telling myself that I was, I now had confirmation that I am. This was not going to merely be established by our idle chat. This was going to be witnessed by a crowed of wedding guests and approved by the state. I had no choice but to accept my destiny and feign modesty and surprise as I did so.

Chris told me that his wedding was going to be a simple and quite affair. The plan was to go to the registry office, get married, come back to his house and have a small party for about thirty carefully selected guests. He suggested that I spend the night in his place and then join him as we go to meet his new wife in the local town hall. The best man assented.


That evening, we were sat in his house, watching TV and talking about old times. It’s never my habit to hurry things up or ask nosey questions. This is why I didn’t ask him anything about his wife-to-be. I didn’t at all find it strange that he didn’t mention her or talk about how much he loved her. I reasoned that real men never descend to such pathetic levels of conversation. Besides, I was already busy arguing with him about the little surprise he had prepared for me as I arrived. I discovered that he bought me a new suit, shirt, tie and shoes! I was amazed that he knew my size but then I remembered that, earlier, when we were talking on the phone, he did ask if I put on weight and if I still had a 28” waist (my theory that he fancied me did not develop out of thin air, you see). Chris was never this organised, methodical or efficient. I asked him if he was up to no good but he silenced me with the very strong and convincing argument about the uniqueness and importance of marriage and good weddings.

I slept in the guest room and he slept on his empty matrimonial bed. Neither bed was, felt or looked that comfortable. The guest room bed is, by custom, meant to feel that way. Guests that sleep on comfortable beds tend to stay longer than intended. However, the bed that was going to help consummate Chris’s marriage should have at least been of a better quality and looked better than the shabby thing that I saw. I told him so and he informed me that he bought new bedcovers that he will put on after coming back from the registry office. He promised that the bedroom would look completely different when he’s finished with it.

Morning came and we were both up and ready for the day’s events. We got dressed up and went out to get us some breakfast. Chris’s brother joined us later in the local café. It was 9.00 am. We had another two hours to go before the real business of marriage was about to start. Chris suggested that we go for a walk round the local Shopping Centre! I told him that this would be a very bad idea but he didn’t listen. There we were, three ‘well dressed’ men, walking from shop to shop. Only when we have been approached by more than five people asking us for help with buying, choosing, explaining or wrapping some items, did Chris agree that this was a bad idea. We hurriedly left the Shopping Centre and decided to drive around town for a while. Chris laughingly suggested that we park the car at a safe distance from the Town Hall and observe people (including his wife-to-be) as they come and go. The guy was getting married today yet he was still childish enough to suggest that we play cops and robbers! We did.

We sat there watching the place and people for a good hour. Every once in a while, Chris would make a silly comment and look at his brother then they would both laugh. I didn’t get the jokes and told them to stop being childish. But that got them to laugh even harder. I already was used to Chris’s laugh so it didn’t irritate me that much. However, his brother had a strange sounding laugh. Though I didn’t get the jokes, I was still confident that his laugh was inconsistent with the quality of the joke. In fact, I don’t think there has been, had been, or will ever be a joke worthy of such a laugh. This was a laugh that took a long time to come out. Chris’s brother would open his mouth wide and pull an amazing succession of different faces without any sound coming out. He then would violently tremble and emit what sounds like a dozen prostitutes faking an orgasm. There was nothing real about that laugh, nothing at all.

It was twenty to eleven and time for us to make our way to the Town Hall. We had a wedding to go to! Chris started to panic and have second thoughts. His brother carried on laughing hysterically and looked like he was enjoying Chris’s doubts! I lost my temper and told them both to grow up. It’s a well-known fact that when I’m angry and in lecture mode, hearts melt, egos deflate and people listen. I told them that marriage was not a joke and that real men don’t change their minds at the last minute. I told them to be responsible and stand up to be counted. I added a few things about queen, country and other trivialities. In short, I got them nicely roused up and ready to marry the first women to say hello.

We made our way by foot to the Town Hall. As we did, I tried to develop a hunch, a limp and toyed with the idea of pretending to be one-eyed. Chris was the groom and we had to find a way that would make him look better than us. I finally decided the best way would be for us to walk a few steps behind him and let him be the first thing that catches the gaze of any potential observer. It worked like magic. As soon as we entered the building, a Brazilian-looking beauty, in lovely white wedding dress, let go of the arm of her male companion and came running at us. She presented us with a wonderful smile then gave Chris a great big hug! This woman was way out of Chris’s league. Surely he was not going to get married to this delectable Brazilian! On impulse, I decided to save his marriage and drag him, gently, away from her clutches. I quickly whispered in his ear that he has a wedding to go to and that it’s not fair on his wife-to-be is he’s caught with this Brazilian. He chuckled and told me that she was the woman he’s going to get married to. He introduced her as Helen, the love of his life. His brother had another of those orgasms.

The Wedding ceremony didn’t take long. I didn’t lose the ring. Chris didn’t do anything silly and his brother, fortunately for all present, was given no reason to laugh. Everyone got in their cars and we drove back to Chris’s house. Once there, we all had our photos taken with the bride and groom, and their friends and family. I particularly enjoyed the part where I hugged the bride, kissed the bride and was photographed standing behind the bride whilst holding her waist and smiling winningly at the camera.

After an hour of chatting, photograph taking and drinking, Chris called me to one side and asked me to accompany him outside. I thought he wanted to check if my ‘best man speech’ didn’t contain anything embarrassing. Just as I was getting myself ready to reject all his pleas and tell him that I was not going to change my speech, he asked me to get in the car! I asked him where was he going. He smiled and told me that he’ll tell me on the way! We drove off. As he drove, he was chuckling quietly to himself. I asked him what was the matter and where was he taking us but he kept on laughing. I swore at him. He stopped laughing and said, “Ok, ok, we’re going to Manchester”! MANCHESTER!
I asked, “ What about your wife?”
He replied, “She’s staying in London”
I said, “But you just married her!”
He said, “Yeah I know”
I said, “But you can’t leave the woman on her wedding day and go to Manchester”
He said, “ It’s ok, she doesn’t mind”

I asked him to stop the car and let me out. I’m not sure if I was angry because of my perception of what a good marriage should be or because I was missing a good party. A party usually awakens my inner child. Though I’ll admit that my inner child is a light sleeper anyway. Still parties are fun and when I’m deprived of such fun, my inner child throws a tantrum.

Chris reached into his pocket and took out an envelope. He tossed it over to me as he tried to park the car in a quite place. The envelope was full of money! I was stunned and confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. He laughed and told me that the marriage was not real and that he was paid to marry Helen and help get her permission to work and live in the country. He said that now she’s officially his wife, she might have better luck in gaining an indefinite leave to remain in the country. This opportunity cost her six thousand pounds. He offered me a thousand pounds for my part. I dramatically threw it back in his face and launched into a long and laborious rant about trust, marriage, friendship and many many other things. He patiently listened to every word I said and didn’t retaliate with any words of his own. I felt sorry for him and decided to stop. I then realised why he and his brother were laughing all day, I started another rant! He laughed and started driving us to Manchester.

An Accidental Legend

As her son lay in bed and coughed his heart out, Mariam looked down at him and was wondering if this is, yet another, harmless cold like all the ones he used to suffer from in his childhood. Her mind strayed a little and she was, suddenly and irrationally, worried that this might be something graver than a mere cough. As the awful thought crossed her mind, she instinctively, like all mothers the world over, smiled and started stroking her son’s head.

A week passed and Elmi (the son) was still coughing! He was always tired, always coughing, always sweating at night and seemed to be suffering from chills and fevers! Elmi had tuberculosis (TB).

By now, his family had recognised the symptoms and knew how contagious this disease was. They discreetly took him to a doctor in the neighbouring town and were given medicines and told to isolate him from people until his condition improved (or didn’t!).

The family were presented with a great quandary. No other disease loses you friends, isolates you from loved ones and shuts down your business like TB does. At the mere hint of a sneeze or a clearing of throat, everyone within the vicinity panics and hurries to gargle with all sorts of oils and bleaches in the vain hope of arresting the disease!

Elmi’s family were business people and had a respectable standing in the community. His parents’ advice and counsel was sought out by everyone and his siblings were the cream of the town. Even Elmi himself was looked upon as one of the best young men of his generation, most able and articulate. But all of that would have meant nothing against the destructive menace of TB.

The family knew they would have to concoct a story as to why Elmi is always locked up in his room and the type of illness he suffers from. Miriam and her husband gathered all their children round and presented them with the situation. They told them about the impact such news would have (if it ever leaked out) on their status in the community. Everyone was certain that Elmi was going to make a full recovery and they only wanted to dream up a temporary story to distract people.

Elmi had a younger brother called Abdi. This Abdi was the cleverest, finest and most articulate young person in that town. He was also a hopeless romantic and was forever making up little ditties about unrequited love and heartbreak. This Abdi, as expected from someone of his ability and disposition, suggested that the family pretend that Elmi is madly in love and that this love is what’s making him ill!

The family, of course, rejected this silly idea and told him to come up with something more sensible. But, as they spoke to him and rebuked him for his silly suggestion, this idea was growing on Abdi. He thought of all the famous love stories and sighed as he tried to invent one for his brother. The story, he knew, had to be one of an unreciprocated love. The girl had to be a local girl but not one that personally knew Elmi!

The next day, while hard at work, Abdi saw a girl that radiated a peculiar sort of beauty. She was not attractive and, in fact, many people would argue that she was ugly. However, Abdi, with his bard eye, saw something in her that made his poetic juices overflow and helped him create his first ever full love poem! The girl, like a modern Dona del Toboso, blissfully went about her business unaware of the poet, the impact her presence had on him or how she inspired him.

That day, Abdi went home and read his poem to his family. They were all very impressed and proud to be related to such a wordsmith. Abdi took that opportunity to repeat his suggestion about the love deception. He promised them that if they agreed to his idea, he would write a poem each day talking about his (brother’s) unrequited love and how he (Elmi) has locked himself in a room until his beloved would agree to momentarily let the rays of her gaze fly in his general direction. The family were again; impressed with their son and the eloquent way he presented his argument. They all agreed that his was an ingenious idea and that most people would be so appalled with this grown man’s love troubles to worry about the holes in his misleading story.


In the weeks that followed, Elmi coughed, Abdi created poems, and the family spread the news about Elmi’s love-induced suffering. Elmi’s cough aside, everything else worked out beautifully. The entire town was fascinated with this debilitating love story and wanted to know the name of the girl. They soon found out her name and all flocked to her house to have a peek at the glorious beauty that made poor Elmi ill.

The girl’s name, of course, was Hothan. Although she had heard Abdi’s poems she did not know that she was Elmi’s supposed object of affection. On that day when the crowds were gathering in her street to view her, she was coming out of the house to hang up some washing. As she hung up and stretched out the washing, she started humming and singing a couple of Abdi’s words! The crowd, who were still trying to have a good look at Hothan, were outraged by her impertinence and cold heartedness. Some started shouting over to her and tell her to stop torturing the poor man. Others started begging her to have mercy on him; ‘his only crime is that he loved you’, they cried.

Hothan was shocked to hear all these people shout and point fingers at her! She dropped whatever washing she was carrying and quickly darted back into her house. The crowd hung around and stared at the windows. They kept on shouting and making accusations at the twitching window curtains. But, apart from the odd latecomer, they all soon dispersed and left Hothan, inside her house, and wondering when her mother would come back to extricate her from this infuriating fix!

Another two weeks passed and there was no improvement in Elmi’s condition, no shortage or decrease in Abdi’s fine poetry and no let up for Hothan and her family from the usual crowds milling outside her house. Poor Hothan, like her supposed lover, was under house arrest! She begged, she cried, she denied it all and even pretended to be mad. But the mob was on Elmi’s side and thought her evil incarnate.

One day, a heavily disguised Hothan managed to leave her house and sneak unnoticed past the rabble. Once she made sure she wasn’t being followed, she made her way to Elmi’s house. She was determined to confront this Elmi and ask him why he decided to drag her name through the mud in such a way!

When Hothan reached the house, she saw Abdi walking out with his hands in his pockets and whistling quietly to himself. She stopped him and asked him to take her to Elmi. Abdi, not recognising Hothan under all that disguise, shook his head and told her that Elmi is only interested in Hothan. He tried to soothe her by saying that this is not a personal slur on her beauty or marriage-worthiness but that Elmi’s infatuation does not allow him to see the beauty of any woman other than his beloved Hothan.

Hothan thought it unfair that this liar is getting all kinds of beautiful women throwing themselves at him as a result of his big lie, while she has to run the gauntlet of an angry mob when she did nothing wrong. She sighed to herself as she listened to Abdi telling her about all the girls that come daily to offer themselves to his ill brother. Abdi tried to console her some more but she cut him off and theatrically removed her disguise to reveal the face that, whilst no Helen of Troy, still launched a thousand poems.

Abdi was flabbergasted! She demanded to see Elmi. Abdi panicked. She insisted that she see Elmi. Abdi almost gave in to the power of her plea. As he turned around to conduct her to Elmi’s room, he remembered the TB and the reason for this whole lie! He could not tell her about the illness. He couldn’t explain the reason for the lie either, so he decided to convince her that Elmi is really in love with her and that seeing her might kill him. He told her that the family don’t agree with Elmi’s madness and that they would do everything they can to restore her good name and reputation. He begged her not to see Elmi and promised her that, soon, Elmi will recover his health and leave her alone.

It was the turn of Hothan to wilt under the strength of Abdi’s argument. She agreed to walk away and, like the good-hearted girl she always was, wished Elmi a speedy recovery. The dignified way in which Hothan dealt with the situation, her kindness and the sparkle in her eyes throughout this encounter, moved Abdi and inspired him into writing another classic love poem. It was a poem so great that before the sun had set on that day, the entire population of the town were either already reciting it or listening to it.

By the following morning, Hothan’s family had heard the poem and found out about their daughter’s visit to the stricken man’s house! Her brothers wanted to kill him and her. Her father was on the verge of disowning her and her sisters, secretly, hated her for driving such a sensitive man to such a sorry state. Meanwhile, her mother was quietly plotting and trying to find a way to secure a respectable future for this wretched child of hers. A decision was finally made. Hothan is to be married as soon as possible. The husband shall be anyone but Elmi.


On the following Friday, Hothan was wed to her new husband. To her utter joy and total delight, this new and hastily unearthed husband, turned out to be everything she ever wished for in a man. On that night, as the new husband unwrapped the subject of all those great poems, Mariam was weeping as she covered the body of her dead son!

Hothan went on to have a great married life. Elmi’s name lived on as testament, symbol and icon of unrequited love (and uncured TB). While Abdi, like all real and unassuming heroes, went back to obscurity and the only occasional praise he got was usually the result of his more illustrious brother’s reflected glory. He wrote poems of better quality and greater wisdom than the ones he wrote in the name of Elmi, but when the people compared them to the sacrifice of giving one’s life in the name of love, all his poems were found wanting.