» Family codes and rituals

Manners
I was brought up well. It's often mis-construed in the media, more so when I was a lot younger than now, that single parent families are rarely taught good manners.

With me, it was the opposite. Being brought up by just my mum, as opposed to my mum and dad (who was kicked out of the family home when I was seven and hasn't seen or spoken to me since I was nine.) meant that I have been majorly influenced by my mum. Although this manifests by me being very different in a lot of ways (quiet, shy and reflective, compared to my overly brash mum), it gave me a great start in life, as mum hated those that lied, and those that treated others badly. To this day I find lying hard to do, and if someone does it to me it can be the end of a friendship immediately.

I also grew to be polite and respectful of others. That's not to say I don't have a horrible habit of overusing the word "cunt", or that road rage passes me by. What it does mean is that I expect a certain level of politeness around me. Cut me up on the road and cause me to almost crash and you'll learn some new swear words. Immediately put your hand up by way of an apology and you'll calm me down within seconds. Yes, you fucked up, but you are big enough to realise it and say sorry.

Anyone who knows me will know that almost every day I go to my local Costa and have a large skinny latte. It doesn't matter that I can never remember if it's pronounced lar-tay or lat-tay, or that the staff in there all know me well enough that they prepeat (no idea if that's a word, but if it's not then it should be) my order to me as I reach the till. It's my local coffee shop, it's a haven from work for an hour and everyone in there has a smile on their face and the manners you'd expect from a retail place.

But going in there today, not only is there a massive queue, but there's also a brash, loud and arrogant guy behind the counter who isn't normally there. This guy, who I'll call A, is serving the customers, just asking their order, enquiring if they want any extra cakes or whipped cream on their hot chocolate and generally being quite smarmy, before immediately turning to guy B, a yard to his left and taking payments on the till, and repeating the order and then shouting to guy C, about five yards away making all of the coffees, the same order.

This process normally runs quite smoothly without guy A involved, as guy B can take orders and process payments whilst retaining the ability to not make me want to jean over and give him a slap. I've no idea why it was changed today but guy A, I'm guessing, is higher up the food chain and seems to have a point to prove.

As I ponder this in the queue, having just given my order "large skinny latte to drink in please" to guy A, I hear guy C ask a customer if they wanted whipped cream on their hot chocolate. They said that they did, so that's what they got, but not before Guy A had shouted -louder than he shouted the orders - "I've already told you to put cream on them. Listen! Ok? I need you to listen to what I'm saying in future!". All delivered with an over the top look-at-me flourish. The noise in the shop dropped momentarily, guy C caught my eye for a split second, and I'm sure he rolled his eyes slightly before turning away in embarrasment,

Point made, knob jockey A, we know who's in charge, and it's just a shame that you haven't fucked up as I'd like to see you respond to embarrasment like that.

I reflected on what had just happened. Should I say anything? Should I just be short and curt? Or should I ignore it? My train of thought was interrupted by guy A.

"So that was a small skinny lat-"

"LARGE skinny latte." i interrupted.

No apology: "LARGE skinny latte," he repeated, "to go.". His voice was raised slightly again, as he was once more directing his orders to guy C. Guy B has already rung the correct product at the correct price for me, and seemed as though he was about to turn to guy C to tell him that it was actually to drink in, not to go.

Too late.

"To drink IN," I corrected, raising my voice as I did, hoping to God that I sounded authoritative rather than pissed off.

The shop's volume fell again, "Listen, ok," I started, and with a huge grin on my face - visible only to the three guys behind the counter, and not to any customers - I continued, slowing my words so that the pronunciation was clear: "I need you to listen to what I'm saying in future..."

And that has cheered me up no end today :)
(Tue 25th Nov 2008, 20:30, More)

» Debt pron

Bloody Hell
I've read about half of the first page of this QOTW and I'm depressed!

I work in a bank. Part of my job is to chase people who aren't paying. It's a shitty part of the job, and one that brings out the anger in me.

If you can't pay - Fine. Talk to me. Tell me you can't pay and the reason for it. If it's genuine, I can probably give you advice on how to save money.

If you're out of work and getting no income - Fine. Talk to me. Chances are you have insurance on your account and that will pay your loan repayments while you are out of work.

If you've gone to a Debt Management Company - Fine. I don't agree with a company charging you £50 per month to fuck up your credit rating for the next seven years, but it's your choice. Talk to me. I'll tell you how to get a company to do the same thing for you, free of charge.

DON'T lie to me. DON'T think that by ignoring my phone calls I'll go away. DON'T think I don't know every excuse in the book.

For anyone badly in debt and struggling, heed this advice - Talk to your creditors if they can't help you, or even worse, if they WON'T help you, at least you've tried.

And for anyone thinking of going to a Debt Management Company, ask yourself this - If you can't afford to pay the bills you already have, how the Hell can you justify paying a company who are basically going to NOT pay your bills?! Go to CCCS - Consumer Credit Counselling Service. They will do the same thing free of charge.

Sorry for the rant.
(Thu 23rd Nov 2006, 21:19, More)

» The nicest thing someone's ever done for me

...
Apologies in advance for such a long story. Even greater apologies for the fact that I still don't think I've told it very well, nor that I've expressed what a big thing this was for me.

The tale of Tasha.

Firsty, some background.

In Feb 2000 I met, fell in love with, and moved from South East London to the middle of Essex to be with Mrs SeasonTicketless. I’d never felt this way about anyone and clearly she felt the same about me. Despite being opposites in many ways (things we liked to do, fave tv programmes, musical tastes, film genres) we clicked. Never before have I felt so strongly about someone, and for the first time ever I suddenly understood why some couples could stay together forever – a concept I’d had trouble grasping before.

In June 2005, Mrs SeasontIcketless officially became a Mrs, marrying me just down the road from our Chelmsford home. Our three children were bridesmaids (luckily we had three girls, as I’m not so sure we wouldn’t have dressed a little boy in a bridesmaid outfit just so he matched!)

In July 2006, Mrs ST gave birth again, this time to our only son.

In January 2007 we moved about 200 yards down the road to a beautiful house. Enough bedrooms for each of the kids to have their own, and bang smack centre in the part of Chelmsford we wanted to be.

In July 2007, after a very honest and open talk, we made the decision to split. The decision was based on a few things, primarily the fact that we had grown apart, and that what had started as a lust-fuelled love had slowly ebbed away to just a mutual fondness. We spent very little time together, and the time we did have together was spent doing our own things. We’d grown apart, and despite still loving each other, it wasn’t enough. We agreed to split because as we saw it we were going down a rocky road that we’d been down (and back) before, and we could forsee us trying to stay together and ending up hating each other, whilst at that moment we were still friends and in the long term we’d be better off splitting and staying friends than staying together, running the risk of causing misery to each other and THEN splitting up. Mrs ST moved out of the marital bed that same night, and the two eldest were excited to be told that they’d be sharing a room. We also made the decision not to tell anyone about the split for the time being, as we had the Christening coming up of the three youngest which would be the first time we’d seen many friends and family in months (and in some cases years) and we didn’t want our split to overshadow the day.

At the end of August 2007 we had the Christening. Much fun was had, we caught up with old friends and things were fine.

In September 2007 we told everyone about the split. Until this time only a handful of people had been told, and they had been sworn to secrecy. From my point of view everyone I told seemed to be shocked. I’ve never had so many people tell me that they viewed my marriage as perfect, and one that they thought would last forever. Maybe it was the fact that we’d had 4 kids, maybe it was because people didn’t know us as well as they thought they did.

After answering the same questions over and over again (“Did either of you cheat?” No, not as far as I’m aware. “Whose decision was it?” Both of ours. “Will you get back together?” No…) people finally began to realise that this wasn’t a flash in the pan. Mrs ST and I made plans for the future: I would move out between Christmas and the New Year, which would give the kids ample time to get used to the idea of daddy living somewhere else, and also allowed them to understand a certain timeframe (ie., just after Christmas and just before you go back to school).

A few months go by and I am getting ready to leave. The whole of December seemed to be taken up with me talking to the kids about my leaving, and them being generally apathetic to it all. The eldest seemed to understand and was happy that she was “in the loop” and understood what was going on. My middle daughter, two years younger and aged 5, also seemed to understand but every now and then would pop up with a new question that she’d just thought of.
As 2007 turned into 2008 I found myself packing up the car and driving the 400 yards to my mum’s house, unpacking my stuff and settling in to the spare room. My possessions were few: clothes, PC, mobile phone. That was about it. I’d agreed that I’d keep paying the mortgage as a form of Child care payments, and as such wasn’t able to afford to rent anywhere else. Living rent-free at my mum’s was a blessing then as it still is now.

So what’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me? Well, I suppose I could name my mum here. The woman who, from when I was 7 brought me up single-handedly. Who, with part of her spine missing and with heart troubles for the majority of her life that culminated in a quadruple bypass in 2002, taught me how to be an adult, who sheltered me from the harshness of life and who, despite times when I’ve acted like an arse, has been there with unconditional love and support every second of every day.

I could also put forward my 4 kids, who saw their mum and dad split, saw their dad move out and had their lives jumbled up at such a young age, yet who have remained fairly unperturbed by it all, and seem to have taken things in their stride when neither their mum or I had any reason to expect them to.

But no, instead I am going to nominate Tasha.

You see, as my world was crumbling around me, life carried on as usual. On Halloween 2007 I had to attend a sales conference for work at Stansted. Ten different branches of our company came together for the first time in years, and although it was not unusual to know a few faces and recognise a few more names, it was common to not know most of the people in your surrounding branches.

As I walked in to the reception lounge, I saw what I can only describe now as a vision of beauty. Long blonde hair, styled carefully into curls, a beautiful and welcoming smile, and an aura of goodness. Being the shy sort that I am, I nudged a friend and commented on the beautiful woman who’d I’d seen, dribbling slightly as I did.

Ben, despite being engaged, was quick to go and introduce himself. Ben is the type of person that could create conversation at a Mute Person’s convention, and within no time at all he and Tasha were chatting like old mates. I stood a few feet away, listening in, chiming in with the occasional remark all whilst being blown away by the charisma eminating from Tasha.

After the conference had begun, and we’d stopped again for a break, I jumped on the back of Ben’s conversation to tell Tasha that we were all going for a drink after the conference in Chelmsford (which was a blatant lie, but one that I knew Ben would back me up on), and would she like to come? It turned out she lived in Southend (another 20 miles away from Chelmsford), but that yes, she’d come out seeing as everyone was going. Result.

In the end about a dozen people came out for a drink. Tasha chatted politely with Ben and I, and I had a good time. I didn’t chat her up, for fear of rejection with her being so out of my league, but I had a good time anyway, and finished my drink before saying goodbye.

The next day at work I emailed Tasha to ask her out on a drinking session with some friends the next month. She replied saying that she’d try and come but that she was fairly skint, so no promises. We emailed back and forth a few times, generally having a chat, and seemed like we were getting on ok.

A few days later and I was out on the piss with some friends from work in Chelmsford. Tasha refused to come, claiming she was skint and more importantly, couldn’t be bothered. My boss at the time, Derren, called her at work and basically badgered her all day, convinced her to give him her mobile number and then when we were out called her to see if he could get her to come out. Eventually she caved in and came to meet us.

At the end of the night, after we’d all had far too much to drink, Tasha, who had remained sober, said that she’d drop us all off. One by one she dropped us all in and around Chelmsford as some Godforsaken time in the morning when she looked shattered and obviously just wanted to get home. Derren stayed round mine that night and I persuaded him to give me Tasha’s phone number so I could send a text saying thanks.

A couple of nights later and Tasha and I are texting back and forth like we’re best mates, and although the conversation steered clear of anything naughty (not for my want of trying it has to be said), we chatted via text until the early hours.

A few nights later and once again I was out with people from work in Chelmsford, and this time I offered to pick Tasha up and drive her home later that night so that she could have a drink, as a way of saying thank you for her doing the same previously. I’ve never been a great fan of going out and not drinking, as it normally means everyone finding things hilarious that, being sober, you know aren’t funny at all. I also despise karaoke with a passion. Yet this night we stayed in a bar with karaoke all night, myself, Tasha and about 4 others from work. No one else was in the bar except bar staff and to this day that night remains one of the best I’ve ever had. Tasha had fun (though was the first person to tell me I was crap at shoulder massages (see, I tried!)) and at about 3am we called it a day and I started dropping people home, getting in at about 5am, before getting up again 90 minutes later to go to work.

That night was the start of a true friendship between Tasha and I, and over the next 6 weeks leading up to Christmas I spoke to her every day via email or text, saw her every couple of weeks, got squarely told very early on that there was no way we would ever get together: Me: You know I like you in more ways that as a mate? Tasha: Yeah, I do, but you’re cool being just friends, aren’t you? Me: Yeah, course. The strange thing was that I meant it too.

So come New Year, I find myself sitting in my bedroom. My heart broken as I no longer live with my kids, no longer have the house of my dreams, no longer have the money to afford my own place, and generally hating everything around me. As we started back at work the day after New Years Day, I would talk to my kids on the phone as I drove to work each day, and for the best part of six weeks, each phone call would end with my telling them I loved them, putting the phone down and crying my heart out as I drove along for the best part of half an hour or so.

I realised very quickly that my life seemed to be falling apart. I needed a distraction. I needed to get out of that spare room and do something. Anything. What I needed was company.

I consider myself to have quite a few friends. None that I would ever want to be a burden on, but plenty that would help me out when I needed it. So when I looked around at the start of January to try and find someone – anyone – to reach out to me, I couldn’t find anyone. Friends that I worked with didn’t know what to do. Friends that I spoke to weekly started to keep out of my way. Long term friends offered their support but were generally too far away.

I never told anyone how down I was. How much everything was affecting me. I’d always been a private person, and perhaps with hindsight I was a little too private. Had I told anyone of my deep despair at the time, I’m sure I’d have had a whole support network around me. Instead, I put up barriers, pretended I was ok and tried to get on with life. All the time hoping beyond hope that someone would take me under their wing without me resorting to having to ask. Depression is a strange thing, and I honestly felt that asking for help would have tipped me over the edge.

So when I would text Tasha saying “I’m bored” at 9pm, she’d text back “come round if you want. I’m not doing anything.” And so, for just about every night for over a month I’d find myself sitting on Tasha’s sofa, doing nothing but watching tv. When it got late, she’d bring out a pillow and a blanket and tell me to kip the night rather than drive home tired.

What I learnt those few weeks was that Tasha and I were very similar. We had the same sense of humour, we seemed to like and dislike many of the same things. We had an empathy with each other.

Spending so much time at Tasha’s house helped me get through a very dark patch. It was a place - and a person – that had only just come in to my life, and therefore I didn’t associate it with my ex, my kids or anything to do with my life at that time. It was a hideaway, somewhere I could go and feel loved and wanted, and not have to worry about anything.

What started out as lust for Tasha turned into a deep respect for her. When we’d first started texting and I’d asked her why I didn’t see so much of her, she responded “With all due respect Dan, I don’t see my friends as often as I want or need to, let alone work colleagues.” Yet here she was, less than 2 months later, spending time with me when I’ve no doubt a lot of the time she had other stuff she could be doing.

People ask me now if Tasha and I will ever get together, They’ve seen as out as friends, and see the way that we laugh at the same things, bounce off each other and generally get on really well. “You look like a perfect match” I’ve been told, in sentiments that echo what was said about my marriage. The answer is no, we’ll never get together. There was a time when it was all that I wanted, but now it would be too strange. I wouldn’t risk having sex with Tasha for fear of losing her friendship, and I wouldn’t risk a relationship for fear of the same. On one level it makes perfect sense, and on another it makes no sense at all, but I trust my instincts on this one.

That’s not to say I don’t love her dearly, because I do. She was the only shining light in an otherwise extremely dark period, and I say that fully aware of the love that was a stones throw away from both my mum and my kids.

So the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me is when Tasha was a friend for me at the start of the year.

Sometimes the smallest things can make the biggest difference. And sometimes it’s almost impossible to put into words just how much that means.
(Sun 5th Oct 2008, 9:32, More)

» I'm your biggest Fan

My eldest
When I was younger, I watched a film. I can't remember what it was now, but one of the characters was called Mercedes.

I loved unusual names, even as a kid, and naming your daughter after something so beautiful appealed even more.

When I was seventeen, I got my first car. They say you never quite get over your first love, and I spent many months honing her to perfection. Her paintwork shone in the sun as I applied another coat of wax, and her engine purred beautifully.

Unfortunately, she was an old model, and despite maturing like a fine wine, as time went on it became obvious that I'd have to let her go. I can honestly say that no car since has come close to being as great as she was.

Skip forward a few years and I've driven newer cars, faster cars and more expensive cars, but nothing emulated what I had felt before, and as time went on I realised that what I felt was a kind of love.

A few more years later and I'm in a relationship, with my first baby on the way. Money was tight and we'd generally spend our time chatting. Many a night was whiled away with me talking about that first car. So much so that my then partner fell in love by proxy.

Just a couple of weeks before our baby was born, we still hadn't settled on a name. Several baby name books were stacked in the corner, each one read and re-read without success.

Then This Morning came on tv, with a segment about baby names. We watched intently as they discussed our very problem, before they came up with the solution that we chose: Name your baby after someone you admire or love.

We'd been down the actress / singer / politician route without any luck, but it seemed as if we hit on the same idea at the same time. Name her after the car I had loved, and that my partner had grown to love.

That was ten years ago now, and time has flown by. We've had more kids since then, and naming them seems to have gotten easier.

You're not allowed to have favourites as a parent, but hearing my eldest's name always brings a smile to my face, and I dedicate this post to her.

JHK 331Y, I love you and you make me a very proud daddy. 
(Fri 17th Apr 2009, 9:23, More)

» Faking it

not orgasming
Following on from splitting with the ex Mrs Season Ticketless last year, I dreamt that my life as a singleton would be spent drinking, chatting up girls and shagging more times each week than I had managed in the previous 18 months.

What I didn't reckon on was the sheer lack of self confidence, self motivation and down right laziness that clung to me like a bogey to a toddlers nostril.

After nine months of feeling like crap, I decided to get my arse in gear and get laid. Yes, my way of thinking was that clinical.

Size, shape, colour and smell would matter little in my quest to satisfy ST Junior, so off I went in a bid to get my nuts wet.

Self bravado is a wonderful thing at times, and soon enough I found myself naked and alone with a willing (and sober) female,

Now, Mr Slim isn't a nickname I'll be earning anytime soon, but this particular girl look like she had eaten non stop for years. Big doesn't begin to describe her. However, the pre-settling-down motto of "every hole's a goal" was the mantra that kept repeating in my head.

Any pre performance worries went out of my mind as I stood to attention, ignoring the open curtains which would give all of the neighbours a view of erect ST and the ensuing sexual activity which would no doubt remind older neighbours of space ships docking on the moon.

We got underway, doggy style, which I'd said I prefered because it was my favourite, though in reality it was an excuse to a) not look at her and b) to have a good look around the room while I was ploughing away. You see, being the crafty type, I'd taken matters into my own hand a couple of hours earlier so that I could be confident of a decent performance that night.

What I didn't account for was my body reverting to it's teenage state. Within thirty seconds I slowed down the pace as I felt a familiar tremble down below. Shit. No! It's been thirty seconds. Surely I can't be about to shoot alre... Bugger. I stop, mid thrust, unsure of the correct ettiquette in this situation. Do I stop? Apologise? Ask for a break?

"are you ok?" she asked, looking over her shoulder. Shit. I'd stopped. Panic. I started thrusting again.

"erm, yeah, it feels so good." at least I wasn't lying. I sped up again, still (thankfully) at full mast, even with a full condom on. "You ok?" I asked.

Of course, she was fine, but in my panicced reply, I know realised that we were having sex again. Or rather: I was having sex again. To all intents and purposes, she was STILL having sex.

What to do now?

In truth, dear reader, I didn't know what the Hell to do. I'd like to write that I stopped, admitted coming quickly and restarted a few minutes later after we'd enjoyed a laugh about it.

Instead I carried on going. Harder and harder, faster and faster until finally, a good five minutes later, she whimpered in what I assumed was some form of ecstacy, and slumped forward, as I grunted in time with her whimpers to echo what I hoped sounded somewhere similar to a normal blokey orgasm, even doing my best to 'twitch' in the right places at the right times.

And THAT is the true story of how I faked NOT having an orgasm a few weeks ago.
(Thu 10th Jul 2008, 16:08, More)