Out of the Past I

I wondered whether this was too pissy to post about. Then I had a look through the Lad Litter archives. And came to the conclusion that this might just be the equivalent of a Foreign Policy White Paper by comparison with some of the complete piffle I've churned out on this blog. Plus, it gave me a pretty good excuse to use the title of my all-time favourite film to head up a post. Evocative, no?

I'm on Facebook. I have the security settings on Friends Only, but my name and profile image are searchable. I'm not on it all the time like some, but I do attend to it by putting up the odd smart-aleck comment on my wall and the occasional patronizing and by-no-means-heartfelt "like" on friends' wall posts. It's the nature of the medium, boys and girls. Facebook, where the shallowness glows wanly through even the densest layers of mock-sincerity.

But I'm not really as cynical about Facebook as all that. No, if used for niceness and goodness instead of meanness and rottenness, it works pretty well. Except for the people who seem to think you're important enough to send a friend request to, but that you lack the critical cachet needed for them to actually reply to any message you might send them.

But as I said, it's not like I check in on Facebook all that often, just now and then. So it was something of a surprise to find about a month ago that I'd received a message from someone whose name I didn't recognize. The message wanted to know if I was the same tall Lad Litter with long blond hair who'd gone to a particular inner suburban high school. She identified herself by mentioning that she'd dated a mate of mine from those days. I told her I remembered her well, but not to leave the porch light on for any long blond hair.

I also let her know that I hadn't maintained contact with her old boyfriend for long after school had finished and had no idea where he might be. That didn't seem to faze her, so we exchanged messages about current events and figures in our lives and briefly and superficially discussed my reluctance to engage in any cavalacade of reminiscence about that time. It's been quite a lovely correspondence.

But back in 1976, she used to wait in the mornings at the Mt Rd tram stop at the top of my street. I'd cycle past on the footpath on the other side of that busy road. She was on her way to the Catholic girls' school in North Melbourne and used to wait there with a friend. We'd be looking at each other as I rode past, the two girls and I, but without any interest, just awareness. Some mornings I'd wave to them, but I can't remember if they ever waved back, or just rolled their eyes. If it was eye-rolling, someone had given them sound advice.

It was such a small part of all our days that I'm sure none of us gave it much thought at all. Besides, they looked a couple of years younger than me too.

Late December of that year seemed replete with balmy, well-lit evenings and it was my ritual to walk our dog across the park out the back of our place, south along the Moonee Ponds Creek valley, and have a cigarette in one of our kitchen window’s blind spots. Once I'd crested the low hill that put me in Travancore, walking through the naturalized aniseed, I met a bloke I knew on his way to see a mutual friend and neighbour of mine. We smoked and then headed back in the direction of my place. As soon as we'd retraced my steps over the hill, we saw two girls sitting having a chat right in the middle of the park.

Our path was going to take us close by them, but before any awkward encounter could take place, my dog Tiger had sidled over to make friends. The ol’ tail-wagging icebreaker was in top form and seemed to be demonstrating an aptitude for social graces that would elude me for quite a few years more. It was about then I realized it was the two girls from the tram stop. And they’d both turned out to be very attractive.

My Facebook correspondent, Leslie, was tall and with long straight brown hair parted in the middle. It’s a look that just always seems to work. As well, she seemed graceful and smart. Her friend Lisa was a stunner. Maybe a bit Mia Freedman-ish with a dash of Sigourney Weaver, although both were unknown in 1976.

I can’t remember much of what was said and it’s probably just as well. Because I’d be guessing that the other guy and I would have been talking a whole load of complete rubbish, trying all-too-desperately to be funny and probably not succeeding. Somewhere during the conversation they worked out that I was the guy on the bike and that sent them into hysterics. I just had to giggle along nervously in the hope they were laughing with me, not at me. You can never be completely sure about that.

But they seemed okay with our gormlessness. So it was nice to learn a couple of weeks later that Lisa had met this guy she really liked. Yeah? It was my neighbour, whose girlfriend lived in Lisa’s nearby street who told me this. He’d heard it from his girlfriend. And his girlfriend reckoned the guy was me.

The ICE Queen Cometh

I sometimes get text messages from TLOML at work. No, not the Liz Hurley-Shane Warne type. Just mundane family stuff like, would I pick something up from the supermarket on the way home? Did I remember to call our accountant? That sort of thing. Alright, usually there'll be one of those cheesy little emoticons attached, but nothing salacious. Certainly nothing in the kick-arse department, that's for sure. No, if I need a bollocking, that can wait till I get home.

Except for the text I received one morning this week. It was from a newly-created contact, Your Wife, which I hadn't entered myself, and went something like this:

The name is TLOML, you smartarse bastard! And don't you forget it.

I don't mind admitting I went immediately into kangaroo-caught-in-the-headlights mode. What was going on? Had some psychopath tapped into my phone? Wait. Wait a minute, that would represent an obvious but highly plausible and dramatic segue from a couple of previous posts. And would mean that the author of this blog actually has something really interesting and continuity-friendly happen to him from time to time. No, that couldn't be it.I thought I'd better give TLOML a ring to see if she knew anything. I'm pretty sure I gulped audibly just before calling her.

"Hi. Um, did you send me a text message a little earlier?"

"Yes, I did."

"Alright. So, what was it all about?"

"Well, see if you can work it out."

"Don't be stupid. I have no idea what it's about."

"Alright then."

She hung up. I had some serious thinking to do. What could I have done to have made her so angry, for chrissakes? And no, I can't write "and then it dawned on me" because bugger me it just didn't. I went on with work for about another couple of hours. Alright, and THEN it dawned on me. I'd heard on the radio just before Christmas that emergency services authorities were recommending people save the phone number of their next of kin in their mobile phone address books so that if anyone was ever injured and unconscious, direct contact with their next of kin could be easily effected. The suggested universal acronym was ICE, for In Case of Emergency.

Was it possible that TLOML had been looking for a contact in my phone's address book, seen her number under ICE, and taken offence? Yes, it was. So I called her back.

"TLOML, listen don't hang up - I think I know what's happened."

"Really? Go on."

"Well, do you remember when I told you how I was listening to the radio and someone from one of the Emergency Services was talking about how difficult it was to to contact the next-of-kin of people who had undergone significant trauma like in an accident and might be unconscious or in shock? And how everyone was being urged to save their next-of-kin's phone number under ICE for In Case of Emergency? Do you remember that?

"Oooohhhhhh, yes I do."

"So you saw that your mobile number was saved as ICE and jumped to what conclusion exactly?

"Um, that you had me saved under ICE in your phone so that when I called you to get you home from the cricket club you could show everyone that The Ice Queen was after you and everyone could have a good old blokey laugh at my expense."

"What?! How's that going to be funny? If I was going for that sort of cheap laugh you'd be saved as Party Pooper Central, Leader of the Opposition or The Handbrake. At least give me some credit."

"Alright, I'm sorry then."

And then we got the giggles. We're still laughing about it.

The Day Before Yesterday

I gathered some inspiration for this from a recent post over at one of my favourite blogs: Mooiness. Marcus was musing about whether tolerance for other peoples' idiosyncracies was the key factor in determining whther a newly-formed relationship could last. And wondered if the too-quick identification of a "character flaw" in a potential partner was a subconscious escape clause. I'm paraphrasing, and I'm not sure if I've done justice to Moo's excellent post, so you can read exactly what he had to say here.

But in my case, it was 1985 and I was 26 and about as single as you could get. A colleague was having a fancy dress party and when I arrived early as Angus Young, there was only one other guest there: this beautiful Asian girl who was wearing an I Dream of Jeannie outfit that came very close to making me forget all about Barbara Eden. We spent a fair proportion of the evening talking together and somehow ended up getting in touch shortly afterwards to organize a date. I was through to the semis.

She lived out in Keilor Downs and when I got there she was not quite ready so I chatted with her sister, also a stunner, and then we went next door so I could meet her folks. That's right, her folks lived next door to the house where the two sisters lived. Dad was of Malaysian Chinese origin, and had worked for the RAAF in Malaysia and then emigrated. Mum was English. They were really nice people. We spent quite a long time talking with her folks and they made it clear in a subtle way that Helen, the younger of their two daughters, was unaccustomed to going out with blokes and that I was being afforded quite a privilege. None of which bothered me. It was a first date, so it was bound to be something of an exploratory expedition for all concerned.

We had dinner at a restaurant in Fitzroy and she was really lovely. But very shy, and although obviously intelligent, not terribly worldly. Like she'd been a bit sheltered. All of this was okay. I wasn't exactly the playboy of the western world myself, and although clueless in a great many ways, flattered myself that I understood how we don't all march to the beat of the same drum.

I dropped her off back at her place, had a quick cup of coffee with her and her sister and went home. It had gone well, (albeit a bit more G-rated than I'd have liked), and I was keen to continue.

So I thought it was great when she rang me the following Friday to see if I wanted to go out to the pictures with some friends of hers. We met up at the house in Pacoe Vale where the three friends lived, two guys and a girl. This particular evening did not go well.

There was far too much umming and ahhing about what film to see. I kept quiet and left them to it. Threw in a suggestion or two but these were not taken up. The debate dragged on and on until finally they settled on The Breakfast Club. I'd never heard of it and asked who was in it. Turned out it was a Brat Pack movie. Fuck. Oh well, it was a night out.

We arrived at the Greater Union cinemas in Russell St in the city with a bit of time to kill. I suggested we pop around to the Carlton Hotel in Bourke St for a couple of drinks. More debate. I found their dithering frustrating, and I think it showed. And the film was shit. I know director John Hughes passed away yesterday, but I didn't think much of this film at all, so I'm taking his many eulogies with a grain of salt.

There was more indecisiveness about what to do after the movie so it ended up being a date-that-pretty-much-wasn't. And I decided not to pursue things with Helen. We were heading in different directions. As much as I liked her, as lovely as she was, (and she was lovely on all levels), I couldn't imagine hanging around with her friends and she was clearly very family-oriented. The prospect of spending long nights in front of the TV at her folks' place (at anyone's folks' place, including my own!) was one I didn't relish. There was just the matter of the party I was having at my place in a couple of weeks that I'd told her about.

During the leadup to this party, I didn't contact her. She resolved everything when her phone call got me out of the shower before work one morning to tell me announcement-style that she wouldn't be coming along. I said that was fine, but asked her why. Because she didn't want to go out with me anymore. I told her that was fine too, and wished her well. Quite a nice, mutually satisfactory ending. Rare? In my experience, yes.

It was a shame, but it was looking too much like I'd be dating a shy teenager, and that just didn't suit me. And I'd also say there was probably a good deal of me not suiting her involved too.

But the funny thing was that a couple of years later, when TLOML and I started dating, I found a lot of similarities between the two of them. Some differences too. However, on reflection the big difference was to do with me. Because for TLOML, I was ready to make some kind of commitment. I think also by that time, I was thinking it was more about her than her surroundings.

The rest is history.

But just by way of a coda: some seven years later, TLOML arrived home from work one afternoon after we'd been married about a year wanting to know who this Helen was. I didn't connect initially, but it turned out Helen was this beautiful Asian replacement teacher who'd filled in for her the day before and in the note she'd left TLOML, mentioned that we'd dated and asked to be remembered to me. Helen was doing replacement teaching while she was on family leave, and I managed to piece together that she'd married a pretty cool bloke I'd once worked with briefly and they'd had a baby.

I think that makes four happy endings, all up.

A Tale of Two Dates III

It had all turned out very well. Exceptionally so. And we had another date lined up.

What could possibly go wrong?

I’d called Lynette to make arrangements for the Saturday night. My cricket team was playing in the afternoon so I organized for us to meet at my folks’ place just around the corner from the home ground. We’d go to the clubrooms for the Christmas break-up function, and then on to the Prince of Wales Hotel in St Kilda, where a mate’s band were playing a late gig. After that, well, we’d be closer to her place in Hawthorn than my folks’ place in Ascot Vale so we might as well head back there and spend the night. It was going to be so perfect!

That’s one of the reasons why I was pretty upbeat when I arrived at my folks’ to meet her. The other reason was my team had won and I’d done okay, getting a couple of cheap tailender wickets to finish off the match.

She was already there and getting along with my mum like a house on fire. Mum was always very nice to my lady friends as a matter of policy. Anyone silly enough to go out with her idiot son had enough to contend with and didn’t need a difficult mother to complicate matters.

We got to the function and I introduced Lynette to my brother and his then wife and my closest club mates and their partners. One of the women had been at school with Lynette’s sister, so they struck up a conversation. Everything seemed to be running pretty smoothly so I felt relaxed. Laid back enough to join in a shout that involved a group of blokes who were much more seasoned drinkers than I was.

After the first couple of beers, I felt great. And after four beers I felt a little tipsy, merry even. About ready to stop drinking in case I got really drunk. But this was a serious, high-rotation shout I was in. And the beers just kept coming. Destination: near-oblivion; and I’d booked a first-class ticket. Well, so what? Lynette seemed to like me, I drunkenly reasoned. I mean, I’d fucked her for God’s sake, so it wouldn’t hurt if I did a bit of drinking and we had a good time before the guaranteed, ironclad prospect of follow-up sex back at her place. She was driving, so what harm could it do?

Now, this is where the downward spiral begins, because up until then everything had been fine. Lynette had chatted comfortably with the other women there and I'd engaged in blokey conversation with the guys around me. Now and then there'd even been cross-gender exchanges. Everyone seemed happy with the situation. Lynette and I were talking and touching, leaning close to hear each other because there was a band playing. I felt good that she was okay with us being close in public.

And then I swallowed the Absorbo Pill. I was stinko; schickered; wasted; whacked; hammered; plastered; sloshed. You name it. I was F Scott Fitzgerald, only talentless and unattractive . And I talked. The greatest load of rubbish you’ve ever heard. Firstly, mingling with the blokes from my cricket side. Earnest, emotional stream-of consciousness crap. About the team and what I thought we needed to do to win the flag. I got pretty absorbed in it. And I went on, and on, and on. The blokes just put up with it and manfully hid their annoyance. The tolerance of friends. Never take it for granted.

I kept looking over at Lynette and thinking, “Shit. I should be over there talking to her. In a minute. She’ll be okay.”

Next time I glanced over, she appeared to be looking a little neglected. “I’d better get over there,” I thought. But I was apprehensive and hesitant. How could I put things right? I’ll have a think about that while I’m chatting just a little bit more with these great blokes.

I think it was someone’s girlfriend who came over and suggested I rejoin Lynette. I complied, but I was beyond making sense at this point. We got up to dance and about halfway through the first song, I overbalanced and fell against her. That’s about as much as I can remember clearly from the part of the evening spent at the cricket club.

The rest is just a blur: of lights; noise; Lynette dancing with one of the blokes from the First XI; Lynette writing something on a piece of paper and handing it to him; me not being game to ask her what that was all about. But asking her if she wanted to get going. She didn’t. Going to the toilet and having one of our more outspoken players tell me Lynette was a good sort and half-jokingly mention that he thought she was wasted on me.

We must have left eventually. Because the next thing I remember we were in her car arguing about where we were going next. She was adamant that I hadn’t mentioned anything about going to see a band at the Prince of Wales. I was insistent that I had clearly told her about it. She was probably right. Sometimes I make plans in my mind that seem settled. My thought processes then turn to self-congratulation and I forget all about informing affected parties about said plans. I don’t have to be drunk to do this. I also don’t have to be drunk to prolong an argument when I think I’m right. This applies especially when I am in actual fact wrong.

She wanted to call it a night. Seemed to be doing a lot of sighing. But I stupidly thought the situation was salvageable so started pathetically pleading a case for going back to her place. She said she wanted to drop me home at my folks’.

She must have agreed just to shut me the fuck up because the next flash of memory is of driving up Johnston St towards Hawthorn. I fumblingly tried to apologise. She made one of those tongue-clicking noises and exasperated groaning-type sounds. She was past wanting to hear anything from me. I didn’t take the hint. I started talking about that day’s cricket match. She wasn’t interested. In cricket or me. I persisted with clumsy, slurred attempts at conversation.

She must have helped me out of the car and onto the couch. But when I woke up what must have been a short time later it was straight into the bedroom and under the covers alongside her. I fumbled with her until she shook me off. Then I think I might have kept fumbling with her for a little while longer. Only about an hour. Maybe more than an hour. And then I must have fallen asleep.

Early morning and I needed to go to the toilet. Quickly. I remembered where it was from our first date: out the back. So I walked down the passageway, bumping into walls on either side until I arrived at the back door. The key wouldn’t turn. My bladder was bursting. I could feel urine starting to rise up inside my penis. Try the front door and piss in the front yard! A run back down the passage to find the front door deadlocked. Shit. Only seconds left: her bedroom bay windows and pissing out onto the front veranda my last hope.

I pulled the curtains back noisily in the dark, and rattled the casement windows to no avail. Release. I found myself pissing against her bedroom wall under the windows. It was a long piss too. I had the decency to hold back the usual accompanying fart.

“What are you doing?”
Panic. “Oh Lynette, you’re awake. I couldn’t get the back door unlocked. The key wouldn’t turn and then the front door was deadlocked so I tried the windows here.” Still pissing.
“You didn’t need to turn the key. I left the back door unlocked for you in case you needed to go. But what are you doing?”
“Oh look, I’m sorry Lynette but I’ve just gone to the toilet in here….” Should have used present tense there. I was still pissing.
“What!!! Oh Jesus Christ.”
Finished, I politely kept my back turned while I shook the drops off.

She went to get paper towels and disinfectant and I offered to help but she told me to get out of her way. I returned sheepishly to bed. She didn’t. She went to sleep on the couch.

I caught a taxi home the next morning. But only after vainly trying to get her to come back to bed. And then joining her uncomfortably on the couch. For poor Lynette, it was so much more than just a bad date.

I stupidly rang her a couple of days later but her housemate told me she was staying at her folks’ for Christmas. Even more stupidly, I rang her there. There was no exchange of pleasantries. She just wanted to know how I’d got the number, so I assured her that her housemates hadn’t told me, I’d just looked her folks up in the phone book. I asked her if she wanted to do something New Years’ Eve. She didn’t think so.

I spent a couple of days thinking about whether I should call her back again or not. You never know, she might have changed her mind. Jesus Christ, the first date had gone alright.

And then, thankfully for all concerned, I decided not to.

A Tale Of Two Dates II

I waited a couple of days and then called to ask if she wanted to go out for dinner one night and suggested The Sea-Going Vegetable, a restaurant in Brunswick St Fitzroy. She did. So we picked a convenient night, the night of the first day of my holidays and I told her I’d pick her up at seven.

The die was cast.

The die was cast. I can’t believe I fucking wrote that. Yep, that’s me alright, Julius Caesar crossing the Rubicon to take Rome and receive the wildest public acclaim. Actually, that’s not too far off what did happen, metaphorically speaking.

I’d chosen the Sea-Going Vegetable for the date because I’d heard a couple of women at work raving about it and a few more expressing almost hysterical interest in going there. I reasoned that it must be intriguing to women and so they’d be keen to get there and might not be all that choosy about the company they kept. I tended to play the percentages.

My work break-up the night before had been a bit of a blast. I’d gotten absolutely stinko, still ten years away from sufficient self-awareness to realize what a dickhead drunk I was. The penny had dropped for everyone else. I slept until mid-afternoon, eliminating about four hours of nervous anticipation before my date with Lynette and so sat in front of the TV at my folks’ place (I’d moved back in there during the last week) before getting ready.

I didn’t dress up too much. Just jeans, elastic-sided desert boots about fifteen years out of fashion, and a tasteful shirt. I drove across the Yarra out to Lynette’s place in Hawthorn in my then car. A 1977 Fiat 132 GLS. I felt good about having a European car. And there’d be another four months of feeling good about it before I was to write it off in a stupid accident. But tonight that was beyond the horizon. The Fiat was smooth and comfortable and people seemed to like riding in it.
Did I mention that I didn’t really go to any trouble with my ensemble for the evening? Yes? Well Lynette certainly did. Leather slacks; soft wool jumper that did wonders for a figure that was already pretty wonderful; and high heels. She looked fantastic. I chatted comfortably in the lounge-room with her two housemates while she put on the finishing touches.

She liked the car. We drove in to Fitzroy and I found a park close to the restaurant. Walking up Brunswick St, a prominent District cricketer of the day whom I’d met a couple of times walked past with his girlfriend and stopped and said hello, even remembering my name. This was good. What with the car and the bumping into someone I knew who didn’t qualify for a homeless allowance, I thought I might have looked like I was sort of, you know, happening just a bit. Almost enough to offset the stench of the loser I felt was shrouding me after having to move back in with my folks.

Both of us must have been famished because we ate up big on seafood. And we enjoyed our meals. I’d inadvertently picked a good, appealing restaurant. I drank some wine and a little beer, but slowly and circumspectly due to the after-effects of excessive consumption the night before. Lynette outpaced me by quite a bit. And she talked.

Voluble and garrulous, she took charge of the conversation, and that was fine by me. I specialize in awkward pauses. She appeared to be out to impress me, which I found very reassuring, if a little unfamiliar. I let her talk and inserted the odd supportive half-sentence whenever it was unobtrusive to do so.

Nice legs. She was telling me how she liked men with nice legs, and wanted to know how mine measured up. I hinted that I’d heard the odd complimentary remark made about them, and cacked myself inwardly. Because it was true. Too easy. I hadn't had to lie about anything yet.

Her taste in music didn’t have much correlation with mine, but I managed to keep my inner rock-snob from coming out and spoiling everything like it usually did. When she mentioned going to two Elton John concerts and seeing Tina Turner at the Hilton, I commented on songs of theirs that I thought were good. I was determined not to ruin the ambience and up to this stage, I wasn’t anywhere near red-lining on the Fuckup Meter.

So later, we caught a few songs from a band I can’t remember anything about at the Faraday in Carlton, and mingled with a couple of mates who happened to be there with a group of friends. My mates mugged appreciation of Lynette to me while her back was turned. Very subtle, they were. I let them flatter me.

Back at Lynette’s place, a cup of coffee and some more chatting in her lounge room appeared to be a nice, tasteful end to a very pleasant date. I quite liked her and thought there might be a few more dates in it for us. We appeared to be wrapping things up, so I told her I’d get going and leaned over to kiss her goodnight.

Now, let’s just pause the action here a bit. I thought I’d done quite well and was looking to get out while I was ahead in order to keep things going into the future. You know, like the next weekend. The plan was to give her a kiss goodnight while I was still persona grata and then call her a couple of days later and try for another date, one where I might again be able to avoid fucking anything up. My plan, such as it was, revolved around not fucking anything up two dates in a row. That was a very cocky plan for me.

Which was about where she put her hand after the goodnight kiss had gathered some momentum. Both of us must have been famished because…. hang on, didn’t I say that before? Recurring Motif Alert.

I felt like Edward Hargraves. I’d hit the mother lode. She led the charge into the bedroom where the rest of the night was spent having very passionate sex with the most enthusiastic partner I’d been with up until that time. And she was very vocal. Equal parts Grace Slick and Sandy Denny, although she’d probably never heard of them. At one point, I looked up to notice an open transom window above her bedroom door, through which quite a bit of sound must have carried. Great. Her housemates might get the impression that I was a super-stud from the appreciation she was giving voice to.
I had to throw my clothes on to go to the toilet midway through a brief period of dozing. I hoped I didn’t run into her housemates. The toilet was out on the back patio and I struggled with the back door lock but made it okay. Back in bed, she was pressed up against me half-asleep until soft grey light crept in.

You’d think it would have been a bit slower and more languid in the morning. Not a chance. We went at it again, hell bent on making up for lost time. Without actually having lost any. Like two people who might have been sexually dormant for some time, or who believe they’re having their last for a while. Or both.

She was going to be late for work so I dressed, casually mentioning my cricket club’s Christmas breakup do on the next Saturday night. I was expecting her to demur but she was all for it. So we kissed and said goodbye.

It had all turned out very well. Exceptionally so. And we had another date lined up.

What could possibly go wrong?

A Tale of Two Dates I

There are two types of blogger: those who have written a post about an unsuccessful date; and those who are about to. And I’m about to move seamlessly from the first category to the second. But here there will be a difference. I won’t be lambasting the idiosyncracies and foibles of the co-respondents involved in the disastrous dates that I’ve had. No, I’ll be giving the other point of view. That’s right, the viewpoint of the bad date. It’s an area that appears to be largely unexplored.

Google “Date From Hell.” Then stand back. 141,000 hits. That's a lot of bad date experiences. There’s even a http://www.datefromhell.com/ website that has an ever-expanding archive.

But what about equivalence? In order for you to have a bad date, someone had to be a bad date. So unless there’re just a few people providing all of the bad date experiences bloggers and others put out there, somebody's not fessing up. Is it really possible that there are all of these people out there who have had shitty dates without ever actually being a shitty date? Just who makes up the talent pool of date-wreckers if no-one’s actually ever been one?

It’s an interesting question. Like the one posed by Andre Previn in a witty Punch article around 1970. Then, there was muzak everywhere. Everyone hated it, especially musicians. But musicians must have played on it, otherwise it wouldn’t exist. So who was trading licks in some cheap studio to lay down elevator music and not admitting to it? Somebody must have been.

I think I might be labouring a very poorly-researched point here so…

This three-part series will go through the leadup to and description of two highly contrasting dates from my dimmest, darkest past. It’s not going to be pretty. You can turn back now if you want. I won’t mind. Really.

I’d broken up with a girlfriend just a couple of months previously. Technically, she’d broken up with me. I suppose there’s a small difference. It had progressed to the on-again-off-again stage and would do so for another four months or so. I didn’t mind either way. She did.

But towards Christmas time I was due to play in a social cricket match. It was organized by a mate’s brother and he’d brought along a workmate, Susan and her best friend, Lynette. The best friend was unattached. And on the lookout. My mate’s brother had put it to me thus: “She’s pretty nice and my workmate tells me she hasn’t had a root for ages.”

Lynette turned out to be very attractive. Tall, shapely, long brown hair and two features in particular that always work for me: naturally arched eyebrows; and one eyetooth pointing slightly forward. Either of those do wonders for me. Okay, so far so good.

We were introduced and I made intermittent small talk with Lynette. She did seem very nice. But my housemate was also having a nice old chin wag with her. I think he fancied Lynette too. I was starting to think she reciprocated. They were getting along like a house on fire and I was pretty pissed off. My housemate was quite successful with women in his own right. He didn’t need to be fixed up with anyone. He could find his own way. Me, I was fucking useless. A set up was always welcome. I never knocked back a setup. I couldn’t afford to.

I was padded up ready to go in to bat and lit a cigarette. A wicket fell. “Keep that cigarette burning for me, will you please?” I said to Lynette. “I might not be very long.” She thought that was funny. Now, I wanted to bat well and impress her. I faced up to a medium-pace bowler who pitched his first delivery to me on a good length just outside off stump. The ball started to cut in towards the stumps. It turned out to be his only delivery to me. I waved the bat at it and forgot all about moving my feet.

That terrible skittling sound from behind told me I was out bowled first ball. So I got back in time to finish smoking the cigarette that Lynette was holding for me. I said thanks as I took it from her. She had the giggles, so I grinned sheepishly and joined in. Well, at least I’d made some kind of impact.

There was a party about a week later where we chatted. My housemate couldn’t make it to that party. Probably because I didn’t tell him about it.

The next day, my mate’s brother rang and told me, “Listen, this Lynette thinks you’re very nice and Susan is suggesting you ring her and ask her out. Play your cards right, or at the very least refrain from doing anything stupid and …. um, look just ring her.”

I waited a couple of days and then called to ask if she wanted to go out for dinner one night and suggested The Sea-Going Vegetable, a restaurant in Brunswick St Fitzroy. She did. So we picked a convenient night, the night of the first day of my holidays and I told her I’d pick her up at seven.

The die was cast.

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML VII: Against All Odds – Lad Litter’s Guide To Winning A Woman™

Here it is folks: How To Find A Woman Despite Total Incompetence: Based On What I Did In The Previous Posts On This Matter. It’s a longish set of sub-titles but conveys fairly precise meaning, don’t you think? Perhaps not.

Just a couple of disclaimers first: this is a very complex area; my expertise is limited; any advice given here is not in any order of priority; and said advice probably won’t work.

1) Well, you do have to make an effort. I really wanted to say that doing nothing and waiting for something to just fall right into your lap was the way to go, but the evidence simply doesn’t bear this out. Even though it felt that way to me at the time. And it would’ve been nice to be able to directly contradict every single smug self-help bullshit artist on the planet. Fuck it. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

You have to show interest. Not too much: if your eyes bug out with an accompanying klaxon sound when you see her and your jaw drops to the floor allowing your tongue to roll along after it, you’re overdoing it.

But not too little either: You can’t rely on her showing interest if you don’t. I know women sometimes do make the first move, but believe me, this is rare. And if you’re the sort of bloke who reads blogs like this one, then chances are you’re not beating chicks off with a baseball bat.

So, pay attention to her. Listen carefully to what she says and if you can, slip in some of the funny stuff, making sure it’s supportive of what she’s saying. Because if the two of you can do a bit of laughing together, even better. So if you get the impression she’s just said something funny, laugh with her. You may miss the cues for her gags if you’re mentally undressing her. Watch out for that.

2) The eternal dilemma: do you be yourself, and risk saying or doing something stupid? Or be guarded and chance having her think you’re a cold fish? Well, the answer in most cases would appear to be striking a delicate balance between the two.

You need to be on something approaching your best behaviour, but with a bit of your true self on display there too. Be gentlemanly, but not foppishly or grandly so. Be casual, but not so at ease that you go into the toilet and continue the conversation with the door open.

3) For chrissakes get sick. This is very important. Hurry! Before you fuck things up and she dumps you. It’s no good getting sick after the dumping. She’ll be more likely to think you’re faking it then. Especially if you are.

4) Act like you belong in a relationship, even if it feels a bit funny. So when in a social gathering among friends, don’t grin broadly and nod your head in the direction of your date with a “Golly, look what I got,” expression.

You need to be casual and natural about the new and exciting presence of a girlfriend. So be attentive without smothering or dominating her. But don’t just leave her and go off to chat with your mates. This is a really hard one. I STILL fuck this one up.

In fact, I still fuck a lot of it up, and we’ve been married for 18 years.

Blogger won't let me put a fucking title on. Great. That will really piss people off. Especially that googler who got here with the search terms put the big lad in my arse. He might be getting a little bit impatient. His next search might be okay then, how about if I put my much bigger lad in your arse?

Nevertheless, this is:

The Ballad Of Lad Litter And TLOML VI

Are you with me?

If you are, congratulations on your attention span and thanks for hanging in there. Six long episodes to tell a tale that took only a few short weeks to unfold. But then again, as love stories go, it has a raven-tressed heroine, and a moronic hero. A Byronic hero. That was what I meant to say.

We’ve been together for just over twenty years now, and married for the past eighteen of them. Moe, Larry & Curly round things out nicely for us and we are, to borrow from the latest Smith’s crisps jingle, happy together.

The course of our true love hasn’t always run smoothly and there have probably been three occasions when we might have parted ways, two when we were dating and one early in our marriage. I imagine most others could tell a similar tale.

But here’s what’s happening in our world:

1) I have the hots for TLOML, in pretty much the same way I did when I first laid eyes on her. If anything, the feeling might be stronger now;

2) We make each other laugh at our own expense. Foibles and idiosyncrasies are grist to our humour mill;

3) She is incredibly supportive and understanding, sometimes when I don’t deserve it;

4) I get a big kick out of being acknowledged as her husband. Like when I’m introduced to someone who has met her but not me and they say “Oh, you’re TLOML’s husband!” I’m told my voice drops a tone and a half and one eyebrow lifts about a centimetre when I reply, “Yes. Yes, I am.”;

5) We seem to agree and disagree in a fairly balanced way. Enough of the former to make things go smoothly, and enough of the latter to make things interesting and challenge our outlooks;

6) We both believe we are lucky, and tell each other so. No, not just during sex, at regular times too. Alright, those regular times are usually before sex, but that’s no coincidence.

7) She is often contemptuous of my interests so I don’t get too big for my boots. But then, she’ll make sure that I get new cricket pants when I need them, or Martin Scorsese’s Bob Dylan doco No Direction Home for Christmas;

Alright, so did I have a point to make? Is there anything from this sweeping saga that anyone could actually learn from or use in their own life? I doubt it. There’s no moral to the story as such, beyond a series of vague guiding principles that would have very limited application for anyone else.

But I’m going to have a crack at it anyway.

And so, coming soon, to conclude this series will be:

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML VII:
Against All Odds – Lad Litter’s Guide To Winning A Woman™

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML V

Things couldn’t have been better.

Really.

And then I appeared to become seriously ill.

About a week later, I neglected to ring TLOML towards the Thursday to see if she wanted to do anything on the weekend. I thought about it, but as a really lazy bloke, I reasoned that she might ring me. She didn’t. And I thought well, missing one weekend together won’t be the end of the world.

I had a couple of mates over to the big old house on the hill this cold Saturday afternoon and we were having a choof and listening to some great music. As you would. Flash by Jeff Beck it was, which had the minor 1986 hit People Get Ready, with Rod Stewart on vocals. We were talking about Beck’s playing. His odyssey from the Yardbirds through various Jeff Beck Groups. With a veritable cavalcade of stoner insights flying back and forth.

Well, your mind opens and you let the odd thought in that wouldn’t otherwise form part of any straight stream of consciousness. And some of it still holds water when you do get straight. I was standing near the mantelpiece and giving a partly coherent and excruciatingly pompous summary of Beck’s place in rock guitar history. The Crashing Bore Holds Forth.

I leaned over towards the mantelpiece with one hand outstretched and missed it completely and stumbled.
“Shit, sit the fuck down you fuckin’ idiot,” one mate sympathized.
The other bloke backed me up though.
“And your talking shit too ‘cos your just too fucking stoned. I want to listen to the fucking record, not you.”

Suitably uplifted, I joined them on the lounge suite. I wasn’t spinning out, but I was pretty stoned and had the wobbles. Which was a bit disconcerting. And I was a little disoriented. I spoke negligibly from there on, but when I did, I slurred my words. After my two paisani left, I had a bit of a nap. When I woke up in the early evening, I was no longer under the influence of Terence Stamp’s Favourite. And I felt clear, not dizzy. But the walls kept bumping into me and I sounded as if I’d been partying like it was 1999.

I called TLOML and she wasn’t home. Do you know where she is? I asked her mum.
Yes, she’s over at her Uncle Big Irish Bloke and his wife’s.

I was put out, and the logic went something like this: I hadn’t called her, so it was up to her to call me, and she hadn’t, so therefore she was in the wrong and I was therefore entitled to ring her and demand to know where she was and why she hadn’t called me. And why she had the nerve to be out while I was stuck at home. This actually made sense to me at the time. I kid you not.

I grilled her mum some more about where she was and then when TLOML got home and called me back she wanted to know why she was expected to call me to see about the weekend, and I mumbled and stammered my way through a lame and very unconvincing presentation of my case. She told me she thought I was drunk, OR SOMETHINNNGGG!! she added in what must have been Arial Black 72. I tried to assure her I wasn’t, but I sounded in my cups, verbally.

But now, let’s do an Enid Blyton, shall we? Let’s, having gone into minute detail in an introduction, then just zip through a crucial part of the narrative in a really brusque, dismissive can't be fucked kind of way, probably annoying the crap out of our readership. Both of them. Anyway, ol’ Enid placed a great store in the recitation of lists, if I remember my Magic Faraway Tree correctly. So:

1) I’d had a really painful sore throat the week before. The GP had said it was Clayton’s Tonsillitis. The tonsillitis you have when you don’t have any tonsils;
2) When I returned to him with the wobbles, he referred me to an ENT Specialist. Balance problems are often middle-ear related. But the ENT bloke thought I needed to see a neurologist;
3) I was tested. I was scanned. I was interviewed. Did I belong to a high-risk category for HIV? I theatrically affected mild outrage at the very idea of such a question.
4) After all the variables had been isolated, the loss of co-ordination was found to be an inflammation of the cerebellum, a complication usually arising from glandular fever, which the sore throat must have been a small case of. Tests don’t show it, so you have to eliminate everything else;
5) I spent a week in St Vincent’s on a cortisone drip and then I was fine;
6) And lashings of ginger beer. No Blyton list is complete without it.

But what was TLOML doing while all of this was going on? And where were we? Well, she was a busy girl. What with visiting me at the big old house on the hill a few times a week while I waited for a hospital bed, bringing me soup and other meals. And then during my week in hospital, she came in every day. I longed for her when she wasn’t there and waited all day to see her.

A fellow patient I used to sit and chat with was introduced to her and after she left told me:

“You’re on a good wicket there mate...”

I couldn’t have agreed more.

Another with whom I shared many a cigarette asked:

“Who’s that girl that comes to visit you? She is really beautiful. So glamourous.” I concurred with that too.

She had been worried about me earlier, while the protracted diagnosis played out. I told her there was no point in winding myself up. No news was good news, and she could be assured that, if it came to the worst, I would promptly go to pieces like the best of them and prove I wasn’t as stoic as I was trying to make out.

But through it all, she brightened everything up. I was with someone who really cared for me. Liked me. Enjoyed my company. Thought I was ok. As my fellow patients had hinted, I was a very lucky bloke.

The day I was discharged, a good 5kg lighter than when this all began, she came over to the big old house on the hill in the evening and...

Puts on Les Patterson voice:

...I don't mind telling you she did her fair share of ceiling inspecting that night.

Are you with me?

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML IV

She was fabulous. I remember telling myself that I could get used to all this, and hoped I would get the chance.

We said goodbye and I told her I’d give her a call soon.

It looked like I had a girlfriend.

I felt pretty good about the whole business so far. Pleased with myself. Smug even. Possibly dangerously smug, I warned myself, but it was very empowering to drive down the street with eyes only on the road for a change. Not bothering to even look at women walking by that I would previously have unashamedly checked out. I didn’t need to anymore. Because I had a girlfriend, I constantly congratulated myself. I wasn’t a loser after all. Not yet.

Anyway, a few days after the-weekend-of-two-dates I just felt like seeing her so I rang her up and asked if she had been watching The Life and Loves of a She-Devil miniseries that was concluding on the ABC that night. She had been. So how about if I came over and we watched it together? She was okay with that.

I arrived to find her Big Sister and her mum and dad sitting in the kitchen. We were introduced and chatted. Big sister left to go home soon after and her mum asked me what I’d done on my day off, which I’d taken to get my car’s electrical system fixed. At an exorbitant price, too.

Not much, I told her, but I’d spent the day at my folks’ place and had to walk past my old primary school on the way to and from the auto electrician’s and it seemed a lot smaller than I’d remembered it.
“And where was that?” she asked.
“Oh, St Somethingorother’s.”
“Really? But that’s where Big Sister and TLOML went to school!” she told me.
This was getting a bit coincidental.

We compared notes on years and it turned out that Big Sister had been in my Grade 4 class and I remembered her clearly. She was a very bright, articulate girl and hadn’t changed. I also remembered her two-years-younger sister, who at that age looked just like her. And her mum had taught both of my sisters at the local Girls High School. How about that for a freak out? These days we’d all be charged with stalking each other.

I searched my memory for recollections of the young TLOML and there were two: she had come in to our classroom after school to meet Big Sister on the way home and I can remember her dark hair in long plaits; and another time when Big Sister and TLOML were walking on one side of a tree-lined street and a mate and I were on the other. I’d called out to Big Sister and she’d pointed her nose in the air and kept walking. TLOML had looked across, looked back at Big Sister and then done the same in a gorgeous Little Sister kind of way.

Well, this was something. I had known my new girlfriend all along, without knowing it.

We watched the conclusion to the mini-series, which wasn’t all that good, but I had just wanted an excuse to see her. She told me much later that she hadn’t even heard of the Fay Weldon vengeance-themed blockbuster but just said that she had so I would come over. She’d then told her mum to forget about watching anything else and to play along.

Later that week, we arranged to meet at a pub with a whole crowd of colleagues and I can vividly remember chatting with some of them when TLOML arrived and came straight over to say hello. We kissed unselfconsciously, me whispering I’ve missed you into her ear. Aaww! She’d missed me too, she was polite enough to reply.

I can’t remember much about the rest of what must have been a very pleasant evening beyond the fact that it finished up with us together again back at the big old house on the hill.

Everything was going rather well. And it felt very natural, totally comfortable. She was really lovely, and her family was nice too.

Things couldn’t have been better.

Really.

And then I appeared to become seriously ill.

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML III

I woke up the next morning and berated myself as I mentally replayed everything from the night before. So much for resolving to leave women the hell alone. I was right back where I’d started. Another embarrassing blunder to try to forget, another woman I was highly likely to encounter again faced with a pressing need to avoid me.

You complete fuckwit, Lad Litter, I confided in myself. Just lose whatever shreds of ego you’re pathetically clinging to and give up. They all end up saying they like you as a friend for chrissakes, so just be satisfied with that and don’t moronically believe there’s a hope for anything more. I do tend to pay out on myself.

I read the paper and moped around the big old house on the hill for the rest of the morning. Around mid-afternoon, I started rationalizing, listing pros and cons:

Pros:
1) She’d actually gone out with me;
2) Conversation flowed easily and I hadn’t said or done anything stupid;
3) She was very beautiful and charming. I felt comfortable with her;
4) Surely you’re not a sleazebag just for trying to kiss a girl;
5) There was really nothing to be embarrassed about;

Cons:
1) She might have been at a loose end, or just plain hungry, and gone to the restaurant with me just for the hell of it;
2) The possibility that I might say or do something stupid was ever-present. She may well have picked up on that vibe;
3) She was very beautiful and charming. She probably made everybody feel comfortable. It didn’t mean I was anything special;
4) You are a sleazebag if you try to kiss a girl who doesn’t want you to;
5) There was really nothing to be embarrassed about. Yet;

Only one thing to do. Push the matter so that I could be sure one way or the other. Ring her up and ask her to that night’s party that I’d already decided not to go to. If she wasn’t interested, that would end the matter. Until future rounds of rationalization, where I could almost hear myself saying “Asking her out for a sixth time should be okay. She might really have had a string of Amway meetings to go to those last five times.”

But for now, I wasn’t in stalking territory yet. I rang and she didn’t sound displeased to hear from me. I asked her if she’d like to go along to the party. There’d be a few people she knew there. I could come over and pick her up. The party was in Carlton so we could have dinner in Lygon St. She said okay.

This was something of a surprise. I had expected her to make an excuse or just tell me she really wasn’t interested. Now I had a date to get ready for. I spent the afternoon cleaning the car and dressed in the best ensemble I could come up with. Pleased with myself and reeking of cheap aftershave, I climbed into the car and found the lights didn’t work at all. Got out. Checked fuses, checked globes. Nothing.

I called TLOML, apologized and explained the situation and asked if she would be able to come over to my place to pick me up. She sounded a bit suspicious, but agreed.

We had a very pleasant meal in Lygon St but it was the company, not the ambience. Italian restaurants give me the creeps. Because Italian restaurants seem to employ only creeps. But that’s another post, coming soon.

At the party, no-one seemed surprised to see us together and we seemed to be conducting ourselves like any established couple, chatting independently with a range of people but keeping an eye on each other. I thought this was okay. I was wrong.

In the car on the way back to my place, TLOML seemed to be seething and would hardly speak to me. She made her point and I made excuses and apologized. She seemed satisfied with that and after we kissed, she ended up staying the night. If this was a movie, there’d be a tasteful dissolve right about here. But not before letting you know that I pretended to be asleep in the morning when she left the bed, naked, to get dressed. I watched her walk around the room, looking for her clothes. She was fabulous. I remember telling myself that I could get used to all this, and hoped I would get the chance.

We said goodbye and I told her I’d give her a call soon.

It looked like I had a girlfriend.

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML II

Are you with me so far?

1) No girlfriend;
2) No prospects;
3) In a downward spiral;
4) Resigned to a lonely existence and to live miserably ever after;

I wasn’t going out much, avoiding friends and gatherings as I felt unfit for good company. No-one was beating a path to my door either. And I was almost past begrudging them.

A former colleague of mine who worked with TLOML was killed in a car accident in April of that year. It was a pretty sad business. He was a funny, social catalyst-type bloke with a bit of niggle about him and was always good-naturedly putting you on the back foot. He had legions of friends and a long-time girlfriend who the accident had left quadriplegic. The ol’ workplace was suffering from his absence. TLOML had got along particularly well with him and was devastated.

About a month after all this, I wandered into the pub one Friday evening for a round of after work drinks. It was the first time in ages and even then only because I happened to be in the neighbourhood. I almost didn’t go. Sliding Doors and all that.

I sat down with a group of people including TLOML and a few others and chatted until about six. People started drifting off and I found myself in conversation with TLOML, a friend of hers and the friend’s latest two-week stand boyfriend. This bloke also had one of his mates along. Party of five.

And I was feeling like the fifth wheel. It looked like the friend was angling to set up TLOML and her new boyfriend’s mate. I was about to head home but TLOML and I had somehow got into a conversation between just the two of us and I was enjoying myself. Plenty of eye contact and we seemed to be connecting. She was lovely. I warned myself not to be fooled. Told myself to make a few excuses and leave gracefully, but stayed on anyway.

After what seemed like a fairly short time but probably wasn’t, I looked around and noticed everyone else had gone.

Moment of truth. This situation looked immediately promising. A voice inside kept telling me to get the hell out before I spoiled everything. I didn’t listen. I asked TLOML if she was interested in getting a bite to eat and that I knew a reasonably priced Turkish restaurant in Sydney Rd. She was okay with that. I didn’t have to listen to the voice inside me. It had stopped.

TLOML followed me back to my place and we left my car there. At the restaurant, conversation flowed easily and I found myself relaxed and feeling pretty natural. She was such good company, so much so that I hardly noticed the belly dancer at all. I was looking at a vision, but I felt so at ease with her, and I hadn’t said anything stupid. This was unusual. I didn’t feel like I had to impress her either. This was extraordinary.

Back to my place for coffee. I put on a record. Probably Neil Young. We sat on the couch and talked some more and she admired the curtains in my lounge room. They had a tasteful forest print motif. I touched her chin and turned her face towards me.

“What are you doing?”
“Oh nothing really, I think I’d better let this sentence just trail off into nothing with a pathetic, mumbled and near-inaudible apology at the end….”

She didn’t laugh and left soon after that. After I’d waved her goodbye, there was still no voice in my head. But there were klaxons and air-raid sirens going off aplenty. I’d blown it. And not only had I blown it, I’d acted against my newly-minted principles by making a move.

I felt like crap. Again.

The Ballad of Lad Litter and TLOML I

This is a love story.

I’d spent three years at my first job out of uni before transferring to a new job at another work location. This new job occasionally sent me back to my old workplace. In the meantime, positions like mine which had fallen vacant had been backfilled. So when I returned for the first time there were new people there.

I walked into the near empty tea-room well before the start of the working day, and was greeted warmly by a former colleague. She was sitting with one of the new people: the once and future TLOML. Very nice. Dark hair and big brown eyes, a little bit like a young, non-bitchy Joan Collins, first impression anyway. We were introduced and chatted a little. I liked her voice too. When she got up to make a cup of coffee, I watched her walk over to the urn, not too obviously I hoped, eyes only bulging a little and eyebrows probably hardly raised at all. She had a nice walk. And a great figure.

I’d bump into her occasionally over the next 12 months or so. At parties or other work-related social get-togethers. We’d chat briefly, but I didn’t detect any interest on her part. And I didn’t show too much. So things sort of drifted along. She was hanging around with a group of girls from work about the same age and I was hanging around with my mates and smoking a lot of dope.

Women had become a complete mystery to me. I was a romantic basket case. I’d ask girls out who just weren’t interested and then be deeply disappointed when they begged off. I had quite a few of these in a row over some months. I hadn’t had a girlfriend in ages and felt like a complete loser. And I’m pretty sure I looked like one too.

I bumped into TLOML at a Christmas party and hardly spoke to her. I didn’t really talk to anyone and left without saying goodbye very early. But not before I’d told a few people about a party I was having just before heading off on a trip to the US and Canada with a couple of mates.

This party of ours wasn’t bad at all and being among friends I felt lifted out of a slump. I even danced for chrissakes. I’d half-hoped TLOML would come along but she didn’t. No big deal.

I got back from my trip and drifted through another working year. But early on, I had something of an epiphany. I dropped in on my folks one afternoon to find mum’s cousin was visiting. He was a really nice bloke who had never married or even had a girlfriend and I only saw him sporadically over many years but with his encyclopaedic knowledge of football and kindly manner, we’d always got along.

He would have been in his early fifties by this time and I can remember thinking to myself that if the never-married thing had happened to him, and no doubt countless others, then there was no reason why it couldn’t happen to me too. I decided that I could accept that as my lot and resolved to do the following:

1) Stop whingeing and just get along with people. I was running out of friends who didn’t find me unbearable;
2) Steer clear of women. Not avoid them, just make sure I wasn’t making a nuisance of myself going where I wasn’t wanted;
3) Be quieter. Most of my many problems had been caused by a failure to keep my mouth shut. If you don’t say anything, you can’t say anything stupid;

Very noble of me, I thought, saving the women of the world from my unsolicited attentions. Now I had a plan. Just in my own mind, like, because I had a feeling that were I to reveal this new direction to anyone else they would probably think it as cockeyed and wrong-headed as the behaviour and attitude that had brought me to this point.