Joe X – Dreams

Another day, another session, and he’s consulting some papers on his lap when I come in. He doesn’t look up but says ‘I got you a coffee. Two sugars, right?’
I sit down. ‘Thanks’ I say.
‘I want to pursue this question about your, er, putative career...’
I snort with derision. My “career” indeed. That’s a laugh.
‘Why do you find that funny?’
I shake my head and try to avoid saying ‘I don’t know’. I do know, it’s because it’s unimaginable, me, with a career. I have an image of all those people in suits or uniforms being terribly important and responsible and serious about life. I can’t imagine myself like that.
‘Ok’ he says, trying not to look exasperated, ‘what would you most like to have done, no, what would you most like to have changed about your life? Anything you like...’ He clicks his fingers ‘...different. What would it be?’
Again I sit and my mind goes all over the place. So many things, none of them very realistic...
‘Go on, a place of your own? A round the world air ticket?’
God, I think, yes, either of those. To get away, be myself somehow. I nod and he smiles, and I think he’s going to say ‘But you need to earn the money first’, which my mum would have said (she used to take great pleasure in “bringing me back to the real world” as she called it) but he doesn’t.
‘Alone or with someone else?’
I consider the people I know, go through them one by one. There’s nobody.
‘Maybe I could meet people when I’m out there’ I suggest.
‘Highly likely’ he says.
I have this image of a group of fairly cool but not too pretentious people, maybe about my own age, maybe more varied, male and female, hanging out in a bar, or just in someone’s room, and I feel completely relaxed with them, and we chat but I don’t feel I necessarily have to say anything. It’s just easy, and there’s a girl...
‘What are you thinking about?’ he says.
‘Oh, this fantasy I have, of a group of friends, a girlfriend...’
‘What are they like?’
‘I really don’t know. They’re just friendly, relaxed...’
‘Anyone you know?’
‘Not really.’
‘What about the girl? What’s she like?’
I feel a little inhibited at first, but then it occurs to me I wouldn’t mind him telling me about his boyfriend (maybe I should ask him some time) so I go on to talk about her, how she’s witty and funny and likes a lot of attention, and how we spend a lot of time in bed just cuddling and listening to music...’
‘And having sex?’
I smile sheepishly. ‘Lots of sex’ I say.
‘I should bloody well hope so’ he says, cheerfully.
I take a moment to enjoy the fantasy. He watches my face. He sees it turn from happy reverie to hopeless.
‘What happened there?’
‘It’s just... the money. I lived with my parents for fuck’s sake. What am I going to do?’
I see him think about how to put it. ‘I actually don’t know Gabriel...’ He sees me sag a bit ‘But hang on. That’s not the point. The point is there’s no point in thinking about work and savings and insurance and all that crap if you don’t know what you want it for. You’re putting the cart before the horse Gabriel. We don’t live to work Gabriel. Live in your dreams for a while. Work out what you want to do, feel it, see it as a possibility. Then you find your way...’
‘But that’s all I have done Joe. I’ve done nothing but dream, and it just doesn’t make it seem any more possible.’ I’m almost in tears again, lost.
‘But what you’ve said doesn’t seem very impossible – friends, a girlfriend, a place of your own, a trip abroad...’
‘But it does. I have to work.’
‘That’s the finding your way part. We can talk about all that another time. The take-home message for today is just that your hopes are not unrealistic. Really. Ok?’
‘Ok.’
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Joe IX – Some sort of future

Next time he looks hard at me and says ‘Give me one thing your parents could have done to help you out.’ I look at him, wondering what he’s getting at. I can’t think.
‘Take your time’ he says, ‘I’m going to get a coffee. Want one?’
‘Please. White, two sugars.’ He leaves.
What could they have done? I don’t know what he’s getting at. Dad was always trying to get me to go and play football with some of the lads he knew (he must have known I hated sports but he kept on trying), or help him do the house up – rubbing down or mixing cement or whatever. Mum was always getting on at me to come downstairs and ‘at least’ watch some telly with them. To be honest I think the best thing they could have done was bloody well leave me alone.
I don’t know. It sounds ungrateful, but I just wanted to get on with my painting or reading or whatever it was I was doing. I went to the library a lot, and I had this idea that if they built me a shed down at the bottom of the garden I could use it as a studio, maybe have a gas heater in it and a hammock and they’d never have to see me again. There was the Wendy house down there with all shrubs overgrown around it. Dad built it for the girls when they were little, and, say what you like about my dad – if he built something it stayed built. I spent a lot of time down there, especially after I screwed everything up, but before that too. I took my books and some paper and stuff and found a little cupboard and an old deck chair and some candles and made myself a little retreat. I spent a lot of time just sitting in there, peering out through the bushes at the garden. I had all the porn I’d collected hidden down there too, in a big Tupperware box underneath the floor. I used to go down there at night sometimes, or when they’d all gone out. Anyway...

‘A studio’ I say when he gets back with the drinks.
‘Sorry?’
‘Like a big shed at the bottom of the garden, so I could go down there and work without them all...er...’
‘Without them all what?’ He takes a mouthful of coffee, watching me over the rim of his mug.
‘I don’t know. It was just, in the house, you were always aware of them, downstairs, or in their bedroom, moving about.’
‘Why did that bother you?’
‘I don’t know. It was just like, they could come in at any time and see me there, and there’d be this, I don’t know, irritation, like I should always be doing something else. They just had this exasperation all the time. I was always doing the wrong thing. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Just as an aside Gabriel, are you aware of how often you start your sentences with “I don’t know” and then go on to give a perfectly good answer? I’m not saying you should stop necessarily, but I thought I’d point it out. You do know Gabriel, actually. And yes I do know what you mean, but wouldn’t they have come and disturbed you down the garden just the same?’
‘I suppose so. Actually it probably would have been worse. Mum was always going on about dad and what he found to do down there in his shed. They’d have thought I was a real weirdo, even more than they did already. “Oh here comes Rasputin the monk.” She thought she was very funny.’
‘Perhaps you could have got a place on your own somewhere, once you left school I mean.’

I don’t know what to say to that. It doesn’t seem very likely. I know other people my age did that but they had rich parents or good jobs or something (or else they went to university of course). And I know there’s no excuse because I should have just ‘got off my arse’ as my dad used to say, and bloody well earned some money instead of faffing around in my room. I know that, I do, really, but then I used to look at the jobs in the paper or down the job centre and all I could see was weeks or months, maybe years of shelf stacking or sweeping up, always being checked up on, looked down on. The best dad could suggest (if I was ‘lucky’) was that I’d be a manager one day and then it’d be my turn to make someone else miserable, telling people who thought I was a jerk what to do. And that was all I could see – stretching on into the future, like endless shelving stacked with stuff I didn’t want – mortgages and insurance and MOTs and bills and pensions. And every day getting up and going to the same place, wasting all that time – time I could have spent doing something else, something better – painting or travelling or... something. I don’t know what. And then you’re old and sick and you think –  what the fuck was that all about?
But then actually I couldn’t imagine sticking at any of those jobs for very long. Sooner or later they’d find a reason to sack me, which would be a relief, for a while, but then what? Back to mum’s – that’s what, and signing on.
There’s nothing to say, no excuses. I’m submerged in shame and uselessness. I just shake my head.

He looks at me, like he can’t think of anything to say either. Eventually he leans forward and says ‘Was it just about the money?’
‘I suppose...’
‘What about the thought of you being out on your own, fending for yourself? Didn’t that scare you?’
‘That wouldn’t have bothered me.’
‘So it was just the money.’
Hah! “Just the money” he says, as if it’s no big deal.
I look about the room, not focussing on anything especially. Someone up on deck is laughing, a woman’s voice, light, feminine, sexy. I feel a surge in my chest, in my groin.
‘Can’t you imagine getting a good job – one you could enjoy?’ he says.
I pretend to think about that for a while but I know the answer.
‘Not really’ I say, and I’m not being melodramatic. I honestly can’t. Work’s not about enjoying. It’s about fucking well doing as you’re fucking well told and fucking well putting up with it. That’s what my parents taught me.
‘We need to work on that’ he says, and begins to gather his things to leave.
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Joe IV – Jobs

Next time I see him I tell Joe about the careers advice I’ve been given. I try to make it sound funny but he can tell there’s something troubling me.‘I really don’t mind hard work. Honestly.’
‘I believe you.’
‘Oh.’
‘So what is it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did it feel, when you were there, at the shop? Try to take yourself back there for me. What does it feel like?’
‘Sort of, I don’t know, frustrating? And like... It’s like they’re watching me all the time, waiting for me to do something wrong. I don’t know if it was true. I just felt on edge the whole time.’
‘What did you think might happen?’
‘I’m not sure. I just thought I was going to get into trouble all the time, or get the sack. It just felt... tense. I don’t know how else to describe it. And I was so fed up. I just wanted to get away, do something else. There were all these things I was supposed to be doing there but they just seemed so pointless. I know they weren’t really pointless. Someone had to do them – sweeping up and so on, facing up the shelves, but... I don’t know. I tried so hard to concentrate and do it all properly and make sure I was doing everything right... I don’t know.’

I remember turning up at the shop that first morning and it was just all so confusing, trying to find things and remember all the things that needed doing but then by the end of the week I thought, this is alright actually – sorting everything out, showing people where things were. I felt quite chuffed with myself because at last I was doing something useful. The others took the piss out of me for working too hard, showing them up. But then I got to the middle of the second week and I remember I just stopped and looked around and I thought - this is exactly the same as last week. I’m going to do exactly the same things all over again. How do people deal with it, month after month, year after year? I don’t get it. And then there was Tim and John and one of the office girls mucking about out in the yard, having a laugh, chucking stuff about, and I just turned around and got on with organising the sandpaper or whatever it was. Why do people always have to put it back in the wrong places?
‘How do other people put up with it?’ I say to Joe. ‘Why couldn’t I just bloody get on with it and stop making a fuss? Other people seem to manage.’
‘Is that what your parents said?’
‘No. I never told them. What was the point? They couldn’t have done anything.’
‘Was there no one else you could talk to?’
I try to think. Did I talk to anyone? I hardly remember. There was Ron. He was a venture scout leader. He was always stopping to talk to me and inviting me over to his place. He tried to get me to admit I’d had a homosexual experience when I hadn’t, but it seemed like the more I argued the more he’d insist I had something to hide. I liked talking to him though. I don’t know why. I suppose I needed the attention. Pathetic really.
‘Anybody?’ says Joe, bringing me back to the present.
‘Not really...’
‘No friends?’
I think about it for a bit. I did have people I hung out with at school sometimes but we never seemed to talk about anything important.
‘They didn’t seem to need to discuss things like that. They just seemed to get on with it somehow.’
‘You think they knew something you didn’t?’
‘Maybe, Something... I don’t know.’
‘Don’t you think everybody gets bored and hates their jobs sometimes?’
‘I suppose so. But I mean, I hate my paintings sometimes, but I still have to do it. I don’t know. Actually I really do think most people are ok about their jobs. I really do. I know they complain but... they seem, I don’t know, fairly relaxed about it. They just get on with it, accept it.’
I think back to how it was then and it occurs to me that maybe I would have been happier if I’d been able to just accept the situation – known my place, not expected something better. But I couldn’t. I don’t know where the idea came from but I always believed, despite everything my family said, that I could do something better, something exceptional, that I had this ability, this talent. I don’t know why.
Joe says ‘Don’t you think it’s the people you work with that make a difference?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘But you didn’t really look forward to seeing the other people at the shop.’
‘I didn’t really know them that well. I think they all knew each other really well already. They were always mucking about together.’
‘But you were there for, what, two months?’
‘I know. I should have made friends with them by then.’
‘I’m not saying you should have necessarily got on with that particular group of people, but generally, perhaps somewhere else?’
I try to think about that. I can’t think. I change the subject.
‘Solly and Brenda said I should just think about the money. Mum and dad used to tell me to do that too. Just think about the money.’
‘It does come in handy.’
‘Well, yes. But there’s got to be more to it than that hasn’t there? I mean, you spend all those hours there, at work, every day, years and years.’

I don’t understand why anyone would want to live like that, well, not want to exactly, but I don’t understand why anyone accepts living like that. I don’t see why we should have to do eight hours a day, five days a week (or more, usually because there’s overtime), and then you have to actually get to and from work which adds on another hour or so, and you have to sleep eight hours and in the end all you’re doing is eating and resting and recovering just so you can go back to work next day and you never do anything else. It’s disgusting. How can people live like that? Especially when nowadays there’s all these labour-saving devices and automation and so on. We should be able to produce just as much as we used to but in half the time and have the rest of the week off, but people still seem to work really long hours and it doesn’t matter how much people earn they always complain they don’t have enough. Why don’t they understand they’ll never earn enough? They don’t see it. I don’t think I’ll ever fit in. I don’t know if I want to.

‘Terrifying, isn’t it?’ says Joe, laughing, but I don’t think it’s funny. I really think it is terrifying. They don’t understand that, none of them.

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Voyage VI – Careers advice

Last night was a bit depressing. I sat up with Ray and Solly and Brenda, not playing games for a change, which was a relief. Harry and Liz had gone to bed early so all in all I felt relatively relaxed. That was until Solly decided it was time to sort my life out for me – try and make it a bit more of a success next time around. Brenda thought that would be a very good idea and it was about time. She went and got us all a lot of drinks and some snacks. It was going to be a long night.
‘The thing is’ says Solly, in a matey sort of way that immediately puts me on my guard, ‘this art thing of yours just isn’t going to get you very far. You know that don’t you. It’s alright as a hobby but it’s not exactly a job is it. So the question is – what are you going to do? You’ve got a bit of time to think about it while you’re here. I think you should make the most of it.’
‘I do too’ says Brenda, reaching over and touching my hand, and looking into my eyes, with sympathy and concern. It’s a funny feeling. Part of me doesn’t want to trust her. Another just wants to sink into her arms. She still smells funny though so I’m not going to do that. Not yet anyway. Ray looks about with an expression that tells us it’s all vaguely amusing for him but he’ll help anyway, because he’s good like that.
‘Now what about advertising?’ says Solly. ‘There’s lots of very talented people work in PR these days. You could use your er... creativity.’
‘That’s a good idea’ says Brenda. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. That’s where all the artists are going nowadays – marketing. There’s a lot of money to be made there.’
I try to look optimistic, because they’re trying to help after all. I’m not used to people taking an interest. But I don’t really feel any enthusiasm. I’m not sure why. Anyway, they can see I need more convincing.
‘Bright lad like you’ she says. ‘You’d pick it up in no time.’
‘I don’t know...’ is all I can say. I want to say something about not being that bothered about the money but can’t for some reason. It feels like blasphemy or something.
‘Actually I’ve got a contact in the industry’ says Ray. ‘Handled a lot of our contracts – several thousand pounds worth for one campaign as I recall: TV, magazines, billboards. It’s a lot of pressure, but you could really make a career if you’ve got the gumption.’
‘There you go’ says Brenda, clearly very excited for me. They’re all talking as if they can set all this up for me when we get off the boat. I don’t like to remind them of our predicament.
‘That’ll make your mum and dad proud’ says Brenda.
Mum and dad... Oh shit...
‘What did your father do anyway?’ says Ray.
It takes me a moment to register the question. They’re all looking at me. I tell them he worked for the council, which is sort of true. They don’t pry further.
‘So how about it Gabes?’ says Brenda. She’s being motherly. It feels really disturbing but I can’t stop her.
‘I don’t know’ I say again, not making eye-contact. ‘I don’t think I’m really into that sort of thing.’
‘How do you mean?’ says Solly, and I really don’t know how I mean it. After I’ve floundered for a while he says, in a fatherly sort of way ‘Look here Gabriel. The thing is, it’s alright to be idealistic. I was once. No really Ray, you might scoff... It’s alright to have dreams, but sooner or later lad, you’re going to have to grow up, put away childish things as they say. Got to see life for what it really is. Learn to play the game.’ He pauses and studies my face. I look at Brenda. She has the same expression – no nonsense. This is serious. Why do I feel like they’re trying to corrupt me?
‘You don’t want to disappoint your parents all over again do you?’ She grips my hand again and I can’t stop the tears. She moves around the table to sit beside me and clasps me to her bosom. She even says ‘Aw come here love. Have a cuddle.’ I can’t stand it.
‘Gabriel’ says Solly when I’ve recovered a bit, bending forward, looking up into my face. ‘The world’s not going to change to suit you I’m afraid.’
‘Might as well get used to the fact’ says Ray, also appearing quite concerned, despite himself.

After a few minutes I lean back, shrugging them all off as tactfully as I can, trying not to look ungrateful, trying to look brave. I swipe the tears away angrily, like I have flies feeding on my eyes, and I take a deep breath. I can’t believe it. Why am I crying again? I’m fucking eighteen for fuck’s sake.
‘What about being a draughtsman then, if you can’t see yourself in advertising?’ says Ray.
‘I could see you doing that’ says Brenda enthusiastically.
I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to do technical drawing either. I say ‘I think you need a lot of maths for that’ but I’m not sure you do. They seem to accept my excuse anyway.
‘There’s always hospitality. Catering and such like’ says Ray. ‘Nephew of mine left school at fifteen, making beds for nearly ten years. Now he’s got a chain of hotels. Doing very nicely for himself. Bought himself a Jag, last I saw. But then, he always was a grafter.’
Ten years? Oh my God no. And they’re all talking like this is all so exciting, getting a job, working your way up, saving your money. But I don’t get it. Maybe I should talk to Joe about it.
‘Gabriel’ says Brenda seriously. ‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t really want to work at all do you?’
‘No, that’s not true. I don’t mind working.’
‘What, hard work, really hard work? Long hours? Getting your hands dirty?’
‘I don’t mind hard work’ I say again, and it is true. I remember helping unload the lorries when they came in, getting everything off, taking it through to the stores and checking it off, then getting it out onto the shelves – working late, completely knackered afterwards. It was alright a couple of times. But after I’d done it a few times I knew where everything went and I was just thinking about the paintings I hadn’t finished at home and how beautiful it would be up on the Downs at that time of year, and I knew I’d be too tired to do anything when I got home. And then I had to work Saturdays too.
‘It’s just...’ I want to say something about being bored and miserable at work but I can’t. Everybody else gets on with it after all, don’t they? Eventually Solly says it for me.
‘You think it’s not good enough for you son?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘I didn’t mean it in a derogatory way Gabriel, believe me, but I think you’ve perhaps got unrealistically high expectations.’
‘I do want to do something useful, I really do. I don’t just want to skive off or go on the dole.’
‘I didn’t say you did. I just think perhaps your expectations are a little bit over ambitious.’
‘But ambition is a good thing’ says Brenda.
‘Of course it is, but you’ve got to be realistic. Do you consider yourself ambitious Gabriel?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Your last job, at the DIY shop, would you say you really put yourself into that, heart and soul?’
‘Well it was only a shop job.’
‘Doesn’t matter. You’ve got to put a hundred and ten percent into everything you do if you expect to get anywhere. Did you enjoy the work?’
I don’t know what to say. I can’t begin to imagine getting even slightly enthusiastic about a job like that, let alone “enjoying” it. None of this makes the slightest sense to me. But other people “enjoy” their jobs, supposedly, so they say. Why can’t I? What is wrong with me? I asked Richard about it once – he was the delivery driver. He said it got him out of the house. Unbelievable.
‘I just always thought...’ I begin apologetically, knowing already how they’re going to react to this, ‘I thought there should be more to life, to work. I don’t know.’
Ray looks very frustrated but then says ‘Look, what exactly do you expect to get out of life son? Can you tell us that?’
I look about vaguely. I don’t know what to tell them. Everything I want sounds either ridiculous or just totally unrealistic. I know what they’ll say – money.
‘How do you see yourself in ten years time – sorry – how do you see your self aged thirty?’ They all smile at the slip. I try to work out an answer.
‘I don’t know’ I begin. ‘I’d like to have travelled a bit, maybe find a place to live somewhere in the country. I’d like to have a girlfriend by then...’
‘A girlfriend?’ says Sol, grinning. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Well, yes.’ I shrug. It doesn’t seem that far fetched.
‘You owe me a pint’ says Brenda. Solly smiles ruefully. Ray thinks it’s funny too.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Never mind’ he says. ‘How’re you going to afford all this then?’ is his next question.
‘I don’t know.’
‘It’s pricey, travelling, owning a house...’
‘Impressing a girl...’ and they all grin to each other again. I still don’t know what they’re up to and anyway, Amelia was always bringing home dodgy blokes. Complete losers most of them, and Justine’s last boyfriend was unemployed.
‘I could hitch’ I suggest, ‘and rent a place. I don’t mind.’
Gareth, at college, was hitching around Europe last I heard. He said he was going fruit picking or something. Gareth was always doing things like that. I’d imagined living with some cool people, maybe students, having friends round and parties. I could get a double bed...
‘Nah’ says Solly, leaning back. I look at him expecting him to elaborate but no, I’m simply wrong apparently – end of story. It’s a bit like trying to talk to my uncle Len, or my mum, or any of my family for that matter. They always insisted one day I’d want the all things they had – a wife, children, a mortgage, a big car but then I looked around and there was very little about their lives I envied. I hated being a child but I never wanted to be an adult. They were always complaining about their lot. They didn’t seem to like each other very much – their wives and husbands. They certainly didn’t seem to want to spend any time with their children.
I think they all just saw me as a bit simple in some way. Uncle Len was always pointedly telling me that he didn’t suffer fools gladly, as if the rest of us really treasure the experience.
‘No, you’ve got to get your own place’ says Solly conclusively.
‘I don’t think I’d mind renting’ I say. ‘It’d be ok.’
‘But it wouldn’t really would it’ says Brenda, suddenly very seriously. ‘It’s like your idea of hitchhiking around Europe. The things you hear people get up to. It’s a good way to get yourself killed – end up in a ditch somewhere...’
‘Loads of people hitch, all the time’ I say.
‘Not really Gabriel. Drop-outs and junkies maybe. Students.’
‘I wouldn’t give any of them a lift’ says Ray.
‘Well...’
‘But it’s not fair on the drivers anyway, expecting them to stop all the time.’
‘Well...’
‘Well what? ‘
‘Well it can’t hurt to ask’ I suggest. I hear my voice squeaky and uncertain.
‘It’s a complete liberty’ she continues. ‘How do you think we motorists feel, after we’ve paid all that for a car? Why would we want to share it with you?’
‘Well you wouldn’t have to. Nobody’s forcing you.’
She looks at me, a tight, appraising smile on her lips, her arms crossed tightly across her chest. ‘When you’ve got a car of your own’ she says tersely, ‘If you ever get a car of your own, we’ll see how you feel about it then.’
‘You’ll feel differently I promise you’ says Ray.
‘I’d still want to give people lifts’ I say feebly.
‘No. I don’t think so. You wait and see. You’ll find out. When you’ve paid for it, years on the HP...’
I don’t want to argue any more. I feel extremely weary. I want to go back to my cabin. ‘I just think...’ I begin, but I don’t know where to begin. Later on, back in my bunk I realise I wanted to say something about generosity and assuming the best of people but there would have been no point.
Now Ray is saying something about some rented houses he’s seen, what utter tips a lot of them were. He goes on to tell a story about a launderette in the same neighbourhood, and the ‘magnificent specimens of humanity’ he ‘chanced to glimpse therein.’
‘Got to get your own place, your own car, everything. You can’t rely on everybody else.’
‘And that all takes money’ says Brenda, triumphantly.
‘Then you can get yourself this girlfriend...’ says Solly.
‘I don’t know...’
‘Oh you will’ says Brenda, suddenly motherly once again, grasping my hand again. ‘Of course you will Gabriel. You’ll meet a nice girl. But she’ll want to be taken out to the pictures mind, take her out for a meal once in a while. You’ve got to take all that into consideration.’
‘Not all girls are like that’ I say feebly.
‘Don’t kid yourself’ says Ray, and I see Brenda wink at him. ‘No decent bird’s going to want you without the wherewithal to pay your way. I don’t care what the feminists say. It’s a fact of life son.’
‘You might be able to live on nothing but you can’t expect her to.’
‘Wouldn’t be fair.’
‘He’s right. And then there’s children to think about. And your mortgage ...’
‘I just think...’ I begin. It's so hard to explain. ‘I just think, it’s like my parents, they worked full time, weekends too, to get all this money, and then they just didn’t have any time for anything else.’
‘You make time’ says Solly. ‘Weekends, holidays... Gabriel that’s life. You’ve just got to think of the money. That’s how it is.’
‘You’d get bored with too much holiday anyway’ says Brenda. ‘I was always glad to get back to work. It’s like my two. Didn’t know what to do with themselves by the beginning of August. Every year. I don’t know why they have such long school holidays.’
‘Teachers’ says Ray contemptuously. They all nod together.
‘But then there you are down the pub’ says Solly, grinning broadly, grabbing me around the shoulders and shaking me about in what I suppose is meant to be a display of male solidarity. ‘Friday night, meet up with your mates, have a laugh, take the boy to the football on Saturday, a bit of gardening, a bit of DIY. It’s not so bad.’
‘Sounds fab...’ I say, not quite managing to hide my contempt.
‘Now now’ says Brenda. ‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit you know. We’re only trying to help.’
I look around the room, trying to think. I know they’re trying to help but why does this all feel like being buried alive? And anyway, who says sarcasm is the lowest form of wit? My uncle Len used to belch limericks to get a laugh. Come to think of it, spouting clichés has got to be quite near the bottom.
Ray gets up and collects our glasses, ready to go to the bar. ‘Well I don’t know son’ he says, leaning over. ‘I think you need to think about all this a bit more, because between you and me, that’s how it’s going to be so you’d better get used to it. Same again everybody?’
I nod and look away. I don’t know if I want to ever go back.

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