Spendthrift |
1. noun: someone who spends money in an extravagant way. |
|
2. adjective: of or like a spendthrift. |
Glaswegians |
1. noun: plural of Glaswegian, an inhabitant or native of Glasgow. |
Shortly before Carlisle and with Scotland rapidly approaching, I pulled into a motorway service station. I refuelled the car and myself and then I opened up the glove compartment and took out my phone. Eric, my latest ’whack, had asked me to give him a call when I got into town so I thought it best to check that my phone was working.
I turned it on. Bee-beep, bee-beep, bee-beep it sang, announcing that a new pile of messages had built up. I wasn’t in the mood for any distractions. I didn’t want to speak to anyone but Eric. It was time for a new phone number.
I bought a pay-as-you-go sim card, levered the battery from the back of my phone and slid it into place. There, I had a number that no one in the world knew. My phone sat silently on the passenger seat, unable to distract me, unable to remind me of the life I was shutting out.
I’d got lucky with Harry’s ’whacks. I was climbing back up to ninth place with a trip to Scotland. It wasn’t Glasgow as he’d first thought. Eric Laurier worked at Glasgow University but he lived in Edinburgh and it was there that I would be meeting him.
Once in the city I called Eric and he guided me, like air traffic control, into the car park of a grand hotel. I strolled through to the bar and arrived at our table moments after the arrival of tea and scones for two. Organised. I liked that.
Eric was a sociologist, which struck me as a difficult job. It’s his business to understand the way society functions but that involves being aware of his own foibles too.
‘I have two cats,’ he said in his gentle Scottish accent. ‘I mean, obviously in a way they’re a child replacement. I mean, they’re not, but in a way they are.’
‘I’d hate to be so aware of why I do things,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ said Eric, spreading jam on his scone. ‘I do sometimes find myself becoming an observer when I should be a participant.’
I never know if it’s meant to be jam and then cream or cream and then jam so I studied Eric’s scone technique and copied him. We both took a bite out of our scones and although this time the synchronicity was coincidental it made me feel self-conscious. What if Eric thought I was copying him? He delicately dabbed a napkin to his mouth and I was instantly convinced that a bit of clotted cream was hanging around in the bristles of my beard. I desperately wanted to wipe it away but I couldn’t, not yet. I leaned forward to pick up my tea and Eric did the same. Ah ha! He was copying me this time. I stopped mid-lean, and wiped my mouth instead, breaking the cycle. I let him return his cup to its saucer and then, nonchalantly, I went for my own cup, an independent gesture from an independent man.
‘I think what you’re doing is fascinating,’ said Eric, ‘but then I am a sociologist.’
Oh my God. He was on to me. He could read my mind. Were my socially awkward thoughts that transparent?
‘Well, I never know if it’s jam and then cream or cream and then jam,’ I blustered.
‘No,’ said Eric, looking a little scared. ‘I mean the googlewhacking thing. Fascinating. Connections.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, blushing. ‘Yes. Thanks. I think. Well, remember that I don’t want you to be just an observer, you’re a participant.’
‘Of course, so what do you want me to do?’ asked Eric.
I explained it all: the chain, the deadline, everything.
‘So you need one more and you need to meet him by your birthday which is March the 2nd?’ said Eric, making sure he had all the relevant facts straight.
‘No,’ I said. I knew I had to be as clear as possible. ‘Before that. The challenge is to meet ten in a row before my 32nd birthday. March the 1st is the day that counts.’
‘But it’s February the 25th,’ said Eric.
‘I know.’
‘So what are we doing wasting time with tea and scones?’ he asked. ‘You go and get in your car and start driving to London.’
‘What?’
‘I’m going to a computer to googlewhack,’ said Eric. ‘You need to be in the best hub for international transport when I get them. Get going. You were the last person to call me, so your number is stored in my phone. I’ll ring you as soon as I’ve got the ’whacks. Let’s go.’
As we rose to our feet I felt empowered. I was being marshalled by an expert general, a man with a plan of action and the desire to see it through. I breathed deeply, filled my lungs and headed straight to the car.
Only later did it occur to me that neither of us had paid for the tea and scones.
*
Only one person had my phone number so when the phone rang I knew it was Eric. I slowed the car down and pulled on to the hard shoulder. I know it’s meant to be for emergencies only, but this was an emergency.
‘Hi Dave,’ he said. ‘Have you got a pen?’
‘Yes,’ I said, scrabbling around in the car for a biro. ‘Yes, I have. Fire away.’
‘Spatulas Denouement,’ said Eric and I scribbled it down, ‘and Trimarans Crimps.’