Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (12 page)

Now it’s two in the afternoon, I’ve finally got my decking and it’s not raining, so this would be a perfect time to start installing it. I’m far too tired to do anything
of the sort, of course. But I’ve beaten the home delivery system, and that’s the main thing.

I know I could cut out all this delivery hassle if I got a car again. Sarah took the car when she left. I meant to buy another one but I found that getting by without one
improved my quality of life considerably.

Having to spend a day on stakeout to catch the delivery man is annoying, but compared to having a car, it’s nothing. When you’ve got a car…

Actually, I don’t want to get started on cars. It’s getting late now and if I open that old wound again, I’ll be scribbling about cyclists until this diary is full and the
morning light is peeping through the curtains.

I popped out to the cashpoint this afternoon, and I couldn’t believe my luck when I saw there were no dotty geriatrics queuing for it. The machine wasn’t out of
order and the screen wasn’t even smeared with kebab grease. It was my lucky day.

Then something really strange happened. I forgot my PIN. I’ve had the same PIN for almost a decade. I must have used it thousands of times. Yet today I tried to remember it and I
couldn’t. It wasn’t like I knew it would come back if I waited or hit myself hard enough. It had gone. I’d dragged it into trash, emptied the trash and dropped the laptop into the
bath.

It was because of that sodding bin website, wasn’t it? I knew I’d dislodge something important.

So now I could tell you that the thing on the wall next to the cashpoint was a two-litre galvanized steel cigarette bin. But I had no idea what the four digits that would allow me to function as
a normal member of society were. I just wish my brain had deleted something I didn’t want to remember, like the last five years of my marriage.

I ejected my card and saw that a queue of angry people had formed behind me as I’d faffed around. It turns out there was a dotty geriatric at the cashpoint today after all. It was me.

The TC Waste Solutions office was in an industrial estate full of mini roundabouts and signs about fly tipping. The meeting room looked out on a yard of large metal bins.
Cigarette smoke drifted across from the workers huddled in the porch, adding to the grim, post-apocalyptic feel. The biscuits were pretty good though. I reckoned I could get through the meeting if
I focused on them.

The head of the company came in and started telling us about his bins. I tried my best to take notes, but there was something about him that was distracting me. Why did I feel like I should be
flicking him on the ear and throwing his briefcase out of the window?

I stared up at the bald, overweight man sitting opposite me in disbelief. TC Waste Solutions? The initials were right. But that couldn’t be it. I couldn’t really be sitting opposite
Trevor Chalkley, could I?

I looked down at my notes and covered my face with my hand. I’m pretty sure I got away with it. He probably doesn’t remember the people he went to school with anyway. Who does?

I sent Jo a Facebook friend request today and she accepted it. Seems like a good sign. I’m pretty sure that’s how it all starts these days.

It’s such a strange way of doing things, though. In my day, if you’d asked a girl for a list of events she was attending in the near future and a copy of all her photo albums,
she’d have hit you with a restraining order. These days it’s the norm.

Before I sent the request I thought I’d better check through the stuff I’ve ‘liked’, in case any of it was too middle-aged. I clicked ‘unlike’ on gardening,
hiking and Bruce Springsteen.

Sorry, Boss. I’ll make it up to you by listening to
Darkness on the Edge of Town
tonight.

I was looking through Jo’s Facebook photos at lunchtime when I noticed that she’d uploaded one of herself in a bikini. She was pulling a funny face and pointing to
her sunburn, so it was obviously intended to be ironic. But it was nonetheless a picture of her without many clothes on.

I wasn’t sure if it would be acceptable for me to look at it, but I couldn’t resist. Then I thought someone might peer round at my screen, so I tried to make it go small again, and I
accidentally clicked ‘like’.

I gibbered at my screen in panic. Jo had uploaded over a thousand pictures and I’d ‘liked’ the only one of her wearing a bikini. My heart sped up as I realized what a lonely,
creepy stalker this made me look like. Then it went even faster as I realized how much of a lonely, creepy stalker I actually was.

As soon as I calmed down, I spotted an ‘unlike’ option, so I clicked it and all the evidence of my crime seemed to disappear. Jo returned from the sandwich shop a few minutes later,
and looked at the screen as she munched her feta and olive wrap. She didn’t spew it all over her laptop, so I’m guessing I got away with it. But I think I’ll stay off Facebook for
the time being.

Josh was hovering around my desk this morning when I skulked in. He said that he had brilliant news for me. Apparently, Trevor Chalkley thought the chemistry meeting had gone
well, and he’d decided to give us the account.

‘Impressed much?’ shouted Jen from the other side of the room. Then she started applauding, and everyone else joined in. I’m sure she was just doing this to crawl to Josh, but
it still felt quite good. It had been so long since I’ve had anything resembling success at work I’d forgotten what it was like.

I thought Josh was about to shake hands with me but he held his palm in the air instead. I stared at his hand in horror as I realized he wanted me to high-five him. I gritted my teeth and did
it. Jen whooped. As soon as everyone got back to their work, I went to the toilets to wash my hands. But no matter how hard I scrubbed, I couldn’t erase the shame of the high-five.