Having successfully glazed my navel the previous night, Tuesday's belly revealed the flaky texture of a devil's golf course to me as I rose seeking my usual breakfast of Paracetamol. I skipped the pleasures of a morning shower and instead pulled on a pair or crusty socks before donning my slippers and gown to descend. As it was late November the familiar darkness of my debris strewn drawing room was further enhanced by the biting cold that no cigarette could chase away, no matter how fast I rolled them.
The dog eyed me nervously as I approached the armchair she was inhabiting. Gesturing to indicate the deal was move or be sat on she retreated upstairs to soak up the remaining warmth of my duvet. Thus enabled, I sat, sighed, smoked and drank tea.
Almost listening to ambient murmurings of BBC Radio 4's, (hereinafter to be known as 'The Other Life'), Woman's Hour which was tackling the pressing subjects of refuge closures, social work and big feet. My palpable lack of interest carried my resignation through 15 Minute Drama's second episode of 'Syria Bread & Bombs' all the way to an unremarkable Shared Planet's taking a long view of snapping turtles.
In the two years that had passed since divorce and other disasters I had become accustomed to the telephone remaining silent for extended periods. If anyone called at all it was generally the unwelcome bidding of an unlikely sounding 'Mike' phoning from some distant rabbit hutch in Bangalore. Never eager to engage with a soul, doubtless educated beyond any red brick Masters, yet reduced to chasing chicken feed for the sociopathic utility withdrawrers, I had become almost fondly accustomed to isolation.
As 11.30 passed Soul Music entered into a discussion of the Latin American anthem to life, Gracias a la Vida which precipitated my urge to flick the kettle back on and reach for another roll of Belfast processed damp Virginia to hasten my demise.
I was actually startled when the phone did ring and as it was so unexpected. Some old reflexes hang around longer than others I guess as before I could say anything my ear was ringing with Camilla, the wing of my party-going left arm cawing 'Hel-looo you-o-o, you sexy devil, how are you?'.
Despite her entering into the world in a castle in Ireland, the daughter of a disenfranchised peer of Empire past Camilla's stately provenance did not preclude her from embracing members of the hoi polloi with spirited generosity. At just over six foot her amazonian frame betrayed her tonal similarities to one, or both, of the Two Fat Ladies of television fame.
Reduced herself to kitchen work she had long since eschewed the salons of Kensington in which she was reared in favour of a life more ordinary in the mild, mild West . Yet as is typical of one of aristocratic bearing she delighted in matters social.
'Soooo, (think 'sew'), you naughty boy, what about the Emilia, did she give you her number, she liked you(ooooo)?'
Feigning ignorance and unsuccessfully affecting an insoucience that is only properly worn by those who for ancestral reasons have a minimum of seventeen Godchildren, I asked her what the fuck she was on about.
'The one in the hat...Emilia, she likes y-o-u.'
As hard as I tried to rebuff any suggestions that I might have even so much as a look in with one so gracious, Camilla continued to explain that she had enjoyed a long conversation with the 11 & 1/2
It was difficult to keep up my act as my vanity was now really piqued and I wanted to know more, just for the latent pleasure of my course having been traversed by such an elegant ship in the now distant night.
Camilla's society Jewish mother had left the home early in search of a more commodious arrangement away from the impecunious nest into which she had delivered her daughter and two others before fleeing. Yet even in her absence the Levantine chuzpah that she had imprinted on her sad, yet always cheerful, daughter somehow remained.
Having explained that I had received 11 & 1/2's number by text and the myriad reasons why I would not be making contact Camilla continued to urge me to call her.
'She's upper class'
'So what'
'She won't want anything to do with a joker like me'
'Don't be silly, she likes you'
'Yea right, until she finds out the only thing overflowing in my life is the last remaining pot which I just pissed in'
'She won't, I promise you...I talked to her for ages, she's proper, honestly, and she really likes you, she does.......Go on, what have you got to lose'
'Everything', I replied presciently
To be continued......
