Goodnight Steve McQueen by Louise Wener

if he can still stand up. It goes with his twenty-four-hour clothes. Yeah, they actually ‘ave ‘em, twenty-four-hour clothes that you can eat in, sleep in and quite possibly shit yourself in. My granddad buys his from John Lewis.
    “So anyway, what a bloke really needs is a transitional shoe for the middle years. Not exactly a slip-on, not exactly a lace-up. More of your desert boot but less hippyish. Not exactly a work shoe but not quite as casual as your plimsoll neither.”
    Last week Matty suggested a clumpy leather arrangement with Velcro straps that he’d seen in Camper but Vince pointed out (quite astutely, I thought) that they would make him look
    like he was mentally handicapped. It’s definitely been worrying him, this whole transitional shoe thing.
    We carry on like this for the rest of the night: arguing the toss about bands that we hate, defending the honour of records we love, drinking and shouting and winding Matty up as far as we dare.
    “Have either of you ever used nose-hair trimmers?” I say, wondering if it’s worth buying the ones I’ve just seen in this month’s Innovations catalogue.
    “Yeah, they’re great… saves you pulling them out with your fingers. They do your ears as well.”
    “What… you’ve got hair in your ears’}’
    Vince rubs his chin, takes out a Rizla and begins another roll-up.
    “Just a matter of time,” he says gravely. “My old man’s got more ear hairs than pubes these days, and he reckons most of them have gone grey.”
    Matty stares at his beer glass for a moment. He looks perplexed, and then he starts to laugh.
    “Ha, ha … ear hairs. Right. Good one. Blimey, I thought you were serious there for a second. Fuck me. Ear hairs. Phew… Anyone want another drink?”
    Too right we do.
    I’m enjoying it. I’m enjoying the lager and the banter and the chance to reminisce and it’s a relief not to have to think about Alison and the job and the ultimatum and the whole damn thing. I decide to tell them later. I decide to discuss the whole six-month thing after Alison has gone. It’ll be easier then. I’ll have a clearer mind. It’ll make more sense after Alison has gone.
    “So how’s things shaping up with Alison’s job, then?” says Vince. “Oh, not bad, y’know, just about getting my head round it, I suppose.”
    “Still, it’s not for long, though, is it?”
    “No,” I say, and then I remember something. “Yeah, she asked me to see if you wanted to come to her leaving do on Saturday.”
    “Where’s she having it?”
    “The Medicine Bar in Islington.”
    “Nice one. Can I bring Kate?”
    Kate is Matty’s girlfriend and for some reason I’ve never been able to work out Alison has always seemed to have it in for her.
    “Of course you can,” I say. “You’re all invited.”
    And then it’s last orders and we decide to make a move and head for home.
    Bollocks! Why did I say I’d do it? Why did I promise Sheila that I’d mow her lawn this afternoon?
    It’s Saturday, it’s almost noon, and I still haven’t done any of the things I meant to do before Alison leaves on Monday. I haven’t bought her present. I haven’t organised a haircut or picked up the food or bought a new shirt, and now I’ve only got three hours to get all the way into town, buy everything I need and make it all the way back up to Hornsey Lane to do Sheila’s garden before four o’clock.
    I could cancel. I could do it next week. I could phone her now. Fuck it. Can’t cancel she said her daughter was coming over tomorrow. I’ll grab some breakfast then I’ll just have to shoot.
    “Morning, Dog Breath, I just made coffee, there’s some left if you want it. We’re out of milk, though.”
    “I know,” I say through a mouthful of dry cornflakes. “What you watching?”
    Alison is watching the end of CD’UK with Ant and Dec. She harbours some kind of kinky fantasy involving both Ant and Dec that she doesn’t think I know about, but I overheard her discussing