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..."

Rufus

It was our second date. The first one had gone well. I quite liked her and knew I wanted to see her again. We'd had a good evening, nice meal, good wine and things were looking up. The taxi stopped outside her place, a penthouse apartment on the 10th floor overlooking Chelsea Harbour. She invited me in.
'Coffee...you know,' she said.
I didn't know but coffee sounded good.
The flat was luxurious. A sweeping expanse of white, polished marble floor tiles was broken only by the careful placement of three white leather sofas that enclosed a low, glass topped coffee table. To the far side of the room one wall consisted of floor-to-ceiling glass through which spectacular views of the London skyline could be seen glowing in a yellow white sheen against the dark blue of the night sky. I was impressed.
She casually dropped her jacket onto one of the sofas and turned towards me.
‘Make yourself at home. I’ll fetch some drinks. What will you have?’
Although it crossed my mind that coffee was a drink I was certain she didn’t mean coffee anymore.
‘Have you got – ’
‘I’ve got everything darling. What will it be?’ She smiled, a smile that loaded her answer with more than the reply my questioned needed.
‘A Bombay...Bombay and tonic would be good,’ I said, wondering momentarily if being so specific about the brand of gin I wanted was acceptable. But then she did say she had ‘everything.’
‘I’ll be right back. Make yourself comfortable...oh and don’t worry about Rufus.’
‘Rufus?’
‘Yes...he’s my baby.’
She’d never mentioned children and before I had time to form another sentence she disappeared into the hallway. As I watched her walk away I began to wonder who had done the baby sitting that night. And then I met Rufus.
Rufus was a dog, well, not so much a dog as a combination of wolf, husky and German Shepherd. I couldn’t tell which breed to be honest but he was big, black-maned, tawny coated with sharp pointed ears and lolling tongue. Certainly ‘baby’ seemed a wholly inadequate description as he bound towards me. It would probably only have been appropriate had she followed the word with ‘mammoth.’ At first I thought it was a lion but the words ‘don’t worry about Rufus’ made me assume that he couldn’t be since lions should be worried about, especially if they are in a residential flat.
Luckily, I don't mind dogs and I seem to have a way with them. As a result they seem to like me. Rufus did. He sniffed me, pawed me, rubbed his coat against my legs and paid me a whole lot of attention. I stroked and patted him more out of a need to encourage him to keep all four feet on the floor than in a friendly, getting to know you gesture.
My date returned carrying two drinks, my Bombay and a glass of Rosé Champagne for herself.
‘I see you and Rufus are getting along,’ she said.
Getting along. I wasn’t sure that was quite how I saw it. I suppose it could have been accurate in the way that a circus lion tamer attempts to retain control of the big cats – it only happens because they let him.
‘Err...yes, he seems to like me...and I...err, like him too...he’s huge though. Looks quite...you know...intimidating.’
‘Intimidating?' She laughed. 'Oh no, he’s just lovely. A big pussy cat really. Come and sit down.’
Her description caused me to think once again about my initial lion reaction but I dismissed it.
As I sat down she raised her glass and clinked it against mine.
‘Cheers. I’ve had a lovely evening tonight.’
I was about to respond but the chink of the glasses must have caused Rufus to feel left out. As I leant towards his mistress to return the toast, he gave a yelp and in one bound he was on my lap. The Bombay and tonic didn’t stand a chance. The entire contents tipped right over the front of my shirt and my new chinos as Rufus’s nose hit my right hand.
My date was on her feet in a flash.
‘Go to your bed you naughty boy,’ she shouted in a low throaty command.
For a moment I thought I’d been reprimanded for the spillage and wondered what bed I was supposed to occupy. It was only when I saw Rufus slinking off, tail down, head low that I realised it was he who was the object of her disapproval, not me.
She turned towards me. ‘I’m so sorry. He just gets excited around strangers.’
Rufus excited was something I didn’t want to contemplate.
‘It’s OK. It’s nothing,’ I said.
‘Look at your trousers and shirt. They are soaked.’ Her hand snaked out and started to pat down my chest in some sort of attempt to dry out the damp patch. Her efforts were futile. ‘Why don’t you pop into the bathroom and freshen up. There are towels and things. It’s down the hallway, round to the left second door on the left. Careful with the door though, dodgy handle. Had some problems but it’s being refitted on Tuesday.'
I found the bathroom. As I opened the door I felt a nudge against it and it was pushed fully open. Rufus again, following me in. I tried to persuade him to go back out but he didn’t quite get my communication attempts. He just sat there looking up at me. I tried to drag him by the collar but he was too heavy and would not budge.
‘Ok, mate. You’ll just have to stay here while I get sorted out then.’
I shut the door and locked it, more out of habit than concern for personal privacy. Within a few minutes I had mopped up the worst of the spillage on my trousers and shirt with a towel. To finish it off I grabbed a hairdryer that was sitting in a metal ring holster on the wall and switched it on to full blast. In a startled reaction Rufus began to whimper.
‘It’s ok Rufus. Easy. It’s just a dryer. Look.’ I waved it in front of him but that seemed to agitate him even more. He began to scrabble at the door, his paws scratching at the wood.
‘OK, I got it. I’ll let you out,’ I said, hoping he’d get my intention. He continued to paw the door. ‘Get back boy. I can’t get the bloody door open until you get out of the way. C’mon. Easy. It’s ok.’
I switched off the hairdryer and put it down on the floor, trying at the same time to tug Rufus away from the door with both hands on his collar.
‘You ok in there?’ I heard my date’s voice call out from somewhere in the hall.
‘It’s alright. Just got Rufus in here,’ I replied.
Again I tried to pull Rufus back and at the same time reached for the door handle. I’d just caught hold of it when suddenly he turned and shot away from the door catching me totally by surprise. The sudden violent movement caused me to stumble back and wrench the handle straight out of the door plate. The momentum caused us both to fall in an ungainly heap on the floor. Rufus landed on his back but in one twisting, scrabbling movement he was back on his feet. Unfortunately one of them landed on the hairdryer switch which fired back into life blowing a blast of hot air straight into his bewildered face. His yelp and subsequent whimpering were pitiful.
‘What’s going on?’ My date again. This time nearer the door.
‘Nothing it’s ok. Rufus is just a bit -’
At the sound of his mistress’s voice Rufus began to howl. There was clearly wolf in there somewhere. A soul harrowing howl emanated deep from the wildness within him. The hairs on my neck suddenly stood on end, prickled by some ancient programming and sense of danger.
‘What the fuck are you doing to my dog in there? Come out of there right now.’ My date again.
I looked at the door handle still in my hand. I realised I had also locked the door.
‘I’m not doing anything to him. I can’t get out. The door...it’s stuck.’
Rufus stopped howling and began to whimper again. He sensed my agitation and the confined space seemed to be getting too much for him.
'If you don’t open the door and let my dog out I’m calling the police.' She now sounded more agitated than Rufus.
'The police? There’s no need. I’m sure I can get the door open without their help.’
‘I’m not worried about the fucking door. What are you doing with my dog in there?’
Rufus had begun to howl again and then began to pace in a prowling circle.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘He’s fine.’
‘Well he doesn’t sound fine to me. My baby never howls like that. I’m calling the police.’
‘Wait...no, it’s fine. He’s just...err...hot.’
‘Hot?’
‘Yes, hot. He stepped on the hair dryer and it...hot air went in his face.’
‘You’ve burnt him. My poor baby.’
Rufus wasn’t helping matters. He had stopped prowling now and had started scrabbling at the door again, whimpering in an agitated manner as if trying to communicate with his mistress.
It was getting hot. I had to think. I had to get the door open. I needed air and by the looks of things so did Rufus, particularly after his brush with the hairdryer.
I tried inserting the handle of the door back into the hole where it had been. It went in but as I turned it, it failed to take hold and simply flopped down into a hanging position. Something must have broken off in the internal mechanism.
I called out to my date. ‘Are you there? Katie? Are you there? I can’t get out.’
There was no reply. Rufus was panting heavily and then began to pee himself. I crossed the bathroom to the window and opened it. A cool breeze instantly swept through the room along with the sound of London traffic. Rufus’s ears pricked up. It never occurred to me that he might see it as an opportunity but in one huge leap and a scurry of paws he had scrambled up onto the sink and without a backward glance disappeared through the opening.
An escape route. I was about to follow suit when I remembered - penthouse apartment,10th floor......

The Bungee Jump

I understand, from Wikipedia, that the first modern bungee jump took place in 1979. However, that is all I understand. Apparently this type of activity goes back as far as the Aztec civilisation. Fair enough if you need to prove your manhood in private but I can only imagine the type of conversation that took place when it was decided that this would be a good way to make a living and go commercial.

'Jeez, I'm tired of rounding up these friggin jumbucks all day long. Gotta be more to life ain't there?'
'I was thinking the same mate. In fact I've been giving it a lotta thought. Got this idea see.'
'Yeah, what's that then mate?'
'Hang on a sec, sport, your round ain't it.'
Two more beers were set down on the table.
'So spill it then. What's the big idea?'
'Simple really. All them tourists that come out here. All looking for some sort of excitement. When they've done sittin round sunbakin in their togs and sunnies all day, they wanna give somethin else a crack.'
'Yeah? Like what exactly mate?'
'Somethin excitin...somethin that gets the pulse tickin.'
'Like I said...like what mate?'
'Well I had this idea see. Might make a bit of cash. Bit like parachuting...but without the chute.'
'Without a chute? You reckon that's a goer mate? You sure about that?'
'Ang on sport, see, the jumper has his ankle tied and -'
'Hold up. You think you gonna get some guy to pay you to jump out an airplane, just tied up by his foot?'
'Not an airplane ya drongo -'
'You said it was like parachuting mate.'
'Drink up mate and listen. Nah, not an airplane. The jumps's done on dry land.'
'Let me get this right. Some bloke is gonna pay for you to tie up his foot and then he jumps up an down? How's that gonna make any dosh?'
'Mate, listen to what I'm tellin you. Nobody's jumping up and down. They jump right off the end of a cliff with an elastic strap attached to an ankle -'
A splurt of beer shot across the table.
'Jeez cobber. Yer chokin me here. Jumping off a cliff with just a friggin bit of bungy strapped round an ankle. You ain't the full quid mate if you think people are gonna give you money so they can commit hari kari.'
'They ain't committin hari kari mate. They'd be tied to the jump point with the elastic so all they do is bounce.'
'Bounce? What, bounce of the friggin floor? All you need is a couple of them tourists to come a cropper an cark it and you're in the shit mate.'
'Nobody comes a cropper. You measure up the bungy band so it's shorter than the drop. You get it? They dive off and it stops them well before they eat the dirt. That's the excitement mate. They know they ain't comin a cropper but they can't be sure. They'll be queuing up. Trust me. The moolah will be rollin in.'
'And how long is this bit of elastic gonna be?'
'As long as it needs to be. If the cliff is a two hundred and fifty footer it's gotta be...err...shorter than that.'
'Two hundred and fifty foot? You defo aren't the full quid mate. I though you was talking ten or fifteen feet.'
'Fifteen feet? How many cliffs you seen that high then?'
'None mate...but all the same. Two hundred and fifty...and how d'you know it works? You tried it?'
'Nah, mate, I ain't. But, it's gotta. Get the elastic right...right length, right strength...weigh the punter that's gonna jump and it stands out like the dog's balls. It'll work.'
'So let me get this straight. The first bloke that tries it, that pays his quid, is gonna be the first bloke that ever jumps. Mate, if it was me I'd wanna know that somebody'd tested it first before I started slinging myself off a cliff face.'
'So, who we gonna get to test it?'
'S'gotta be you really cobber. Your idea an all that.'
'Nah, I'm the brains behind it. I can't risk it...err.. not that there is a risk but you know what I mean. You'd give it a burl wouldn't yer mate? You know, if I got you in as a partner an all?'
'Don't look at me. Do I look like a fruit loop?'
'There must be somebody who'd be up for it.'
A screech of tyres and a cloud of dust in the car park turned both their heads. A battered truck pulled to a halt outside the bar. From the driver's seat a large lady with glowing cheeks burned red from the sun, stepped out and paused while she wiped the sweat from her brow.
'That's it mate. Shearing Sheila. No harm in asking.'
'Yeah mate...and you she might even let you have her knicker elastic for the bungy.'

Polite.......!

I am not overly keen on 'politeness' for the sake of it. That is probably due to a traumatic experience I had as a callow youth of twenty-one when, as a keen tennis player anxious to become involved in the social scene of the local club, I overcame my natural Capricorn reticence and shy nature and bought myself a ticket for a Wine & Cheese party!!! Out of my depth at such functions (in fact out of my depth socially anywhere) since I still retained the inelegance of my teenage years and gauche nature of an ex boarder, I attempted conversation with a variety of people whilst balancing a plate of cheese nibbles and a glass of red plonk in either hand. My face was pinker than the not very inspiring vintage that wobbled around in my glass, this state having been induced by my cringingly embarrassing attempts to engage in conversation with the fairer sex, my limitations in this skill being cruelly exposed by rambling sentences interspersed by a stutter which, up until that point, I didn't realise I possessed.

My evening scaled the heights from difficult to extremely complex when I was engaged by what I can only describe as a professional ‘small talker.’ His conversation, such as it can be called conversation since to accurately be described as such it possibly has to be two way, involved him telling me all about his accountancy firm. I assume he was telling me, but I wasn’t entirely certain, because his eyes scanned the room as if he was expecting an imminent attack by a disgruntled client, rather than look at me directly.

In hindsight I wish I had had the cojones to interrupt and say,’ Can I stop you right there. Listen, I am not remotely interested in the boring, dull and pathetic existence you lead out there and your attempts to make it sound like what you do is some sort of much sought after, wild, innovative career. And since I am not interested, why don’t you save your breath and go tell it to some of these other similarly dull half wits that earlier on this evening I had so wanted to be accepted by.'

But I didn’t say any of that.

But... the experience has made me question why people need small talk and pleasantries? Why don't they just get to the point? Why ask things of strangers like, ‘How are you?’ Just get to the point. If you are talking to a stranger it must be for some reason otherwise you wouldn’t be doing it. Always remember that if you ask a question which is merely a preamble to the real point of your conversation, you run the risk of having that question answered and, consequently, being bored witless by some nobhead who actually thinks you might want to know!

Shaving Gel

After work this evening I called into a well known high street purveyor of cosmetic and beauty products to get shaving gel. I took my selected item to the counter, handed it to the sales assistant and reached for my wallet.
'Would you like anything else, Sir?’ she asked.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
She looked at me squarely in the face.
‘Did you know that if you spend fifteen pounds you can have a free face mask?’
Ignoring the obvious insulting content of the question I gathered my thoughts. I'm no oil painting but I am allowed out in public so I considered a mask to be unnecessary and risked telling her so.
‘It’s ok,’ I said, ‘I'm ok without the mask.'
I don’t know if she thought that to improve my facial appearance I would need to spend a lot more than fifteen pounds but she suddenly switched anatomical regions.
‘We have a special offer on body butter,’ she said, an optimistic smile lighting her face.
I say optimistic because I assume the confidence in her sales pitch was based on the assumption that I had actually heard of body butter.
‘Body butter?’ I said, confirming my lack of knowledge. The fact that I was questioning it was completely missed.
‘Yes, body butter. We are doing two for one.’
I was confused enough at that point, considering that perhaps body butter was something you applied after spending too long exposed to the damaging rays of the midday sun and resembled a bit of burnt toast. I was half expecting the two for one to include body marmalade as well. The shake of my head and the mumbled ‘no thanks’ only encouraged her to move back to my face.
‘Perhaps you would like something to exfoliate?'
'Exfoliate?'
'Yes...your face.’
My Face? Sure I needed a shave. I wouldn't have come in to buy shaving gel if I didn't but what had she got against my face? And what would happen if I exfoliated it anyway? Did she mean obliterate it? I only wanted a shave.
‘No. I don’t think I should...should...err..exfol...a shave is...I mean the shaving gel will be fine thanks.’ A queue was building up behind me, all of them women.
The assistant then decided to treat me like a four year old.
‘Shall I pop it into a little bag for you?’ she asked, in a twee, high pitched voice.
I was surprised she didn’t begin to make coochie coo noises and tweak my cheek between thumb and forefinger. I suppose I shouldn't have been that surprised given that she found my face so horrendous. She'd probably decided that touching it in its present 'unexfoliated' state was a step too far.
As she placed the shaving foam into the bag she came up with another offer.
‘Would you like a free Moroccan scrub, Sir?’
Moroccan scrub? I had visions of a bloke in a fez and djellaba jumping out from behind the counter with a very large brush and a bucket of soapy water. She saw my quizzical look.
‘It’s a free product that helps get rid of dead skin.’
She placed a small round container into the bag.
Dead skin. Blimey, she clearly didn’t think much of me. I grabbed my little bag, ignored the smirks of the ladies behind me and exited the shop as fast as I could.

I might just grow a beard.

Jam

I don't go food shopping! I'm a bloke. I did go once and found that :
a.) women get in the way
b.) everybody wanders around in no coherent order
c.) people just stop dead in the middle of an aisle with a full trolley completely oblivious to others trying to get past with their trolleys. (I do hope the same people are not allowed out in cars)

It seems that most people have no idea what they went out shopping for in the first place. Either that or they suffer amnesia on the way there...because they just stand staring at things once they get there...as if they are indeed suffering memory failure. Go in, pick it up, put it in your basket and get the hell outta there. That's proper commando shopping. Get in, get the job done and get back out. Don't stand gawping at jam! It's goddam jam. You either came out to get jam or you didn't? If you didn't why are you staring at it? If you did...pick it up and move on! Jam can't have suddenly become immensely appealing, causing a trance induced state - unless you started out on hard narcotics. And if you did, you shouldn't have driven to the shop in the first place. In fact you shouldn't even be in charge of a trolley. Perhaps that's why you just leave your trolley slap bang in the middle of the aisle when people are pushing past to go stare at Weetabix. You forgot you had a trolley. Maybe on the drive home you'll just forget you had a car, stop it in the middle of the road, get out and just leave it right there, engine running holding up the whole High Street causing a ........a jam.