A Valentine's Day Tale

"Last night...


I swiftly had to apply my instinctive twinkle-toed tailstop braking system almost immediately after settling into the rhythmic hippety-hop style of walk that I'd naturally adopted following the first near-fatal slip on the treacherous, lumpy ice. I was almost certain that there used to be a semblance of pavement underfoot here somewhere. Seriously, where the fuckin' hell were the gritters during (yawn) yet another predicted 'coldest winter flap for several zillion aeons?' I mean, did Monsieur Nostradamus not foretell this shit centuries ago? 

Er, anyway, I was apprehensive and keyed up, and for good reason. I was on my way to meet my new flame Fiona you see, and pretty damn fine she was too, my friend - all ash-blonde ringlets and a feisty aura of mystery.

I contemplated getting a bus into town and then decided it would probably be quicker to watch a slow-motion replay of the sedated three-toed sloths' sports day sack race. Fuck it, it was only a couple of miles, and a damn site warmer on the move. It's. All. Good.

I mean, Jesus, why does the entire country have to grind to a halt because of a bit of stupid snow? Put on some decent footwear. Simple.

Actually, I was glad I'd rung work earlier to say that I couldn't make it into the office because the 'car's going nowhere.'  Fuck it man, loads of people did and I live four miles away at least.

I needed to stop at an Offie to grab a couple of bottles of wine on the way to her house. I hadn't been there before and we'd only been out two or three times so far - you know the kind of thing: got off with each other at Sombrero-Steve's house party on the stairs (lush); went for a Mexican (horrifically hot); quaffed a few ciders, Sambucas and wound up fucking awkwardly in my hallway. And the kitchen.

I think I passed out in the bedroom. I can't quite remember the last bit.

Anyhow, I s'pose potentially, you could have said that rather a lot was riding on last night, if you know what I mean?

For starters, it just happened to be Valentine's Day evening. Friendly Fires were frenetically cow-belling their way into my eardrums like a jittery jackhammer, courtesy of my fancy new Skullcandy G.I. headphones, and hey, were these not the moments to be cherished if you own anything resembling a fully-functioning soul?

So I bimbled and then I skidded my way down the Kettering Road towards a nervy but nevertheless intoxicating, frost-thawing feast. I couldn't quite remember her surname, to my shame, something like Atherton or Addlestone (or was that the sweet cider we were drinking last week?) Didn't matter, I was sure there'd be some old letters or a card lying around somewhere to scan so I could indelibly etch it on my brain forever. She seemed to be really fucking cool and beautiful, so fuck minor points. I'd seen her bounding energetically around the tired-old haunts for a while now, spraffing to loads of cool people I knew, so it was always only a matter of time before our paths properly crossed - she was obviously into the same things as me.

Shit, she's gorgeous, intelligent (I see her writing sometimes), into music (I think she sings or plays something), vegetarian, into holistic remedies (okay, slight alarm-bells ringing) but undoubtedly up for the right royal rumpus and maybe, most importantly of all, at that moment was cooking some kind of moussaka with ricotta topping(?) Just for us.

'Tings be lookin' sweet ma frien', y'understand me? 'Ear 'dis now. Spin out 'Trampton Town. B-B-buzzin'. C-comin' at'cha. Trillion mile a nanosecond, get me? All da way from da Birchfield Ruff-up, right up to er, whatever that road's called next to the Bradders. You know the one I mean?

Following a brief, but harrowing, labyrinthine platform game-style conga round Mickey's to the Blossom Hill section (situated somehow impenetrably close to the front door) I stepped back outside into the Siberian slush. And then -

A snowball shattered in my face, with a generous proportion of it ending up in my mouth. The momentary shock and flash of pain was enough to make me want to cry like a girl, without the added surprise of an assault on my sensitive-teeth's sensibilities, just for that ferociously unexpected aftershock. Cunt.

Was a fucking good shot too - I kinda saw him out my peripheries I think, but hey, I might be lying. Anyway he fuckin' ran away laughing. And somehow clung to the ice like a sticky-toed winter gecko.

Fuck him. I couldn't chase him. I was struggling to walk.

But walk on I did, using my scarf to wipe my frozen fizzog. And then just before I got to cleaning my steamed-up glasses, hoopla, I slipped - almost flipping upside-down temporarily - before landing with a splash on my coccyx. I managed to smash one of the bottles of red during this whole sorry episode and the carpet of slush was starting to look like a murder scene from Fargo. I was partially lying in some strewn bin-bags, thankfully head-end to the good, i.e., on them and a little bit in some weird shit that I wasn't sure I could ascertain the origin of.

I hadn't worn decent shoes.

Naturally, I scrambled to my feet with an expression of utter indifference to any agonising pain I may or may not have been enduring and scanned the horizon to see if anyone witnessed my fumblings. Lots did. But more importantly did anyone I actually know observe this shit? Don't think so. So, small mercies.

Then I briefly mused outrageously about compensation.

I was pretty much sopping all over my arse from Claret which was seeping into the snow and facing an unavoidable buttock-inspection from the girl I really felt for - when she'd said a full-bodied red, I ain't particularly sure that's what she'd meant. Oh, fuck it, I thought - focus on my batty and laugh. Might as well get it over and done with.

All was by no means totally lost. It's surely in my unpredictable and exciting rock n' roll nature to turn the fuck up, late, with a tale, even if I do look like a twat.

So I did.

After punching the head off a snowman in a stranger's front garden and hurting my wrist.

I was starting to like the way Fiona and I were getting along in those first, sweet, tentative steps of our (ok, my imagined) relationship, and when I arrived...

Obviously, I lied about everything that had happened on the way - some big geezers, dunno, kind of just walked into it, weren't bothered about me, was lucky really, etc, and the evening unraveled thus.

She was listening to Razorlight? Maybe she'd just put something kind of neutral on that she thought wouldn't offend my ears before fervently questioning me about what I was into - I mean, I don't want to admit this shit, but I do own the first two Coldplay albums. I know.

I'd also brought along the DVD of The Wrestler to watch. I hadn't recommended it, she had. Apparently she knows the names of lots of wrestling holds or something. Might be interesting I thought?

Anyway, the DVD wouldn't play for some reason (probably me fucking things up when I'd burnt it earlier) and so we settled for watching M. Night Shyamalan's Signs from her collection. She served munch about an hour or so into the film, and shortly after crunching my way through the sixth or seventh arduous forkfull of lord-fuckin'-knows-what (I'm certain it should have been tender and not like Joan of Arc's charred chinbone) it dawned on me that the film we were watching was complete toss. The main flaw in the technologically-advanced, galaxy-vaulting, world-conquering aliens' plans was to somehow overlook their significant achillies' heel - instantaneous death if exposed to water, so er, probably best to avoid this type of planet to attack? They're probably not even that common. Anyway, the aliens didn't, they chose Earth to invade.

At almost that exact second she turned to me, laughed, and said:

'This food's disgusting isn't it?'

She was not wrong.

'Hey, I'm a crap cook too,' I offered, pushing away the offensive plate.

And then it was funny.

She slapped her forehead and then properly laughed:

'This film's fucking shite as well isn't it?'

She zapped the TV. And then, despite my freezing, rouge-drenched jeans, grazed hands, nauseated palatte and assaulted artistic senses we had a moment of perfection.

Pure laughter.

She kissed me, then she hugged me and then she said:

'Shall we split-up before we even begin?'

'Yeah,' I replied.

And on my merry way I jolly well trotted."