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ON THE morning of his sixtieth birthday, as he looked in the mirror, he decided to fall in love for the last time.

The decision came suddenly, as he fingered the stubble on his jaw and prepared to shave – a chore he loathed, but which he completed dutifully every morning in the cold gloom of the bathroom. His face had to be smooth, as soft as a baby’s bottom, and completely kissable, before he left the house. Finally, he’d dab himself with some Loverboy aftershave, sent to him in an act of futile irony by his ex-wife on the first Christmas after their divorce. He’d used it every day since, because it was the first present from her he’d ever really liked. He was completely unaware of the double irony.

Falling in love again: the thought had lain dormant for some time, but now it kicked like a baby inside his still reasonably flat belly. In recent weeks he’d watched his own daughter fall in love for the first time, and he’d loved the feeling it gave him, watching her eyes brighten, her complexion clear; she’d buzzed around him with the golden pollen of love clinging to her body, glowing softly in the sunlight. The birthmark on her left cheek had faded and almost vanished, or so it seemed to him as he watched her. Sometimes he felt an urge to go to her council flat and peep through the window, to witness her strange new capacity for love. Of course he didn’t, but he yearned to see love’s colours around her body, inside the room, irradiating the glass in her windows. He imagined a nectarous scent wafting from her door every morning when she opened it to the world.

Now, in the bathroom, as he filled the basin with lukewarm water and spread shaving foam over his wet face, he started to enlist the qualities he would like in his new lover, as if he were ticking boxes on a dating agency form. He was too old to be fussy, but nevertheless he began to build up a photofit picture of his ideal woman – a blueprint as it were, because he was a builder after all, and he was still at the planning stage.

She would have to be slim and smallish, almost boyish, but with all the female bits in all the right places. He was drawn to tomboys, and if they had light red hair and green eyes all the better. He seemed to remember the term Irish Sheelagh being used to describe his dream woman in the local newspaper’s Looking for Romance page.

Next on his mental list, as he drew a disposable razor from the window shelf and damped it in the water, came humour: he liked women with a bubbly sense of fun and a lively disposition. So, as he lifted the razor to his right forelock – he started in exactly the same spot every morning – he was in a position to begin his advertisement in the newspaper: Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh, lively & GSOH, wanted for…

And so he dreamt on as he scraped his upper right cheek, clearing it of foam and beard, and after swishing his blue plastic razor in the sink a residue of bristles drifted on an island of foam, making him think of tiny tree stumps in a miniature avalanche.

That night he started to sleepwalk, for the first time in his life. He woke up stiff and sore, naked and curled in a foetal position, in the hallway five floors down from his flat. His first memory of the day was the postman stepping over his body, on his way to the postboxes…

Day 2: Still bleary-eyed, and greatly troubled by this new development in his life, he stood in the bathroom, dressed by now, looking in the mirror and slapping shaving foam onto his face, dabbing it carefully over his upper lip. He wasn’t particularly shy, and the whole village knew he’d nothing to be ashamed of in the trouser department, but he didn’t want to go a-wandering at night again because he didn’t want a dodgy reputation, like that fat little writer with bulgy eyes who’d allowed his dressing gown to open, more than once, as he opened his front door to the paper boy.

Should he use the same razor as yesterday? He swished it in the water and started off on his right cheek, as usual. Trying to steady his hand, he thought again of his quest for love, and his shopping list. He liked intelligent women, but how to put that across? Clever? No, that wasn’t right. Smart? Bright? Professional? How about Educated (bit snobbish) or perhaps Curious? That sounded too much like bi-curious, which he assumed meant people who wanted to try a bit of AC/DC, and he certainly didn’t want that. He decided on Inquisitive, which covered a multitude of sins. He didn’t want a happy-clappy, so he’d put in Secular, and he didn’t want an ice maiden, so he’d put in Warm. So far he had: Warm, inquisitive Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh, secular, lively & GSOH, wanted for…

That night he walked again, down the stairs, through the hallway, up the high street and into someone’s garden near the newspaper shop. He was woken, naked again, by a milk float growling and clinking along the road. Fortunately, covering himself with his hands, he managed to return home unseen. He was acutely cold and had nettle stings all along his left hip. Disturbing.

Day 3: Very worrying, he muttered to the mirror as he cut a swathe to his chin with a new razor. Some of the foam strayed into his mouth as he talked to himself, so he pulled a face and spat it out. What was going on? Should he go to the doc’s? No, he’d leave it for a day or two, it was bound to stop. Mind turbulent and agitated by thoughts of love perhaps. Something below the surface, like the silver below the glass in the mirror (which reflected a red-eyed wreck). He got thinking about mirrors. Why did they need glass? Who cared, he thought moodily. He scraped away at his top lip, vertically then laterally, contorting his face into all sorts of shapes to help the process. He’d done that hundreds of times now, didn’t have to think about it. But today he nicked his upper lip (always problematic) and he was forced to start the day with a twist of toilet paper stuck there to staunch the flow of blood. Sitting on the toilet, brooding about his impending love affair, he added a few more items to his shopping list. He and this virtual woman would have to share some interests. He liked pubs, so he’d put Pubbing. And Holidays Abroad because he’d had a good time picking potatoes – and girls – during a spring in Jersey when he was much, much younger. And Cinema because he often took out a DVD on the way home, to help him go to sleep. How about Walks on the Beach? They all seemed to like that, and it wasn’t too strenuous.

Warm, inquisitive Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh, secular, lively & GSOH, into Pubbing, Holidays Abroad, Cinema, romantic walks on the beach, wanted for…

That night he sleepwalked all the way up the high street, along the same route presumably, and woke up in a bus shelter at the bottom of Mount Road. He smelt of piss when he got home and had to take a shower. Someone saw him, he thought. A face at a window, a curtain falling from someone’s hand. Time to seek help? No, walking home naked might revive his reputation. People had talked of retirement. But you never retired from Love. Not him, anyway. This time he wanted the real thing, not make-believe. A final grand passion, a French kind of thing. It was possible, surely. You often read about two old codgers in a home, over ninety both of them and shaking so bad you’d think they were having it off on a washing machine, getting married and saying it was lovely, just like they were young again.

Day 4: This was getting out of hand. He would sleep with his clothes on, under his light summer duvet. He’d die of cold or shame if it went on much longer. Aching all over from his latest nocturnal jaunt, he cleared the stubble from his left cheek and thought of something he’d read in the paper, something about your beard growing a lot faster if you’d had sex the night before. He hadn’t noticed anything, not even after his record twelve bonks in one night with the two German hitchhikers he’d picked up in the pub. Three in a bed. Wonderful times. He felt himself stiffen slightly, just thinking about it. He finished the shave without incident and dabbed some Loverboy on his neck. Not much left. He’d have to pop into his ex’s salon, creep past all those Dalek hairdryers, ask her where she’d bought the stuff. Perhaps he’d try it on with her. She’d given in a couple of times. Better than when they were married. Strange, that. Could he be bothered going to work? He was bloody knackered. Didn’t fancy a day in bed, not on his own, so he ate some cereal and walked downstairs, whistling through his teeth, thinking of his shopping list again. Dreams. Pie in the bloody sky. What did he want out of this? Sex? Yes, but he could always get that with Sharon Shagpot (so called because there was a Sharon who wasn’t a shagpot, or wasn’t yet, anyway, despite his best efforts. Perhaps she was a lezzy.)

No, he wanted Tenderness and Understanding, a Meeting of True Minds and all that.

How would he put it? Soulmate, that was the word. And she would have to be a non-smoker because he’d finally given up on New Year’s Day and it looked like the only resolution he was ever going to keep, because he had to – his chest was beginning to rattle in the final stages of coitus, and that was no bloody good at all, because Sharon Shagpot had started to giggle one night when he was about to finish. You couldn’t have true love and an asthmatic wheeze when you were on the job, it was ludicrous. He snapped the front door behind him and added another category: Healthy. He didn’t want some old crone with her teeth in a glass and a face like cold putty after she’d scraped a grand’s worth of slap off her face. So far he had: Warm, inquisitive Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh soulmate, secular, healthy, n/s, lively & GSOH, into Pubbing, Holidays Abroad, Cinema, romantic walks on the beach, wanted for…

He went to bed in his clothes, remembering beforehand to remove building debris from his turn-ups. Thank God for that, he said to himself the next morning, after his head had cleared, because he found himself lying on his back in someone’s garden shed halfway up Mount Road. He’d stared at the timber ceiling in the way he stared at bedroom ceilings when he woke up next to a strange woman in a strange house, wondering how the hell he’d got there. Now, as he crept stealthily out of the shed, and wended his way home, he thought he saw a pattern. His sleepwalks were taking him somewhere. But why? And where would he end up? Was his mind trying to lead him to his true love, surreptitiously? Maybe yes, maybe no…

Day 5: He swept upwards with the (same) razor, up his neck from beyond his right earlobe to the ridge of his jaw, and swore loudly, because the razor was blunt and it scraped his skin. The water in the sink reddened, and he slowed down. Pausing, he peered into the mirror, trying to see through the glass, to the silver beyond, or whatever they put there nowadays. An old mirror, so silver foil? He’d ask someone in the pub, there was always someone who knew that sort of thing. He washed his face with cold water to stem the flow of blood. Part of him was disappearing down the plughole. Bits of him disappearing into holes everywhere, all the time. Perhaps black holes in space worked like that too, sucking in… what? He sat on the bog and strained. He’d no Loverboy left for tomorrow, unless he added some water and swilled it round. Could you do that? Try it. Bugger. No bog paper. Bugger. He waddled into the kitchen, clenching his buttocks, looking for old newspaper. None. He looked in the breadbin. Lucky – some soft wrapping paper left over, mouldy crust still inside it. Back to the bathroom, thinking… how would he describe himself? Builder? No, wrong message (though some of them liked a bit of rough). Divorcee? No, wrong again. How about BHM – Big Handsome Male? That’d do. And what was that phrase he’d seen somewhere… DDF. Drugs and Disease Free. Well he was, wasn’t he? Hopefully. Sharon Shagpot had given Will Wasted a dose last Christmas. Perhaps he ought to put No Strings Attached, but that wasn’t true, he wanted to be tied down, didn’t he, if only for a bit? He’d put LTR – Long Term Relationship. Perfect. Now he had: BHM, DDF, seeks warm, inquisitive Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh soulmate, secular, healthy, n/s, lively & GSOH, into Pubbing, Holidays Abroad, Cinema, romantic walks on the beach, for LTR…

That night he walked further than ever before in his sleep, to the top of Mount Road. He woke on a hard wooden bench, and he panicked when he came to, because his hands had turned orange. He realised, slowly, that he was under a streetlight which was still shining down on him. He walked back home and took the day off.

Day 6: He slept all morning and woke himself with a huge snorty snore. His mind took ages to clear. He had a stiff neck and a headache, so he lay there for ages, drifting in and out of consciousness. Eventually, around noon, he rolled over in bed and studied the empty space by his side. He wasn’t used to the daytime sounds in his bedroom. A soft wind moaned in the guttering outside, and his alarm clock seemed extra loud as it ticked away the seconds. He contemplated the future. Did he really want someone – the same someone – in that big empty space by his side every morning when he woke up? The same face? Same smell? Not always womanly. Personal smells. After a while she’d mumble gerroff and wiggle away whenever he pushed against her bottom in the early morning.

He got up and stumbled to the bathroom. Could he be bothered shaving? He looked deep into the mirror, to a point inside the wall somewhere, as if he were staring into one of those 3D pictures which appeared suddenly if you got it right. Nothing happened. He rubbed the sandpaper of his jaw and imagined a row of men, all dressed in red lumberjack jackets and big brown boots with metal toecaps, rubbing a plank with their chins to sand it down. He must be tired or something. So he sat on the bog with his head between his hands, doing nothing in particular except listening to an occasional dribble of wee whispering into the pan.

After a hasty wash he put his coat on and walked down the stairs, heading for the pub. Checking his pockets as he went, he realised he’d virtually no money on him, just loose change. He re-ascended the stairs gloomily and conducted a desultory search in drawers, pockets, in his usual hidey-hole under the wardrobe. Nothing. So he took all the cushions off the couch and wiggled his hand in the crevices. A couple of quid only. Still, it was enough to start off with – he could always bum a fiver here or there. He couldn’t ask for any tic at the local because he already owed a tidy sum to the landlord.

That day he got absurdly drunk, too pissed to do any courting. Unknown to himself, because he was on a different planet by now, he staggered home at closing time and ate a Pot Noodle and a crust with mould on it (he was too pissed to notice). A whole day had gone by and he was no nearer love. He hadn’t even thought about it.

That night he rose from the couch (he never made it to bed) and walked out of his flat, down five flights of stairs, up the high street, up Mount Road, along Jubilee Walk, and into a small muddy paddock. When he woke, deep into the next day, his nose encountered farty smells, rich and fruity. Turning over, his eyes searched the gloom. Who had he ended up with? And why was there so much straw in the bed? It took him a while, but eventually he identified a small fat mountain pony sharing her shed with him, wearing nothing more than a halter, her thick winter coat covered in dry mud.

He went home.

Day 7: He stayed in bed for most of the day. At six he went down to Flat No 1 and sold Mrs Williams a hard luck story; managed to scrounge twenty quid off her. Back in his flat he had a wash but gave the shave a miss. Looking for paper to write a shopping list, the only thing he could find was a cardboard wrap-around from a microwave meal, but it already had something written on it: BHM, DDF, seeks warm, inquisitive Pocket Venus/Irish Sheelagh soulmate, secular, healthy, n/s, lively & GSOH, into Pubbing, Holidays Abroad, Cinema, romantic walks on the beach, lots of laughter and true love. No time wasters please.

He tore it off and used the rest of the paper to make his list, then headed for the pub. Time I had a break from work, he told Psycho in the reassuring glow of the bar lights. The rest was a blank. He never got to the shops, probably never made it home either. That night, asleep or awake, he walked through the high street, up Mount Road, along Jubilee Walk, past a paddock and up a cul-de-sac. When he woke it was two in the morning and he was in Sharon Shagpot’s front garden, slumped against her front door.

Day 8: Don’t ever do that to me again, said Sharon. She’d got the kids up and sent them off to school, then made two big mugs of coffee. She’d run out of fags but found some in his pocket, which was strange, because he’d made a big fuss about giving up. Now she was standing by the big double bed in her bedroom, looking down on a grossly hungover man, unkempt and unshaven, discovered on her doorstep in the night after some feeble knocks and a shower of chippings on her window. As usual, his motives had been transparent.

I don’t want you coming here in that state again you silly sod, she said, standing over him, her blotched knees swelling from underneath her nightgown.

He studied the swirls of steam coming from the mug by his bed. He’d use one of her Ladyshaves, as usual, and go to work whistling through his teeth. Later.

Come back to bed, he said in his best husky voice. I love you.

They listened to the sounds of the morning – rain pattering on the window, cars swishing through roadside puddles, lorries’ peep-peep-peep reversing on the industrial estate.

You’re still pissed you dirty old sod, said Sharon Shagpot.

Then she got back into bed.