mind. I have to hand it to him. It’s a big dish this for only a quid. It’s probably going off. Or it’s got Hepatitis A.’
‘What? The ice-cream?’
He smiles.
Can I have some?’
‘Neh, get your own.’ He pretends to move the spoon away, then holds it out to me, spoon-feeds me, catches runny bits down my chin. Next, we play our daft little game where we rate passers-by on their clothes, their hairdos, how fanciable they are. We get through about three victims when Rob says the immortal words: ‘I need the can.’ Rob’s bowel maketh great legend. ‘Told you that ice-cream was off,’ he says as he hurries inside.
I grow old in his absence. Ten minutes. Twenty. Where the hell is he? The Italian keeps catching my eye and smiling in cheeky acknowledgement of how grim marriage can be, (but it wouldn’t be with him, of course!). Finally, Rob comes back looking relieved. ‘Bloody hell!’ I hiss. ‘Could you not do the short version?’
He sits down. ‘I told you the bastard’s trying to poison me. I could have manured half of Yorkshire.’
‘Ergh!’ I clap my hands over my face.
‘Hard lines for that poor lass though.’
‘Lass?’
‘Yeah, good-lookin bird who followed me in. She was giving me the eye. She’ll not be now though. God bless her.’ Rob peers inside at the Italian. ‘Look at him still staring over here. He needs to get his eyes on somebody else’s wife, the midgety git. I should have taken my ice-cream glass in with me, filled it, and stuck it on his counter with a spoon in.’
‘Thanks Rob. You’re romance all the way. You know that?’
As we leave, the Italian shouts, ‘Ciao bella!’
‘Why does the twit think you’re called Bella?’ Rob squeezes me, gives me his sly smile.
The sun seems to bring people out in droves: little ruffians outside the video arcades, girls and mams on the bargain hunt, downtrodden husbands trying to stop their wives spending money, and the lovely legless football fans lurching into pubs. The odd one unconscious, being hauled hammock-style by his mates up the street. Because Rob hates shopping (unless it’s for him), we spend a fraught five minutes in Gap while I try to quickly find a pair of jeans. ‘What do you think of these?’ I model a pair.
‘They’re great.’ Rob leans against the wall, painfully bored.
‘Or these?’
‘Yeah. Nice too. Are we done yet?’
The bonny young assistant who is folding jeans gives Rob the look-over and smiles, entertained. ‘Well which ones are better though?’ I ask him.
He sighs, stifles a yawn. ‘Both of them. I mean, neither.’ He musses the back of his head. ‘Either. Which ever you like. It’s you who has to wear them. Not me.’
The girl grins broadly. A typical bloke, but she loves him for it.
Then we’re in Fenwick’s men’s shoes department. Ever since Rob read an article about how rich people only wear Italian shoes, Rob will buy nothing else. ‘Listen,’ he’ll say, ‘there’s no way you could ever appreciate the orgasmic joy of wearing shoes that make you feel you’re walking on clouds, until you too earn a living clobbering around building sites in hard, heavy boots, in all weather, day after day, growing callouses the size of monkeys’ brains.’ I’ve tried saying, ‘but maybe you can get comfy shoes—probably about ten pairs of 'em—without having to spend so much.’ But he tells me it’s his money; he’s earned it. I need to try minding my own business. Apparently I have this tendency to stick my big nose into things that don’t concern me. Apparently I should just worry about what’s on my own feet, not his, then apparently we’d all be a lot happier. Apparently.
So here we are in Fenwick’s. I grow old as Rob gets the mumsy sales lady to explain the finer points of Italian shoes. ‘You have such a good way of putting it,’ he woos her with his quiet charm. ‘Can you tell me again, how they slice up those specially bred organic cows?’
Walking
‘What? The ice-cream?’
He smiles.
Can I have some?’
‘Neh, get your own.’ He pretends to move the spoon away, then holds it out to me, spoon-feeds me, catches runny bits down my chin. Next, we play our daft little game where we rate passers-by on their clothes, their hairdos, how fanciable they are. We get through about three victims when Rob says the immortal words: ‘I need the can.’ Rob’s bowel maketh great legend. ‘Told you that ice-cream was off,’ he says as he hurries inside.
I grow old in his absence. Ten minutes. Twenty. Where the hell is he? The Italian keeps catching my eye and smiling in cheeky acknowledgement of how grim marriage can be, (but it wouldn’t be with him, of course!). Finally, Rob comes back looking relieved. ‘Bloody hell!’ I hiss. ‘Could you not do the short version?’
He sits down. ‘I told you the bastard’s trying to poison me. I could have manured half of Yorkshire.’
‘Ergh!’ I clap my hands over my face.
‘Hard lines for that poor lass though.’
‘Lass?’
‘Yeah, good-lookin bird who followed me in. She was giving me the eye. She’ll not be now though. God bless her.’ Rob peers inside at the Italian. ‘Look at him still staring over here. He needs to get his eyes on somebody else’s wife, the midgety git. I should have taken my ice-cream glass in with me, filled it, and stuck it on his counter with a spoon in.’
‘Thanks Rob. You’re romance all the way. You know that?’
As we leave, the Italian shouts, ‘Ciao bella!’
‘Why does the twit think you’re called Bella?’ Rob squeezes me, gives me his sly smile.
The sun seems to bring people out in droves: little ruffians outside the video arcades, girls and mams on the bargain hunt, downtrodden husbands trying to stop their wives spending money, and the lovely legless football fans lurching into pubs. The odd one unconscious, being hauled hammock-style by his mates up the street. Because Rob hates shopping (unless it’s for him), we spend a fraught five minutes in Gap while I try to quickly find a pair of jeans. ‘What do you think of these?’ I model a pair.
‘They’re great.’ Rob leans against the wall, painfully bored.
‘Or these?’
‘Yeah. Nice too. Are we done yet?’
The bonny young assistant who is folding jeans gives Rob the look-over and smiles, entertained. ‘Well which ones are better though?’ I ask him.
He sighs, stifles a yawn. ‘Both of them. I mean, neither.’ He musses the back of his head. ‘Either. Which ever you like. It’s you who has to wear them. Not me.’
The girl grins broadly. A typical bloke, but she loves him for it.
Then we’re in Fenwick’s men’s shoes department. Ever since Rob read an article about how rich people only wear Italian shoes, Rob will buy nothing else. ‘Listen,’ he’ll say, ‘there’s no way you could ever appreciate the orgasmic joy of wearing shoes that make you feel you’re walking on clouds, until you too earn a living clobbering around building sites in hard, heavy boots, in all weather, day after day, growing callouses the size of monkeys’ brains.’ I’ve tried saying, ‘but maybe you can get comfy shoes—probably about ten pairs of 'em—without having to spend so much.’ But he tells me it’s his money; he’s earned it. I need to try minding my own business. Apparently I have this tendency to stick my big nose into things that don’t concern me. Apparently I should just worry about what’s on my own feet, not his, then apparently we’d all be a lot happier. Apparently.
So here we are in Fenwick’s. I grow old as Rob gets the mumsy sales lady to explain the finer points of Italian shoes. ‘You have such a good way of putting it,’ he woos her with his quiet charm. ‘Can you tell me again, how they slice up those specially bred organic cows?’
Walking
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