Six Months to Get a Life (11 page)

Do I or don’t I phone Amy? It has only been two days since I saw her last. We agreed we would go out walking at some point with our respective children. Mine aren’t with me this weekend. Does that mean I can’t see Amy? Would it look odd if I phoned and suggested another adults-only dog walk? I am not officially going out with Amy so I don’t want her to think I am being too pushy or too desperate. I mentioned my dilemma to Dave, who knows about these things.

‘When your mum’s dying of cancer you realise that life is too short to piss about,’ he told me.

So I stopped being a wet fart and phoned her. Someone else, presumably her daughter Lucy, answered the call. I quickly went back to being a wet fart and hung up. My relationship with Amy seems destined either to be a slow burner or maybe even a spark that doesn’t catch. I will try her again tomorrow.

With the kids now ensconced in a tent somewhere in the rain, I have been left to my own devices for the weekend. Most of my own devices are now the property of my ex, so what that means in reality is that I have been surfing the net to find more jobs I can do. I said I wanted to work with animals but I draw the line at being a chicken sexer or a dog food tester – these can’t be real jobs surely? I applied to be ‘head of category management’ for a stationery company. I have less of a clue about that one than I had about the asset protection manager job.

I have also been phoning Amy. Two, five, ten times in the last day or two. No one has answered my calls. Maybe she’s avoiding me. I went over our last meeting in my head. I don’t think I embarrassed myself. In fact, I thought I did pretty well and am pretty sure she had thought so too. But why isn’t she returning my calls? I am not used to having Amy in my life but somehow I am already missing her. In the end I sent her a text. ‘Fancy meeting me for dinner on Tuesday instead of walking the dog? Graham Hope.’ She hasn’t replied yet.

I don’t know what possessed me to do it but I also checked out my ex’s recent posts on Facebook. I got a shock. It’s her birthday. I hadn’t even realised. Although we didn’t tend to
make a big thing of our birthdays, I have never totally forgotten her birthday before.

I wonder how she is spending the day. The kids aren’t with her because they are on camp. They hadn’t mentioned her birthday to me but that doesn’t surprise me. The boys only tend to remember their own birthdays. They wouldn’t have brought her a present either because I hadn’t given them any extra money to buy it with or kicked their backsides to go shopping.

The thought that it was my ex’s birthday and I hadn’t noticed actually depressed me a bit. It is just one more sign of how far apart we have drifted. How truly out of the non-kids part of her life I am. I am trying to see it as a positive: that it means I am getting over my ex, I am not attached to her like I used to be, I don’t hang off her every word. The problem with that viewpoint, though, is that I keep checking her Facebook status all the time.

I bet my ex is struggling today, not being with her kids on her birthday. I sent her a Facebook message telling her I hope she has a good day and letting her know that the kids’ present is on its way.

I could tell from the profile picture that one of the numerous birthday messages she had been sent on facebook was from Mr comb-over. ‘Happy birthday sexy,’ he had written for my ex and half the world to see. Whatever.

Last night we had an impromptu final really final this time leaving party for Andy. We started off in the Prince of Wales in Wimbledon but for some reason ended up in a gay night club in Soho. It seems that wherever I go, I end up spending the evening propping up the bar with Andy while Dave lights up the dance floor and Ray struts around preening himself. Over our third or fourth Jagerbomb, Andy told me he thinks Ray is gay. I haven’t known Ray for as long as I have known Dave and Andy and now that Andy mentions it I can’t actually recall seeing Ray with a girl. My gaydar is pretty rubbish (anyone less obvious than Julian Clary would probably not show up) so for all I know Andy may have a point about Ray. It would certainly explain why we ended up at a gay night club.

The vibe in the club was good (my kids would LOL if they heard me using a phrase like that). Everyone got on with everyone. I am sure I was chatted up a couple of times. Why doesn’t that happen when I go out to straight clubs? I texted my sister Hills and told her where I was.

‘Gay bars are crap these days ‘cos they are full of straight people like you,’ was her reply.

That was last night. I have spent today recovering and catching up with my ex’s activities on social media, a habit
I really must kick. Her latest Facebook update indicates that she wasn’t sitting at home crying into her pillow on her birthday. She was ‘punting’ on the river Cam. And when I say punting I don’t mean she was betting on it. And she was with Mr comb-over. She probably hadn’t even noticed that the kids hadn’t bought her a present. I won’t bother buying her some tacky earrings on the boys’ behalf then.

I received a long-awaited text from Amy too. Strangely, it read, ‘I wasn’t expecting that question via text!’ God, what had I done? I thought I had texted Amy asking her if she fancied meeting up for dinner. What could have been wrong with that? I checked back and it turns out I had managed to press send prematurely. I had actually asked ‘do you fancy me’. God what a muppet I am. She must have thought I’m some sort of weirdo. Who in their right mind would ask someone via text if they fancied them?

I spent some time thinking about how I could rectify the situation. I could text her explaining my mistake but knowing me I would probably cock that up too. In the end I just phoned her and told her of my error. After an awkward start to the conversation, Amy and I ended up laughing about my uselessness. She actually can’t do Tuesday but we have agreed to meet up on Saturday with our respective children. I am still not sure if involving our offspring in our relationship at this early stage is the right thing to do but after my texting error I am just grateful she wants to meet up at all. Roll on Saturday.

Jack called in this evening on his way back from a school cricket match. He was full of the joys of spring. His school team had won. He had also had a good weekend at the scout camp. When I asked him whether he had missed anything noteworthy when he was away, he thought for a minute and said no.

‘What about your mum’s birthday?’ I prompted.

‘We might not have been there, but we gave her a present before we went.’ It turns out that they had bought her a bottle of perfume, paid for through saving their pocket money for the last month.

‘Why didn’t you mention it to me?’ I asked. ‘I could have helped you out with the cost of the present.’

‘Because you aren’t married to mum anymore. She isn’t your wife and you don’t really like each other so why would you buy her a present?’ Jack responded.

My boys are full of surprises. They have had to shoulder more responsibility because of their parents’ divorce. I wish they hadn’t had to but they seem to be doing us proud. I hate the way the divorce segregates our lives. Despite having a pretty good relationship with the boys, I don’t get to share a lot of what they do. They are growing up fast and I am missing out on sharing big chunks of the process with them.

I sent Jack home with some cash for him and his brother towards the cost of buying their mum’s present.

Once he had gone, I spent the rest of the evening looking up what an asset protection manager is as I received an email inviting me for an interview on Friday.

What do divorced parents do when it comes to school parents’ evenings? Well, bearing in mind it was mine and my ex’s first parents’ evening as non-cohabiting parents, we decided we would both go. We took this decision partly because it is ‘the right thing to do’ but I suspect the real reason was that we didn’t trust each other to report back.

The evening went quite well. We managed not to dwell for too long on Mr comb-over. I did discover my ex had given the kids some money a couple of weeks ago towards the cost of her present. I shall be having words with my eldest boy, the cheeky git.

Our first appointment of the evening was with Sean’s form teacher. I didn’t drool too publicly over her and in return she didn’t mention that she had seen my naked arse in Morden swimming baths. Then it was on to Sean’s English teacher. She was positively gushing in her praise for his creative writing and particularly liked his imaginative piece on the impact of a parental split on two brothers.

His RE, music and art teachers told us off for not bothering to make an appointment to see them. My response was that Sean is never going to be a vicar, a famous composer or an impressionist painter, so what was the point in seeing them?
In response his art teacher pointed out that he had seen Sean playing football and in his opinion Sean is never going to be a famous footballer so we needn’t bother going to see the PE teacher either. A bit rude but probably fair enough.

A couple of Jack’s teachers did comment on his work going downhill as the year progressed, which was slightly concerning.

My kids (sorry, our kids) are pretty bright and keen to learn. I have a basic rule that I try to instil in Jack and Sean. Whatever they do, they should be proud of themselves. This rule is easy to say but harder to live your life by. When I was at school, I would often rush work so that I could get out and play football. My kids are just the same. They won’t always prioritise their homework. But I suspect they’ve been even less likely to prioritise it over the last few months as neither of their parents has been nagging them as much as we used to. When I only see the kids for a day here and a day there, I confess I don’t spend the whole time making sure they are proud of their work. I feel a bit guilty about this but I am also learning that sometimes in life you have to adapt your approach as a parent. For the past few months, being there for my boys has seemed more important than the daily grind of completing online maths questions, writing about some artist no one has ever heard of or discussing which invention was the most influential in facilitating the industrial revolution.

In a rare moment of harmony between us, my ex and I agreed on the way out of the parents’ evening that we would focus more on supporting our children at school. We will make more effort to build homework into our parenting timetable (not that we actually have a parenting timetable) and we will help Jack and Sean to make sure they have the right books in the right place at the right time to do their school work. Jack’s incident with his geography books a
couple of months ago wasn’t an isolated incident. The kids need to take responsibility for their own work, but as parents we haven’t made it easy for them. If my ex and I were given a school report for being parents, the teacher would have written ‘could do better’.

The kids stayed over with me last night. They wanted to watch the first World Cup game with me.

The World Cup is an excuse for quality father and son time. The ex knows absolutely nothing about football and used to repeatedly embarrass herself at little league by cheering the opposition’s goals. So the kids jumped at the chance of watching the opening game with me. It didn’t start until late so the opportunity to stay up late on a school night probably also had an impact on their considerations.

I am not a complete football anorak but I do love the World Cup. I have been known to hang a flag out of my bedroom window for at least the five minutes that England are still in the tournament. Obviously I would tell the neighbours that the kids twisted my arm to do it but really I am the one that enjoys showing his patriotism.

Brazil beat Croatia thanks, in part, to a Japanese referee.

Both boys went to school this morning looking absolutely knackered. So much for my good intentions after the parents’ evening.

I was knackered too. Watching the football and having a few cans of London Pride wasn’t the ideal preparation for my job interview.

After queueing for the shower and washing the sleep out
of my eyes, I dusted off my best suit (literally), picked out my most conservative-looking tie and took the tube to Old Street to go and talk about protecting assets. This was my first job interview for a few years. I don’t mind interviews but I usually prefer the ones in which I know a bit about the subject in hand. My basic Google searches didn’t exactly qualify me as an expert in preventing fraud, in buying CCTV systems and training staff in asset protection but I reckon I managed to talk the talk at least to the extent that I didn’t look like a complete twat. The one question I struggled with was when they asked me what experience I had in conducting interrogations to identify staff engaged in criminal activity. I resisted the urge to talk about my degree in waterboarding, my fanaticism with Spooks on the BBC and my apprenticeship at Guantanamo Bay. In the end I opted to talk about my problem-solving abilities.

Apparently they will let me know whether I got the job or not next week. I won’t be waiting with bated breath for their call.

I went straight to work after my interview. The most productive thing I did all afternoon was organise the office World Cup sweepstake. I got a few dirty looks from Daniel boss-man who thought I should have been spending my time pouring over some vital spreadsheet or other. Still, it was worth the dirty looks. I got Argentina so at least I am in with a chance of winning a few quid.

Today’s big event was the walk on Wimbledon Common with Jack and Sean. How can walking the dog be ‘a big event’? Well, in my book it can if it involves an ‘accidental’ meeting with Amy, her daughter Lucy and Susie the shih poo. Jack and Sean are normally quite happy to take the dog for a walk, so long as they get at least one cake at some point on the walk. Today for some reason they weren’t too bothered about going out but once I upped the ante to the promise of a take-away pizza when we got home, they agreed to come.

The nerves had kicked in big time before this meeting. Would I show myself up in front of Amy and her daughter? Would my kids show me up? Would the presence of the kids hamper mine and Amy’s efforts to get to know each other? Would the whole thing go tits up? I was particularly nervous about meeting Amy’s daughter. My experience of interacting with teenage girls was practically zero. Even including when I was a teenager myself. I haven’t got a clue what you talk to teenage girls about. They generally don’t do football, curries and arm wrestles. What if Lucy turned out to be a brat?

I had a shave this morning and then put on my best chinos and the shoes that the boys had made me buy. I even dug out a bottle of aftershave that my ex had bought me
ages ago and splashed it on in all the right places. I even groomed the bloody dog.

‘Dad, you stink,’ Sean told me in the car on the way to the Common. Thanks son. I had thought about nagging the boys to dress up too but I couldn’t work out how I would justify it so in the end I left them to choose their own clothes – an Angry Birds top for Sean and an already dirty rugby shirt for Jack. Not exactly designer clothing but it could have been worse, I suppose.

As luck and a few surreptitious text messages would have it, just as we arrived at the Windmill Amy was strolling across the car park with her entourage. Lucy was a pint-sized version of her mum. They both wore cut-off jeans. Lucy had a sparkly crop top on (I could have sworn I caught Jack checking her out) and her mother wore a cosy-fitting black top (Jack almost certainly caught me checking her out).

Much raucous barking ensued as Albus and Susie reacquainted themselves with each other. Tails were wagged, audible greetings exchanged and backsides sniffed. I wish I could adopt the dogs’ uncomplicated approach and carefree attitude although I would have drawn the line at the sniffing backsides bit.

Amy and I at least had an excuse this time for not being overly familiar with each other. We had a pretence to keep up. We exchanged the normal pleasantries that you would expect your average anonymous dog walkers to share, we confirmed that we were going in the same direction and began our stroll.

At one point when it became clear that we wouldn’t be going off in different directions at the next fork in the path, Lucy took her headphones off and introductions were made. Jack and Lucy seemed to be chatting or at least what passes for chatting in a teenage context. Sean was content to throw sticks for the dogs.

The only downside on the walk came when Albus chased Susie into the most stagnant, repugnant pond on the common. No walk would be complete without Albus getting himself filthy. I have got a clapped out old people carrier that was stained from previous dog walks so I had no problem with my dog’s antics. Amy felt slightly differently and tried to drag Susie out of the pond before the little dog was completely covered in gunk.

‘Mum’s worried about the state of her Porsche,’ I heard Lucy telling Jack and Sean.

God, she must be loaded. Anyway, Amy’s attempt to rescue her dog was doomed to fail as Susie emerged from the weed-infested lake looking like the dog version of the incredible hulk. The kids saw the funny side, even if Amy took a bit more convincing.

The afternoon stroll ended in a meal at the Hand in Hand. The kids readily agreed to forego their promised pizza so long as I let them have the most chocolate-laden dessert on the menu. The day was a great success, although I was left wondering again about the wisdom of bringing your kids to meet a prospective date before anything romantic had actually developed. Still, Amy and I are going to go out for a drink one night next week without dogs or children so that must be some sort of indication that the afternoon was good for her too.

Jack is more perceptive than I give him credit for. On the way home, he asked me whether I was going to see Amy again.

‘Why do you want to know?’ I replied.

‘Because if you are, you need to get a haircut and lose the shapeless T-shirts.’

Thanks son, you sound so much like your mother.

The day ended badly. The boys and I watched England lose to Italy in the football.