Falling in

One of my New Year's resolutions for 2022 was to work fewer hours, yet I worked fifty-two hours last week over six days.

However, whatever storm we're up to now has blessed me. I do a bit of dinner ladying, and yesterday afternoon, the headmistress sent everyone home. An emissary came into the kitchen to tell us that our week had ended, after a section of the roof, which appeared to have weathered the gusty conditions on Wednesday, fell in. The engineers they called in said that they would have to do a complete structural survey of the whole school, so couldn't guarantee the safety of any part of it. Result!

I was summoned to an interview with the Universal Credit people yesterday. I took my last two weeks' timesheets with me in case they think I am doing what I would prefer to do.

A security guard told me I couldn't bring my scooter into the job centre. I told him that I need it to get to work and that I'm not letting it out of my sight. (I live in an unfashionable suburb of Bristol full of scoundrels.) He said "well put it over there, but you're not allowed to bring it in next time."

In an open plan office, which almost caused nightmarish flashbacks to when I used to be employed by a computer, I sat behind a screen facing a remarkably painted woman. With great precision, she had put pink lipstick on her lips exceeding their physical boundary by a couple of millimetres. Her black eye eyeliner extended in an upward curve either side of her eyes, and she'd painted a matching downward curve starting from the same point, like this.

All that effort in the morning, just to go and sit in a job centre. The artistic merit might be questioned, but for technical execution -- ten out of ten.

"Hello Mr Looby. Erm...I'm just loading up your notes. Oh...it's so slow. This system. So what is it you do?"

"Well, apart from being a man, I'm a dinner lady at La-di-Dah High School, and I also help run the Fatworkers' Staff Canteen in town."

"Oh right, is that on Lard Street?" "Yes, just behind the hospital."

Hmmm...there's nothing really here to tell me why you've been brought in."

"Yeah, me too. I'm a bit bemused as to why I'm here." I showed her my timesheets. "I did fifty-one hours last week and I'll be doing fifty-two this one. But it's a change of scenery, and it's been nice meeting you and having an excuse to stare at your strikingly made-up face."

I felt a presence. The security guard had wandered around to eavesdrop. As I turned my head to him he looked at the floor and scuttled away.

My interview was concluded with another apology, for not knowing what she was supposed to do with me, and I left to call on Mr Khan, purveyor of discounted cider to the quietly alcoholic.

After work one day, I am sitting in the chain pub, close to, and looking out through, its big picture window. Mid-afternoon, it's a warm place of cameraderie and mutually-accepted decay, before the students' loud exhibitionist voices wreck the calm.

Suddenly, a young woman -- late teens? early twenties? -- in baggy trousers and a crop top showing a lovely midriff, starts dancing in front of me on the other side of the glass. I jump down from my seat and and start dancing with her. The man at the next table joins us, but only to point at her and say "aren't you cold?" She misunderstands him, and looks affronted.

"Do you think I'm fat?" she mouths to me. I make a dismissive gesture, and point to her, mouthing back "you..." before making a curving movement with my hands as though I were running them over Nigella Lawson. She, and I start dancing again for a few seconds, and then she leaves abruptly. I sit back down again, full of flirty energy, pleased with myself compared to the fuddy-duddy at the next table. "Fucking hell," I say to him, laughing.

My relationship with Mel continues to put me in a state of puzzlement. Why do I not feel oppressed by this woman? Why, sometimes, like last night, do I ring her saying I'm tired and want a rest, then two hours later ring her wondering if she'd mind me coming round? Why, when stoned and pissed in the pub and in a break from dancing with her, do I say to her friend, "oh Mel, yeah, I'd marry her tomorrow if she asked." Why does she not mind me pushing my stiff cock against her toes while she does the crossword in the morning? Sober, I don't want to marry Mel, but she's the most natural, effortless girlfriend I've had for...