Scarred hands of an artist.

It took maybe 3 days to dig out a suitable snap of the parents. A laborious rummage through forgotten, overloaded drawers and dusty neglected card-board boxes that had never been unpacked since moving into the cubes. Used AA batteries, long-past birthday cards and various keyrings, pencils and other assorted shite I tended to hoard like a forgetful magpie. I eventually came across what I was after.

A nice relaxed shot of the two of them on the living room couch, radiating affection and family vibes. Ironically taken by an ex-bird, whose photos of ourselves had long been banished to a bin-bag.

Sometimes, you gotta put sentimentality to the back of your skull and clear the mental slate...

Such is the case here, I know .....yet some things are worth hanging onto.

I headed downstairs to the ground hall, clutching the beat-up photo in my right hand as I tapped lightly on the door of flat 1.

There was no immediate response, yet I could hear muted rock n' roll from behind the door and sounds of slovenly movement. I hesitated for a few awkward seconds, then rapped the door again with my knuckles, slightly louder this time.

There was a harsh, hacking cough, obviously from a heavy smoker. Weary, languid footsteps approached the other side of the door and I subconsciously stepped back slightly as keys were roughly twisted in the lock. The handle swung down aggressively and the door opened inward creakily, just by a few inches.

A stern looking left eye with an arched eyebrow raised above it appeared in the slot, too gloomy and indistinct to see properly in the poor light of the corridor. I could now clearly make out Led Zeppelin as the background music..Over the hills and far away...

"Yeah...? Whatcha after?" asked a gruff, throaty voice from an unseen mouth, more of a command than a question.

A nervous energy overtook me. The kind that you only get when you tell a lie or chat a bird up or go on a job interview. You know, when your mouth become independent of your brain and does it's magic...or conversely, does some serious damage you found you couldn't dig yourself out of...

Go with it, pussy. Thought you were a social creature at heart? Wake up, won't you?

"Erm....Sorry to disturb you...Dave..It IS Dave, right? Just...I live in the flat upstairs...number 10, like....Been here coupla months...I'm kinda mates with Col...You know, Col?"

The eye flickered about, it's pupil sharpening for a split second, then noticeably expanding at the mention of Col's name.

"Col, eh? Go 'ead, lad..." The voice said, softening slightly.

"Oh, yeah...Col...Nice lad...kinda loose and that in the head...but wonderful fella" I stammered.

"HAHAHA HAAA-AAA! Ya got that right, lid....Eee's certainly a character...He give you his DVD's from Cash Convertors yet?" The eye said, warming to the conversation with a squint and a smile around it's lids.

"DVD'S? Oh yeah...right.....Yeah...He gave me like, 20 of 'em...ain't watched any yet...saw most of 'em before...Pretty poor selection...Van Damme, Seagal..Channel 5 shit, all the way, really.... but didn't wanna say so...woulda probably...Hurt his feelings...Knowhadamsayin?"

"Been there....Always tries to off-load 'em on me, too.....But as yer say, cracking lad, is our Col. No bad in him.....Good skin. Proper Scouser...Anyone who picks up on that is alright by me, kidda..."

The door swung fully open.

The Robert Johnson / 60's British invasion blues of Page, Plant and co. grew to full volume, and I finally saw Dave in the full flesh.

"C'mon in, kid. What's yer name?"

He was tall - probably about 6'2". A wiry frame with a thin torso covered by a grubby paint-specked Nike vest, framed with powerful, veiny arms. Sinewy legs in his 3/4 length Adidas shorts. Battered slippers. Yet he looked athletic, agile. Going by his general appearance, he looked maybe 40ish. His forehead was furrowed, it had seen a lot of fights. Tiny white scars around the bridge of his crooked nose, that looked like someone had slammed it out of place on a drunken night decades earlier. Yet his smile was amiable, chilled out. And he was open, friendly.

"Sure...It's Fred...Me name, that is.....Thanks, Dave..." I mumbled as I stepped into his cube.

There was a tiny cramped hall dominated by hanging jackets on the back of the front door that you had to brush your way past, two steps through them to the right and you were in the front room. Two battered leather couches placed either side on the dull red carpet, a strangely elegant and fragile-looking glass coffee table between them, covered with tobacco, remote controls, pens and pencils of various colours and scraps of paper. There was a makeshift desk fashioned from an old door seemingly ripped from an ancient Oak wardrobe that ran across the far length of the room beneath the window, a tiny portable TV at the left side of it running a muted episode of The World At War. The bulk of the desk was taken up by a huge array of artist materials - A home-made lightbox, sheets of A4 paper, old coffee jars stuffed with charcoals, brushes and colouring pencils. The only light in the room other than the TV, came from a carefully placed fluorescent tube that sat above the desk, a large white professional draughtsman's sketch board sitting directly beneath it.





"Siddown, lid. Fancy a brew? Just gonna make one..?" Dave chirped, a rolled smoke hanging from his grinning lips.





"Tea would be smart. No sugar please, Dave.."





He nodded and bent down to scoop up two cups at the foot of his desk, and shuffled off into his kitchen to the left.





"Been here a few weeks, now, yeah? Seen yer about the block....Whatcha make of it?" he shouted over the sound of the taps running as he roughly clattered the cups about in the sink.





"Yeah....Moved up from the other end of Wavertree...Much better flat than my last one....Still gettin' organised like, but its decent enough.." I replied, peering around the living room walls in the poor light.





"It's not that bad in 'ere..most of the time...just can get a bit wild of a weekend...I'm sure you'll suss that out for yerself though..." He shouted back, the sound of a kettle starting up gradually growing louder, fighting to be heard over Plant's screams coming from the tiny CD player that I guessed was in the back bedroom.



I had a sudden double take, then looked again. Closer to the ceilings, running the full perimeter of every wall were what looked like large photographs, mainly black and white, some colour ones dotted amongst them. I stood up and stepped towards ,the wall to my right, kneeling up on the couch as I examined them closer.



I reached up and touched one of them, the features clearer now. It was a head shot of Al Pacino, Scent of A Woman era. But then it wasn't a photo...the texture was coarse... it felt like paper, not a glossy print. There was a tiny "DA" scrawled in the bottom left corner.





"Took me about two days, that one....wasn't too happy with the end result, likes.."





I slid back away from the wall, turning to see Dave standing behind me nodding up to the portrait, two cups in his hands.





"Oh...sorry... Didn't mean to mess with it...just that it's great...Thought it was a photo at first...." I replied awkwardly.





"Nah...I've done better..Far better when I've concentrated..Tea?" he offered me a mug.





"Oh cheers..Thanks...That's...somethin' else, that man...wish I could draw like that....You did that in what, just two days? That's far out.....Really, amazing stuff.."





I took the warm mug from him and sat back down, gesturing towards the four walls.





"You do this for a living, Dave? I mean...Looks really professional work..."





He sat at his desk, his side to me, placing his mug down and picking up a HB pencil.





"Nah...more of a past-time really. Always felt I never had the ability to draw, and felt I should try an' conquer something I thought I was always incapable of...Took me 'till I was 35 to realise that....After me marriage broke down, 'an I moved in here 4 years ago I had a lot of spare time on me hands..." He shrugged casually.

I didn't want to press him about it further.

Some old wounds there, for sure.....

"So...You do portraits...family ones, I mean?" I mumbled as I tentatively offered him the photo of my folks.

He took it from me and examined it closely for a moment, holding it to the tube light and screwing his face up at it.

"Hmmm...It ain't a bad photo...Could do with it bein' a lil' bigger, maybe..."

"Oh, right...I got plenty more, just can't find 'em at the moment..." I said somewhat despondently.

"S'alright, kid. I can grid it out and use my magnifying gear, enlarge it. You want it A4, yeah?"

"Yeah...A4 would be great...Need to pick a frame up from somewhere though..."

"Don't worry about that, I got loads of spare ones in the back room....I'm guessin' you'll be needin' this ready for Christmas, right?"

"Absolutely...thought it'd make a nice gift for them" I then realised that it was already December 20th.

"Four days enough for you, Dave? Sorry if it ain't.... I mean, I shoulda asked earlier, like...?"

"No problem. It's more than enough time, that. Just gizza knock on say.... Tuesday. It'll be well boxed off by then."

"Right....Tuesday....Thanks Dave. I Gotta say, if the results are a tenth as good as your other stuff, it'll make a great gift..."

Jesus wears a Nike cap.

In the immediate aftermath of Linda and the brief bout of angst and self pity she had triggered, life inevitably rolled on.

It just had to.

Dwelling on it was only making me insane.

At quiet moments when I studied it, in truth she was an amateur compared to some of the other females I knocked around with in the past. There had been far, far worse situations to deal with - she was small-time in the "painful past relationship" league table.

It was just the banal disappointment of what had happened that bit me deep. I'd have sooner had screaming, insults and general abuse than lame, ignorant silence and empty blank stares. A bit of passion would have made it probably a lot easier to forget.

Tick-tock, we don't stop....

Work only got busier and demanded more effort and concentration, bills still had to be settled, the match was still a highlight of most weekends, and laundry had to be washed, dried and ironed.

I busied myself with making slight improvements to my cube, a lick of paint here, a couple of framed prints there, new shower curtains and a stolen laundry basket from the local Liver laundrette being the most notable additions. I didn't have luxuries such as a washing machine or tumble dryer, but Dean down the corridor was always on hand to let me use his gear, and I'd throw him a few cans of lager in return.

With Christmas fast approaching, I was struggling to decide on what to buy for my immediate family. Many fruitless trips into the city centre, both before and after work in the music store, were only making it tougher to settle on gifts. There was almost too much choice, but nothing really struck me as original or memorable to offer to them.

After much deliberation, I eventually bought my brother a steel grey zip-up hooded Bench top from the Westworld store on Bold Street. I figured he wore his branded wear like tattoos, and that it was a fairly fashionable and subtle effort that might - just might - be to his liking.

My parents, however were a different matter. I always tried to get them each something special, that they wouldn't leave in a cupboard or stranded in the spare room of their cozy little flat.

Inspiration came from an unlikely source.

Col.

It was a Tuesday.

There was nothing on the personal agenda other than some pasta with spicy Dolmio tomato and herb sauce, pre-cooked chicken and a concerted effort to progress on Final Fantasy 10 on the Playstation. Then sleep if I could manage any, the alarm on my mobile phone rousing me and back to the same old sketch.

I hadn't seen him for weeks - not since he had insisted on lending me that stack of awful z-list action DVDs he had picked up from the Cash Convertors store on London Road. He was loitering in the ground floor corridor, his Nike Cap on his bald dome as always, pacing around with a battered grimy Head backpack hanging from his right shoulder, knocking on flat 1's door with heavy rhythmic regularity as I came in from work.

He practically bear-hugged me as he spotted me coming in the front door, his podgy arms gripping my sides, dropping his backpack to the floor. I could smell extra-strength lager on his breath as he spoke in his peculiarly whining voice.

"Alright there, Eric lad? Just finished work 'ave yer? Put on a bit weight eh lad? Looking well, lad...Spot on"

"Yeah...Good to see you too, Col. Been up to much? Ain't seen you for time, likes..." I responded wearily. Work had been shattering, and god bless Col, I just wasn't able to keep up with his frenetic patter, even though it was strangely endearing. I tried not to show my urge to get to my cube and crash on the couch.

"A'vent seen Dave 'ave yer lad? Been knocking for abaar...20 minutes..."

"Dave?" I replied quizzically.

I only really knew Dean and Col in the block, everyone else was pretty low profile.

Which is pretty much how I liked it, to be fair.

"Yeah, big Dave lad. Spot on lad, he is lad. Does them boss portraits, remember I told yer ages ago?"

Portraits...now there's an angle for you...

"Right, yeah, big Dave...Think I know who you mean....Don't really know him Col, to be honest with you...But is he any good? At the artwork I mean?"

Col puffed up his chest in pride, a sentimental look easing across his chubby perspiring face as he replied.

"UNBELIEVABLE, Lad. Spot on, he is lad. Honest. Does it all in pencils and charcoals and that, good at oils and all that an' all. Should see the ones he's done of famous ones like John Lennon, Paul Weller, Nelson Mandela.......an' the other fella...had a scatty bird...shot himself..."

"What, you mean Kurt Cobian? Out of Nirvana?"

"RIGHT! Spot on, Eric...Kurt Cobain, that's him.. .and loads more. Like photos they are Eric, lad. No messin'"

He nodded sagely, eyes squeezed tightly shut behind his thin glasses, looking almost like a little Buddha with a Nike cap on, dispensing worldly wisdom.

"Right....I may give him a knock sometime, now you mention it, Col...Got a portrait in mind he could maybe have a go at, actually.."

He reached out and patted my left shoulder heartily, almost sending me to the floor with his surprising force.

"Trust us, lad, They're well smart...When yer see them, you'll be knocked out, lad..."

"Yeah...I'll deffo check him out later on, Col.....Listen.....I'm Just gonna head to mine to get some chow and have a lie down, I'm done in mate.."

He released my shoulder and scooped up the battered backpack. I often wondered what he carried around in there.

He would produce massive toilet rolls from the depths of that bag, the huge industrial ones you found in airports and railway stations. He must have figured out how to remove them from the tough plastic containers that were fixed to the cubicle walls. He would then practically force me to take one off him, insisting it would save me loads of money, and it'd last for a month. I would always crack under pressure and accept.

He meant well of course, but his random nature left you scratching your head for days afterwards.

Seeing he was about to leave, I noticed something shiny hanging from the right pocket of his grimy Tracksuit pants. It looked like foil from a sweet wrapper.....It was hanging precariously, just about ready to fall out.

"Say........Something's fallin' out your trackies, there Col..." I said as I pointed towards it.

He peered down to his right side and then looked back up, a sly grin on his chubby lips. He stuffed the silver material back into his pocket hastily, shooting me a knowing wink as I stared back, shaking my head silently in bemusement.

"I know what yer thinkin', Eric lad...But it's nothin' like that yer know...." He beamed strangely.

"Nah...it's just...I dunno...What's it for then?" I replied dopily.

His shoulders hunched and, and he leaned forwards towards me whispering hesitantly, looking behind himself nervily as though someone was spying on him.

"See...No-one's onto this, but I'll tell yer, cos yer a sound lad, Eric lad..... Eric Lad....But Lemme ask yer...What hand do yer use...I mean...are yer a lefty or a righty, lad...?"

"What?.....Erm...OK....Right handed..."

"So...... yer usually....most of the time... put yer mobile in yer right hand pocket then, lad?"

"Erm....Yeah, Col...I suppose I do, like..."

He looked about us again, and leaned even closer, his voice dropping to that of a barely audible level. I strained to follow him as he continued.

"See...No-one's onto this Eric lad....But all mobile phones....They give out radiation....X-rays and that, right?..... And them X-rays make you sterile...give you tumors and that...They even cook yer brain when you use 'em.......And 'cos o' that........all the mobile firms......and the governments..... don't want loads of court cases and millions of people suing 'em......they've kept it all quiet, like.....So here's what yer do Eric, lad.....Just get a load of foil and line yer right pockets on all yer kecks and trackie bottoms....That way, yer town halls will be safe from the x-rays, an yer won't go sterile.....Cos the foil protects yer balls from the radiation......."

I stood in disbelieving silence for maybe a minute, nodding my head with a flimsy smile.

He reached for my hand and gripped it tightly, shaking it up and down slowly.

"Like I said, Eric lad....No-one's onto it....Remember I told yer first.....Follow that bit of advice, y'hear lad....?"

"Ye-Yeah...Right.....Thanks, Col...."

He released my hand and turned away, shooting me another wink, as he made for the door.

"Take it easy, Eric Lad....An' remeber what I told yer, now....An' always look after yer mam, lad....No better mate than yer mam, Eric Lad..."

He then left me alone in the darkened corridor, as the heavy front door slammed roughly shut behind him.

That was just one of many mind-bending experiences with Col. I mean, he was something else, truly. If he didn't really exist (which I seriously pondered over at times), you would never be able to invent him. I used to think he was like a benevolent genie, a friendly ghost or a playful apparition.

I never used to see him on the street or in the pubs or shops around the cubes, only in their gloomy damp halls. He left you mentally and physically drained when you bumped into him, such was his ranting energy and bouncing physical, child-like persona. Yet you always wanted him to come back whenever he left, as he posed so many questions that you only thought of when he was out of sight. It was fascinating and frustrating at the same time.

It was as if he truly believed everything he spouted - however irrational and outlandish it seemed to others, his mind-set was damn-near unbreakable. And he was impossible not to like, there was no badness in him, no sly edge, no deception or lies......

At least he's given you the opportunity to knock for this Dave character, be a bit more sociable since you're over that head-fuck of a bird........

Yes, little demon. You're right...I just gotta dig out that cracking photo of me mam and dad first though.....

Insecure purity.

"So was it worth it then, lad? All that over one bird, I mean?" Dean coughed through a cloud of smoke, leaning forwards to fix me with his piercing eyes.

Was an instant of your insecure purity worth a lifetime of her deceit and ignorance...?

Well was it?

"I though so at the time...Yeah, I guess I did.....Just really stressed me out, the whole gig was twisted, you know?" I muttered back, resignation and emotion heavy in my voice.

"it's just the...disappointment of the whole thing that gets me about it - I've had far uglier stuff happen with birds before.....She's an amateur in that respect, like...But The ignorance...Blanking me...Fuck man, it's a killer. She ain't 18, she's 28...We're both adults....I expected much more than that Dean, y'know?"

He sat upright, His posture stiff, his face suddenly hardening, his voice strangely shaky.

"Yeah...I've been there, lad. Know exactly what you mean....Never easy is it? I had a terrible sketch with me ex - unbelievable, man. Really stabbed me through the heart....Drove me crackers, fell out with me family and most of me mates at the time...It was hell...."

He thumped his fist down on the arm of the armchair, making the floor shudder with his force.

"But, it's like the old saying lad innit? What doesn't kill yer makes yer stronger..... God knows I learned that the hard way with her ....Never gonna commit to a bird now... Sick of getting tormented and played like a fool by 'em....But still..."

This was interesting His demeanour and aura of confidence had slipped and he was now uncertain, vulnerable. I was caught in two minds whether to press him, or to drop it...

ASK THE QUESTION.

I'm getting bored now....

"Yeah? Go on..."

Dean grimaced for a moment, as though recalling some awful event from his past, his eyes screwing up and his lips wobbling. He seemed on the verge of tears. But then he took a deep breath, composed himself and fixed me with a stern look again.

"All..I'm sayin' is...They reckon women outnumber us three-to-one...So this is it: I reckon you drop this whole thing and move on, lad. Sure, she had you off and messed with your head, I ain't debating that. An' it's clear you really liked her an' all, I mean look at yerself... You've been miserable for a while abaar it, right? RIGHT?"

I was took back by his fierce, passionate response.

Dean had always seemed the most laid-back punter in the cubes...

"Y-Yeah..." I mumbled tamely in response.

He made a sweeping, expansive gesture with his right hand.

"See, after all this.......You'll get yer head together and start chasin' other birds...Birds that are WORTH it...Worth the effort, the dollars, the feelings, man....She seems evil to me, judgin' on what you're tellin' me....Honestly dunno why you bothered with her... And the family thing with her was WAAAAY too "out west", knowhadamsayin'?

At last someone talking sense for a change.

Pay close attention, class...

"Yeah...Yeah you're dead-on, Deano.......too right mate..." I nodded my head.

"Just relax, lad you'll be alright....Maybe when me giro comes in we can go for a bevvy, hit town, get into some decent women likes....12 bells? Is that the time?"

He sprang from his chair, and made to leave, halting as he reached the door, turning to face me.

"Listen lad, gotta get off...I'm down at me uncles tomorrow, gonna get a lift at half seven...."

"Sure, no problems Deano...Listen.....About tonight....Thanks, man I really appreciate it....A problem shared an' all that...."

"Not a problem, lad...You ever wanna talk, I'm only down the hall...Just get yer head right, stop thinking so much...Get on it...You'll be sound..."

"Right...Again, thanks...see you later..."

"Laters, lad"

And with that he had gone.

I brooded to myself for an uncertain length of time, despite Dean's exhortations to do otherwise.

Despite the late hour and the fact I had work that morning, I struggled to unwind and sleep.

I threw the stereo on, some ambient mix music was needed to accompany my racing thoughts.

I almost absent-mindedly started flicking through the pages of a graphic novel I had left on the table at the centre of the room, absorbing the beauty and intricacy of the art and the scale and ingenuity of the story-telling for what felt like the first time.

It was no "Road-to-Damascus" moment by any means, but I had what one could loosely describe as a real "Epiphany" during that lost few hours, sitting there in my cube, red light glowing from the table-side lamp, me listening to music, scanning the panels of that graphic novel.

The fact that it wasn't in any significant place, time and that there was no-one present to relate it to made it perhaps much more of a self-affirming experience.

The endomorphins were surging through me - I was at ease, calm, serene almost.

And from nowhere... The thought struck me:

In this state of mind, this atomosphere, taking pleasure from such simple things....

Would this bird ever participate?

Would she ever be comfortable with it?

And I could see, it was all open now, I understood how it worked.

Right down to all the flaws and imperfections, which previously I had been blindly ignorant of.

In essence, I finally saw how ridiculous I had been acting.

It's wasn't Linda who was at fault - it was me.

Had she been in the same room at that time what would she, and by proxy myself, in all likelihood be doing?

I laughed out aloud at the observation that followed, so much so that I wound up lying on the couch, book draped across my legs as clutched my my chest and wheezed with tired laughter.

It would probably consist of you both enduring some shitty soap, followed by a soundtrack of cliched boy-band, R & B bollocks, coupled to uninspiring conversations....

There would be nothing to challenge me, no common ground between us.

All the personal interests and passions - the true individualities and quirks of character that I held - would be disregarded, ignored as casually as she had blanked my phone calls and text messages. What I regarded as high art and entertainment simply didn't exist to her. Whilst I would devour the works of Shirow, Otomo, Inoue and other great visionaries, she would have been stuck at the level of OK or Heat magazine.

I felt energised and entranced by this bust of languid introspection.

Put simply, it was a home truth delivered in a brutally honest yet eloquent and poetic way.

It's a rare thing when your mind lowers it's guard and lets you see the bigger picture.

That's right, kid........

Like you said once, I'm a gold-mine of good advice...

That thought comforted me as I drifted off to sleep on the couch, hypnotic synth bass lines lulling my eyes shut.

RED CARD. (Walk it off).

The door creaked open a fraction with a whining un-oiled squeal, a tiny pink female set of fingers pulling it open.

A shaft of dying winter light cut through the gloom of the corridor, slowly revealing....

Linda.

She wore a pristine white dressing gown, her feet bare, shivering slightly.

She looked pure, untouched.

Her hair, obviously just washed, gleamed supernaturally in the muted winter sun, which flew down rapidly behind the ceramic rooves of the terraced houses around us.

Our eyes met.

She fired me a nervous, wobbling smile.

A pretty vague look.

Almost looking through me rather than at me.

Her voice was unsteady as she spoke.

"...Oh...He-hello...Didn't expect you to to be calling here....."

She crept around the door, pulling it almost closed behind her.

She's obviously being listened to closely....

By someone really alert behind that door...

Most likely her mother....

"Yeah...y'know...... I was kinda worried about'cha....Not answering my calls and that...Just...Wanted to know if you were Okay.."

I brought up the flowers and offered them to her.

"I should be working at the match this afternoon...But I wanted to see you Real bad....First time for everything, right? Putting a female before football....Guess my priorities have changed..."

She made no attempt to accept my offering. She simply stood at the door, arms folded. Her eyes flickered about as she squirmed uncomfortably, a weak forced smile slowly fading on her lips.

She eventually locked her gaze on the path behind me, her voice sounding eerily flat and emotionless.

The intimation was clear that I should have been walking away, back down that stretch of uneven concrete slabs, there and then.

"I can't really speak to you right now.....It's not the right moment for this.."

She was cold. Her posture was all off. Arms folded tightly, expression remote.

Those hypnotic eyes that had originally hooked me, were flitting about again like humming-birds over a nectar-rich flower.

I slowly, with an attempt to act as cool as possible, slumped against the door-frame, an invisible attempt to draw myself closer to her body. The flowers in my right hand felt heavy, dead and lame all of a sudden.

"If it's...a problem...Me calling here outta the blue, I mean...Like this....I can understand, Linda. Just...say, if it is...and I'll bail out...."

"Y'knowhaddamsayin'??"

For a split second, it appeared like I'd hit a raw nerve. She bit her upper lip, shifting where she stood. I wanted to keep the momentum rolling, however foolish it came across.

Something inside me pushed the dial towards "Super-charged", "animated and alive".

FULL-ON.

My speech felt lucid, flowing like poetry.

Not as if it was a cheaply constructed script.

"See...I can acknowledge the mistakes I made when it comes to you, baby. The other night drove home to me HOW MUCH I MISS YOU. TRULY. And I ain't just talkin' about the physical aspect...You are so much FUN to hang around with......More than any girl I've ever been with.

And I WANT YOU...I WANT to feel that joy again....

Just to make you smile is a buzz, honestly. Like no other.

I reached out to take her hand in my own.

She didn't pull it away, yet didn't squeeze it like I squeezed hers.

"And it gets better...I'm older now. More mature, focused. I Got a decent job on the go and my own place now....Plus, all my family are back together....Only thing missing is a straight-up female....And I think if we could just -"

"SSSHHHHH".

She released my right hand and placed two fingers softly over my babbling lips.

Her face was all of a sudden, resolute.

DETERMINED.

"I'm sorry Fred...But I don't wanna relationship with you.....I can't tell you any other way........"

"I....I don't really know what to say............ To that...."

"I know.....I'm Sorry ....but that's how it is, babe....."

Just front it.

It's strange, isn't it?

The effect a girl who you really dig has on the male mind, I mean.

You'll willingly go through any hardship, all manner of personal shit, mental and physical, just to please her.

Go down on hands and knees on vicious broken glass, use her shit for toothpaste...

You name it, if you, like myself, have an obsessive nature, you're there.

No problems, no questions asked.

If it pays off, you feel like you've won the World Cup, Mr Universe, Wimbeldon and an Oscar combined.

If it don't, you feel like a rusty wreck on the scrap-heap, with all the empty, better designed yet ultimately soul-less slick vessels passing you, mocking you, all your failures and faults, when all your endeavours and energy have gone in the wrong direction.

Wasted journeys to meaningless destinations.

Jumping on that bus to Bootle, was an experience in itself.

Didn't mind the driver smirking at me when I passed him the £1.70 fare. I was on a mission, and didn't have time to step aside and analyse my behaviour. A couple of old dears near the front of the bus looked at me with misty eyes, spotting the flowers and whispering to each other, their voices covered by the rumbling diesel engine.

I was almost proud of the fact I was heading into unknown territory, with no real plan of action.

Sometimes, I reasoned, you have to wing it and be impulsive.

Heroes and winners take chances.

Losers sit alone at home and rue their lack of ambition.

I had no script in my head of what I was going to say to her.

But then again... that's what makes it exciting, isn't it?

Sure is.....

The bus zipped through the city, Sunday hangovers helping the journey no end, and the traffic lights pleasingly accommodating.

Before I knew it, I had jumped off at Bootle bus station, the Triad tower and the Strand shopping centre looming around me.

I made my way out of the complex and headed up-hill, towards Vaux Crescent.

It was a brisk 20-minute walk and I was mindful of the awful fine rain spitting down on me, the type that caught you off-guard - one minute you thought it wasn't that bad but the next you were absolutely drenched and sneezing.

I arranged myself and my clothing, took a deep breath and steeled up as I reached the front door - it took me a moment to remember which house it was - It had been a long time.

I knocked lightly three times on the letter-box.

Almost immediately, a dog started barking and scratching wildly, making me jump up back in shock as it threw itself against the other side of the door. At that moment I remember thinking of those cliched old stickers that you would see in the grimy front windows of terraced houses with the cheap, ugly type-faces - usually a grainy photo of a slavering Rottweiler or pit-bull, above the slogan "I LIVE HERE".

Although meant to be a deterrent to potential burglars, I always thought it actually meant:

"POOR WHITE TRASH".

I waited there for perhaps a minute, although it felt much longer with the soundtrack of the animal hurling itself against the entry-point, the door-frame rattling. I thought about leaving the flowers on the step - then went against it.

She'd have known who they were from, surely - yet I wouldn't have been able to tell her exactly what was the sketch was. Maybe knock back later? It WAS a Sunday, after all....Maybe she was out?

I turned away from the door and started back down the front path, when I heard the hinges creak open and a stern female voice call out.

"YEAH?"

I turned back to see Linda's mother standing in the doorway. It was half-open as she gripped the handle with one hand, and the collar of the dog, which was only a small colly terrier. The dog frantically struggled to break free, it's claws clattering and slipping on the front step as it grunted, snorted and whined in protest.

Unconsciously I hid the flowers behind my back.

Linda's mother eyed me up and down with unrestrained suspicion

I had to collect my thoughts for a second before I replied.

She didn't seem to recognise me, which would make things a lot more awkward from here on in.

"Erm....Is your Linda there...Please?"

"Yes"

She shot me a quizzical look. I was dumbstruck for a moment. I didn't expect one-word answers.

Did she mean "Yes, she's here" or was she simply repeating the original "Yes?" question?

"So who is it??"

Right. Now we're making some progress. Not liking the piece-of-shit attitude on display here though, mind....

"It's....Fred" I replied shakily.

"WHO??" She barked her face screwing up, head tilted to one side towards me. Maybe my sense of body language was messed up, but generally when people act as such and make you repeat yourself, it's because hey want to soften you up before they deliver snotty one-liner to which you cannot retort. I smiled back through gritted teeth.

"FRED".

There was a flash of sudden recognition in her eyes and then her glare hardened, her stance going stiff. I'd no doubt been bad mouthed for years under her roof, called all the cunts under the sun.

Not that it bothered me of course.

It was for others to lose sleep about me.

"And what D'YOU wanna see her for?" She snapped, the dog still in her grip, gasping for air as it strained against it's collar.

I looked down to the floor for a moment and then lifted my head back up, a wistful smile on my face coupled with languid, dilated eyes.

I was sorely tempted to to unleash my barbed tongue on her in a savage response to her bullish, childish and patronising attitude. I knew I could have her in tears within a minute, given the opportunity. I could crucify her and her daughter purely through the power of speech. I could expose her behaviour and draw parralels from her upbringing - put her mother on a real guilt-trip.

Having half-anticipated such a negative response, I had memorised a spiel that I could hit her with.

Well, actually I'm here on account of your daughter ignoring my phone calls and text messages. Which is strange actually, because just hours ago she was ready to have my kids.

Yeah, really. She was all over me. This was after she was provided (from an unknown source) with a big bag of beak, which she consumed like a pro over the course of the other night.

Now as someone who perhaps in a naive and misguided sense, cares about and feels affection for Linda, I feel I should inform you, her mother, of the situation. If you were to ask her about it I'm certain she would tell you all about it. Really, go ahead.

"I SAY AGAIN. WHAT DYER WANNA SEE LINDA FOR??"

I snapped back to the present,shaking my head as I focussed on the moment.

No. Show a bit of dignity and self-control. To lose it is to play straight into their hands....

"It's just....I'd very much like to speak to her right now, if at all possible".

That's it. Play it polite. Best way to handle it.

There was a long uncomfortable silence.

The mother regarded me with a dark, lingering look that suggested she had just scraped me from the sole of her shoe. For the first time, I felt a REAL sense of self-satisfaction that I had slept with this woman's daughter.

"A MINUTE". She slammed the door shut, dragging the dog back inside with her.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spied one of the curtains in the window directly above the front door flicker for a moment.

I brought the flowers up from behind my back. Quite why I was hiding them, I didn't know. I composed myself, adjusted my sweater and took a few moments to reflect.

I could actually understand why her mother had been so ratty with me. I remembered the story of how Linda's father who had three children - had suddenly came out as gay and split after maybe 20+ years of marriage. That's pretty lame in my book. You would have thought he would have at least fucking mentioned it before having three kids with her, likes.

A rough hand to be dealt with, no doubt. I supposed that in her shoes, I probably would have been rabidly anti-men as well, after such shocking treatment.

Then again, what was she like during the marriage? Did she drive him towards such action? Who was to know? The mind boggled, totally.

I felt a light touch of rain on my head and looked up to the skies.

Bootle isn't one of the most picturesque areas within Merseyside, but under black skies it's downright ugly, man....