when he’s in
that sort of mood and he ended up roping me into his bad temper when I refused
to condemn Norman for his gift (although he soon held out his glass when I
cracked it open that evening). Silly, isn’t it?
Today we niggled over… over what? Some insane petulant
nonsense on the motorway. God, why does he always have to be right about every
little thing? Some other driver behind us wanted to get past and Andrew
wouldn’t let him. It was like some sort of game to him. Ridiculous, isn’t it?
It really is. In fact, as I’m sat here writing this, I can’t even understand
how it all blew up again. Why couldn’t he just pull over? There you go, problem
solved, next problem please. I mean, if he’s going to fall to pieces every time
something this tiny inconveniences him, how the hell’s he ever going to cope if
something serious goes wrong? And you know what, that’s my real frustration. I
work with children all day long. I’m getting a little bit tired of having to
come home to one.
Chapter 5. The Green Green Grass of Tom
“This bastard was right up my arse;
hooting and trying to flash me off the road. I tell you, some people,” I said,
draining the last of my pint.
“Blimey, you thirsty or something?” Tom asked, half a pint
behind me.
“First one I’ve had since… well, before Christmas I think.”
“Really, you haven’t had anything at all over Christmas?”
“No, just scotch and wine.”
Tom angled his eyebrows. “That counts. I thought you meant
you hadn’t had any booze, full stop.”
“Oh no, God no. Three days at mine and Sally’s parents?
Christ, I couldn’t do that sober,” I shuddered.
“Go on then, what did matey do?”
“Well, he was just there wasn’t he, hanging off my arse and
trying to intimidate me into the central reservation.”
“Cunt!”
“Yeah, that’s right. He was like a maniac he was, a total
fucking nutcase. I thought he was going to kill someone.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well I wasn’t going to let him past, was I, so I let the
bastard stew.”
Tom gave a considered nod and took the penultimate sip of
his pint. “In your own time, Tom,” I said, nudging his arm along.
“What? Oh yeah, sorry,” said Tom, downing the dregs and
summoning the barman away from his Take a
Break magazine.
“Same again, Tom?” the barman asked, hovering a couple of
fresh glasses under the John Smiths.
“Please Graham. And have one for yourself?”
“Thanks. I’ll have it for later, yeah?”
“No problem,” Tom nodded, all pleased with himself at being
so flash. Still, that was Tom and Tom liked being flash. He wasn’t flash in a
‘in-your-face’ ‘Jack-the-lad’ ‘utter-wanker’ sort of way. It was more a languid,
unconcerned, look at me, aren’t I cool, sort of thing. I was never sure where
he got it from, whether it was Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly , Michael Caine in Alfie , or Regan out of The Sweeney but he’d definitely got it
from somewhere because when I first met him he couldn’t even open a door
without knocking his glasses off.
Still, he seemed to enjoy doing it and it also seemed to
work too, so I stopped pulling him up on it whenever I caught him smoking out
of the corner of his mouth or winking when he thought he’d said something
clever, and let him just get on with it these days.
“So what’s Sally’s problem?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You know her, she’s always upset about
something. I can’t seem to do anything right these days.” I took a big gulp of
my new pint, wiped the bubbles from my top lip and let that sentiment have some
time by itself.
“Probably her period or something I suspect. That’s usually
what’s the matter,” Tom guessed, making the barman roll his eyes.
“No, I don’t know. Maybe it was all a bit stupid but it
wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ah, women they don’t understand these things. It’s just
easier to blame stuff on their
that sort of mood and he ended up roping me into his bad temper when I refused
to condemn Norman for his gift (although he soon held out his glass when I
cracked it open that evening). Silly, isn’t it?
Today we niggled over… over what? Some insane petulant
nonsense on the motorway. God, why does he always have to be right about every
little thing? Some other driver behind us wanted to get past and Andrew
wouldn’t let him. It was like some sort of game to him. Ridiculous, isn’t it?
It really is. In fact, as I’m sat here writing this, I can’t even understand
how it all blew up again. Why couldn’t he just pull over? There you go, problem
solved, next problem please. I mean, if he’s going to fall to pieces every time
something this tiny inconveniences him, how the hell’s he ever going to cope if
something serious goes wrong? And you know what, that’s my real frustration. I
work with children all day long. I’m getting a little bit tired of having to
come home to one.
Chapter 5. The Green Green Grass of Tom
“This bastard was right up my arse;
hooting and trying to flash me off the road. I tell you, some people,” I said,
draining the last of my pint.
“Blimey, you thirsty or something?” Tom asked, half a pint
behind me.
“First one I’ve had since… well, before Christmas I think.”
“Really, you haven’t had anything at all over Christmas?”
“No, just scotch and wine.”
Tom angled his eyebrows. “That counts. I thought you meant
you hadn’t had any booze, full stop.”
“Oh no, God no. Three days at mine and Sally’s parents?
Christ, I couldn’t do that sober,” I shuddered.
“Go on then, what did matey do?”
“Well, he was just there wasn’t he, hanging off my arse and
trying to intimidate me into the central reservation.”
“Cunt!”
“Yeah, that’s right. He was like a maniac he was, a total
fucking nutcase. I thought he was going to kill someone.”
“So what did you do?”
“Well I wasn’t going to let him past, was I, so I let the
bastard stew.”
Tom gave a considered nod and took the penultimate sip of
his pint. “In your own time, Tom,” I said, nudging his arm along.
“What? Oh yeah, sorry,” said Tom, downing the dregs and
summoning the barman away from his Take a
Break magazine.
“Same again, Tom?” the barman asked, hovering a couple of
fresh glasses under the John Smiths.
“Please Graham. And have one for yourself?”
“Thanks. I’ll have it for later, yeah?”
“No problem,” Tom nodded, all pleased with himself at being
so flash. Still, that was Tom and Tom liked being flash. He wasn’t flash in a
‘in-your-face’ ‘Jack-the-lad’ ‘utter-wanker’ sort of way. It was more a languid,
unconcerned, look at me, aren’t I cool, sort of thing. I was never sure where
he got it from, whether it was Clint Eastwood in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly , Michael Caine in Alfie , or Regan out of The Sweeney but he’d definitely got it
from somewhere because when I first met him he couldn’t even open a door
without knocking his glasses off.
Still, he seemed to enjoy doing it and it also seemed to
work too, so I stopped pulling him up on it whenever I caught him smoking out
of the corner of his mouth or winking when he thought he’d said something
clever, and let him just get on with it these days.
“So what’s Sally’s problem?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You know her, she’s always upset about
something. I can’t seem to do anything right these days.” I took a big gulp of
my new pint, wiped the bubbles from my top lip and let that sentiment have some
time by itself.
“Probably her period or something I suspect. That’s usually
what’s the matter,” Tom guessed, making the barman roll his eyes.
“No, I don’t know. Maybe it was all a bit stupid but it
wasn’t my fault. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Ah, women they don’t understand these things. It’s just
easier to blame stuff on their
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