No Rain, No Gain

'Is this a joke, Dylan? Because I don't get it.'

 Tommy and Steve where huddled around me, Tommy's bushy ginger eyebrows were planted firmly just above his eyes and Steve looked as if a Black Sabbath reunion tour had just been cancelled.

'No, it's no joke. Today is my last day.' I said slowly.
'He's lying.' Steve hissed. 'Like when you said you saw that couple having sex in a car.'
'It happened!' Tommy protested. 'Right outside PC World! I would have filmed it if I had my phone on me!'
'Dylan, why should be believe you?'
'Well, you don't have to.' I shrugged. 'I'm at the museum now.'
'Museum?' They both stared at me.
'Yeah, I mention it every shift, lads. You don't the a blind bit of bloody notice, do you?'
'No, I know.' Steve nodded. 'The museum, of course...'

I stared him down.

'Do we have a museum around here?' Steve asked, gazing at Tommy.

I didn't blame him really. I did mention the museum but it wasn't all the time. Plus I've not been there for a while so I didn't expect anyone to ask. Today was my last shift as a trolley pusher. Five years coming to an abrupt end thanks to a small sense of panic in Sharon's office. It hadn't yet hit me properly, but sooner or later I'd have to deal with the fact that I had no job. Not even a part-time, extra-cash-in-hand odd job kind of job. Just no job. My cousin has three jobs and still manages to go to college. Surely he could give one of those to me. Some people are just greedy. Still, as least my co-workers will miss me.

'We'll have to start looking for your replacement.' Steve smiled.
'Yeah, let's get a bird.' Tommy grinned.
'Yeah, or a gamer.'

 Well, I can see the advert now: XBOX BIRD WANTED

I met up with Allison for my last dinner with her. It was quite a strange feeling, to be honest. This girl had single-handedly ended my career at the supermarket, leaving me a desperate, pennyless former student. Yet when we sat down together in the canteen I was pleased to see her.

Oh shit. Is this love? I love her? Suddenly I felt like Hugh Grant in one of his films. A bumbling idiot.

'So...last day!' She giggled.

I don't know what she was so excited about. I'm not going to see her much anymore. Hang on, maybe shge wants rid of me...Yeah, she was the one who wrote and handed in my resignation. Maybe this is all a massive plan to get rid of me. I wouldn't be surprised if it was all being filmed for Channel 4, one of those documentaries where they poke and prod people until the cry or lunge out at someone. I felt myself getting angry. Oh God, the moment I realise I might be in the love with someone and I want to kill them at the same time. Fucking brilliant.

'I know. The lads are gutted.'
'Steve said he's already suggested three replacements to Sharon.'
'All girls names?' I asked.
'Yeah.'
'Thought so.'

I needed to change to subject.

'Excited about the wedding?'
'Yeah, should be a great day.'
'We're all meeting up at Fran's Dad's pub beforehand. For a bit of a drink.' I said, piercing a chip with my fork.
'Cool, what are we getting them for a gift?'
'Alex just said they want the cash...so, a fiver?'
'Dylan!'
'Well...' I shrugged and smiled.
'Give him a fiver and ask for change!'

I might hate her, but God she could make me laugh.

I had twenty minutes left when Steve ushered me over to his car. He was leaning over the bonnet, writing furiously on his photocopied rota sheet.

'Dylan, can you stay an extra hour today? Tommy has to go home. Too many Lucozade’s I think.’

‘Not again.’

‘I know. I knew that eight one wouldn't go down well. He’ll be shitting for weeks.’

What a lovely thought.

‘So, can you?’ Steve asked, raising his eyebrows at me. 'One hour?’

I shrugged and accepted. I might as well take all the overtime I can get, no matter how short.

‘Cool, well. I’m off.’

‘What? You've got an hour left too!’
‘Well, it’s dead out here, mate.’ He said, putting his coat on. ‘Plus, you’re here now.’

Five years of working with an idiot and now the idiot fools me. Well played. Ten minutes later I was on my own, pushing damp, rusting trolleys through the sideways rain. My hood was screwed tightly around my face, making me look like Kenny from South Park.  The walkie talkie bussed and hissed to life, a girls voice asking me to come and help a colleague at the tills. Inside? My pleasure.

I squelched my way down the back of the checkouts, a line of bleeps and beeps coming from the tills as I made my way to the end. The way the girl on the walkie talkie described it, it seemed as if I was needed to help an old lady, maybe with a shopping cart or a wheelchair. But instead of finding a wrinkly old woman with fat ankles and angina I was met by quite a tall woman in her late fifties. Her scent struck me first, that sweet, sickly smell of talcum powder and expensive perfume. Her dark leatherly skin made her looked aged, with a long furry coat that covered her knees. At first I thought she needed help with her trolley, most people often do. With all the cat food and crates of beer families buy. But all she had was a small trolley's worth of groceries.

‘Someone called for me?’ I chirped.

The was no reply, just a suble point in the trolley's direction that came from the woman. A split second later she was gone, clicking her way out of the store with shiny shoes. OK, she needed help…maybe she was deaf…or blind…she was wearing dark sunglasses. Or even dumb? Deaf, blind and dumb? Do people have that nowadays? I followed her as quick as my soggy boots could carry me, dodging my way past wet floor signs and toddlers holding toys. I got to foyer in time to wipe my boots on the bit of carpet but she took the lead again, bounding out into the rain ahead of me.

 In the car park she caused a scene, slicing though the traffic without a single glance of motion of apology. It was left to me, rushing behind her with soggy boots and a trolley full of groceries, holding my hand up to the angry man in the astra who had to slam on the breaks for her. He wasn’t happy. Neither was his pregnant wife in the passenger seat. I rushed down the row of cars where I saw her last but I couldn’t see her. I couldn’t really see anything. I had been moving so fast my coat hood had nearly swallowed my whole face and the rain was beginning to cause hazeyness in the air.

I searched the cars for a sign of the woman. What car would she drive? Knowing her she’d probably have a driver or some sort of taxi. I know she was deaf, blind and dumb but fucking hell she could run fast! A few cars down I noticed quite a large silver one. I wouldn’t ordinarily notice it but this one has it’s boot wide open. I looked around for an owner but everyone around was either in the store of huddled in trolley bays. I circled the car, from left to right, slowly noticing someone sat in the front seat. Did they know they had their boot open? It’s a bit stupid in this weather. I recognised the coat…a long furry coat. It was her. She wasn’t deaf, blind or dumb. She was rude. Really, really rude. She’d ushered me in to push her trolley and escaped to her overpriced car for shelter. Not a word. Again, just a point in the vague direction of the boot. Rude. Really fucking rude. I was angry. And if my hood wasn’t covering most of my face and you were there that day, you’d have seem me angry. Because that’s what I was. Oh, if this was my last day I would…Hang on…this is my last day.

I looked at her, gradually panicing at the thought of wet apples and cheese. I slowly emptied the content of each plastic bag, taking out pints of milk and curry packs one at a time. I gazed into her eyes. She had no choice but to look at mine. It was the only thing she could see that wasn’t clothing. I turned slowly and pushed the trolley with one swift motion, releasing the caged groceries into the wild that was the sloped car park. All those years of pushing trolleys up that slope. All the tension erased by one quick push. You should have seen her face.

That was my last day working as a trolley pusher. The woman complained to Sharon, unable to describe the trolley pusher as he had a partially covered face. All Sharon had to do was to look at that days rota and the who was on at the time. Steve.

Come Sign With Me

Working with a partner can be both the best and worst thing in the world. Some couples do it with ease and aplomb, completely comfortable in each others company in both a social and professional environment. There are positives of course, like saving money on text messages. Why text someone a message when they’re in the same room or building? I imagine only millionaires do that, like Rod Stewart or the man who invented the Internet. I’m sure there are others that I can’t think of right now but to me, the negatives out way the positives.

Don’t get me wrong; working with Allison is a real treat. I can’t complain because it was working together that got us together in the first place. But the saying goes ‘you should keep your work and personal life separate.’ It’s not an exact quote, but it’s something along those lines. Like, what happens if you really embarrass yourself at work? Really embarrass yourself? You go home and never speak of it again, obviously. But at work it becomes a matter of fact, engrained into the history of the company for eternity. It’s the same reason why I don’t go to the work’s Christmas Party. Really, what is the best that can happen at a work’s Christmas Party? You’re never going to buddy up to the boss, tell him your inventive new plans and initiatives over a swift beer and suddenly get a raise. It’s not the time or place for that kind of thing.

And what’s the worst thing that could happen? Well, ask that question to Ryan, the young lad who works on the checkouts. At the last Christmas Party he got drunk, pissed himself and showed his privates to the entire Grocery department. Like I said, engrained into the history of the company for the rest of eternity. And it wasn’t like he could go home and forget about it. His sister and mother works on the Grocery department.

But I couldn’t grumble. I met Allison whilst working here and up until today it had been going swimmingly. I had been pleasantly lying to her about how much work I had been doing at the museum and she was happy enough within the confines of my lie. Every day I would say to myself ‘I’ll tell her. She’ll be fine. I’ll tell her. I’ll tell her tomorrow. Tomorrow will be fine.’ It had been a almost two weeks since Bernard’s wife told me he was ill and not able to hire me at the museum and those two weeks involved not telling Allison about it. Somehow I had managed to convince her I was going down there twice a week to ‘sort things out’, a mush of vague words escaping from my mouth, hoping that she’ll just drop it.

The fact that I haven’t been going to the museum made me wonder about her intelligence. I mean, if I’m not going to a museum twice a week, think of what I could be doing! I could be gallivanting around town with any old tart and she’d been none the wiser. But then sanity strikes and I realise I don’t want anyone else, certainly not an old tart, and that I’m not really one for gallivanting.

But at least she was there for me this morning. Complete with a bacon sandwich and a lovely greeting.

‘Hey, you. I’ve handed in your notice for you.’

Maybe not. Her words were spoken so casually I almost missed them, stumbling into my seat.

‘You’ve…’ I stared at her desperately. ‘You’ve what?’

‘Yeah, just wrote it out. I figured you were running late, so…’

I stared at her a bit more.

‘Sharon’s got it.’ She added.

My mouth was open so much it could have caught a fly.

‘My notice? You haven’t?’

‘Yeah.’ She chirped, nicking a bit of bacon off my plate.

This girl has just ruined me. Her time saving device has just lost me my job. My only job.

‘You…you didn’t need to do that.’ He chuckled nervously.

‘Well, you’re working more and more at the museum lately, I’m sure you don’t need to be here.’

Think…just think of all the gallivanting I could have been doing! All the fucking gallivanting in the fucking world!

‘But...’

I had nothing. No come back. No argument. I was calling her bluff for so long that she’s just turned around and kicked the bluff of a cliff.

‘You need to sign it, of course.’

‘Yeah…well, best go and do that now.’ I cleared my throat and got up.

‘Hang on, finish your bacon butty.’

‘Naa, not hungry.’

I wasn’t hungry. In fact I should have asked her to save it, pop it some tin foil and keep it for when I’m jobless. On the street. Gnawing on my bacon sandwich. Dancing for money.

Sharon’s door was shut. Normally it’s ajar, luring you in and making you peer nervously through the gap. But no, the heavy door was staring at me straight on, a silent guard keeping away from the inevitable. I knocked. Nothing. I knocked again louder. Nothing. I went to knock again and she shouted me in and told me to sit down.

‘Dylan. Dylan. Dylan.’ She smirked.

She was already sat, slowly moving from side to side in her swivel chair. A piece of paper covered the keyboard of her computer. The smirked still covered her face.

‘Well, well, well.’ She said. ‘The end of an era, it seems. We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we? Year upon year. Christmas after Christmas. Dylan…’ She gazed down at the piece of paper. ‘What is your last name again?

‘James. But…’

‘OK.’ She jotted down. ‘Well, you’ve been very adequate.’

To Sharon, that was amazingly positive feedback.

‘Thanks, but…’

‘I’ve enjoyed working with you and wish you luck for the future.’ She said in matter-of -factly, as if it was written down in front of her.

‘I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.’ I leaned in. ‘Allison wrote that.’

‘I know, all I need is a signature.’

She whisked the paper in front of me, a vast gap where my name was needed and Allison’s curly handwriting above it.

‘I can’t sign that, Sharon.’

‘What?’

She glared at me.

‘I mean, not yet. They’re still sorting things out at the museum.’

‘Yes, Allison did mention you were…sorting things out.’

‘Yeah…’ I nodded.

‘I’m afraid it’s already gone through. You’ve got two weeks left.’

Her words were said so firmly that every syllable hit me, punching me in the head with her spiky Scottish accent.

‘Two weeks? But I haven’t signed it.’

‘I assumed it’s merely a formality.’

‘A formality?’

A formality? Think of all the things in the world that need a signature. A mortgage. A car. What happened to the phrase ‘sign your life away’? I’ve just lost my job and I haven’t even signed it away yet!

‘So you’re not leaving?’ She picked up her pen.

‘No…well, yes. But…’

I was confused. God know how she was doing.

‘What, Dylan?’

‘I am at the museum…a bit.’

‘Dylan.’

Stop talking about the museum! There is no museum. Stop going on about the fucking museum!

‘OK, here’s what happened. Allison thinks I’m working there.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I told her.’

She just glared at me.

‘But I’m not really.’

‘So why did Allison write that?’ She nodded towards the paper.

‘I don’t know.’

‘I’ll bring her in.’

Sharon grabbed her phone and attempted to dial. I put my hand over it and stopped her.

‘Wait, hang on. I’ll sign it.’

I signed the paper and left the room in silence.

‘Where are you going?’ She asked.

Job Centre, probably. And to find my bacon sandwich.

Pappa's Got a Brand New Stag (Part Two)

‘Waiter!’

Steve shouted over the half empty bar.

‘Waiter!’

Again.

‘Waiter!’

‘Steve, that’s a man.’ Alex said.

‘Shut up! Waiteress!’

‘That’s not a word.’ Alex’s cousin Jim said.

‘Shut up! Man…’

Steve finally got the attention of the waiter, gargling his way through the order. The order was six bottles of beer. Simple. It took him about four minutes.

‘Steve, maybe you should calm it down a bit.’ Duncan added.

‘Naa, you know…’

Steve mumbled, balancing himself by clamping both hands down on the table as he stood over us.

‘You are right; I need to let my hair down a bit. Mary can get a taxi home…she’s fine. She’ll be fine…’

Around 9pm the bar started getting a bit more crowded. With it’s dimmed lights and modern art on the walls; a small three-piece jazz band started tuning up in the corner. The stage was a small raised square beside the toilets, marking itself out with a neon blue strip across the edge. This was a really nice place; more apt for a bank manager’s New Years Eve drinks do than a supermarket stag event. As the double bass and light snare beat started up, Steve locked onto his pray, narrowing his tired eyes towards the stage and holding back a burp.

‘Sweet child of mine!’ He squawked.

‘Steve, they don’t want requests.

‘What? They’re a band, aren’t they?’

‘Dylan, I think you need to take outside for a bit.’ Jake suggested.

‘Yeah, come on, Steve. Let’s get some fresh air.’

I manuvoured Steve towards the exit and angled him through the glass doors. My phone buzzed as he leant onto the wall outside.

‘Hello?’

‘Dylan, how’s it going?’

It was Allison.

‘Oh, hey! Good. Good. It’s going good.’

Allison asked me another question, finishing her sentence with her high inflection. I couldn’t hear most of it as Steve was singing. Well, shouting.

‘Is that Sweet Child Of Mine I can hear?’

‘Yeah.’ I said, one finger in my ear. ‘Steve is enjoying the night.’

‘Oh, good. When are you at the museum next?’

Why does she keep bringing that up? I. Am. On. A. Stag. Do. Surely that means I can forget everything for one night. I haven’t been to the museum for ages. I didn’t want to tell her that. Why? Because… I. Am On. A. Stag. Do.

‘In a few days, I think.’

‘Oh, so your rota isn’t sorted?’

I tried to think of another answer but as I turned back towards the door I realised Steve was missing.

‘Shit. Allison, I going to have to ring you back.’

‘OK, well…’

I bleeped my phone off as she spoke and ran inside the club.

‘Where’s Steve?’ I asked them all.

‘What? He was with you.’ Alex said. ‘You took him outside.’

‘Oh shit, he must have wandered off down the street. Come on…’ I ushered them.

‘Wait.’ Jim piped up. ‘You know Steve is like forty odd, don’t you? I’m sure he can handle himself.’

‘Was he still singing Sweet Child of Mine?’ Alex asked.

‘Yeah.’ I bit my lip.

‘OK, let’s go guys.’ Alex stood and necked the last of his beer. ‘If some of the lads out there hear him, he’s not going to wake up in the morning.’

The five of us stepped out into the fresh spring evening. Distant music and nattering filled the air as we turned the corner. It was there that the glare from the first club hit us. A tall white building with black and white banners draping the sides, the word LOUD covered each one. And Loud, it surely was. Not just a bit loud, like the loud you get when your alarm goes off in the morning. The kind of loud that makes your face squeeze up and your ears cringe.

‘This must be where he is.’ Jake pointed to it. ‘The lights, the sound. It must have lured him in.’

A few girls trickled in as with made our way the entrance. The large glass doors were open and inviting, but the man inside the glass box just outside it wasn’t. It looked like he had been forced into the box, his black bomber jacket touching each side.

‘Ten to get in, guys.’ He said commandingly.

At first we all thought he meant 10pm. Wasn’t it 10pm already? It felt a lot later.

‘It’s ten past.’ Duncan said.

‘No, ten. Ten pounds.’

‘Ten pounds?’ Jake held his head back. ‘To get in?’

‘Correct.’ He answered coolly.

Ten pounds to get into a nightclub. Surely you should get more for your money than just an entrance. Like a toy or free sex or something.

‘Hang on.’ I said, stopped the lads from diving into their wallets. ‘We’re looking for a friend.’

‘Aren’t we all.’ He said, looking down at his desk.

‘No, not like that. We lost him in a bar and we think he’s wandered in here.’

The man stared at me through suspicious eyes, with one eyebrow slightly raised. After a few moments I thought he was going to sort this out for us, maybe call one of his boys to go and look for him inside.

‘Tenner to get in lads.’ He sniffed.

‘Listen…’ Jim pushed himself to the front. ‘He’s about forty odd. Wearing jeans and a t-shirt with a picture of a dragon on it.’

‘Oh, yeah. The guy who was singing…’

‘Sweet child of mine.’ We all said together.

‘Yes.’ Alex confirmed.

‘Yeah, yeah he’s in here.’ The man smiled.

‘He must be out of it.’ I said. ‘He’d never pay a tenner to go in here.’

‘He didn’t. He paid twenty.’

Ten minutes later we were in the club. Fifty quid down and ready to find Steve. The club was massive. Absolutely massive, so finding him was negligible. We all agreed that I’d go and get a round of drinks in, with what money I had left and the rest went to find a place to stand. The bar stretched the width of the room on one side, with lads with trendy hair flipped and spun bottles about and moving to the music. I found the bar with my hand and moved towards it, taking out a fresh, crisp twenty pound note and trying to get the attention of the tenders.

A few moments later a lad stood next to me, looking around every so often and checking his phone. One of the bar tenders, a tall lad with brown spiky hair, raised his eyebrows to the man, silently asking him for his order. Instead of handing it over to me he just ordered without a flinch. Normally I let it go, but I’d had a few drinks already and my mind was more occupied with finding Steve.

‘Excuse me, I was first.’

They both looked at me.

‘Naa…’ The lad said.

‘No, I was. It was my turn.’

‘Turn? There are no turns.’ He cackled.

‘Yes there is. There are turns and it’s mine. It’s my turn.’

‘Fuck off.’ He scrunched up his face.

The bartender sorted out his drink, a little shy and awkward, putting down the glasses carefully and looking over at me every so often.

‘Dick.’ I muttered, looking towards the dance floor.

‘What?’ He squared up to me.

I hadn’t planned on that. Normally I say things quietly, cleverly masking my anger. But it was loud, living up to it’s name, so I just bellowed it out, forgetting for a second that he was right beside me.

‘Do you want to say that again?’ He stared down at me.

Of course I didn’t. Before I could think of what to do the lad was down on the floor. I felt the room turn towards me, glaring at me and my enemy who was now on the floor and whining. I found Steve.

‘Steve! There you are.’ I said, shaking. ‘What a shot.’ I said, moving him away from the bar.
'It must have been my Iron Maiden ring...' He slurred, peering down at his clenched fist. 'It's put a few down in my time...'

The rest of the lads rushed over to us, ushering us out of the building. We got in a taxi and everyone got dropped off at their respective homes. The next morning I got a text from Steve.

‘Why do I have no money, 43 missed calls from Mary and a sore hand?’

There was one answer. Stag do.

Pappa's Got a Brand New Stag (Part One)

It was another busy Wednesday and it was usually me and Steve outside, but I hadn't seen him since he went up for his dinner at half 12. I wouldn't usually go and find him if he was a few minutes over his half an hour limit, but since it was nearly 2pm, I considered it worthy.

'Steve, do you know what time it is?'

'Sorry, dude. I'll be down in a sec...' He muttered, organising his knife and fork on his dirty plate. 'Just finish my brew.'

'Is this all you've been doing since half 12?' I asked.

'No..I did the Sudoku in the paper. Well, didn't finish it, it was the Medium one.'

'Oh, right...Hey, did you get a text from Alex's best man?'

'Yeah, about Friday?'

'Yeah.'

'I don't think I can make it.'

'What?' I said, sitting down. 'It's Alex's stag do. It's been booked for months...according to the text.'

'I know, but...Mary...with the baby and everything.'

Steve has been doing this since he found out about Mary's pregnancy. Getting out of every conceivable thing. It would be considered noble and grown up if there was an actual baby to take care of, but Steve was literally using something that was size of a peanut to get out of everything. Working, shaving and now his friend's stag do.

'Come on, Steve. Mary won't mind. In fact, she's going to Alex and Fran's flat on Friday for the hen do.'

'Yeah, but...I've told her to stick to lemonade and I've told Alex to reserve her a comfy chair.'

Party on!

'Just an hour. Show your face. It'll be fun.' I tried.

'Fine.' He sighed. 'But I need to be at Alex's for eleven to pick her up.'

'Great.'

I smiled and raised my eyebrows, hoping that he'd get up from his extended break and start work again.

'What?' He asked.

'Shall we...'

'Oh, I'll just finish the crossword....'

The next day Alex was in for his final day before his wedding, booking three weeks off for stag, wedding and honeymoon. We spent a good hour talking about the wedding. Who was invited, choice of DJ and food. The main three, I always think. His best man had organised a stag do for tomorrow, inviting six or seven of Alex's closest friends. Paint ball at 2pm, a meal at 5pm and drinks at 8pm, something I was very much looking forward to as I'd never played paint ball before. Thinking about it, if there's one thing I'd love to shoot somebody with, it would be a ball of paint.

'Are you looking forward to the stag?'

'Yeah.' Alex smiled. 'I've never played paint ball before.'

'Me neither.'

'I've always wanted to shoot somebody with...'

'A ball of paint?'

'Yeah.' Alex grinned.

'I know, me too!'

Shooting people on a stag do is the done thing nowadays. A celebration to honour a man's marriage and the first thing people think of is physically hurting them. It's how we say 'well done.' Whether it's shooting them with a ball of paint or strapping them to a lamppost in the pouring rain whilst stark naked in a town centre, it's all done out of love. In fact, my Uncle Kevin went through the same thing, even then it was snowing. He must have absolutely froze. He wasn't getting married or anything, he was having an affair and my auntie wanted some revenge.

Friday came around and by 8pm, the six of us stumbled into the Jazz Box, a low key bar in the town centre. Alex, best man Jake, brother Duncan, Fran's 28 year old cousin Jim, Steve and I all sat down in comfy leather booth in the corner and ordered some drinks.

'I'm just going to have one and them I'm off.' Steve said, glancing at his watch.

'Come on, Steve. Fran said they'll be finished at eleven.' Alex said. 'We've got ages.'

The paint ball went quite well. Jake won, which means he didn't get shot as much. I got shot quite a lot, actually. Turns out I'm not a very good hider whilst dressed in chunky protective clothing. In a forrest. Already covered in multicoloured paint within the first 30 seconds.

'Technically I won.' Steve chipped in after hearing Jake gloating over the win.

'Well, Steve, you know. You can't technically win if you hide in the reception bit all day.' Jake said, sipping his bottle.

'I'm about to become a father, Jake. I need to stay safe.'

'Oh, great.' Jake smiled and patted him on the back. 'When is it due?'

'About nine months.'

Jake stared into space, a little confused. Duncan raised a toast to his brother and all took a bit swig of our beers. All apart from Steve, who slowly sipped his water.

'Steve, what is up with you?' Alex's cousin piped up.

'What? I like this. It's sparkling. It's not still, all right? I'm not that square!'

'Let me get you a beer.'

'No, I'm OK. I need to stay focussed if Mary needs me.'

'Needs you for what? To give birth to a baby that's not formed yet?'

'Oh and what are you...a scientist?' Steve questioned him.

'Yeah...Biologist, actually. I work at the College in town.'

Didn't see that coming. The next hour rolled on, we laughed and joked. Sharing stories about Alex and finding out about each other at the same time. The constant thread that ran through it was Jake's nagging over Steve's choice of drink. As best man it was his duty to make sure no one remembered Alex's special night.

'Come on, Steve. Where's your rock and roll now, ah? I bet the boys in Megalicca have a beer or two on a stag do.'

'Metallica. And they're all parents now. Like me.'

Yeah, and I bet they all go home after a gig and have a nice cup of tea, maybe watch Big Brother.

'Come on, Steve.' Jake tried.

'No.'

'Steve...'

'Fine!'

Steve stood up, startling everyone and turned towards the other booth. He grabbed a handful of leftover drinks and started necking them violently. Everything from neglected purple shots to half pints of cider, he finished them all off, one by one. We all sat there and watched.

'There? You happy, best man, ah!'

'Yes!' Jake high fived him.

'Waiter! Another round please!'

This was about to get ugly. Just like a stag do should.

End of part one.