Stumbling about in the dark

‘Didn’t you phone her at the time to give her your number and to check you’d got hers down correctly?’

Everyone who heard my sorry tale posed this same question. Well, as I’m sure you can guess by now, the answer is, no, of course I bloody didn’t. Why?

a) I was trying desperately not to come across as the kind of person who expects a girl to give them a fake number. So much for wanting to appear relatively cool and relaxed.

b) I was under the impression that keying a few numbers into a phone without making a mistake wasn’t beyond me. Obviously I was mistaken.

‘What do you know about her?, asked Si. Just the bare (oh, so very bare) facts.

- Her name is Justine.

- She is Irish (or at least capable of adopting an Irish accent good enough to fool the likes of me)

- She lives in Kilburn.

“Surname?” I am asked.

Err, no.

“Job?”

Nope.

“Anything else traceable?”

Sorry, but no. Well, not unless there is a database of Cliff Richard impressions I can peer through.

“You do realise there is another track and field night on at the Luminaire tonight - you could go and check to see if she is there? I’ll go to the pub with you if you’d like.”

Why the heck not? Good idea, Don Simon. If you are going to go out on a whim, you might as well use all your limbs, as my mum used to say.

I decide to get to Kilburn tube early and-somewhat creepily-stand in the corner of the ticket hall peering over my (purposefully purchased) copy of Private Eye. Tube upon Tube upon Tube arrives and disperses. If I do see her, what the hell I am going to say anyway - “Hello, I meet you last night, lost your phone number but I’m an optimistically romantic, nay desperate, type of character so I decided to venture north for a stake out. Fancy a drink?” I consider how I’d feel to hear this.

However, it is academic as, a) she doesn’t go past; and b) after an hour my jaw locks with cold rendering me speechless. Simon rescues me and buys me brandy in the pub. No sign either at the gig.

Back to the pub. More brandy.

In the beginning there was technological incompetence...

We are a mere week into the now customary New Year resolution of ‘no drinking until February’ and already I realise this will inevitably and imminently be downgraded to ‘All right, let’s just give it as long as I can actually last out’. So imminently in fact that this evening – 8 January 2008 – will see me reject the January ennui and accept the offer of a ticket to the ‘Track and Field Winter Sprinter’ gig at Kilburn’s finest Luminarie. Still a healthy, wholesome, whole six days have passed since alcohol passed my lips. I deserve a treat.

I’m enjoying the mellifous sounds of the lovely The Clientele, and the fine company of my friends Simon, Steve and Jon, when an attractive young lady standing about two feet in front of me catches my eye. I would like to say that I spent the rest of gig subtlety glancing in her direction to see who she is with, filtering and selecting my best witty introductory remarks, but the reality is probably closer to slightly inept glances at the poor lass from behind the my Guinness.

Before you know it, the lights have come up and its last orders at the bar. I finish adding some courage to my Dutchness and resolve that if she is still in the bar when I have finished in the facilities, I will try and talk to her. Upon exiting the facilities, I am surprised to find that fate must be on nights this week as I bump straight into her. “Errrrrr…” says my brain but, despite this, I manage to start a conversation. Unbelievably it doesn’t end with a curt brush off in under a minute (Yes, I am timing it. I mean, come on, you’ve been there too, no?). Anyway, “Blah, blah and more blah.” – that’s what it sounds like I’m coming out with - and I’m waiting for Mallet’s mallet to puncture my mood. But hark! The hammer blow does not come. Instead the realisation dawns that this isn’t going quite as badly as I feared. Rather I realise something: she is funny, intelligent and pretty. This moment must not pass. “Do not hesitate!” screams my brain. Be bold. “Will you go for a drink with me?” intones my mouth. “Yes” she replies. “May I have your phone number?” I ask. Once more: “Yes.”

So, at this stage: HURRAH!

I return to my coterie. “Where have you been?” asks Simon. Who knows what conjecture crosses his mind as I reply, “Oh, just to the toilet” with an incredible smugness spreading over my chops [which can’t be a pleasant sight – sorry Simon].

I decide to retire for the evening and head for the Tube, doing a passable impression of Morecombe and Wise dancing off backstage along the way.

I arrive home and make a cup of tea. I decide to inflate my ego by looking at the name and number nestling in my phone. Hmmm. Hang on. There is just the name ‘Justine’ there. No number! No! Cue furious searching. Cue obviously futile attempts to shake my phone into coughing forth the precious secrets I thought I had entrusted it with. Alas, the number is nowhere to be found.

Bugger.

So, we have ourselves a time honoured tale: Boy goes to gig. Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl’s phone number. Boy is idiot.

But boy is not finished yet.