‘Why are you texting in capitals?’ asks my wife, looking over my shoulder.

     ‘It’s my uncle,’ I say. ‘he’s a bit deaf.’

     She looks at me, then looks away, then looks at me again. ‘I, um … never mind.’

     We’ve been standing in this post office queue for over half an hour. We thought that we’d just ‘pop in’ quickly to get our International Driving Permits organised ready for an upcoming road trip, and then go for breakfast at a little country restaurant we know. At least this was the plan.

     WE’RE CURRENTLY FOURTH IN LINE, I text.

     Well, give my regards to Princess Margaret, pings the reply.

     ‘Isn’t Princess Margaret dead?’ asks Nat, continuing to read my phone over my shoulder.

     ‘I’ve no idea,’ I say, ‘I’ve only ever known her as a person off the TV, like … Ian Beale or Homer Simpson.

     ‘Ian Beale and Homer Simpson are fictional characters,’ she says.

     ‘Exactly my point,’ I say. ‘… It’s complicated, isn’t it.’

     I text my uncle back: I MEANT FOURTH IN LINE IN THE POST OFFICE QUEUE, NOT TO THE THRONE.

     A moment later, he responds with, Well, that’s far less impressive, and adds a sad emoji.

     Nat smiles. ‘I see where you get it from,’ she says.

     ‘Get what?’

     ‘… Nothing.’ She glances back along the queue that is deepening around us.

* * * * * * * *

The bad news is that we were fourth in line when we entered this queue. This is because the elderly lady at the front of the line, with an armful of individually wrapped brown paper parcels, is refusing to divulge to the counter staff what is in each package.

     ‘That’s my business, not yours,’ she keeps insisting.

     ‘Them’s the rules, I’m afraid,’ repeats Post Office lady.

     ‘I don’t ask you what’s in your parcels,’ demands the old lady.

     As irritating as standing in this queue is, I’m quite entertained by the old woman’s totally irrational, though quite understandable, stance.

     ‘It’s only for security purposes,’ says Post Office lady, ‘I’m not looking to pry.’

     ‘To be honest,’ I say loudly, across the queue, ‘those packages do look a little bit bomb-shaped to me.’

     The old lady turns around abruptly and stares at me. ‘Since when did a few cardigans and books look like bombs?’ she protests.

     I smile at Post Office lady. ‘I believe my job here is done,’ I say, curtseying coyly to her.

     ‘Job done, indeed,’ says Post Office lady, smiling back at me.

     Nat leans into me and whispers, ‘Who says that bombers vests can’t come as cardigans?’

     ‘Hmm. Good point,’ I say. I consider the idea of the first terrorist device to arrive on the market with a ‘Don’t boil wash’ label attached.

     ‘And don’t be fooled by appearances,’ whispers Nat, ‘that seemingly defenceless old lady might actually be knitting a whole military as we speak.’

‘What? Like a slightly more pastoral version of the Terracotta Army?’

‘Exactly.

I consider the scene: ‘Is that a boiled sweet in your pocket, grandad?’ ‘No, it’s the detonator! Back off!’

     ‘Ssh! Lower your voice,’ says Nat, looking around us. ‘But, yes, I think you’ve got the gist.’

     ‘I read the other day,’ I say, ‘that the UK spent close to £50 billion, last year, on its military. If this old lady can produce an entire militia on a pension, someone should consider putting her in charge of our defence budget. Look at her demanding that all of her parcels go as second-class post – put her in charge of Defence and we’d probably still have change left over for custard creams and the bus ride home.’

     The old lady has finished haggling with the Post Office staff now and stares right at me as she walks past. ‘Bombs, indeed!’ she says at me.

     ‘Come the revolution, sister!’ I say, raising my fist up in a ‘power to the people’ pose.

     She doesn’t respond.

* * * * * * * *

Processing our International Driving Permits is a new thing for the two ladies behind the counter. ‘Bear with me,’ says the older woman, ‘this is only the second one of these I’ve done. In fact, this Post Office has only been doing them for the past two weeks; it’s still quite new to me.’

     ‘No worries,’ I say, handing my passport picture to her.

     ‘Is that you?’ she asks, turning it around to take a closer look.

     ‘Um, yes,’ I say, confused by the question.

     ‘My passport picture is horrible,’ she says.

     ‘This one was my third attempt,’ I say ‘I was going to do this last week, but it rained and my hair went silly. And then I got a spot here.’ I point to an area just under my lower lip. ‘And just as I was …’

     ‘… Shall we just get on with it?’ says Nat.

     I hand the lady my driving licence, and she starts to copy the information from my UK licence into my new old-looking international licence, in her best, slowest handwriting. ‘I’d best not make a mistake,’ she tells me, looking up in order to get my full attention, ‘or I’ll have to start all over again.’

     ‘OK,’ I say, ‘Best concentrate then.’

     She asks where I’m travelling to and I reel off the countries while she hunts for each of the country names on her A4 crib sheet. ‘You’ll need the 1968 version,’ she tells me.

     ‘Ok,’ I say.

     ‘Do you know why it’s called the 1968 version?’ she asks.

     ‘Because it alludes to the 1968 Treaty?’

     ‘Because it alludes … Oh, you know that.’

     ‘I do,’ I say. I smile to show no hard feelings.

     ‘If you were to go to some of the countries further away, you might need the …’

     ‘1949 version?’

     ‘Oh …yes … the 1949 version. That’s because those countries were agreed in a Treaty in …’

     ‘In 1949?’ (I must stop doing this, I think to myself.)

     ‘Stop doing that,’ Nat whispers into the back of my ear.

     Eventually, Mrs Post Office has finished copying all of my details from my UK licence over to the International Permit in her best, slowest handwriting.

     ‘How much is that?’ I ask.

     ‘Oh, I’m not finished yet,’ she says. ‘Jenny, do you have the glue stick?’

     ‘I thought you had it,’ says Jenny.

     I look at Nat in confusion as Mrs Post Office and the young Jenny rummage through drawers and shelves for their communal glue stick.

     ‘Ah, here it is,’ says Mrs Post Office, eventually waving her glue stick at me. ‘We can’t carry on without this.’

     ‘I should hope not,’ I say, wondering what the hell she’s talking about, but smiling anyway.’

     She takes my photo and glue-sticks it to the driving permit, before taking her special ink stamper and pressing it half onto my picture and half to the buff-coloured cardboard page. She then holds my driving permit at arms-length, to admire her handy work. ‘There you go,’ she says, ‘Nobody can forge your licence now.’ She smiles at me and hands me my completed document for me to check through and sign, as she pushes the lid back onto her glue stick.

     ‘What? No glitter?’ I ask, thinking that the document looks so out of keeping with modern technology, with its handwritten details, glued-on photo, and its numerous ink stamps to illustrate what types of vehicles I can and cannot drive while abroad.

     Post Office lady looks seriously at me before deciding that I’m joking and relaxes. ‘It would cheer the card up a little, wouldn’t it,’ she says.

     I turn the document over in my hand. ‘I think it might,’ I say, ‘It does look a little like a ration card; the sort that one might rock up with at a soviet bread queue.’

     I’m guessing that Mrs Post Office is having trouble accessing this image, so we both say our thank yous and goodbyes, and Nat and I leave the counter.

     ‘Why do we even need one of these?’ I ask Nat, as we get out into the sunshine.

     ‘Because of men in hats,’ she says. ‘And you know how men like to wear hats, it makes them feel …’

     ‘Taller?’

     ‘Yes, probably,’ says Nat.

     My phone pings. It’s my uncle. What are you doing in the post office?He texts.

     TRAVELLING BACK IN TIME, I text.

     Then I refer you to my previous message, he texts, Give my regards to Princess Margaret.

     I think back to the lady with the secretive packages. I THINK I ALREADY MIGHT HAVE, I text.

     Jolly good, he texts.

     Nat looks at her watch. ‘We’ve missed breakfast,’ she says, ‘Shall we just call it…’

     ‘… Brunch?’ (I wish I could stop doing that, I think to myself.)

     ‘I wish you’d stop doing that,’ says Nat.

* * * * * * * *

 

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‘You know why birds sing in the morning?’ I say to Nat, utilising the sandpaper tones of the amateur drunk, ‘Because they don’t have to go to work after only 4 hours sleep and three bottles of Pinot Grigio.’

     ‘Well, you did it to yourself,’ she says, dismissively.

     I hate all that you’ve-only-yourself-to-blame nonsense. There’s no satisfaction in blaming oneself. ‘No,’ I say, standing my ground, albeit while hunched over the bedroom chest of drawers with my head in my hands, ‘YOU did this to me. It wasn’t me who picked up a caseload of wine on their way home from work.’

     ‘And it wasn’t me who made you drink it,’ she says, eyeing me in the mirror while applying her lipstick. ‘I don’t have a hangover.’

     I’m not a fan of smug, either (unless, of course, it’s coming from me). ‘But you laid them all out in front of me,’ I say, miming her pulling bottles from the box and setting them in a row. ‘What was I supposed to do?’

     ‘How about … I don’t know … exercise judgement?’

     ‘Enabler!’

     ‘Freeloader!’

* * * * * * * *

After a delicate morning and a full day at work, we are now to spend the next four hours driving to Wales in order to celebrate my mum’s birthday. There are three reasons why Nat is driving this evening (four, if one considers that I may still be drunk):

1. We have agreed that taking my two-seater car would mean that either my mum or Nat would have to lay curled up in the boot if we were to go out for the day. (Neither of them is happy to do this – I’ve checked.)
2. My mum hates being a passenger in my car. She says the seats are too low down and she can’t get back out of them. (You just can’t please some people.)
3. The solution to ‘1’ and ‘2’ above is for us to take Nat’s car. But Nat doesn’t like me driving it; she alleges that I don’t have an acceptable grasp of gear change. (The truth is that I am actually a very good driver. And Nat is just not a very good passenger in her own car.)

     Anyway, this means that I am relegated to the position of commuter for the entirety of this journey, which is fine by me. My job is simple: I am to be DJ and conversationalist only. These two tasks are ones that, I feel, I can be trusted with.

     Fifteen minutes into the journey, I’m still trying to find something on Nat’s music system that I like.

     ‘I give you one job to do …,’ she says, smiling.

     ‘I’m trying to find something good,’ I say.

     ‘Rude!,’ she says. ‘And anyway, on this journey, you are the DJ and I am the audience. It’s not about you.’

     I set her music to random play and put the iPod down.

     ‘Ooh! That’s better,’ she says. ‘Good choice.’

     ‘I aim to please at least one of us,’ I say, grimacing at her.

     ‘Now talk to me,’ she says.

     ‘What?’

     ‘Talk to me. You’re meant to be my DJ and conversationalist. Tell me things.’

     I think hard, trying to push away the clouds of sleepiness that are gathering in my head. ‘Um … Indian police officers get paid more if they have moustaches,’ I say.

     ‘Moustaches?’

     ‘Well, just the one, I assume. Each, that is.’

     ‘Why would they get paid more for that?’

     ‘Something to do with a belief by bosses that underlining their noses gives them an added air of authority?’ I say, ‘Though I’m probably paraphrasing.’

     ‘That’s just silly,’ says Nat.

     ‘Added ‘hair’ of authority,’ I say, attempting to stretch a little more humour from my random fact. I search for proof of my claim on my phone, and stumble upon a Daily Telegraph article from 2005, entitled Indian police pay goes up by a whisker. ‘See,’ I say, waving my phone screen in front of her.

     Well, it’s still silly,’ she says.

* * * * * * * *

My mind drifts off into the online article and Nat and I fall silent as she drives, her iPod continuing my Dj-ing work for me. I’m considering how much money a job would need to pay me before I might agree to whoring facial hair for it. It’s bad enough that I have to wear a tie at work. ‘Archaic nonsense,’ I aside to myself.

     I’m in mid decision that such a price doesn’t exist, when Nat sounds up to remind me that I have again abandoned my car duties.

     ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, ‘The easiest jobs have always been the ones I’m most rubbish at. I think this is because I get bored so easily.’

    ‘I’m sorry I’m boring you,’ she says, in her best sarcastic tones.

     ‘You’re not,’ I say, ‘but when I’m bored – generally – I forget to pay attention. It’s the easier jobs that I’ve tended to get fired from.

     ‘Ok,’ she says.

     ‘I took a waitering job at a fish restaurant, once. I was terrible.’

     ‘So why did you do it?’

     ‘Money?’ I say. ‘There was a time when I could hardly afford to pay the electricity bill. Those were dark times.’ I leave a space for Nat to catch up with my amazing comedy.

     … Silence.

    I repeat, ‘They were dark … times?’

     Nothing …

     I sigh and move on. ‘I was so bad at waitering that I felt it was only a matter of time before the whole restaurant industry would add the word ‘syndrome’ to my surname when teaching new recruits how not to do stuff.’

     ‘You weren’t a natural, then?’

     ‘I got tipped well by the diners, but only for my entertainment quality, never for my waiting on them. I was probably the worst person for the actual job. Come to think of it, I was probably the worst mammal for it.’

* * * * * * * *

The two guys who ran the restaurant were a difficult pair to please, and an impossible combination to work for. I didn’t go to restaurants while I was growing up, we were too poor. The closest to eating out we experienced was my mum serving chips in rolled up copies of The Daily Mirror, and sitting us on the garden wall in the sunshine to eat them. So, when I took this job, which came with no induction or training, and was expected to decipher the ridiculously embellished menus – which changed weekly – I quickly found that I was out of my depth:

       Diner: ‘Crafted marrow balls with rice and activated butter? What is activated butter?’

       Me (speculating wildly): I believe the chef passes a small charge through it, sir.’

       Diner: ‘And the Frightened monkfish? Frightened? Really?’ (He points to the offending
                    word on the menu.)

       Me: If you were suddenly hauled out of the sea by a big-faced, gnarled-looking old
               fisherman, wouldn’t you be just a little panicky?’

       Diner: ‘Fair point. I’ll have the lobster.’

       Me: ‘With or without the crafted marrow balls, sir?’

       Diner: ‘Tch. You can’t beat this chef for his pretentiousness.’

       Me (leaning in closely and whispering): ‘You could with a long enough stick, sir.’

     During the shift in which I was fired, I pointed out to the owners, while waving their menu at them, that, ‘Just because nobody complains, that doesn’t mean that all parachutes are perfect.’

     I don’t think they understood my meaning.

* * * * * * * *

     ‘What are we going to have for dinner this evening?’ Nat asks me, as we watch the sun set over the motorway.

     ‘Well, as my mum is organising our meal, it’s likely to be hand-selected artisan goujons of organic, free-range pollock, dusted in a light jacket of deconstructed ciabatta, and crisply sautéed, served on a bed of hand foraged potato julienne, and complimented by a foray of locally harvested pureed micro greens and, finally, served with an optional Pomodoro and vinaigrette reduction.

     ‘Sorry, you lost me at goujon,’ says Nat.

     ‘Fish and chips with mushy peas,’ I say.

     ‘I don’t like mushy peas.’

     ‘No,’ I say, ‘neither do I.’

* * * * * * * *

 

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I wake up from a horrible dream in which I’m eight again, it’s a Monday morning, a school day, and I’m dreading bumping into the school bully – or Mr Thomas, as he likes to be called.

     As I come downstairs for breakfast, Ziggy, our dog, passes me on the landing. ‘I’ve eaten your homework,’ he says, ‘and no one is going to believe you. No one.’

     Suddenly, I’m in my classroom and Mr Thomas is bearing down on me. I’m trying to explain my situation to him.

     ‘And how do you know your dog ate it?’ he snarls.

     ‘Because he … told … me?’ I whimper, knowing that Ziggy has totally out-manoeuvred me.

     I look up at Mr Thomas, then down at my feet. One of my shoes is missing.

* * * * * * * *

And this pretty much sums up the trauma that my school days have left me with.

     To be fair, it wasn’t so much a school that I was forced to attend, as a slightly sadistic day centre. If you liked rugby or cricket, Mr Thomas liked you. If, like me, you were interested in neither, and were just biding your time until you would discover skiing, in your mid-teens, then he really didn’t. Mr Thomas wasn’t a large man, but I was eight, and when you’re eight, most men are large-ish.

     I didn’t really learn very much at junior school, other than how to keep out of trouble. Sometimes, I even managed this. It was the school psychopath, Jason, who taught me Biology. He was in the year above me and was made to sit next to me by Mr Thomas, as punishment for Jason’s intimidation of other children in the playground, though I’m still not sure whether the punishment was aimed at Jason or me.

     What I was convinced about, however, was that it wasn’t completely fair to punish Jason like this. He was the kind of kid who could intimidate you just by existing. In retrospect, I don’t think Jason had any choice in the matter, mostly because of the way his words and his face worked out of synch with each other. He could be offering to share his sweets with you, but his face would look at you in the way a sinister stranger might stare you out while threatening to kill your entire family.

     One morning, Jason trapped me in a corner of the classroom in order to instruct me on how babies were made. He even drew me pictures to illustrate his points.

     ‘Um … ok,’ I said, feeling slightly freaked out. I didn’t believe him, mostly due to my own scepticism over whether my parents would ever involve themselves in such things. To be honest, I was still grappling with the existence of Santa at the time. ‘First thing’s first,’ I thought.

     This kid, who took it upon himself to suddenly be my best friend, followed me around for weeks, which resulted in my real friends being too scared to hang out with me at all. He’d sometimes impress me with his brilliance, and sometimes surprise me with how dumb he could be, like when he asked me whether I thought all Australians were marsupial. Some days, you could feel the IQ of the entire room shooting up merely because he’d been granted permission to go to the toilet. I instinctively knew that he would one day grow up to be the sort of person who would give out unsolicited advice while playing a fruit machine.

     Sometimes, Jason would come out with the most random things, often at the most random times. He once turned and whispered to me, as he was being manhandled out of the classroom by the Headteacher for filling the classroom door locks with purple play dough, ‘You can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.’ He winked at me as he said this, as though he was passing on a special secret to me. I still wonder whether this was an insanely brilliant piece of cryptic philosophical metaphor that even my middle-aged self continues to have difficulty unravelling or whether he was, in fact, merely insane.

* * * * * * * *

A few days ago. I discovered a friend request from Jason on my social media page.

     ‘This is what has probably prompted my schooldays dreams,’ I say to Nat.

     ‘It could be worse,’ she says, ‘it could have been a friend request from Mr Thomas.’

     I feel my left eye twitch slightly as she says this.

     ‘So, what was Jason like?’ she asks. 

     ‘He had a habit of walking into things – shops mostly. He was a prolific shoplifter.’

     ‘Ok,’ says Nat. ‘Maybe that’s why you haven’t heard from him in a while. I’m not sure they allow social media in prisons.’

     ‘Fair point,’ I say to myself, as I move to decline his invitation, block his profile, and, just for a moment, consider officially changing my name.

* * * * * * * *

As I reflect on my dream of last night, I think to myself that perhaps he really was just a guy with an overly inquisitive mind, a total lack of self-awareness, and an inability to empathise … but these are still not acceptable credentials for a school teacher.

* * * * * * * * 

 

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