Week 14 - Now That's What I Call Music 35

I woke the next day feeling cold and still in the need of sleep. Heather was at the bottom of the bed slipping her black dress back on that she had worn for the party. She smiled at me blow me a kiss and then to my amazement just left closing the front door behind her. Was that it? I had expected that at least we could share breakfast together, although I think the loaf of bread in my bread-bin was now growing extra green patches. I was left not knowing really what to do so I turned back over and went back to sleep.
It was mid-afternoon before I stirred from my bed and decided to think about facing the outside world. It had been a very unexpected last twenty hours and I was left trying to make sense of it all. Was I sad that Heather had gone? Did I want to see her again? Had I been unfaithful to Becky by seeing as much of Heather as I had? Perhaps more importantly was, what was I going to do with myself for the next eighteen hours until I was due in work? Well, if I allow nine hours for sleeping that only leaves nine hours. When you live with someone it is nice to have a few hours to yourself, but when you live on your own and you know that the next person you might see is at work the next day it can be depressing. At least Super Sunday was on Sky Sports soon although I had no idea who was even playing. Was it even worth getting dressed today? I have to really because if I didn’t it could become a start of a deep depression. I could become the sad loner who only gets dressed to go to work. Yes, I feel the need to force myself to get dressed. Maybe miss out on the shaving, but I will change my pants and put on some vaguely nice clothes that didn’t smell of cigarette smoke and even spray my armpits with rightguard. I maybe in my thirties now, but it didn’t mean I should let myself go.
The football on telly was not very exciting with no goals and the summarisers struggling to find any footage for the half time highlights. I was bored and in need of excitement. What could I do and who could I do it with? I even thought of paying my parents a visit, but I would only have to spend half an hour watching ‘Last of the Summer Wine’. I decided to take a stroll down to Ally’s the newsagents to get a trashy Sunday paper.
Walking to the newsagents I was amazed at how quiet everything was. There were no people anywhere to be seen. Nobody was washing their cars or walking their dogs. It was as if everyone had left the planet and no one had told me. Perhaps the town had had to be evacuated because an unexploded bomb had been discovered. Everything was just so dead and I was starting to feel really miserable and alone. At least Ally was in his newsagents, but despite my attempt at conversation he was not in a talkative mood. To my disappointed all the trashy Sunday newspapers had gone. There was no chance to read about which celebs were bonking who or which Spice Girl officially had the nicest bottom. Of course for me that had to be Baby Spice. Sporty seemed to have a nice firm rear, but it wasn’t in the same league. What newspapers were left then? All that appeared to be there was either a Birmingham based Sunday Mercury or a very chunky looking Sunday Telegraph. I decided to take them both together with a double-decker chocolate bar and for some reason a ‘Computer Buyer’ magazine. I don’t really know what made me buy the computer magazine, but Dave at work had been telling me for months that I should buy a pc now that I was single.
With the ‘Antiques Roadshow’ playing in the background I read everything about the Villa in the two newspapers. I read in the Sunday Mercury from the back page through to the television programmes. I was about to stop reading when I noticed that the next page was a Dating page with a section on ‘Local Women looking for Love’. Out of interest I started reading them, but not taking them seriously. I thought they were probably like the Estate Agents descriptions of houses. Where a house that was said to have ‘potential’ meant needs lots of work, I thought a lady who described herself as ‘country-like’ probably looked like a horse. One of them said that they were ‘looking for a dominant man’ and I started to think if this meant bondage. They all seemed so desperate, but then how could I have a go at them when I was so desperate for excitement that I had just walked down to the newsagents in search of a trashy Sunday paper. After a while one of them caught my eye. The message was very short and slightly intriguing. It read; “29 year old girl fed up of meeting prats wants more”. That was it. No description of hair, eyes colour, relgion or sexual preference. I read the rest but nothing else jumped out at me. Every time I just went back and read this message. Maybe I should make contact with this ‘girl’. I thought it was good that she had described herself as a ‘girl’ because it suggested that she considered herself to be quite young still and didn’t seem to be a feminist. I have nothing against feminists, but they could be slightly scary. Just as a woman on the telly was having her Georgian pot valued at over two hundred pounds I decided that I should do something positive in my attempts to get back some excitement and would contact the ’29 year old girl’. It seemed all I would have to do is call the telephone number listed and then press the girls mailbox number 2584 to be able to leave her a message. It would cost twenty pence a minute, but as long as I wasn’t too long leaving the message it shouldn’t add up too much. I needed to plan exactly what I was going to say before I rang and try and sound quite cool and with it, but also mysterious. I had been attracted to this lady’s message because it hadn’t given much away.
As I prepared to record my message reply to the advert I had read in the Sunday Mercury I decided that trendy background music might help. So I put on the latest Now CD No. 35. I rang the number and then pressed 2584 to hear the voice of the message writer. She sounded alright with quite a posh Birmingham accent and ended with a slightly naughty laugh. All she said was what the advert had said but it was somehow different hearing the voice. She did sound slightly nervous. Very quickly it was my turn although when George Michael’s ‘Fastlove’ started playing on the CD I was worried that perhaps it wasn’t the best track to use. I left the message ‘Hi this is Jon and I haven’t been called a prat for a few years so why don’t you give me a call’. After putting the phone down I realised that I had forgotten to leave my phone number so it had been a waste of time. I called back and left another message for 2584 apologising for being a prat afterall and this time leaving my number. Well, at least she will notice me even if she might feel the need to move away from the Midlands just to avoid me.

Next Week - Heather is back.