All gong and no dinner

Rather than head straight back to the car, I complete a leisurely lap of the block. As I walk down the street that Laura’s house backs onto, I pass a lemon yellow MX-5, and wonder if this is the convertible parked out back she’d mentioned when defending her career choice. I don’t see any other soft-tops, so guess it must be. Like her house, it is pristine – although ten years old, the little car is immaculate. I find myself wondering how Laura has the time to keep everything in her life so clean when she works six days a week and, as far as I know, has no-one else to help with the small routines of life. Except hadn’t she said that she was having dinner with her boyfriend, when I’d asked her to the cinema last weekend? Admittedly that could just have been an easy way of batting me away, but it hadn’t felt like she was lying. So if she has a significant other, what does he make of her second job?

I’m still pondering this when I complete my loop of suburban Cambridge’s finer streets and arrive back at the Polo. Unlike the MX-5, it is far from pristine; the plastic hub-cap covers are scratched and flaky, both doors bear the scars of car-park dings, and the left rear wheel-arch is bubbling with rust.

I open the car door with some difficulty – the lock is sticking again, and could probably do with a squirt of WD40. Then I sit in the sagging driver’s seat, hands resting gently on the steering wheel, and wonder what to do with the rest of my day. The thought of spending the afternoon in the city crosses my mind – perusing the finer gentleman’s outfitters, drinking expensive coffee with exotic names in over-priced cafés, making smiling conversation with pale and interesting girls in the poetry section of Waterstone's. Even to me, it sounds like a nice way to spend the afternoon. Of course I brought no extra money or cash cards with me, so all of that is off the agenda. Not that it was ever really on.

I don’t know how long it is I’ve been sitting here before I realise that, if I crane my neck just a little to the right, I can see Laura’s front gate in my rear-view mirror. I’m suddenly very tempted to wait here long enough to see who goes up that gravel path next. How long it’ll be since I left. How long they stay for. Whether they look like a fat, sweaty businessman, or a young, thrusting specimen of manhood. A young buck.

At best though, such behaviour might seem like a stakeout. At worst, stalking. Neither is behaviour I want to have to explain, to Laura or anyone else. Besides, I’m already getting a crick in my neck.

I start the car and, for want of anything better to do, begin the drive home. It’s a nice day, sunny, so I take the cross-country route. And of course I stop at The Tree. I talk aloud to Emma – something I haven’t done for nearly three years – and progress from trying to explain my day to apologising for it. Eventually I lapse into silence. I've talked myself hoarse, and wish that I had a bottle of water or something in the car. Something stronger, perhaps.

I don’t know how long I stay at The Tree for but, when I walk back up the road to retrieve the Polo, I note that my shadow has started to grow quite long. The engine has grown cold too, and only starts at the third time of asking.

I am so thirsty when I finally arrive home, I’m starting to feel light-headed. I make straight for the kitchen, which feels small and dark after my earlier visit. As I throw open the fridge door I see, really see for the first time in who knows how long, just how grimy it is around the edges. And something smells bad inside too – I'll have to explore the salad crisper later. But right now I need to slake a burning thirst, and gulp mouthfuls of orange juice straight from the carton. It’s BuyLo Basics orange juice, from concentrate, and tastes like it is pushing the best-before envelope. It serves a purpose though.

I stand at the fridge door, my hand resting on the mess of magnets that hold an assortment of money-off coupons, stick-man pictures of me by Tom’s daughter Lucy, and old photographs. I’ve no idea of the time, but my stomach tells me it wouldn’t be unreasonable to have something to eat. My options appear limited, however – microwaveable shepherd’s pie for one or a BuyLo Basics pepperoni pizza. I inspect both closely. The potato topping of the shepherd’s pie looks like it has been sculpted from foam - it is someone's idea of mashed potato. The pizza is notable only for a marked lack of pepperoni – it is, as my father would once have said, all gong and no dinner. God, when had I started buying such shit? I resolve that my diet has to change but, for now, I decide on the lesser of two evils, unwrap the pizza and turn the oven on.

I’d quite like a shower too, but not yet; later, I'll turn the water up as hot as I can comfortably stand, get the bathroom nice and steamy and have a shower that is more about pleasure than getting clean. Relive my day, perhaps. Have a little me-time. Luxuriate in lather and thoughts of Laura, whilst they are still fresh.

For now though, I cross the kitchen – it’s barely two paces – and retrieve the little pile of plastic I had left on top of the microwave this morning. I repopulate my wallet with cash, cards and the detritus of my life. The last thing back in is the photo booth picture of Emma – I read her note to me on the back, then tuck it safely away. It seems to find its own way precisely back into its worn rectangle of plastic film.

Pausing only to rearrange what little pepperoni there is to give a more even coverage, I decide the oven is hot enough and put the pizza in. There are some beers in the fridge and, somewhere, I know I have a bottle of finest Chilean screw-cap red. Specially selected for BuyLo, no doubt. I decide that tonight I may get a little drunk.