The Football Fan

You have no control over who you may end up sitting next to when you buy a ticket for a sports event. Last night I bought a ticket to watch a match in the Vanarama National League and ended up sitting next to a football fan. Since it was a football match in that league, you would be forgiven for asking, "Who did you expect to be sitting next to? Kate Middleton? Sharon Stone? Vladimir Putin?" Well, no, not unless somehow I managed a corporate box at a Premier League game and then I guess, the nearest I might achieve to any of the aforementioned persons, should they deign to attend a football match, is the same stand. But, as I said, this is the Vanarama National League. This particular league is a highly respectable football division but, in football terms, it is rather humble, being the lowest of the five nationwide football divisions in England and in a different universe from the stratospheric heights of the Premier League. The footballers down here are 'normal' blokes unlike the self-important superstars of the Premier League who have someone available to tie their shoelaces and agents who help them decide whether or not to blow their own noses. However, this contrast is also reflected in the skill level too. For example, last night a nippy little winger showed ample guts and determination but, on receiving the ball, he had a tendency to stick his head down and run with it, full pelt, in a dead straight line, oblivious to what was going on around him. A drawback since the sport is a team game. Had it not been for the intervention of a number of industrial tackles, he may well have run out of the stadium and continued running down the local high street and possibly along the motorway, until his energy reserves failed him.

But, I digress from my football fan seating 'companion' although I think it is important to have a little scene setting to allow the reader to understand context here. The football fan was large and loud, probably a description that comes as no blinding surprise. His continued, highly vocal, 'encouragement' to the home team would give the impression to someone who doesn't understand 'soccer' (an American for example) that he had been in the football industry for many years, possibly having managed Barcelona, Bayern Munich and even some teams that did not begin with B. However, a more discerning connoisseur of the game, amongst whom I like to think I am one, would have quickly arrived at the conclusion that this particular fan knew 'bugger all' about the sport. His initial first utterances seemed harmless enough, being simple, encouraging support as his team walked onto the pitch. "C'mon lads, you can do it." Given that, despite their occupancy of the lower echelons of the football hierarchy, the 'lads' were athletes, I felt confident that they would be able to walk onto the pitch without need of any vocal support.

His next utterance, after two or three minutes of play, was directed to the referee following an innocuous trip by an opposition player on a home player. “Card him. Card him.” I was a little alarmed at first thinking perhaps that this was local vernacular for some throat slitting exercise with a sharp instrument, but then realised that the fan was strongly ‘suggesting’ that the ref should show a yellow card to the opposition player for the transgression. The referee ignored the exhortation mostly because he could not possibly have heard it, given that he was in the centre of the pitch, but also because such action was not warranted. His failure to follow the direction appeared to prickle the fan so that he then, in addition to direction to the team, began a personal vendetta against the official. After another harmless coming together in which a home player fell theatrically onto the grass but regained his feet almost as quickly when no whistle was blown, the fan berated the ref again. “C’mon ref. You’re letting ’em away with effing murder.” Alarmed again, I counted the number of players left on the pitch and found that exactly the same complement that had started the game, were still in situ. Not a hint of homicide or even the suggestion of involuntary manslaughter.

The fan’s face was now beginning to resemble a Spanish sunset but with none of the warmth that such an event creates. He decided to fire some tactical advice at the team manager who was on the opposite touchline some seventy to eighty metres away. I use the phrase ‘tactical advice’ although I am quite certain that, “sort it out, mate… sort it out,” is not part of any current coaching manuals. If it is, then, given that the person to whom the ‘advice’ was directed was in the position of Professional Football Club Manager, I feel sure that he would have been exposed to such learning, perhaps on day one of his FA badge course.

The next passage of play in which the home team continually gave the ball away to the opposition, even though they were wearing a distinctly different colour kit, led to even more enlightened coaching from the now increasingly tense and stressed out fan. “Help him. What’s wrong with you? Help him,” he screamed at the home full back when one of his teammates found himself boxed in by three opposition players. Possibly the full back heard this advice or had an uncanny ability to connect mentally with apoplectic fans, as he decided that the best form of help was to clatter into one of the opposition players. The referee immediately blew his whistle to signal a foul and brandished a yellow card at the offending home player. This sent the fan into a paroxysm of unbridled fury and, in a flurry of spittle and undisguised venom, he hurled a volley of abuse at the ref, culminating in, “You’re a wanker, ref. He fell over.” Well, yes, the statement that the player fell over was entirely accurate but then this is often the end result when you are assaulted from behind by a knee in the small of the back and a simultaneous elbow to the head. The referee’s concern was not the player’s final position on the ground but more the act which caused it to occur. It may well be an instantly recognizable form of ungentlemanly conduct in a sport such as golf, tennis or cricket but even in a full contact sport like rugby, such an attack from behind is considered foul play. However, our football fan did not seem to recognise it as such since it was perpetrated by a home player, a member of his team. By contrast, when an opposition player exacted a small degree of retribution some minutes later with a fairly harmless trip on the offending player, the football fan almost burst a blood vessel in urging the referee to have that player disembowelled.

With no score to separate the two teams and the clock ticking down, it was clear that the game was descending into a turgid draw. This lack of a score for the home team seemed to fuel the football fan’s sense of urgency. When the referee stopped the game for another incident that resulted in a home team free kick and delayed the restart until the opposition players were ten yards from the ball, the fan’s sense of injustice again caused him to rise from his seat, yelling sarcastically, “In yer own time ref. In yer own time.” I considered this remark unhelpful and an example of the ‘bleedin obvious’ given that the referee is in possession of a stopwatch to monitor the duration of a game, add on extra playing time where required and is also charged with conducting the match in accordance with the timings laid down by FA rules.

As the game drew to a close and the home team’s failure to achieve a positive result became a likely outcome, the fan’s behaviour became more erratic and his demeanour more agitated. A near miss for the home team caused him to declare, “If it ain’t one thing, it’s another,” (in a sport that involves several action packed incidences, this might be considered another example of the ‘bleedin obvious’) and then he came out with a corker. As one of the officials raised the LED display board to indicate an additional five minutes playing time, another foul on a home player brought a screaming instruction to the referee, “They’re animals ref. Another foul. Nip it in the bud.” Now given that we had played almost ninety minutes and there were just five extra minutes remaining, nipping it in the bud did seem a tad belated as advice. Given the extraordinary reaction that the fan had been displaying to every perceived misdemeanour that the opposition had carried out, this particular bud was, by now, a full grown Triffid.

The final whistle was eventually blown accompanied by a generous ripple of applause from around the ground. In view of the miserable sporting spectacle that the fans had endured it seemed that this applause was for the sound of the whistle rather than any appreciation of the on field performance.  I was particularly grateful as it put an end to the running commentary that I had had to endure all evening. I suspect that the football fan was grateful too as any further extension of play would have undoubtedly resulted in him experiencing a disastrous seizure.

And then my final surprise.

The fan unzipped his jacket to put his match programme into his inside pocket and I saw it – the dog collar. A man of the cloth! I sat for a moment dumbfounded. God help his parishioners at the Sunday sermon.

A Day at the Races (Matthew and Cecil)

The early morning sun warmed the expectant faces of the passengers as they stepped from the train, the women in their expensive dresses and vertiginous heels, the men in sharp suits and crisp shirts. I scanned the throng as it wound its way along the platform towards the station exit, looking for a familiar face. It was the third train of the morning that I had stood and watched but there was no sign of the person I was waiting for. I glanced at my watch. Five past eleven. I pulled my mobile from my jacket pocket and hit the keypad.

“Ces, where are you?”

“On me way geeze, ain’t I. Where are you?”

“I am outside the pub just opposite Ascot station. What’s happening?”

“Wall to wall traffic on the bleedin’ M25.”

I let out a frustrated sigh.

“The M25? What’re you doing on the M25? You didn’t say you were driving. You’re supposed to meet me here at ten-thirty. I’ve got the tickets.”

“Mate, keep yer wig on. I ain’t drivin’. I was blaggin’ some bird weren’t I.”

“What? On the M25?”

“Not on the motorway you nobhead. In Essex. Last night. There was a pile up on the way back this morning. Whole place is gridlocked.”

I stared at my mobile in disbelief, deja-vu washing over me. There was always some sort of gridlock in Cecil’s life, especially when he was supposed to be at any event I had organised.

“So you went out last night? Great. I could’ve gone out too but I decided not to because I knew I had to be somewhere this morning. You only had to do one thing Ces... get yourself here and yet again –”

“Leave it out with the fuckin’ lecture geezer. I’ll be there. I ain’t that far behind ya.”

“So how long you gonna be?” I asked, a tiny wave of optimism daring to suggest that he might only be ten minutes or so away.

“Hour ’n a quarter. Just gettin’ to Waterloo. There’s a train at –”

“An hour and a quarter? I’m not waiting Ces. I’ve sorted the tickets and the hospitality deal and I’m not standing outside Ascot Station like some sad sack waiting on you when I could be in the enclosure enjoying a cool glass of Champagne. I’ve paid over two-hundred quid each for the package… for which you still owe me by the way and –”  

UPDATE: The above is the opening paragraphs of the fourth, as yet to be titled, Pursuit book, due to be completed in 2019.

Driving

Having trudged up and down the M4 at the weekend I realised it is time to say it. And if anything should go viral in the UK, this should. People have no idea how to drive on motorways, in particular about lane driving. So for the benefit of those who have forgotten, have obtained their driving licences bogusly or are simply inconsiderate nobheads, here it is. In the UK we drive on the left and the rule of the road is ‘keep left.’

The majority of UK motorways have three lanes: the left lane, the middle lane and the right lane. The left lane is for driving in (see the ‘keep left’ reference above); the middle lane is for overtaking and the right lane is also for overtaking, that is, overtaking vehicles in the middle lane who are travelling more slowly but who, in turn, are actually overtaking vehicles in the left lane. Once you have completed one of these manoeuvres in the middle lane or the right lane, you should return to the left lane (see again the ‘keep left’ reference above) where you continue driving. However, there are drivers who for no logical reason, even when the left lane, the driving lane, is empty, think it is okay to drive continuously in the middle lane and ignore the left lane completely (see again the ‘keep left’ reference above).

So let us look at what effect staying in the middle lane has on a three-lane motorway. Given that the rules say you must keep to the left and should not overtake on the left, this means that anyone wanting to overtake a driver who thinks it is okay to stay in the middle lane, has to go round that vehicle and overtake on the right side, the outside lane. So, since driving in the middle lane for no reason is not confined to just a few drivers – there are lots of them out there - this means that there are queues of drivers just sitting in the middle lane when they should return to the left lane. Then those wishing to overtake those inconsiderate middle lane hoggers have to go to the outside of them, the right side, thus forming another queue. So we end up with queues of drivers predominantly occupying the middle lane and the right lane. Think about this. What that now does is effectively reduce a three-lane motorway to a two-lane motorway but with the same volume of traffic. In other words, three lanes of traffic are now occupying two lanes of motorway. The effect is slower moving vehicles, greater risk of accident and, guess what… traffic congestion. So next time you whinge about how slow it is on a motorway look at the appalling lane discipline exercised by people who like to think they are skilled drivers. The fact is, they are driving on autopilot without thinking about what they are doing.

The message here then is, STOP HOGGING THE MIDDLE LANE! (see again the ‘keep left’ reference above)

High heels and flat shoes ...

Cannes Film Festival has come under fire after reports women were turned away from a red carpet screening for wearing flat shoes instead of heels.

If I didn't know better I would come to the conclusion that Cecil Delaney was behind this 'initiative.' Check out his view in this brief extract from Diamond Pursuit, the third novel in the Pursuit Series......


“A nice bottle of Duvel would go down well mate.”
“What if they don’t have it?” I asked.
“They’ll have it or something like it. Mate, it’s a class bar. None of your nobhead clientele in here,” Cecil replied. He stood up and extended his hands out in a wide, sweeping gesture. “Take a look around. See them birds down there? That’s what I mean by a class bar. They’re dressed up proper. For a start, they got proper shoes on. None of that trainer stuff like the birds back home. What’s that about anyway? Birds going out at night in shoes they’d wear to a fucking festival. I wanna go into places where the birds make an effort, you know ... get dressed up, put some quality shoes on. Go in a place like that and it makes you feel good, yeah? There can be no excuse mate. It’s gotta be a blinding pair of shoes or else stay home.”


Diamond Pursuit 2015

http://amzn.to/1HckFsr

The Bar

I was in a bar last night. Clearly the wrong bar. The chat up line was, “awright gels ow u doin.” There was a woman dancing like she was looking for the loo but had lost her satnav, a sort of bent over stutter that took her north and then south with the occasional look in her mental map at what east and west had to offer. The guys had dressed up … t-shirts and jeans. If that was dressed up then god knows what the daywear was. A couple of rinsed out blondes stood next to the DJ in skirts short enough to match their IQ's, chewing gum in time with the throbbing base beat that vibrated through the floor, threatening to undermine the planks.

Ordinarily, I don’t mind a bit of spit ‘n’ sawdust but I had gone out seeking sophistication, an air of elegance, not the feeling that I should be holding a luger instead of a lager. I went to the bar. The barman kept calling me 'mate' until I ordered an expensive Belgian beer (which took four minutes to find on the till since the usual clientele drink beers that you wouldn't experiment on a rat with) and thereafter he referred to me as 'buddy.' I wasn't sure if I should take this as an upgrade in my status or whether it was just that the barman had suddenly discovered American roots.

I sipped the beer slowly, struggling to decide whether to move on or wait until the place 'got better.’ A glance around told me that sipping was not the preferred method of consuming drinks in the venue and that perhaps I should try the ‘glugging’ style employed by everyone else in the venue. I didn’t want to stand out.
Too late.

“Wanna boogie babe?” The question caught me by surprise, not only because I didn’t understand, thinking that a ‘boogiebabe’ was some sort of cocktail, but because I hadn’t noticed anyone close enough to ask a question.
I spun around. At the bar, two girls giggled like teenagers, which is a misnomer as their combined ages divided by seven may not have hit the teens.
“Err, a boogiebabe?” I said.
“Yeah babe. Fancy it?” the shorter of the two said, combining her response with some sort of hip wiggle that was designed to demonstrate what a boogie was. At least I hoped that was the intent.
“I’m ... uh ... I’m okay ... just having a drink first,” I said, hoping that my answer would be taken as a diplomatic refusal but aware that the use of the word ‘first’ could give the impression that I was up for some future boogie. I wasn’t.

My answer seemed to suffice and she took a long slurp straight from the neck of the bottle of beer that she was holding. Her companion decided to get involved.
“You’re all right you. Ain’t seen you here before.”
And you won’t see me here ever again, was my mental response.
“Err ... no, I’ve not been ... first time tonight. I am meeting ... err, meeting a friend.” I felt the need to excuse my lone presence.
“Stood you up then has she?”
“No ... no. He’s a bloke.”
“Oh, right. You gay then?”

I momentarily marvelled at the leap of logic that had concluded that if I wasn’t meeting a girl, but was meeting a bloke, I could possibly be gay.
“No ... just a friend. A work ... work ... person.”
The two of them giggled again.
“He handsome like you then, babe?” the short one asked.
It was a question I couldn't answer, not only because the 'work person' did not exist but a yes would have come across as narcissistic arrogance and a no would have come across as .... narcissistic arrogance! I decided to ignore the question.
"Err ... I am just going to ... outside ... for a cigarette." (I don't smoke.) I turned to walk away.
"We'll come wiv'ya. Fancy a fag meeself. Wot about you Sue?"

I jumped in before Sue could respond.
"No ... I mean, I haven't got any cigarettes ... fags. I meant I have to ... to go to the shop ... down the road, to err, get some. Won't be long. I'll be back for that ... boogie."
"Catchya laters," the short one giggled.
'Laters' wasn't going to happen. I would sooner take up smoking.

Diamond Pursuit - Behind the scenes.....

The third book in the Pursuit Series is called 'Diamond Pursuit', (the others being Cupid's Pursuit and Vegas Pursuit) and, once again follows the misadventures of its central character, Matthew Malarkey. In this story, Matthew, who is supposed to be on a chilled out break in the sunshine of Ibiza, inadvertently gets himself mixed up in a diamond smuggling ring. Unfortunately, through bad timing or misjudging situations Matthew has a tendency to find himself in difficult predicaments and his Ibiza trip proves no different.

So, how did this book come about?

Well, first of all I enjoy the fun of writing about Matthew Malarkey and his 'crew', Cecil Delaney, Carlos MacFadden and Jasper Kane. Their different personalities allow me to create comic situations and the 'banter' that develops between them helps to fuel that. Often it is not pre-meditated. As the scene evolves so does the banter. It can be natural, similar to what would happen in real life. So there is no need to think about how, for example, Cecil, the cockney roguish character, would react to a particular situation. I just know, so it emerges. Sure, I sometimes have to fine tune when I edit but most of the time it stays the way it came out.

The idea for the story came out of an unfortunate incident that occurred in real life in the summer of 2013. Two young ladies, who came to be known as the 'Peru Two,' were jailed for allegedly attempting to smuggle cocaine from Peru to Ibiza. Clearly that was a very serious matter and there is nothing in that story to find amusing. However, the smuggling angle gave me an idea for the next Pursuit book. I had been to Ibiza in the past and gradually the idea evolved. I went back to the island and began to take in the atmosphere and the locations and simply let the 'vibe' fuel possible scenarios. I then began to jot down the basic outline. Given the smuggling angle, there was a ready-made direct conflict emerging in the fact that Matthew has a police detective contact and smuggling is a crime! So I began to build on that as a central plot. I decided to use diamonds as the object of the criminal activity rather than cocaine. I didn't want to use drugs (in the written sense rather than actually taking my research to the experimental stage!) as that was too close to the real life case. And also, diamonds had an ironic twist since it is Matthew's intention to get engaged on his trip.

I wrote the main plot over a period of eight to nine months and had a finished manuscript by August of 2014. However, I had a nagging feeling about some of the locations - gaps in my memory from my earlier visit - and I felt the need to go back and visit a number of places. I went back in September 2014, notebook at the ready (iPhones are good too as you have the Notes app and voice record apps) and did more research. That research took me to the Sunset Bars of San Antonio (Cafe Mambo, Cafe del Mar, Savannah to name a few), to the West End Strip and its chaotic late night carousing and on to San Rafael in the centre of the island and Ibiza Town on the east coast. My visit to San Rafael by bus and foot, on a blazing hot day with little respite from the sun, took me up to its amazing 18th century church that stands on a hillside overlooking the town and across to Ibiza Town itself in the distance. I liked the location so much that I used it for a very specific scene, in the square next to the church and in the surrounding countryside. In Ibiza Town, I visited the hospital where Matthew and Cecil end up, inadvertently, as Matthew tries to escape the attentions of one of the bad guys. I toured the back streets, taking in the sights, smells and sounds even though that detail may end up as nothing more than a few paragraphs.

The plot also involves Matthew being locked away in a beach side cave. I already knew about such places from my previous visits (they are used for storage) but I went back to check out the locations. One evening, just after midnight, I strolled out into the dusk to explore my beach side cave location as it would be in the dead of night. There is a scene in Diamond Pursuit that meant I needed to 'feel' the area at that particularly time in order to describe it properly. I took the steep pathway along the rockface, heading down to the beach. The moon glistened on the water and I stopped to get a picture, to record the view and remind me of the location. All was quiet, a spooky, eerie atmosphere, the overhanging rocks looming over the path. I raised my iPhone and fired off a shot. For the record, I aimed another shot down to the beach. Just as the flash went off, a number of shouts came from the beach, from people I hadn't even seen in the gloom and still couldn't see... and they weren't happy. I have no idea what was going on down there but clearly somebody did not want a flash going off in their direction. I turned and legged it, the experience adding to my sense of danger, thus enabling me to get the right 'feel' for the scene I eventually wrote.

As referred to earlier, another interesting experience was San Antonio's 'West End', a maze of streets lined with bars and fast food joints, or as Cecil calls it in the book, 'Sodom and Gomorrah.' The 'West End' strip is geared up for young party revellers and it's bars are churning out music and drinks up until 6a.m. in the morning. All human life appears to be here, colourful, noisy and energetic. I first visited this location as a tourist in the eighties. It hasn't changed much. You need stamina to survive the hectic demands of this type of nightlife. Fortunately, I was only dipping in and out for the purposes of research.

Having said that, research isn't all hardship - well, if hardship is the right word when you are on a sun kissed island! I spent a day at Cala Bassa beach, a short boat ride across San Antonio Bay, fine tuning and correcting my manuscript under the shade of the juniper trees that line the back of the beach. That visit also enabled me to evolve yet another scene for Matthew Malarkey. Although all the final work is done in the confines of a small place (normally at home in very 'un-Ibiza' weather) it is good to get notes and paragraphs down at the location, where you can transmit the real time experience onto a page. Much harder to get that 'feel' when you are trying to drag it from memory once you are far removed from the location.

Finally, there is an aircraft scene near the end of the book that was technically quite demanding. Without revealing the who or why of the scene, I studied at length, via video and written details, the mechanics of flying a commercial aircraft. I did have enormous help and guidance too from someone who actually flies as a commercial airline pilot, so it is based on reality. The difficulty is, although the end product that appears in the book is fairly short, there is a need to 'understand' what is happening so that it can be transferred to the page. Consequently, far more time consuming attention is given to something that ends up as just a small part of a story. However, by the end of this section of research, I felt like I could fly an aircraft myself!

I hope that this gives you an insight into the creation of this book and, I am sure in one form or another, any book. I will not bore the pants off you with the editing bit!

Diamond Pursuit is available on Amazon. Information on my other books can be obtained from www.pursuitseries.com and if you would like to ask a question regarding the books, please contact me on author@pursuitseries.com

Patrick

The Date

She had been right. It was about a two hour drive to the Royal Oak from my location. But I managed to get there a few minutes early. I was excited about the prospect of meeting my date. She looked great in her website pictures and we'd hit it off on the telephone. I took a seat in the bar and ordered a small beer. The pub was buzzing, a convivial Saturday night crowd.
The main area consisted of a large open plan room featuring a huge rectangular, centrally situated bar with a dining area tucked away discreetly to one side. My date had yet to arrive - I can handle fashionably late - when my mobile rang.
"Hi Matthew. It's me. Where are you?"
"Hi,Fiona. I'm in the bar. Where are you?"
"Just arrived at the pub," she said. "I'll come and find you."
Five minutes later my mobile rang again.
"I can't see you. It's quite crowded. Whereabouts are you?"
"Uh..." I glanced around. "I'm sitting at the bar, on the restaurant side"
Another five minutes passed and my mobile rang again.
"Still can't see you Matthew. What're you wearing?"
For some reason I checked. Nerves, I suspect.
"A dark blue jacket and an open neck white shirt. And you?"
"A short black dress, black heels and a light grey jacket. I am over by the restaurant now."
"Okay...great. Stay there. I'll come and find you."
I clicked off the mobile and pushed through the crowd towards the restaurant. There were just couples and groups standing around. No lone date. I called her back.
"I'm by the restaurant right now. I can't see you? There's only one restaurant isn't there?" I asked, a sense of doubt creeping in.
"I think so. Are you sure you look like your picture? Oh my god...you're not one of those dodgy guys who's got a ten year old photograph posted, are you?"
"Err no...don't you mean, does my picture look like me?" I said, trying to make light of the sudden concern in her voice. "Tell you what. I'll go and stand outside the main entrance and wait underneath the Royal Oak sign. That way we can find one another. Okay?"
"Cool."
I stuck my 'phone in my jacket pocket and made my way outside. The pub had one very prominent sign at its front that declared it to be the Royal Oak. I stood right underneath it. Ten minutes later my mobile rang again.
"Where are you now? This is getting silly. I've been here twenty odd minutes. You haven't stood me up have you?"
"No, of course not. I've driven for two hours to be here. I'm standing under the Royal Oak sign right now, like I said, waiting for you. Whereabouts are you?"
A deep sigh breezed across the line before she answered.
"Well, oddly enough, I'm standing underneath the Royal Oak sign too and I can't see you Matthew. Whatsmore, it's bloody freezing out here."
"At the front?"
"Yes. Why? Is there another sign at the back?"
I was beginning to get concerned about the tetchiness that had crept into her tone. "I don't know. I'll go look."
I hit the end call button and legged it to the back of the pub into the car park. There was no other sign. I raced back to the front and stood directly under the tall wood structure that held the signage, my shoulder leant against it to convince myself that it actually existed. I tapped the phone icon and called up the last number.
"Fiona, it's me again. Listen, I'm at the front, standing right underneath the Royal Oak sign. I don't understand why I can't see you. And you're right...it is cold."
There was a long pause before she responded.
"You sure it says, Royal Oak, Matthew?"
I glanced up at the colourful emblem that swayed gently in the wind, a huge notice that had a mature oak at its centre. The words, 'Royal Oak' were emblazoned with an artistic flourish beneath the picture.
"Err...yes, it does. I can read," I said, trying to inject some humour into my voice.
"Ooooh, that's always a bonus. A date that can read."
I regretted my attempt at humour as soon as her sarcasm hit me. "Definitely, the Royal Oak," I said.
"Okay. The Royal Oak...in the High Street?"
"Yes, definitely. That's the one."
There was a brief silence before she spoke again. When she did, the single word she uttered sent a shiver down my spine, a shiver that had nothing to do with the falling temperature.
"Southampton?"
"Sorry Fiona...did you say...err...south...south...Southampton?'
"I did," she replied, "Why?"
I paused for a moment, gulping in oxygen whilst I considered my reply. There was not much else I could say.
"Err...I'm in Northampton..."