Goodnight Steve McQueen by Louise Wener Page B

and decide to plump for that. And a cake. A Thomas the Tank Engine cake. Don’t ask me why.
    2.30 p.m. There are no shirts in Ted Baker. No shirts. At all. Well, there are shirts, but none of them are blue. Black’s no good and I’m fucked if they’re getting me in something with a sodding pattern on the front.
    2.35 p.m. In desperation have tried on something black and shiny with pattern on the front. Look like Robbie Williams’s dad. Robbie Williams is the new David Essex. I am David Essex’s dad. I am David Essex’s dad. Decide to forget whole new shirt thing and stick with navy blue Carhartt hooded top instead. Alison likes me in my navy blue Carhartt hooded top.
    That’s it, then. Just have to pick up some flowers on the way home and then I can head over to Sheila’s. Everything going well. Everything under control. Better than expected. Maybe go for quick pint in The Lamb and Flag before I head off.
    3.15 p.m. Shit! Forgotten to buy Alison’s present. Have forgotten the whole reason I came up here in the first place. Got all the way down to the Piccadilly Line platform and was busy reading a fascinating advert about haemorrhoid cream when suddenly felt like I’d forgotten something important. Fought my way back to the lifts, realised I didn’t have time to queue and decided to run up the stairs.
    3.2.0 p.m. Have had heart attack. Well, it feels like I’ve had a heart attack. There are 193 stairs at Covent Garden station. That’s the equivalent of fifteen flights. Am definitely going to pass out. Why did I try and run up? What am I trying to prove? Why do I feel like David Essex’s dad?
    3.2.5 p.m. Looking good, feeling good. Am in great shape for a bloke my age. Pulse rate back down to sixty in less than ten minutes. Fitness is all about recovery time anyway. I read that on a Tube ad somewhere.
    So, what to get for Alison? What does Alison like? She likes things that smell nice. She likes those expensive candles that are supposed to smell of autumn leaves and chocolate but actually smell like your nan’s sock drawer. Fine. I know where to get those. Scented candles and maybe a book I can write something nice in, a guide to Bruges maybe.
    Hang on. Hang on. Alison will put the candles in her hotel room. She’ll invite some of her new work mates up for a drink. The women will all go home and Alison will be left alone with Donkey-schlong. She’ll light the candles. He’ll try to suck up by saying how nice they smell and Alison will say, Thanks, they were a present from my boyfr… Oh, it doesn’t matter, come over here and have a sniff. Has anyone ever told you that you look a little bit like Ant and Dec?
    BASTARD!
    It’s gone 5.30 by the time I make it over to Sheila’s and at first I’m convinced I’m at the wrong house. Sheila doesn’t even have a lawn. What she does have is a jungle. The grass is up to my knees. It probably hasn’t been mowed since they stopped rationing. It’s going to take me hours, and I’m actually considering running away when Sheila spots me from the window, sees me with Alison’s flowers and says, “Oh, Daniel, lilies. Goodness me, you shouldn’t have.”
    It takes for ever. Sheila’s lawnmower is more blunt than Vince when he’s being very bloody blunt, and I end up hacking at some of the weeds with one of her kitchen knives. I’m showered in grass and soil and bits of snails that I’ve accidentally trodden on and I’m getting quite used to the sickening crunch they make when I stand on them now. It’s almost seven before I’m finished.
    “Oh, that looks very good. Now, you must let me make you a cup of tea.”
    “I can’t, Sheila, honestly, I’m really late, it’s Alison’s leaving party tonight. I’ve really got to go.”
    “Nonsense. I’ve bought you some Mr. Kipling’s Bakewell Slices. I went to Budgens specially.”
    The thought of Sheila making a special trip to Budgens and fishing about in her purse for a few spare coppers is more than I can