ISSN: 2977-6368
PARTING SHOT
A funny thing happened to me the other day...
WAVING N0T DRWONING...
SUN, SEA AND SAVIOURS ON A HOLIDAY TRIP TO THE MEDITERRANEAN
ANINYMOUS
Splashing about
I can’t give you my name – for reasons that I’m sure will become clear. But I can tell you that my cousin’s name is Elliot. Elliot and I grew up in a large family. Our dads are brothers, and they have other brothers and sisters, and they’re all pretty close, so we’ve had a lot of family holidays together. I have a posse of other cousins of various genders and ages, so the holidays were always quite good fun, despite the odd fall-out/poolside accident/people ‘borrowing’ your stuff etc. The only downside is that my dad and Elliot’s dad have always been a bit competitive. They’re close in age, and they look alike and are often mistaken for twins. My dad does his best to hide it, and is a bit more chilled, but Elliot’s dad wants to win at all costs. Elliot is the closest cousin in age to me, and I suppose it’s inevitable that having no brothers, from a young age we sometimes felt pitted against each other whenever we were all together, mainly on said holidays. This wasn’t so bad. Neither of had particularly inherited the competitive gene, and we always got on well. Plus both of us were aware what they were like, so knew that if we attempted any sort of pool-race they’d appear as if by magic to shout encouragement. Table tennis was a no-go as they just ended up taking the bats of us and playing themselves. Footie was especially challenging – a kickabout wasn’t really much fun when they were around, and a dads and sons bike-ride was a disaster on one occasion because I couldn’t keep up. We were probably only about 7, but it could have been the Tour De France as far as Elliot’s dad was concerned. Fortunately their evenings were spent in the hotel bar or a local taverna, so we could relax then. The summer we were 11/12, when we arrived at the hotel in the Mediterranean resort, Elliot was about a foot taller than me. We hadn’t been together since around Xmas, and having started secondary school meant new friendships had taken priority, so hadn’t made any attempt to get in touch for a while. He had a deepening voice, and even a bit of a moustache, whereas I still looked about 9. Nevertheless we were happy to see each other, and within 10 minutes it was like we’d never been apart. We were allowed to share a room, just us, for the first time, and had a lot more freedom. We spent most of our time together, and really talked. Elliot confided in me that he was being bullied quite a bit at his new school, and another boy had dunked him in the deep end at swimming and held him under, so now he was quite scared in the water, and couldn’t go out of his depth. His height made him a bit of a target, and he struggled with it quite a bit. The upsides were he looked so much older he got served in the hotel bar, so we had as many cokes as we liked (!), and we were allowed out by ourselves provided we were ‘sensible’. Some teenage girls flirted with him a lot, getting in the lift with us on purpose, and sitting near us by the pool and giggling. There were downsides - at a climbing wall we were put into different sections, and one morning he was dragged off on a mountain bike ride with the dads, as he passed for the minimum hire age of 14, while I was left behind to play sandcastles with the younger kids. But mostly we were left to our own devices, and spent the time playing in the pool, trying to build Elliot’s confidence in the deep end by diving for coins. The main drawback was that Elliot was very pre-teen self-conscious, and hugely embarrassed by his dad’s comments about my height. Those jokes about the seven dwarfs, and how I needed to be careful they didn’t accidentally put me in the creche. How we laughed. A few nights in to the holiday, we sat on the beach, talking and drawing circles in the sand. We’d drunk far too many cokes, and Elliot cried and told me that he sometimes hated his dad. ‘He’s so ashamed of me’, he said. ‘He came to watch me play footie, and we lost, and he left without saying anything to me. He says if I have no drive, I’ll never succeed at anything. And I know he’s noticed how I am in the water. He looks away, he’s so embarrassed.’ There was a floating inflatable island about 100 metres or so from the beach. I’d already swum out there a couple of times, but as Elliot couldn’t come with me, we’d mostly stayed in the pool, or not gone out of our depth in the sea. I told Elliot that we’d practice every day, going a bit further each time, to try and build his confidence. He was nervous, but up for it. So each day we went a little bit further, and it worked. He was doing really well, and he started to enjoy the water again, and could swim out quite far after a couple of days. He was a bit anxious about being out of his depth, and doing it without me there next to him, but with lots of encouragement, he made it out about half-way and back while I watched from the beach. The following day, while Elliot went to the outdoor tap to fill our water bottles, I swam out most of the way to the island, and treading water, watched him return to our beach towels. He looked around for me, not spotting me straight away, and I called and waved a few times, intending to encourage him to swim out by himself, but with me there to swim back with him. But he didn’t see me, and the beach was busy, so he couldn’t hear me. I started to shout and wave like mad – and other people did spot me. And it turns out that if you shout ‘Ell, Ell’, from the sea – and wave a lot – people will think you need rescuing. Who knew? I continued trying to get Elliot’s attention, wondering why lots of people were standing up and pointing. Quite a crowd gathered, and it was only when several heroic sorts dived in and started to swim out towards me that it dawned on me that they thought I was in trouble. Then Elliot realised what was going on and didn’t hesitate – he joined in with all the rest of the heroes and swam straight out to get me. And me? I was too embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t drowning, I was just waving, and just played along. I feigned a terrible pain in my side, and breathing difficulty, and let myself be pulled to shore, crowds clapping and cheering. Everyone agreed that it’s the cold that can get to you. Only Elliot knows the truth – I told him that night, and he laughed so hard, he was the one with breathing difficulty. But I reminded him he hadn’t hesitated in diving in to rescue me. He got over all of his issues in that one moment. That night his dad took the piss so much, it ended up with him rolling around on the floor of the hotel bar with my dad and him punching each other. They were banned for the rest of the week, and the mums made them sleep out on the balconies. Best holiday ever.
BEYOND CHILLY, ENDLESS COMICS & SWEET TEETH
REMINISCENCES OF YESTERYEAR UNDER THE FLIGHT PATH IN SUBURBAN WEST LONDON
RAV CHAUDHURY
The sweetest memories
When I came to Britain in the early 80s, I was 4 years old. I have a vivid memory of my astonishment at flying above the clouds, believing that heading to the other side of the world meant that we were now seeing it upside-down. Landing at Heathrow in the early hours of an October morning, I also believed that the world having tipped upside down had let all the colour drain away. Everything was in black and white. And it was so cold. My teenage cousin Fahad who came to pick us in the shop van, laughed and said ‘you think it’s cold now…’, but I didn’t understand. I thought he was the coolest person I’d ever seen. Later on I thought he was some sort of Fonz, because he always wore a leather jacket and a white T-shirt, slicked his hair back, and flirted like mad with all the female customers. My father thought he was a disgrace. My parents sat in the back of the van with the boxes of crisps, but I sat in the cab inbetween my cousin and older brother Gurj, then 7, so I had an up-front view as we drove through West London. Waiting at the traffic lights next to a small green, I saw a boy a little older than Gurj, dressed in a strange outfit I would later come to recognize as school uniform, throwing a large stick at a Chestnut tree. I strained to see what kind of animal he was aiming his stick at. Eventually we arrived at the small flat over my uncle’s shop, and met our ‘English’ family, who we would live with for the next four or five years. Gurj was allocated the bottom bunk in a room with more cousins, but to my eternal delight, I was given the cupboard under the stairs. Unlike Harry Potter, I was thrilled to have my own room, and could still stand up in it by the time we left for our own home when I was 9 years old. I slept in an Army Surplus sleeping-bag on a large cot mattress which fitted the space perfectly, and I still remember my intrigue at waking up and seeing my breath that first winter. Although it was a pretty basic space, it had a proper overhead light on a cable which fed under the door, and I kept it very neat, with my clothes hanging on the handy hooks. My girl cousins, much older, bribed me with sweets to hide their make-up in the recesses. I loved it. I also loved the local library; I always had a book on the go, and I thought that the shop, with its’ resplendent sweets display, was better than anything Willy Wonka could have come up with. My uncle let us help ourselves to some sweets on Saturdays, after we’d helped stack the shelves and sweep the floor, and I genuinely thought I was living in paradise. But it was the comics of course, that I loved the most – I was a bit of a favourite of my uncle’s, and knowing me to be an avid reader, he always held a copy of each one back for me for the weekend - only to be opened once I had finished my homework. My excitement when I squirreled myself away in my cupboard to read The Beano, The Dandy and Whizzer and Chips each week has never been matched. As well as the brilliant artwork – that’s how I first learnt to read and to truly understand the English language and English humour. I also came to understand that being physically chastised for transgressions was part and parcel of childhood, that friends were more important than anything else, and that always being well-behaved was for well, cissies. You all know who I mean. Time flies of course, and it steals so much away from us in the process. But I have so many fantastic memories from that time. It wasn’t always easy - especially for the adults. But Gurj and I and our younger sister Nira, born in London, quickly became British through and through - Gurj played footie for the school team, and cricket locally. Nira loved dancing and acting and music - both grew up to work for the NHS, and still live in London. I remained ‘the dreamer’ - the artistic one, and enjoy writing. My parents went back to the Punjab for their retirement, and I’m going back soon too; to spend some time with them while they’re still here. The shop isn’t there any more, and my family are spread far and wide. But a part of my soul will always be that funny little kid in the cuboard under the stairs. I miss him.
A TALE OF NUNS, COURT ROOM DRAMA & ROMANCE
TEENAGE KICKS GETTING YOU THROUGH THE NIGHT AND A BIT LATE FOR SOCIOLOGY
MIKE KING
Rights & wrongs
It was 1970s Liverpool and I was 19 years old. I had left school aged 16 and felt that my education had finished prematurely so signed up for night school. Having been brought up in a Catholic family, and attended a Catholic school, I had been taken to mass twice a week. I went with my parents on Sundays and with the school on Wednesdays. Now, I was irredeemably lapsed. However it did occur to me that there were many religions out there and it might be interesting to study them, so I signed up for A-level Religion. The night of lesson one, I came over all ‘unreliable teenager.’ I arrived on my 100cc Suzuki, late, crash helmet under my arm and with no pen or paper. I quietly entered the class-room, pulled the door slowly towards me and closed it carefully. I turned around to see the teacher, a very large man in a suit, reading monotone from the largest bible I have ever seen. I turned to face my class mates and saw that all twelve of them were nuns. I sat down too dazed to do anything else, and waited until tea break. I then left, never to return, and signed up for Sociology. The first Sociology lesson was later in the week. The teacher was Helen. She was not much older than me and confident, intelligent and beautiful. She spoke her first words to us “I will be delivering this course mostly from a Marxists’ perspective.” I looked around thinking “oooh, I wonder what that is?” LATE FUMBLINGS A few weeks later I was in the magistrates’ court early in the morning. The local police had a bad reputation when it came to lifting innocent teenagers at night after the pubs shut. It was said that going to court was a nice paid day off for them. Greg and Willy had been arrested and charged with running up the road shouting and kicking people’s doors and banging on widows. It wasn’t true. They weren’t the sort, and they would have told me if they had. They had tried to engage legal representation but the solicitor told them not to waste their money; they were going to be found guilty. I was there for moral support. I seem to remember two police constables reading their identical evidence from notebooks. Greg and Willy were invited to question them. Willy was angry. He stood up raging “Is that the biggest load of shit you could come up with?” The magistrate shouted at him to sit down and be quiet. It was then Greg’s turn. Greg was a bit of a dreamer, and right now he was Perry Mason. He stood, his hand went to his brow, deep in thought. His words came out in a slow staccato. “Do you mean to say…….are you telling me”… he waved an arm dramatically… that on the night in question…..” He stalled , and stopped. “No questions...” Greg sat down. That was the case for the defence. They were both fined and we took the bus back home. It was still only about 11am and the pubs had just opened, so we went in. They closed at 3pm, so we took cans back to Greg’s. Totally drunk by 6pm, I suddenly leapt up and exclaimed “I have to go to Sociology”. I staggered into class late , sat down in the front row, directly in front of Helen, put my head down on the desk, and went to sleep. Helen woke me at the end, and I told her about my challenging day. She offered me a lift home in her green Volkswagen Beetle. Half way home she stopped the car and kissed me…and we lived happily ever after…NOT! She chucked me a week before the exam. But, I am sure that, from a Ma
STRIKING NIGHTS OUT AND FLASH COCKTAIL DRESSES’
A FEW OF THE FAVOURITE THINGS YOU MIGHT NOT FIND ON A PICKET LINE...
MEGAN LEE
Nan's on strike
’My Nan and Grandad aren’t together anymore. But this isn’t a sad story, I promise; it was probably for the best. My Grandad loves telling stories, and this is one I always remember. Pat was a printer over in Fleet Street in the 70s and 80s. Not only was he a printer, but he was a strong union man, often driving to Wales to hand out care packages to miners and their families. He stood up for what was right and wasn’t afraid to let people know that! And then there’s my Nan. Margie also worked in the print - but as a cleaner - that’s where they met. She is honestly one of my most favourite people on this Earth, but I would never, ever describe my Nan as the protesting type. It’s not that she doesn’t care, she would just rather be tanning in the sun with a cigarette and a glass of wine (or two) in her hand. PICKET FENCES Anyway, the year was 1986 and there were protests in Wapping centred around working conditions in the print industry, as well as it being moved from Fleet Street to Wapping due to cheaper rent. Of course my Grandad was involved - not only would it directly affect him, but he lived for a bit of picketing! One morning, my Nan told my Grandad that she would join him on the picket line later that day. My Grandad was elated. Finally, he thought, she gets it! What he didn’t know was, she’d heard they’d all been going down the pub after a hard day of shouting at ‘scabs’, and didn’t want to miss out on another piss up… Fast forward to that late afternoon and Marg gets dropped off to the picket line in a black cab. It gets worse, or better, whatever way you want to think of it. She hops out (quite literally as she is only 4’ 10) in a cocktail dress, heels and a full face of makeup. My Nan had been out that day shopping for a nice, new outfit for the occasion. I wish I could’ve seen Pat’s face! She walked over, completely unaware of how inappropriate this was, probably smiling and waving at everyone, maybe even asking the odd bloke how their wife was. My Grandad grabbed her, and pulled her by his side. “What are you doing?” he asked, more curious than furious. “What do you mean?” she asked, “I told you I was coming this morning, didn’t I?” At this point she probably rolled her eyes and looked away. “Why are you wearing a cocktail dress to a picket line?” my Grandad asked, still bewildered. “Well, we’re going out after all this is over, aren’t we?” The next thing, the police began to charge, on foot and on horseback, and the only thing for Pat to do was to sling her over his shoulder and throw her over the nearest fence. And this is probably why they’re no longer together!
SNACKS, SWEAT AND ‘ARE WE NEARLY THERE YET?’
IN 100 YARDS YOU WILL HAVE REACHED YOUR DESTINATION.... I PROMISE!
LUCY O’MEARA
feeling hot hot hot
Picture the scene. It’s 29 degrees in the shade. UK summer. We Brits are notoriously ill-equipped to navigate even the slightest weather extremes. It causes consternation. Worry. Anxiety. And never more so than for the parents of two children under five, on a lengthy bank holiday car journey to a busy English Heritage site. I was one of those parents. I’d taken responsibility for the bulk of this trip to see my in-laws. And by responsibility, I mean snacks, entertainment, suncream, sun hats, I-Spy, snacks, toilet stops, nappy bags, water bottles, snacks. And more snacks. All the snacks. My husband? Well, he was in charge of tyre pressure and the sat-nav. Now is not the time to examine that division of labour but suffice to say phrases such as ‘mental load’ and ‘patriarchy’ and ‘why am I always stuck with all this bollocks’ have been bandied about both pre and post this infamous trip. So, we’re in the car. Children are 2 and 5. It is hot. Even by UK standards. I mean seatbelts burning your shoulder when you put them on, thighs sticking to the plastic seating hot. There’s some whinging, mainly from the kids, sometimes from me. But we’re on our way! We’re up against a bit of a deadline as the entry slot to the aforementioned English Heritage site is pre-booked but that’s ALL GOOD. We have left enough time for this, plus contingency for wee stops. We’re heading towards Wisley Gardens, iconic family day out venue, with time to spare and ‘Super Simple Songs’ blasting out the speakers. We’re winning: at days out, at life, at parenting. Kids have all the snacks and husband is faithfully following the sat-nav. He loves the sat-nav - I have said he ‘faithfully’ follows it, but I could probably have gone with ‘slavishly’ and still been the right side of exaggeration. You know when you read about people who drive into lakes because Google Maps told them to? I…kind of see how that happens. Anyway we’re an hour in; thirty minutes to go. Hurrah! Plenty of time! No one’s mother-in-law is going to be let down on our watch! And yet…. ten minutes away. It’s not exactly how I pictured the area. And it’s curious there’s no sign advertising how tantalisingly close we are to this iconic tourist hotspot. Two minutes away. One minute. With a flourish my husband turns into a nondescript street that leads onto an unremarkable industrial estate. Did you know there’s technically two Wisley Gardens? One, the flagship RHS site in Surrey packed to the rafters with some of England’s finest flowers, plants and horticultural events. And two, Wisley Gardens, Farnborough: just off the A327, home to a tiling shop and nestled beside a Premier Inn. I will give you two guesses which one my husband’s slavish devotion to his phone’s Maps app has brought us to. Reader, I married him. I mean I already bloody had married him and that’s mainly how I found myself in the arse end of nowhere (sorry Farnborough) with two fed up kids and four rapidly expiring timed entry slots. Postscript: We made it to the real Wisley Gardens, we’re still married and every trip begins with me asking ‘You’re absolutely sure there isn’t ANOTHER Thorpe Park but it’s actually a car park in Crawley?’
SATURDAY NIGHT'S ALL RIGHT FOR DECORATING
A COOKING CHALLENGE, A BI-MONTHLY CHORE OF JUST A PLAIN OLD RECIPE FOR DISASTER?
DYANA SONGI
alright on the night
Upon moving into a down-trodden student house (see squat) in my early 20s, I was informed by the bossiest comrade that it was incumbent upon all the inhabitants to take a turn to make dinner for their housemates on a Saturday night. If the cost was probihitive, I must simply let the others know, and contributions would be made, but the opportunity to cook would be mine and mine alone. Everyone would take a turn at this, so it was very fair, and there were 8 of us in total, so a bi-monthly commitment; not a huge ask. I nodded and beamed enthusiastically. What I should have done is immediately mention that I’d yet to make a meal for one beyond beans on toast for my entire existence thus far. Could I just wash up every night? I’m really good at washing up! But as that would have been very embarrassing, I said nothing. A friend I confided in laughed and lent me a simple recipe for a chicken casserole. None of my housemates were vegetarians, and it would be very affordable. It’ll be fine, she trilled reassuringly. You’re very organized when you want to be, and you need to play to your strengths. You just need to prepare everything ahead. Take your time, and remember to season it. You’ll enjoy it! Her attempts to embolden didn’t land however. I shared none of her culinary confidence, and was petrified. My mother hated cooking, and did it out of sheer necessity when she absolutely had to. My father tried a bit, but burnt everything. Her mother had never had a full-time job, and what fun they’d had in the kitchen together with their matching pinnies and wooden spoons. Having grown up in a household where mealtimes were an opportunity for everyone to join in the row, all I’d learnt was exactly how far to jump to dodge that wooden spoon, and to avoid the kitchen as much as was humanly possible. Cooking for me still equals stress on a massive scale. On ‘my’ Saturday, I shopped very carefully for all the ingredients. I had checked my list twice, cleaned the kitchen thoroughly (quite a task in itself), checked I had matches for the gas oven, that there was a casserole dish of an adequate size, and had laid everything out methodically. It was going much better than I’d expected, and by the time I’d chopped it all up and poured the stock over the top, there was a brief smidgeon of satisfaction on my part. Double-checking everything, to my horror, I hadn’t seen that the recipe required cornflour. My bottom lip wobbled. On the off-chance that there would be some in the cupboard, I opened it to see to my great relief a little blue and yellow box with white powder in it. (I know what you’re thinking – but no). I popped a big tablespoon of it in the dish, stirred it round, and popped it in the oven, smiling to myself. I can do this, I thought. Only after around 5 minutes, as I finished washing up, did it hit me that the chances of there being cornflour in a squat full of grungy students were infinitesimally small. I grabbed the box. It was Pollyfilla. I threw open the oven door. It had already started to set. I began to sob. I grabbed the dish and put it on the hob, and threw a tea-towel over the top, hoping no-one would wander in and take a look. I legged it down the fire escape and into the nearby phone box to call the friend. Don’t panic, she soothed. Buy chips! Everyone loves chips. And why didn’t you just use wheat flour? I ran back to the house. Think! You need to play to your strengths. What strengths? You’re hopeless. What on earth are you good at? Washing-up! I’m really great at washing-up! I threw all the ingredients into the sink, gave them a good rinse, washed the casserole dish, bunged the ingredients back in it, poured some more stock on top and put it back in the oven. At dinner, everyone complimented me on my efforts. It’s got a lovely texture, said one of them. What is that? I smiled. wheat flour, I said.
ONCE UPON A TIME ON A DATE WITH THE OPTIMIST
TAKE A WORDY TRIP WITH THE EXPECTANT ROMANTIC EXPERIENCING TRYSTS WITH A TWIST..
DEAN PATTERSON
a poet that knows it
Dating Life of the Punster. I once dated an equation But it didn’t work out, I once dated a Guinness heiress Nice girl, a little stout. I once dated Mary Queen of Scots She was great at giving head, I once dated an electric blanket She was fucking great in bed. I once dated a burning ember She gave me the hots, I once date a woman who lost her dentures See Mary, Queen of Scots. I once dated an unknown sea length But she was hard to fathom, I once dated a computer generated answer She was random. I once dated a playground roundabout but it was not to be as it turns, I once dated a dog, trapped inside a burning vehicle But she gave me carpet burns. I once dated a selfish Dalai Lama But he wouldn’t give me peace I once dated a selfish farmer But he would give me peas, I once dated an American president But he got me in some awful states I once dated the fruit of a dactylifera tree I actually quite enjoyed those dates. I once dated a one-armed uber driver But she drove me round the bend, I once dated an unqualified cardiac surgeon But my heart she couldn’t mend. I once dated a bunch of dried grapes but she left me. She had her raisins, I once dated an in-your-face meditating underwear model But she was far too bra-zen. I once dated a faulty speaker But she wasn’t quite sound I once dated a coat left on the tube But she was lost, and I was found, I once dated a pigmy How could I stoop so low? I once dated a genuine gardening tool Turns out, she was a proper hoe. I once dated an unemployed perfumer But she didn’t make any scents I once dated an unemployed American coin manufacturer But she didn’t make any cents, I once dated a woman with a small patch for gardening But when she left she took the lot I once dated a forgetful fiction novelist But she had clearly lost the plot. I once dated Britain’s fattest man But there was no getting around him, I once dated a man who set treasure hunts Who was lovely, until I found him. I once dated a suspicious refuse collector, But she kept asking where I’ve wheely bin I once dated the current leader of North Korea Nice boobs, but didn’t look much like a Kim. I have dated many in the past, really And most have had their day, But I ended falling for a scabble player Due to what we have in common, wordplay.
VLAD THE IMPALER, OFFICE BANTZ & YELLOW THUMBS
HOW ONE COLLEAGUE’S ONLINE DATING TROUBLES ENDED UP PUTTING THE NO INTO CYRANO
CLAUDIA WARD
at the water cooler
We’ll call her Janet. Janet was a colleague. A Janet who was a dissatisfied regular on every one of the dating apps she qualified for. “Listen to this…” Janet one day read out to the office, “Stephen likes making his own sourdough and clay pigeon shooting. Bore-ring! And OMG - check out his pics…” And we all gathered round and peered at poor, optimistic, oblivious to the scrutiny Stephen, kneading with a knowing wink in one photo, air-rifle in hand and wink in the eye again in the other. “He likes winking”, I said. “I hope so” said Janet “’Cos I’m not meeting up with him.” My entire journey home that evening was spent musing on how our most infamous historical figures – the celebrities of bygone days - would or wouldn’t have coped with the minefield of these online interactions. The intimate but remote game of how your heart teeters on a precipice for the right emoji or swipe, even if you’re Vlad the Impaler. Yes even he would need a “Justina liked your comment I Should Cocoa” . Or Queen Boudica, say, holding her furious, Icini breath as she stares like thunder for a text response to her warrior-pose selfie watching three dots appear then disappear and then reappear again only to disappear altogether forever. Uprisings have been sparked by less. There’s no doubt about it, online dating brings out your fragile. Back to Janet. Weeks passed and somehow Stephen returned on the radar but now as a suitable suitor instead of a sourdough making saddo. I didn’t question it – the gig is tough, after all – and Janet was enjoying his banter. “Quick - help me reply” She said. “He’s being funny about his haemorrhoids but in a really humorous way. C’mon, what shall I say?!” “Say “thanks - I’ve always enjoyed a sonnet,” I said. “Always. Enjoyed. A sonnet…is that two n’s in sonnet” Said Janet, blithely typing. “Wait. You didn’t send that did you?” I cried. “Send. Yes I did.” “Oh god” “And he’s already responded.” “Downward yellow thumb?” “Crying laughing face! Now you have to come up with something else…But make it funnier.” And this was how I became the Cyrano d’Office replying to all of Janet’s dating communications with Stephen which ran at a steady rate - with the odd flurry - throughout the day. It was an exhausting business – mainly because I was keen to maintain the standard of a job I actually wanted to stop doing. Once you have a reputation for being good at something, it’s hard to throw it even when that thing is fraudulent messages that are about as funny my favourite oxymoron’s - Radio 4 Comedy. So I really concentrated on my Cyrano work and thus they became very close without even meeting. So close that Janet finally decided it was time for a first date and then, who knows, she said with a Stephen like wink, perhaps marriage. I was excited for her, and rather concerned , and then excited again. After all, I’d put a lot of effort into this sham working out. I waited with great anticipation for news. Alas the next day we were informed at work first thing by our CEO that Janet wouldn’t be coming in. In fact She would be taking the entire week off. “Has something…happened?” I asked weakly, trying not to look at Janet’s empty chair, all my dazzling wordplay of recent weeks already haunting me “Apparently she met up with a man last night who’s scammed her of all her money. She checked her account after he’d left and every penny’s gone”. It turns out Stephen doesn’t even exist. He’s a con-artist called Roger Dean and the only dough he actually kneaded was in Janet’s wallet. Sorry. My mobile buzzed a message. Inevitable notification from Janet. I opened it and read: “Cyrano you’re effing fired”. And that, I thought, was fair enough. Poor old Janet. And poor old me. I thought Stephen and I were onto something good.
