I’m sitting in my office at home when the phone rings.

     ‘… Good afternoon, sir, I’m phoning in relation to your recent accident.’

     Me: ‘What? Oh my God! I’ve had an accident …?’

     ‘… I’d just like to clarify a few details with you, if I may?’

     Me: ‘Am I OK? I mean … I had no idea …’

     ‘… I’m pleased to inform you that your claim has been successful and that we have now been authorised by our underwriters to deposit the agreed compensation directly into your bank account. This should only take a few moments so, if you could just confirm your account details for me, sir, I can then ensure that the full amount is transferred to you today.’

     Me (pretending to shout across the house to my wife – who’s currently at work): ‘Nat! It’s the man from the accident shop … I don’t know … probably somewhere in India … or Nigeria … he didn’t say.  Anyway, apparently, I’ve had an accident. But it’s OK because we’re now rich. Don’t bother with cooking this evening, we’re going out to eat!’

     Directing my attention back to the voice on the phone, I continue.  ‘Forgive me,’ I say, ‘it’s clear that I’m still suffering a little amnesia from the trip or fall at work. How bad was it?’

     ‘… Sorry, sir?’

     ‘Well, between you and me, it occurs that none of my family has thought to discuss the accident with me, which leaves me wondering whether it’s more serious than you’re letting on. I mean, is it terminal? Just tell me that …?

     ‘I … um … I think you’re going to be OK, sir. If you could just confirm your bank account details with me, I can transfer the full amount today.’

     ‘Are you sure you’re not just trying to be kind to me? If not even my wife can bring herself to talk about my accident, then things can’t be looking good.’

     ‘Sir, if you could just confirm your bank account details …’

     ‘There are so many things I still want to do; so many places I haven’t visited. How long have I got left? Can you at least tell me this?

    ‘Sir, please …’

     ‘Did you know that three percent of the ice in Antarctic glaciers is made up of penguin urine? I really hoped that, one day, I’d get to see that for myself.’

     ‘Sir …’

     ‘Yes, I know. And, apparently, ducks have regional accents. Did you know that? And I’ve only heard some of them. I have so much left to do … Hello? … Are you still there? …We seem to have been cut off … Hello?’

* * * * * * * *

A few hours later, Nat arrives home. ‘Hi,’ she calls, as she’s hanging up her coat in the hallway, ‘How’s your day been?’

     ‘Hi,’ I shout back. ‘I’ve had an accident.’

     ‘What!’ She’s now in the room with me. ‘What happened?’

     ‘I’m not sure. But a nice man from the telephone called to let me know that he’s going to pay me for it. Who knew that having accidents could be an actual job. If only my careers advisor at school had told me this, things might have been so different.’

     ‘And all he wanted was your bank details, right? So he could put the money straight in?’

     ‘No, I think my careers advisor just wanted to get through his day. To be honest, I don’t feel he was really committed to his job.

     ‘No, the guy on the phone.’

     ‘Oh, yes.’ I smile. ‘How did you know that?’

     ‘… You didn’t, did you?’ Nat seems to be frowning at me.

     ‘I might be stupid, Natalie, but I’m not stupid … And anyway, he rang off before I could give them to him.’

     ‘My dad usually just tells them that he has something boiling over on the cooker, and asks them to hang on for a moment while he goes to turn it down. Then he wanders off to read his paper.’

     ‘I like your dad,’ I say.

     ‘In some ways, I seem to have married him,’ she says.

     ‘I’ll take that as a slightly creepy compliment,’ I say.

* * * * * * * *

The next morning, I find myself reading an online report about phishing scams in the UK. According to the police website, Actionfraud, there has been a 41% rise in telephone scam calls over the past year, amounting to £23.9m in losses. In my head, I compare this with a recent Guardian article I read that stated the current average UK salary to be £28,677. No wonder my careers teacher opted to leave ‘deception intended to result in financial or personal gain’ off his list of possible career choices.

     ‘Typical of a state school education,’ I say to myself. ‘If only I’d gone to Eton.’

 

* * * * * * * *

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I’m sitting in a tiny cockpit with a guy called Ben who, despite looking like he’s just started secondary school, informs me that he will be my flight instructor for this session.

     I look at him. ‘How long have you been flying?’ I ask, trying to sound as casual as I can.

     ‘Pretty much since I was twelve,’ he tells me.

     ‘And have you flown much over the two years since?’

     ‘He smiles. ‘I got my pilot’s licence when I was seventeen, and I’ve been teaching people to fly for the past eight years. I also do aerobatic display flying in my spare time.

     ‘That’s, uh … that’s good then,’ I say.

* * * * * * * *

I’ve never sat in a two-seater Cessna before, let alone flown one. There are a handful of dials in front of me, none of which suggest much. I also can’t help noticing a distinct lack of steering wheel, which means I don’t know what to do with my hands. When I push on either of the two footbrakes, all that happens is that the flippers on the wings wiggle at me. I wiggle back at them.

     ‘They’re called ailerons,’ says Ben.

     ‘What are?’

     ‘They’re not flippers, they’re ailerons.’ He points.

     I look back across at the flippers. ‘Of course they are,’ I say, and smile at him.

     ‘They work in opposition to one another,’ he continues, ‘they allow one wing to generate more lift than the other, which, in turn allows the plane to ….’

     ‘Did I leave the oven on, this morning?’ I think to myself.

* * * * * * * *

After a five-minute briefing, Ben hands me a laminated card with a list of pre-flight checks printed on it. ‘Read these out as we run through them,’ he says.

     While I read each in turn, Ben flips the corresponding switch or points to the dial in question and comments on it.

     Between us, we agree that the ‘Idle cut-off’ is checked, that the ‘gyros are uncaged’, that the ‘high rpm’ is checked, and that ‘cowl flaps – open right – open left’ are also checked. To be honest, Ben lost me after asking me if my seatbelt was tightly done up, though I’m totally back with him at the end of the checklist, where it mentions ‘cabin heat: check’ – it is, after all, December.

     Finally, having ‘checked’ whatever the hell the ‘magnetos’ and ‘Trim’ are, Ben tells me to taxi the plane up to the end of the runway.

     ‘Are you sure?’ I ask, knowing how disastrous putting me in charge of his plane could be, even while it’s still on the ground.

     ‘In your own time,’ he says, pointing in the direction he’d like me to go.’

     ‘OK,’ I say, ‘but don’t blame me if …’

     ‘STOP!’ Ben grabs the lever and brake from me. ‘Always pay attention to the wingspan,’ he says, ‘so you don’t damage them … or that shed on our left, there.’

     ‘Oh, yeah,’ I say. ‘Sorry. I’m more used to … well, a car. My car doesn’t have wings.’

     ‘No, neither does mine,’ says Ben.

     I’m sensing sarcasm.

     Having manoeuvred us away from any sheds, and past some trees that are blowing in the breeze ahead of us, he gives me back control and we slowly taxi to the designated point at the runway’s edge. At this juncture, I’m a little nervous. I’d expected Ben to say that he would be taking charge from this point on, at least until we’re in the air, but he hasn’t said this yet. Instead, he is telling me to point the nose of the plane at a selected spot at the other end of the runway and to give the aircraft full throttle.

     Harnessing my inner nihilism, I do as I’m told, and the plane instantly picks up speed along the airstrip. ‘Fuck!’ I think, but I don’t say this out loud; I don’t want it to be the last recorded word that leaves my mouth before my death.

     Once we’ve hit top speed, Ben says, ‘I have control,’ and lifts the nose off the ground. We are instantly in the air and climbing. ‘You have control,’ I say, for no other reason than to attempt to sound professional about things.

* * * * * * * *

Once I’ve acclimatised to being in the air, and have had a quick look at what we can see below us, in order to help orientate me, it occurs that one of the things that wasn’t listed on the earlier checklist was ‘parachute’. I discreetly look around the tiny cabin but see nothing to indicate that we have one, let alone one each. I lean forward and, as inconspicuously as possible, feel around under my seat.

     ‘We don’t need any,’ says Ben, seeming to read my mind. ‘If for any unlikely reasons the engine fails, this plane becomes a glider, and we’ll just head for a nearby field for a gentle landing.’

     I’m glad to see that he’s considered this, and that he has a contingency plan in place for it, as I sure as hell don’t. I also inwardly commend him on his use of the word ‘gentle’.

     It’s quite pretty flying over the Hampshire countryside. It’s mostly rural, with occasional breaks in the cloud illuminating the various greens and yellows of farmland below.

     ‘On our left, just up ahead of us, is Downton Abbey,’ says Ben, pointing.

     ‘Cool,’ I say. ‘It looks very much like …’

     ‘It is,’ says Ben, ‘It’s the Highclere Castle Estate.’

     I look at the distinctive and familiar shape of the building’s façade, and am instantly reminded of how rich I’m not.

     ‘How much does it cost to get a pilot’s licence?’ I ask.

     ‘That depends,’ says Ben, ‘You’ll need to complete a minimum of forty-five hours flying time, plus there are nine exams to take. The whole thing usually costs around £10,000.’

     ‘I look again at the Castle Estate as we now fly directly over it. I think about the fact that my wife’s ancestors lived in a house like this. I’m also aware that I’m about four generations too late.

* * * * * * * *

Over the next forty-five minutes, Ben talks me through how to execute smooth turns to the left and right. Very occasionally, I manage them. But the important thing is that every time my manoeuvres are not so smooth, I at least understand why. I’m beginning to really enjoy this.

     ‘Would you like to get above the clouds?’ he asks.

     ‘Absolutely.’

     We discuss optimum speed and how to maintain it as we climb. This is easy. I’m beginning to wonder why I’d need forty-five hours of flying to get this right, but then I realise, as I look down, that only one person in this cockpit knows where we are and in which direction we’re flying. And that person isn’t me.

     Above the clouds is shimmering gold and orange. It’s quite beautiful up here.

     ‘And this is why I do this job,’ says Ben, nodding at the stunningly ethereal environment around us. ‘And, also, because it’s so peaceful up here. What do you do for a living?’

     ‘I coerce teenagers into doing things they don’t want to do,’ I say.

     ‘Sorry?’ I sense a change of tone in Ben’s voice.

     ‘I mean, I teach.’

     ‘Oh, I see,’ he says. ‘Do you like it?’

     ‘It’s a bit like herding cats,’ I say. ‘Except cats are cute.’

     Ben laughs. ‘I suppose it pays for things like this, though,’ he says.

     ‘So does organised crime,’ I say. ‘I’m currently weighing up my options.’

     After a few more attempts at controlled manoeuvres, Ben points into the distance. ‘See that building over there, at about eleven-o-clock?’

     I follow his line of vision and point too. ‘That one?’

     ‘Yes. That’s Andrew Lloyd-Webber’s estate.

     I look at the outline of the main house, and the other buildings and land that make up the estate. ‘His house is bigger than mine,’ I say.

     ‘Whenever we fly over his house, he files a complaint about noise nuisance,’ says Ben.

     ‘Really? Does he type it in ironic sans font?’

     ‘The last time he complained, my boss sent him a whole file on aviation law, pointing out that we are operating well within our legal parameters.

     ‘And what are the legal parameters?’

     ‘We must keep to a distance of at least five hundred feet above the highest structure at any given point.’

     ‘OK,’ I say. I imagine the plane having to take a sudden arc over Lloyd-Webber’s inflated opinion of himself. I’m also thinking that I wish I’d brought my sunglasses.

     ‘What would you like to do now, asks Ben.

     ‘Well,’ I say, ‘I think we should probably not waste the opportunity to cause a noise nuisance over Andrew Lloyd Webber’s estate. It’s only fair, Andrew Lloyd Webber has been creating a noise nuisance for years.’

     ‘Good call,’ says Ben. ‘Bear left.’

* * * * * * * *

Before making our way back to the airport, Ben asks if I’d like to experience some aerobatic manoeuvres. I say yes, and so he takes full control of the plane and abruptly lifts the nose into a fast ascent, followed by a dramatic drop from the sky, and finishing with a few 360-degree spirals. I’m aware that my excitement at this point is equalled only by my intense sense of nausea.  

     For someone who has difficulty travelling in the backs of cars, I quickly realise that ‘Yes’ was the wrong answer. I’m hoping I can regain some colour by the time we get to ground so that Ben doesn’t get to see how lifeless I now look. I bite my lips so as to encourage at least some colour back into them

     After a moment or two of further erratic manoeuvres in which he tells me that what I’m currently experiencing is gravity x 2, he hands me back the controls in order for me to bring the aircraft back level, and at a more leisurely air speed. ‘OK, let’s head back towards the airfield,’ he says.

     I look out of the windows on both sides. All I can see are fields and miniature clusters of both civil and Ministry of Defence buildings. ‘Where’s the airfield?’ I ask.

     He guides me in via a pond in the distance that we use as a turning point, before having me take a straight line as I lower the plane’s nose. ‘That’s it, keep this line, and don’t be afraid to give it more throttle,’ he says.

     Shit! I hope he’s not expecting me to land this thing. I’m likely to damage more than his wings.

     Luckily, as we come in closer, he says, ‘I have control.’

     ‘You have control,’ I say, again, for no other reason than to attempt to sound professional about things.

     We land safely and park up/dock – or whatever other word pilots use to describe how they leave their planes – before Ben walks me back to the main office. I’ve warmed to this guy. I’ve also warmed to flying. I look at the price list for hourly lessons attached to the wall above his desk. ‘Ouch!’ I think to myself. ‘Forty-five times this? Plus exams? Plus learning materials?’ On the other hand, this might be a thing worth getting poor over.

* * * * * * * *

I find Nat sitting outside the airfield’s small café, where she’s been waiting for me with a book.

     ‘How’d it go?’ she asks. ‘You’re looking a bit pale.’

     ‘I didn’t kill myself,’ I say, smiling.

     ‘So I see. I keep buying you these experiences and you keep surviving them.’

     ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘It might be cheaper in the long-run to just offer a one-off payment for a hitman.’

     ‘Yes, but where’s the fun in that?’ she says. ‘I’d thought I’d have done away with you when I bought you those racing circuit sessions.’

     ‘Perhaps your parents’ gift will do the job for you, when I climb London’s 02 in a few months’ time.’

     ‘Maybe,’ she says. ‘By the way, I forgot to ask, is your life insurance up to date?

     ‘Nope.’

     ‘Shame.’

     ‘You’ll have to just inherit everything, instead of everything plus insurance pay-out.’

     ‘Shame,’ she repeats.

* * * * * * * *

 

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I’ve been ill this week. Yesterday, I remained unconscious through pretty much everything that Richard Curtis has ever done only to wake up to the fact that, while I was asleep, the world lost a TV chef, an Australian journalist/presenter, and a British writer/stage director. And these were just the celebrity deaths. Shit! What have I contracted?!

     On the other hand, having spent the last three days consuming only water and rich tea biscuits, my stomach is now completely flat. I think I can work with this.

* * * * * * * *

I’m a strong advocate of the health benefits of being ill. It cuts down on stress, for a start. Since Monday, there has been an acknowledgement by pretty much everybody that not only can I not be expected to take up my usual responsibilities, but that I must not, under any circumstances, take up my usual responsibilities. This in itself makes projectile vomiting worthwhile. In fact, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier.

     Then there’s the detox value of not being able to keep anything down (or in). Apparently, fasting has all kinds of medical benefits, from moderating sugar and cholesterol levels, to improving brain function.

     ‘That’s the last time I’ll be leaving my car keys in the microwave, then’ I say to Nat.

     She appears less confident, however. ‘We’ll see,’ she says.

     What makes vomiting so intrinsically valuable, however, is that it totally legitimises not going to work.

     ‘Yes, I understand,’ says the cover supervisor, when I phone in to explain, ‘but we’re already a teacher down in your department …’

     Thing is, diarrhoea …’ I say.

     ‘Definitely don’t come in,’ she says, and hangs up.

     Who knew that abracadabra and diarrhoea were synonyms? Two words that work like magic.

     This get-out-of-work-free card is, itself, worth a vast amount of health points and quite probably contributes to both prolonged life expectancy and anti-wrinkling. I’m only 53 but this retirement-lite taster session is bloody lovely. Imagine how much lovelier it would be if I wasn’t so regularly having to hug a toilet.

* * * * * * * *

A further advantage of being unwell is that I’m currently the sole beneficiary of Nat’s maternal instinct (which she denies having but for which I have the lolly wrappers as proof). I’m receiving regular texts from her while she’s at work, to check how I’m doing, and a phone call at the end of each day to see if there’s anything I need from the shops on her way home. This is actually quite nice, and makes me feel cared for. I don’t generally need anything but I always request something, just to see if she means it.

     The cat, on the other hand, is watching me cautiously, no doubt sizing me up in my new horizontal state. I’m maintaining eye contact with it, just to remind it that I’m still the dominant male around here. It has already decided to test this theory by throwing up in the hallway. I’ve ignored him, so he’s thrown up again. We are now laying at opposite sides of the room, silently plotting against each other. I feel obliged to keep the eye contact up, but I’m getting sleepy. This might not end well.

* * * * * * * *

The only real disadvantage with being ill is from Nat’s point of view. She has to share a bed with me. Being I’ve been asleep for most of the day, I’m probably less sleepy than her right now. This, together with the fact that my body temperature rises at night, has made me a little more wriggly than usual. This isn’t good when she has to get up at 5.45am to catch a train into Birmingham for a conference.

     ‘Will you stay still!’

     ‘Sorry … Ouch!’

     ‘What now?’

     ‘I just accidentally punched myself in the face while trying to pull the duvet up.’

     ‘Well, that saves me a job.’

     I think maybe I should drag myself and my pillows into the spare room.

* * * * * * * *

I made the mistake of thinking I was better this morning, so I had a shower and ate grapes. Lots of grapes. I’m not feeling as better as I did.

Outside my window, it’s currently sunny but zero degrees. I can hear people scraping ice off their windshields. I, on the other hand, am sat up on my bed, bathed in warm, ambient lighting, clutching a hot drink while trying to decide which movie to watch. Life doesn’t get much bet… Oh, excuse me a moment …

* * * * * * * *

 

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It’s cold outside. And wet. And grey. Did I mention grey? The decaying corpse of my lawn that scrubbed up so well last summer is now partially hidden, like a rushed burial, beneath the mouldering litter of late autumn, and sticks to my shoes like putrefying road kill whenever I make the mistake of swapping cabin fever for a breath of fresh air. I think I may have also stood in fox crap. That means there’s foxes out there. And they’re crapping on my lawn.

     ‘Bastards!’ I shout from the patio, as I hop in one shoe while trying to take off the other before re-entering the house. ‘Oh, not you,’ I add, noticing my next-door neighbour hovering near our fence.

     He says nothing, just opens his patio door and disappears inside. He’s like that. I shrug and do the same. We’ve lived within feet of each other for over thirteen years and I still don’t know his name. I doubt very much that I could even pick him out of a police line-up. Hopefully, I’ll never have to, though it wouldn’t altogether surprise me if I did.

* * * * * * * *

There’s a lot to be said about Christmas – and most of it is far too positive. This season of obligatory fun and mandatory wallet-rape, all thinly wrapped up as ‘good will to all men’ (and, presumably, women), is just another poke in the face after they’ve gone and made night time turn up half way through the day by screwing with the clocks again.

     ‘Stop moaning!’ says Nat. She apparently likes what she so casually refers to as ‘the seasons.’

     I’m not ok with them. I’d much prefer one perpetual summer. If it wasn’t for the fact that we’d all probably float away, I’d suggest doing away with global rotation and just park the planet up nicely against a rational season. Like summer. There’s nothing cosy about the damp British coldness that clings to your bones and traps you indoors. And did I mention the perpetual grey? And just as you’ve worn yourself out coming to terms with ‘the seasons’, the threat of Christmas happens at you.

     ‘For goodness’ sake, where’s your festive spirit? The house down the road already has its Christmas tree up.’ I think Nat is getting tired of me following her around the house, whinging.

     I don’t feel that this even deserves an answer. On the other hand, I can’t help myself. ‘Take a look at your watch,’ I say. ‘It’s November. In fact, It’s barely half past November. Christmas might be a tradition, but do you know what tradition is? Do you?’

     ‘Go on …  and on … which I’m sure you’re about to.’

     ‘Tradition is merely peer pressure from dead people; that’s what tradition is.’

     ‘I think you’ll find that Christmas is all about the little baby Jesus,’ she says.

     “But why on Earth did they make him a Capricorn? Everybody knows that Leos make the most enigmatic leaders. Look at Mick Jagger.’

     ‘… Nope, I have nothing,’ she says, and leaves the room.

* * * * * * * *

The first hint of Christmas slapped me in the face the day after Bonfire Night, when I heard Paul Mc – shut the hell up – Cartney inviting me to have a ‘Wonderful Christmas Time’ through the sound system of my local Next store. ‘You’re shitting me,’ I said to the shop assistant, as I pointed at the speaker in the ceiling. ‘I know,’ he said. Next lost a customer that afternoon.

     I’m told Christmas is ‘cosy-up’ time with family, but most of us know that trying to coordinate a family Christmas is like trying to drag a full drum kit up a car park stairwell. Ok, Christmas doesn’t smell of wee (we tend to get a real Christmas tree) but the point, along with the frustration, remains the same.

     And then there’s the usual festive racism: ‘We can’t even call it Christmas anymore, for fear of offending someone’ is now the annual Daily Mail reader’s chorus of choice, which has become every bit as traditional over recent years as ‘Good King Wenceslas’, as it pours into and bounces off every corner of social media. This claim isn’t remotely true, of course, but why let truth get in the way of perfectly good bigotry. Most disappointing in my opinion is that these people are still allowed to vote. But as Churchill is quoted as saying, ‘The best argument against Democracy is a five-minute conversation with the average voter’.

     To add insult, I’ve just received an email falsely describing me as ‘a valued customer of Christmas Letters from Santa’.

     ‘I think they might have mixed you up with a different idiot,’ says Nat, as she begins to read my email. ‘Hey, you can get a whole £1.00 off your Santa’s letter if you order before 18^th November,’ she says. ‘“You can also include with your letter a token certificate for an extra 50p, which rewards your child for good behaviour and being kind to others. Another great keepsake from Santa Claus himself!”’

     ‘You mean I’ve got to pay Santa in order for him to write to me? It’s true what they say, absolute power really does corrupt absolutely.’

     ‘Poor Santa,’ says Nat, ‘Perhaps he’s suffering from the falling pound and the burden of corporation tax.’

     ‘Then perhaps he should register his business in the United Arab Emirates, and his domicile in Estonia, just like any other self-respecting tax exile, instead of reverting to charging for autographs.’

     ‘That reminds me,’ says Nat, reaching for a faded note that is sticking out of the back of the letter rack, ‘Remember this?’ She holds it up. ‘I found it stuck to the fridge door last Christmas morning when I got up.’

     I try to take it from her but she’s too quick. ‘And I quote,’ she says, ‘“Dear Santa, I’m writing to you to let you know that I’ve been naughty this year, and that it was worth it, you fat judgmental bastard”. Do you have anything to say about this?’

     ‘I think the note speaks for itself,’ I say.

* * * * * * * *

In the meantime, my local supermarket has already moved the easy to grab wine from the front of the store to make room for Christmas cards and Twiglets.

     ‘Who on earth buys Twiglets?’ I ask.

     ‘Everybody,’ says Nat.

     ‘But who on earth eats them?’ I ask.

     ‘Nobody,’ she says.

 

Still, it could be worse, it could be … oh, it is. I reach for my umbrella.

 

* * * * * * * *

 

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     ‘Explain yourself,’ says Nat, taking off her coat as she closes the front door behind her.

     ‘Well, I’m quite simple, really,’ I say, ‘albeit in a convoluted sort of way.’ I’m standing at the bottom of the stairs with an armful of laundry. ‘I’m the usual bag of delightful contradictions that one might associate with post-industrial man. Of course, I mostly put this down to having had to untangle myself psychically from the belief systems of the 1970s, which, in many ways, can be said to be the font of my general ineptitudes. Can you believe that we once thought that orange shirts with brown collars and cuffs were something we shouldn’t be put to death for …?’

     She’s standing there waiting for me to stop talking, her body language and expression confused in equal measure by what even I am realising to be my directionless monologue. ‘I was looking to be more specific,’ she says.

     ‘Go on.’

     She reaches into her bag. ‘You’re a man; explain this.’ She slaps a copy of today’s newspaper onto the hallway table.

     I read the headline looking up at me from the front page. ‘Paul Gascoigne?’ I say.

     ‘Yes. Paul Gascoigne. …Well?’

     I’m not sure how to respond. So, I don’t.

     Nat picks the newspaper back up and quotes at me: “The ex-England star, who denies sexual assault by touching, told police he had “kissed a fat lass” to give her a “confidence boost”, jurors were told.”

     ‘Wow!’ I say.

     ‘Not good enough,’ says Nat, accusingly, ‘Explain yourself.’

     ‘What? Why me? What have I got to do with this?’

     ‘You’re the only man in the room, so you’ll have to do.’

     ‘Wow!’ I say again, but for very different reasons this time.

     ‘Any insights at all into why men are so batshit stupid?’

     And then it comes to me. ‘If I had any insight into this type of ridiculous male outlook and behaviour,’ I say, ‘I very much doubt you’d want to be with me.’

     With that, Nat’s expression softens and she leans over to kiss me. ‘I’m very lucky,’ she says.

     ‘Nailed it!’ I say. ‘Totally nailed it.’ But I only say this in my head. Only in my head.

* * * * * * * *

Later that evening, Nat and I are in the living room, watching TV. Or rather, she is watching Master Chef, while I’m busy ignoring it with a magazine.

     ‘Why do you have your fingers in your ears?’ she asks, looking over at me.

     I don’t want to say that I’m currently thinking something very loudly and don’t want anyone to hear. ‘Hmm?’ I ask.

     ‘Is there something wrong with your ears?’

     ‘Oh, them. Yes. Itchy.’ I take my fingers out and pretend to scratch them.

     ‘Are you thinking loud thoughts again?’ she asks.

     ‘No! … A bit!’ I say.

     ‘…And?’

     I think for a moment. ‘Well,’ I say, reluctantly, ‘that Paul Gascoigne story …’

     ‘Go on …’

     ‘If the woman in the article hadn’t been non-consensually kissed by a northern drunk but had instead been kissed by a proper celeb – say, David Beckham, or Matt Damon – might she still have considered it an assault?’

     Nat instantly turns down the volume on the TV, which is never a good sign. ‘Do you not understand the word consent?’ she asks.

    ‘Yes, but if, say, Johnny Depp walked across a room and kissed you? No ‘Hi, how/who are you?’ If he just kissed you because he thought you might like it, would you really be all ‘See you in court,’ about it?

     ‘Well that’s not a fair question,’ she says.

     ‘Why not?’

     ‘Because it’s Johnny Depp. The consent is implied.’

     ‘And right there is the slow puncture in your feminist stance,’ I say.

     ‘No, it’s not.’

     ‘Of course, it is. Same scenario, but if he happens to occasionally dress like a pirate, it’s suddenly not assault? It’s one rule for Johnny Depp and another for Captain Birdseye.’ (I’m not sure if my argument is technically still on point at this juncture, but I think my overall theme is still intact.)

     The pause that follows results in Nat turning the TV volume back up. I’m off the hook. Or ignored. Or both.

* * * * * * * *

A few days later, the BBC news informs us that randomly kissing strangers on trains is not actually sexual assault if you are a wealthy ex-footballer and can come across to a jury as adequately stupid.

     ‘And there you have it,’ I say, ‘a jury cannot prove the guilty mind element when the mind in question hardly exists at all.’

     ‘Disappointing,’ says Nat. ‘We’re clearly still living in the Middle Ages as far as women’s rights are concerned.’

     ‘I don’t think I’d have got away so easily with kissing women on trains,’ I say.

     ‘To be honest, I doubt your case would even get to court.’

     ‘Why not?’ I ask.

     ‘Because I wouldn’t be reckless enough to bury your body where it might be found.’

     Though the world outside my front door might still be considered a patriarchy in many ways, in here I’m happy to allow the matriarchy to continue. It just seems easier that way.

* * * * * * * *

 

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