Decisions decisions

So, I'm back from the North Pole and what a splendid time I've had! The snow, the reindeer, the elves, the magic! Yes, fuck that. I have, in fact, been experiencing something of a pre-christmas family drama.

Here's what happened:

My mother, who is 78, had been feeling unwell for some time. Like most people of her age, she's medicated up to the eyeballs for blood pressure, heart, water retention, bla bla bla. Also like most people her age, she's of the view that doctors aren't there to be bothered at inconvenient times, and so she muddles along feeling crappy until her next appointment, at which point she's fobbed off with some lazy prognosis of balancing her medication.

Anyway, it's a measure of how crappy she was feeling that she was eventually persuaded to call out her GP, who promptly surmised that a 78 year old living on her own and feeling permanently dizzy might be something of a litigation risk, and advised her to temporarily check into hospital or move in with family. My brother - whom we shall call the Commander, because, rather cryptically, he is - volunteered to have her to stay.

During the move from her house to the Commander's house, my mother had a massive heart attack, and had to be resuscitated roadside over a period of 15 minutes. I was phoned when she was en route to hospital, then again once she was stabilised. Unfortunately, as she lives 95 miles away and I am single-handedly in charge of Grump, I was at something of a disadvantage in terms of getting to her.

So, I texted the Policeman. You may recall that the Policeman is the best friend of my ex-fiance, and is prone to chase me around after beer. He is, however, also a thoroughly decent human being, who immediately offered to take a day off work, drive from Surrey to Kent to collect me, drive me down to Hampshire and, crucially, shield me from the Commander's apparently unstoppable need to patronise and boss me. And so he did.

My mother, being of the tough old bird stock, has pulled through and all is as well as it can be, although her GPs should be shot for failing to diagnose a long-standing degenerative lung disease, compounded by a lung infection, which led to her heart stopping due to lack of oxygen. However, leaving aside the appalling service she received from them, her local hospital pulled out all the stops and have got her back on her feet in a mere couple of weeks.

Well, my life, obviously, wouldn't be complete without some complication of the male variety, and so it is. After going through the emotional grinder of a day at the hospital, the Policeman kindly took me out to the pub. And offered me a bed, which I gratefully accepted. Unfortunately, it was his bed and he was in it at the time. So... I now find myself in utter confusion about my feelings for him and, indeed, his feelings for me. I've known this man for 12 years, and we've been close friends throughout that time. When I was with the Fiance, the Policeman was the one who took days off to help me move house, and generally was a better boyfriend than the boyfriend. He is, however, congenitally incapable of being faithful and an inveterate womaniser, albeit honest to a fault about his failings.

We have arranged a drink to discuss the situation. Unfortunately, most of our communication of late has been via text, and thus has been compounded by misunderstandings and misinterpretations, to the extent that I feel I am casting about in an emotional pea-souper.

My mother, happily, is now ensconced in a nursing home which apparently bears more resemblance to a hotel than a home. If I told you how much it was costing, it would quite likely engender a collective heart attack, so I'll refrain. She was, however, happy to tell me that all the loons are on the second floor - a case of going up in the world equating to precisely the opposite, it would seem. She is there for the foreseeable future, as she can't currently decide where and with whom she wants to be. I know the feeling.

Christmas

Isn't it a little early for a Christmas blog, you ask? Why, yes, it is. But since every other bugger seems to think it's perfectly acceptable to bring the festivities forward by, oooh, about 2 months, why should I deny myself an unseasonal moan? No reason at all. So, here I go with my jolly list of things I hate about Christmas:

1. The adverts. I happen to be a fan of adverts, despite having been married to one of the industry's creatives (whose only really decent creation was Grump and, let's face it, I put in most of the work on that one.) For approximately 10 months of the year, I can happily sit through adverts and find them enjoyable, or at least interesting in the main. Right up until the bastards break out the poinsettias and grinning grandparents.

2. The music. Those insidious bloody tunes which go round and round in your brain until you'd cheerfully pick up the nearest reindeer antler and stab it through your forehead just to make the noise stop.

3. The enforced bonhomie. The only time I habitually find myself wanting to be friends with everyone in my ambit is after 6 pints, and that's swiftly followed by the urge for a nap. This seems entirely reasonable, and I shan't be changing my position just because some bearded do-gooder thinks I ought to. Unless he buys me 6 pints.

4. People. My walk through Covent Garden becomes ever more annoying. In addition to tourists in their idiotic festive hats, there are also large gingerbread houses to negotiate and strings of German sausages in which to entangle yourself. If you're a dog rustler, this is exceptionally good news; otherwise, less appealing.

5. Work colleagues. Specifically the ones who, by early October, "just have a couple more bits to get." Bully for you. Now fuck off, or at least have the good grace to shut up and let the rest of us continue in denial until closing time on the 24th.

6. The glitter. You can't move through a shop without setting off some cluster bomb of silver and gold glitter. By the time you exit the place, you'll be sporting more glitter than you could shake a figure skater at. And any attempt to remove it will simply embed it further into your clothing and outer dermal layer. Best change your name to Tinkerbell now and save yourself the bother.

I'd like to tell you that's got it all off my chest, but I've barely scatched the surface, so consider this the introductory chapter. An advent calendar of mutterings, if you like, which - like Christmas itself - will span a whole two months. You lucky, lucky people.

The worm turns

Exciting news from Kent: Grump decided to assert himself, with predictably joyous results. Having an extremely short attention span, Grump's plan was one of non co-operation: rather than try to actually take the lead, he was content simply to refuse to co-operate in any way, shape or form. A policy of dissent by inactivity, you might call it; how very teen aged.

Anyway, last week things had reached such a head that Grump and I decided that he should go and live with his father. Given that Grump thinks his father is a supreme being who can do no wrong, rather than a selfish layabout who can do no... well, work, for starters, he was extremely keen on this idea. Growing up with two families has unsurprisingly given him the suspicion that the grass might just be greener on the other side. Or the Dark Side, as I prefer to call it. So, over to the Dark Side Grump decided to go.

There was just one small problem: when it came to putting his money where his mouth was, Grump's father failed to deliver (which makes me wonder if there isn't a job for him with the Royal Mail, but I digress). This, of course, came as no surprise to me, given the monthly disappointment I experience on checking my bank statement. For Grump, though, it was a nasty shock.

Unfortunately, that disappointment added to Grump's unhappiness and led to a further outpouring of vitriol. There was a vague air of dissatisfaction present in his manner, which manifested itself in him telling me to fuck off whenever I asked him to do something, such as brushing his teeth or picking his clothes up off the floor. Onerous tasks, I'll concede.

Eventually, I called in the big guns. Yes, Grump was dispatched for a night with the Godmother. Whether it was waking with a horse's head on the pillow next to him or her kindly words I couldn't say, but a gradual improvement in behaviour began and I'm hopeful that it will continue. On his return, Grump and I had a long chat during which he finally gave voice to all his doubts and worries. I hope I reassured him as well as you can reassure any hormonal teenager. He hasn't told me to fuck off for a week, which I'm taking as an extremely good sign.

Teenagers: can't live with them, can send them on a fishing trip with the Godmother.

Update

The Messiah will be missing from the end of this week. Being a creative genius and, more to the point, unattached and thus able to fly off at the drop of a hat, he has been summoned to Shanghai for a month. Despite our extremely inauspicious start, he has become a favourite friend, particularly given the Godmother's paired up status. I suspect he realised that the only way to reduce his phone bill was to move to another continent and, indeed, time zone and thus availed himself of the opportunity with gusto. Anyway, we went out on Saturday night for a farewell drink, got lightly pissed, insulted all and sundry, swore like troopers and generally had a lovely time. The only consolation to his departure is that I'm already looking forward to his emails, which I know will be things of beauty and hilarity.

In the meantime, on Wednesday I have a date with a TV Editor. He is as yet untried, but has proclaimed himself "the colossus of conversation". So far, so good, I think you'll agree. Additionally, there are two further new lambs to the date-slaughter, but I'm struggling to summon up much enthusiasm for either. This doesn't strike me as the best foundation for a beautiful relationship, but I'll be persisting because I am a trooper (witness the swearing, by way of proof).

And, finally, there is another drink on the horizon with the Mountie, who is currently in Turkey taking a rest from things that don't work. Needless to say, the tale of my extended journey home fell like manna from heaven, and I predict some amusingly acerbic commentary on his return.

Venting Venting Venting

Last night I set off for home on the 6.28 from Charing Cross. I was equipped with my iPod and P G Wodehouse, and was happily engrossed in both when I noticed a certain lack of activity from underneath me. No, this isn't another dating tale: the train was stationary. I unplugged one ear but no information was forthcoming. Ten minutes later, I unplugged again. Still nothing. Later still, I became aware of puzzled looks on the faces of my fellow commuters. I unplugged once more and heard the guard giving an explanation about our lack of progress.

I say "explanation", but it would be more accurate to say he was spontaneously uttering the following phrases: "upward tracks", "downward tracks", "three minute something", "nine minute something". We all dearly wanted to know why we were paused outside Sevenoaks when we should have been tucking into dinner; instead we got a monotonal lecture, the likes of which hasn't been heard outside of the Standard Gauge Appreciation Society's annual fundraiser.

Eventually we moved off. Slowly. Then stopped. More slow movement. More stopping. And thus it continued. At 8.15, we arrived at Sevenoaks station where Guard Gibberish announced that the train would be terminating, but there should be another train along shortly. We all trooped off. It was dark, windy and cold. The information boards appeared to be scrolling through the entire Southeastern timetable whilst periodically flashing "Correction" in an encouraging way. No announcements were forthcoming.

And then, at 8.30, amid great excitement, a train arrived. On we all got and settled down. And there we remained for a further 15 minutes until an uncharacteristically helpful rail person came and suggested we get off and take the replacement bus to Tonbridge because "I'll be honest, in the past 2 1/2 hours no trains have gone south from here, but there are trains running from Tonbridge."

Another 15 minutes were spent muttering obscenities in a queue of pissed off commuters before finally boarding a coach. As anticipated, the coach driver was a lunatic (presumably on account of this being all that is available at short notice when the entire rail network goes tits up) who took the scenic route at speed. I was past caring if we ended up in a ditch or not by this point, so put my iPod back on and fiddled about trying to find a suitable soundtrack for the crash (Don't Fear the Reaper, Blue Oyster Cult, since you ask). We arrived at Hildenborough station. A solitary passenger was waiting for the coach. And there he remained, as the lunatic slowed down just enough to give him hope before accelerating away.

We finally arrived at Tonbridge at 9.10 and trooped off the coach. Only to be told that there were no trains running and we would have to get a bus to Tunbridge Wells. To be precise, the same bus we had just got off, which was now filling with a fresh batch of stranded commuters.

I finally got home at 9.45, a full three and a quarter hours after boarding the train in London, which is approximately 35 miles away. I could have got to Paris quicker. And, frankly, I'd have probably have enjoyed the driving better AND been able to make more sense of their rail announcements than our pitiful efforts.

Normal service will resume later this week.

Point scoring

Now that I've got into the swing of the internet dating thing, I've noticed a minor flaw in the system: people lie. And not just small ones. Hell, no, there are great big whoppers drifting about in the ether, which would made Pinocchio blush. For example:

Photos
As well as the terrifying "topless in my bathroom" photos which a lot of men feel compelled to upload, there are what can best be described as "historical" photos which haven't seen the light of day since 1986. You might divine these aren't current on account of the fact that a 44 year old ought not to look like a 20 year extra from Top Gun, complete with stonewashed jeans. Which leads me to...

Age
Even the Messiah lied on this front: his 41 internet years are actually 45 real years, albeit he came clean prior to our non-date and shows no sign of the staggering amounts of beer he has put away over the years. Nonetheless, it's probably safe to whack an extra 5 to 10 years on to anyone's given age. At least.

Marital Status
Separated. Hmm. Divorced. Hmm. Happily, you can spot the real divorces because there's invariably some snippy reference in their profile to a need to "be accepted for who I am". To say nothing of the fact that "total honesty is a must". Ah. Moving along...

Education
Well, I know exams are getting easier and an A* GCSE isn't now worth the paper it's printed on (whatever and A* or, indeed, GCSE might be), but if you claim to have a Masters degree in English it's probably best to at least use the spellchecker before boasting about it. Just a thought.

So, I propose an Ebay-type feedback system, via which hapless victims can rate their dates, using the following criteria:

Age - 1 to 10 dog years
Family - 1 to 10 prams
Marital status - 0 to 10 rings
Build - 1 to 10 pies
Drinking habits - 1 to 10 pints
Smoking habits - 1 to 10 ashtrays and/or bongs
Smarts - 1 to 10 alphabet spaghettis
Accuracy of photo - 1 to 10 photoshops

And having said all that, I am now 38 years old, an occasional drinker and Grumpless. I've never felt better.

Update: The Mountie

I went for a drink with the Mountie on Saturday. I very sensibly opted for an afternoon drink on the basis that I'd be less likely to overwhelm him with beer-fuelled "enthusiasm". It was an extremely sound theory, ruined only by the fact that I'd not made it home on Friday night and was nursing the most monumental hangover. Fortunately, he was a little worse for wear, too, so I wasn't required to apologise too profusely for my eye bags.

And, despite our respective lack of spark, we got on very well. The Mountie was extremely entertaining - not quite as funny as the Messiah, but then he is the Messiah. Anyway, he came a close second and, having recently moved to England from Switzerland, was able to share his opinion of what's wrong with Britain. Which is: everything. In the most charming way, the Mountie managed to convey that nothing works as it should, if at all. When I pointed out that the Swiss were a hard act to follow he spoke this immortal line:

"It's worse than Italy."

Bugger me, that is bad. It got worse:

"There are South American countries that run better than this one."

Well, I've got experience of South American countries and, let me tell you, that's no idle insult.

When I pressed him for examples, a plethora poured forth, from the Tube, to self checkouts, to broadband providers. It was frankly embarrassing, not least because I could only sit there nodding sympathetically, whilst optimistically suggesting we might have a head start on the Bolivians when it came to oyster cards, and I was pretty sure there was an Amazon tribe with slower broadband than Tiscali's.

On the bright side, we are apparently extremely friendly in pubs, unlike our continental cousins who keep firmly to themselves whilst having a drink. I suspect the devil is in the detail - specifically "a drink" being the issue here. We, of course, are more likely to enjoy a round dozen drinks, thus rendering ourselves outstandingly friendly. That's the royal we. And now that I know that my drinking is actually a diplomatic counterbalance to the crumbling infrastructure of Great Britain, it seems only right to keep up the good work. Don't mind if I do.

Situation Vacant

The Messiah and I are firm friends. I think it's safe to say that my beer-fuelled madness has ensured we'll never be anything more than that, but he's proving to be a good friend, in possession of a knack for saying exactly the right thing in any given situation. He also has a rare ability for splicing together obscenities in order to describe people I dislike whom he's never met, or, for the most part, previously heard of.

I've fully tested the Messiah's credentials as a friend on account of the Godmother finally making some poor bugger an offer he couldn't refuse. Yes, she acquired a boyfriend, whom we shall call The Moll, on account of my not knowing what the male equivalent of one would be.

As a result of this unexpected divergence from the norm, I suddenly found myself without my drinking companion of choice, which was obviously extremely bad news for me, if a welcome break for the Godmother from being picked up off the floor following another collapsing bar stool episode (no need to thank me, really.) However, like the trooper I am, I rallied forth and tried out some replacements.

The Messiah

Obviously he'd had a trial run and passed with flying colours. I, of course, had done nothing of the sort and, as he positioned himself next to the exit and laced up his running shoes, I think he may have questioned his decision to give it another shot. Happily, I was able to demonstrate an extremely normal ability to down several pints and remain not only compos mentis, but also fully clothed and out of his bed. Well done, me.

The Policeman

AKA the-man-I-almost-married's best friend, who periodically offers to come round and give me one. Well, it's nice to be wanted and he's a handsome chap who invariably has some amusing police anecdotes to share. Unfortunately, after several pints he is prone to chase me in figures of eight to speeded up music, which can get a bit tiresome. The Godmother only ever did this after tequila, which we were subsequently careful to avoid.

The Boss

The Boss is having a thing with one of his colleagues. He is convinced that nobody knows about this and I am sworn to secrecy, following an earnest confession down the boozer. Of course, the entire firm knows exactly what's going on, but now that I've been officially let in on the secret, I'm unable to join in with the gossip. This, you may have guessed, is not entirely in keeping with my normal behaviour, and thus is fooling no-one. Today, he upped the ante by telling me about a date he went on with someone else entirely (which merits a blog in itself), so I am now having to mutter unconvincing gibberish to both my colleagues and his bit on the side. Given my rare talent for gaffes, this will inevitably end in disaster.

The Mountie

This is the latest discovery on the internet and as yet entirely untested, but lined up for an outing in the near future. A non-date has been agreed and timings are being worked on. The Messiah has advised against attempting to mount his steed after several pints. I concur.

So, there we have it. Turns out the Godmother is a harder act to follow than even I had anticipated. Applications welcome.

Redemption

Yesterday I got a text from the Messiah who had the day off work and found himself in the square outside my office at lunchtime. I went and met him and we sat on a bench and laughed at various people. Primarily me. He filled in some more of the missing Thursday evening for me and I apologised some more. I offered to reimburse him for the beer-swilling I had done at his expense.

I am assuming that the Messiah's presence in the environs of my office at lunchtime was no coincidence and he either (a) wanted another look at mental old me so he was better able to avoid me in future, (b) wanted his money back, or (c) accepted that my evening of madness was uncharacteristic and thought I might be an entertaining person to have in his life in some capacity - comic drunk, perhaps.

Given that his recollection of the evening seems annoyingly comprehensive and he refused my attempts to pay him back, we'll go with (c). I think it's a bit early to suggest another beer, but I hope we'll get there eventually. Needless to say, I'll be on my best behaviour next time but there is something very comforting in knowing that he's seen the absolute worst of me - it's uphill all the way.

Lost cause

I had a non-date the night before last. I was very much looking forward to it because the man in question had been emailing me for a couple of weeks and he was both intelligent and immensely funny. He also could spell, and knew where to put an apostrophe. As you'll have gathered, in internet dating terms, this makes him the Messiah. He was also good enough to tell me that he wasn't looking for a relationship with the parent of a pre-owned teenager, so we were meeting on strictly platonic terms.

We arranged to meet at a pub round the corner from my office at 6.30. Given that I was in a somewhat heightened state of excitement/nerves, despite the platonic slant of our non-date, my boss kindly agreed to come for a quick one before I headed off to meet the Messiah. Unfortunately, he failed to communicate to me that he really did mean a quick one and I had to sink a pint in 15 minutes. Sinking a pint is never a problem but even by my lowly standards, that was kind of quick. Still, it helped with the nerves and off I went.

The Messiah turned up on time and we were soon merrily exchanging stories of the respective idiots we work with, dating horror stories, family backgrounds, and swearing like navvies. In short, it was going swimmingly. We drank several pints then moved on to another pub around the corner. At this point, he offered me his spare room so I didn't have to leg it back to Kent. I rang the Godmother, who was in charge of Grump, and she kindly gave me an overnight pass. (My sole recollection of that conversation is her parting shot: "You owe me." Not a statement you want to take lightly from the Godmother, I think you'll agree.)

Anyway, I settled in for more beer. And then I woke up yesterday morning in the Messiah's bed alone. I went downstairs to get a drink, returned to bed and there he was. Grumbling about the fact that I had distinctly assured him that I wasn't a mad drunk, yet had gone on to exhibit all the signs of a complete fucking loonster the previous night when I refused his spare room and - I quote - "thundered up the stairs" to his bedroom and refused to budge. Poor Messiah had to wait until I fell asleep before creeping downstairs to the spare room for a quiet sleep. Thankfully, I was at least clothed and, presumably, at some point on Friday morning, he decided I was a safe mentalist and decided to make his way back to join me in his own bed and regale me with tales of my madness, whilst I mumbled apologies and tried not to throw up. The Messiah was good enough to walk me to work and there were some texts throughout the day, culminating in a sweet good night exchange last night which he initiated. I hope this is an indication that our nascent friendship isn't over but there's no escaping the fact that I've cocked up, good and proper.

I discussed my behaviour with the Godmother on the train home last night. It's inexplicable. Whilst you'll possibly have gathered that I'm quite fond of a beer or two, I'm not usually given to losing large chunks of the evening, to say nothing of my dignity, in such spectacular fashion. I'm particularly irritated that the one person I've recently met whose opinion actually matters to me is the one I've managed to alienate with a massive helping of crazy. And not even characteristic crazy - no, this is madness without precedence.

On the bright side, the passengers on the 6.04 all went home with their eyebrows somewhere up in their hairlines and their mouths forming perfect o's, which almost made it all worthwhile. Almost.