Crisis Point - scene 4

An all too familiar pattern emerged over the following 24 hours. The combined factors being: the end of the working week; the nearest wine bar - The Fine Line; and alcohol. Most weeks, excuses for not attending were common. Reasons generally cited the other half, or some other commitment that was allegedly more important. Me? I was always in a position to stay.

Once at The Fine Line, I began drinking enormous glasses of Chardonnay. This was, without doubt, the best way to celebrate the end of the week, particularly on an empty stomach.

The Friday night buzz kicked in nicely as I keenly surveyed my surroundings for promising looking men. Sadly no suitors existed within my group, at least not any single ones. However, fooling around with someone from the office was likely to end up being awkward at best, so it wasn’t a problem really. There were generally a few lookers about though and tonight I felt a real sense of promise. I just needed to bump up alongside one of them, preferably whilst ordering at the bar...

By 18.15 I was one glass down, more than merry and having an absolute scream with my work-mates. There had been no signs of flirtation afoot, but having been there for only 40 minutes it was still early days. By 19.00, another glass down, I was certifiably pissed and although I’d managed to pinpoint a couple of nice looking guys, I’d failed to catch them at the bar. By 19.30 both guys had begun talking to other women, and I was starting to tire of the conversation around me. By 20.00, now three glasses down, the once potential suitors and their lady-friends now appeared to be joined at the hip. Also, most of my group had gone home, leaving me with Mike, Andy and Phil - mildly-interesting computer programmers.

In some ways it was the perfect time to end the evening, because: a) I would finish on a high note; and b) I would then cook myself a decent meal at home, taking sufficient time to sober up before retiring to bed. However, I was still single - so would the note really have been high? And honestly, would I really place a home-cooked meal above the opportunity of meeting someone? What was I, an idiot? The night was still young wasn’t it? So, I stayed and forced myself to have conversations about computer viruses and software patches in the hope that a gorgeous man would suddenly float my way.

By closing time I was absolutely out of my tree and there was still no status change.

What had gone wrong? I’d been chatting, smiling, and laughing all evening - even throughout the computer guff although I don’t know quite how. I mean, if anyone were to have looked over they would’ve seen I was a good laugh and obviously popular. Someone must have looked over at some point surely. So why hadn’t anyone tried to chat me up? Why hadn’t anyone offered to buy me a drink? There had been nothing all evening. Not even a moment’s eye-contact. Not even from the man widely known as Betty - the fattest, spottiest, most sweat-stained bloke in Bristol. No, not even from him. It was worse than usual. What the hell was wrong with me? Why didn’t anyone fancy me?

As the bar was closing I stood with Mike, Andy and Phil on the pavement outside, watching various groups fanning out in different directions in search of further entertainment. I was now in grave danger of ending the night on a real low note, so I quickly launched a rescue attempt.

“Let’s go clubbing,” I said.
“Actually, I’m going to head off,” Mike replied, as a taxi pulled up to the kerb.
“What about you two?” I turned to Phil and Andy. “I really wanna dance.”
“Nah,” Phil slurred in reply, looking at Andy. “We’re going back to mine to play Grand Theft Auto.”
“How about getting some chips?” Andy suggested.

At first it seemed a very poor offer, but then I quickly realised there was a possibility of meeting some other people along the way. Perhaps someone rather attractive would be hanging around outside a takeaway joint, waiting to rescue me from the hopeless Game-Boy-Geeks. Anything could happen - it was always worth being optimistic. So I was duly escorted to a chip-shop-cum-kebab-house on the triangle, where we queued behind a couple of suited drunks.

Roughly five minutes later I sorely regretted accepting their invitation: the nerdy computer boffins just couldn’t stop sniggering and snorting, spraying masticated potato onto the pavement - it was terribly embarrassing. All because my words became muddled when I asked for a jumbo sausage with chips. They were behaving like it was the funniest thing since comedy was invented, running around in a circle, imitating a plane and shouting ‘Jimbo!’.

And if that wasn’t humiliating enough...

“Alright love! Going home on your own then?” one of the suited drunks hollered.
“Eh?” I looked a them blankly.
“With that nice big sausage!”
Of all things, why the hell did I order a sausage - let alone a “jimbo” one?
“Nice legs!” the other one commented, chortling into his tray of chips.

Yeah, and it was also worth being realistic, ie. I couldn’t speak properly, had immature idiots for friends, horrible legs and very poor taste in food.

What planet was I on? Why would anyone be interested in that? Clearly returning home alone, with a skin-full and a large sausage, was all I deserved.

Once I got inside my front door I was suddenly overcome with tiredness and fell straight into bed, unfortunately bypassing both the kitchen and bathroom. Saturday was therefore doomed.

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