Diary of a Grumpy Old Git (24 page)

Another flashback came with that last heave. I was staggering away from Jez’s house. I must have been so drunk I forgot that cabs exist. And that I live in the opposite direction.

Oh. That’s why I was going the wrong way. And that’s what the terrible thing really was. I was heading back to my old house. The house where I lived with Sarah for ten years. The
house where she still lives.

Another flashback. I’m ringing the doorbell. Stop it, brain. Don’t show me this. I don’t care what I did. I just don’t want to know.

Brad is answering the door. I’m ranting at him. I think I’m confessing about the spam, the fraping and the prank call. Sarah is coming to the door and pushing him away. She’s
talking to me in soft voice, saying she understands how hard things have been for me, and that they’ve been hard for her too. She doesn’t seem angry at all. Until I projectile vomit
through my fingers and it splashes all over her dressing gown. Then she gets angry. So
that
was the terrible thing.

For some reason my mind is telling me that I still haven’t remembered the terrible thing yet. But what could be worse than what I’ve already remembered? I haven’t lost a limb.
My teeth are all still there. And I’m pretty sure I didn’t rip my scrotal sack open on a barbed-wire fence. So what could it be?

Ah.
That
was the terrible thing. When I finally arrived at home I sat down in front of my laptop instead of going to bed. Thankfully, I didn’t manage to remember my Facebook
password. But I did get into my email. I know because I saw the following in my ‘sent items’ folder:

OK. I’ve finally managed to get the childproof lid off the Anadin, and I can think straight again. A lot of terrible things happened last night. There will probably be some embarrassing
consequences. But they will only be embarrassing if I let them be. It’s not too late to revive my New Year resolution to be positive about everything. Trying to deal with this in any other
way would result in mental breakdown.

When I got in this morning I dashed down to Graham’s office and asked him if it was possible to delete emails you’ve already sent.

‘It’s perfectly simple,’ he said. ‘You just need to travel back in time and hit yourself on the head with a frying pan before you click “send”. But make sure
you don’t speak to yourself, or you’ll create a quantum paradox and doom the universe.’

I forced out a high, squeaky laugh as if I were enjoying the way the pedantic little loner was milking his rare moment of superiority.

After that I sat down at my desk and said hello to everyone as if I had nothing to be ashamed of. Jo ignored me, Jen smiled awkwardly and Jez patted me on the back and called me a
‘legend’. Quite a few people giggled when they saw me today. Even Josh asked if I was ‘always that shade of red’.

OK, so maybe I blushed a little. But I’m still going to look on the bright side, just as I resolved to do. I’m still alive. No one killed me. And as far as I know, I didn’t
kill anyone. That’s something.

I was watching the news tonight and there was a feature about binge drinking. It was shot in the town centre on Saturday night, and it showed a group of girls shrieking and
showing their bras to the camera. I noticed a familiar figure moving through the back of the shot, and I peered at the screen.

It was me. I was staggering down the street with my hands planted firmly in my pockets. Yet I had no memory of being anywhere near the town centre on Saturday.

The report cut to an interview with a paramedic who was complaining about the strain all these drunks were putting on his resources. There I was again, ambling around in the background with my
hands in my pockets, hitting a lamppost with my shoulder.

Finally, the reporter delivered a piece to camera. Once again I staggered past, only this time I was going the opposite way. Was this some sort of editing trick? Or had I really been walking
aimlessly back and forth?

OK, I need to look on the bright side again. No one has called or texted me since the piece was broadcast. No one has posted it to YouTube or tagged me on Facebook. So I can safely assume that
no one else saw it.

Three strange emails were waiting for me when I got in this morning. All a little worrying, but I’m sure I can get through it with my positive attitude. The first was from
Sarah, warning me that if I come anywhere near the house or try to contact Brad again, it would be a police matter. I replied that I was very sorry about my behaviour, but I’d eaten an
out-of-date ready-meal and it had made me violently ill.

The second message was from Trevor, inviting me to another meeting on Monday morning. Now he’s got that email to blackmail me with he can make me do what he likes. I’ll probably have
to go through with the Kit Kat thing this time.

The third email was from Jen. She wants to meet me alone at half eight tomorrow morning. I’m guessing this has something to do with that weird memory I have of snogging her on Saturday
night. I expect she’s going to sue me for sexual harassment.

All this seems utterly horrendous, but I’m sure it’s fine. Everything’s absolutely brilliant.

They were having a seventies night in one of the pubs on the high street tonight. I know this because I saw loads of people wearing Afro wigs and bright floral shirts. Unlike
any of them, I was alive during the seventies and I seem to remember most people wearing dull nylon shirts and corduroy trousers rather than white satin suits and gold medallions.

If they really want a seventies night, I’ll give them one. I’ll go in there and induce an authentic seventies power cut. Then when the lights come back on, the lava lamps will be
replaced with overflowing bins, the only items on the menu will be mince, spaghetti hoops and Angel Delight, the entire place will be fogged with cigarette smoke and anyone who isn’t white,
male and heterosexual will have to put up with jokes at their expense all night.