Call Me Alvin

I'm trying to decide who's the bigger idiot, me or Colin. Naturally I am biased, so Colin wins hands down.

Came home from a teeth-grindingly dull day at work, just for a change, and immediately attended to the unenviable task of making myself look pretty. In a masculine way, of course. Part of me didn't want to hand Colin the victory of choosing my attire as he did so for me yesterday, but I couldn't be bothered to rustle through my clothing archives, so after showering and shaving and splashing on the Old Spice I covered myself in Colin's recommendations and swept downstairs.

Colin chastised me for not getting my hair cut, saying that only rock stars are allowed to wear their hair long once they gotten their fortieth birthday out of the way (it is not *that* long), but on the whole his positive nods and expression seemed to afford me a thumbs-up as far as he was concerned. None of the boys were present to see me off - which of course was a good thing.

Drove to the rendezvous pub, parked up, and gave myself a few moments of contemplation, as I was ten minutes early anyhow. I felt ridiculous; nervous and wary. I kept having to tell myself that I was a forty-six year old bloke, not some trembling teenager, his head in the clouds with little cherubs firing arrows at him. This wasn't a date - I had no agenda; no desire for anything to go any further. So I wondered? Why was I here?

Now I felt stupid. I felt my fingers on the car key, which had magicked itself back into the ignition. One little turn, the ignition would fire, and I could go and hide somewhere before returning to my house and my brother with the news that the whole thing had been a slight disaster and further encounters with this Sarah were not going to happen.

Then I had a heart attack when a tap tap at the window yanked me from my reverie. I jolted in my seat, turned to my right to see Catherine Tate (ha! The Doctor Who connection! Tis fate I tell you) smiling down at me from the driver's side window.

No, it wasn't Catherine Tate. It was Sarah. She was wearing a long, light brown coat and clutched a little red handbag to her bosom.

Your brain is full of gears. Don't believe what you see on Horizon about your brain being blancmange-like in consistency and grey and slimy. It's not true - your brain is made up of thousands and thousands of tiny gears. Most of the time they run and spin and rotate perfectly like well-oiled, bejeweled machinery. But very occasionally they crunch and grind to a halt and send your head into spasms. And that is what precisely happened to me the second I saw Sarah's face. My number-crunchers just crunched; the spanner of too much realisation thrown into them.

Yes, it was Sarah. And I recognised her.

Because this Sarah had nothing to do with the speed-dating farce I subjected myself to now nearly a fortnight ago.

This Sarah was the Sarah I'd met down in Watford via a turgid software vendor conference nearly three months ago. Instantly, everything made sense - the over-familiarity with my life I'd perceived, the unashamed friendliness on the phone, the fact she didn't know the area, the fact that she's be tired because of the drive (from Southampton!) on Monday night.

And with that, my nerves evaporated, replaced with an unsuspected sensation of bliss and happiness. It even did not occur to me to think of killing my brother until much, much later.

My car exploded and me out of it. I felt like hugging her but instead chose a more respectful handshake, reinforced with a genuine lovely to see you. Sarah returned my smile and said she hoped I didn't mind her tapping on the window but she'd just pulled up beside me and as she recognised me thought she'd start the hellos there and then. I said of course it was okay. She could have smashed my window with a tyre iron and I couldn't have cared less, to be more honest.

We walked into the pub, ordered non-alcoholic drinks and found a suitable corner.

I asked how she was and she said she was fine, apart from being away from Ruth, her daughter, especially as she'd just turned eleven on Friday. Ruth was staying at her sister's (Sarah's sisters, not Ruth's), whilst Sarah was up in a place called Clifton, just south of Nottingham, on a people management course. As to how that was going, she said terrible - a too-compact room full of superficial twenty-somethings. Sarah said there was barely enough room for all the egos, let alone the people. She's no idea why her firm had sent her.

The conversation moved on to my life, so I kept to the minimal facts, such as Colin's temporary (I hope - although his welcome is hardly overstayed at present) accommodation with us and Gabriel's first proper girlfriend. I advisedly (I think) left out all the stuff about Andrew - especially the Kevin saga and the Mr Aldridge fling that turned out to happen mostly in Andrew's head.

I'd just moved onto Lukas' broken arm when something nagged at me. I looked at my watch then instigated a mad dash to down drinks and rush across the road to Slumdog Millionaire. Which was ... okay (the film, not the mad dash).

By the end of the film it was approaching ten, and it was clear Sarah had grown tired, so she politely refused my offer of further boozeless drinks, saying she felt a little whacked and needed her bed. My heart dipped a little, but I didn't force any issues.

I escorted her back to her car, then we had the nervous parting experience. She did say though: Thanks for a nice evening, we must do it again.

Now this is quite unlike me. I avoid bulls. I don't even go into fields with signs saying 'Beware of the Bull'. I certainly don't grasp them by the horns. So why did I find myself saying: Dinner? Thursday? And in a too-high voice that trembled so much I sounded worse than Andrew when his voice was breaking.

Sarah seemed a little taken aback, but just for a moment, then she said thank you, that'd be nice. Phone me?

I nodded, then waited as she started up her car and pull away. We both waved.

I now had a face like a chipmunk on happy pills, and it was an expression that stayed with me as I climbed into my own car and drove all the way home.