Chapter 1,2 and 3

You know how some people’s lives are based and defined by inanimate objects? Like a doctor’s would be his stethoscope, a lawyer’s his fancy briefcase, and a writer’s maybe his laptop? Well mine would be my sofa. That’s right – a sofa. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a very nice sofa, not too old, not too young, just right. Goldilocks would have chosen it. I’ve had a lot of good times on that sofa. A few bad times too. Wars have been waged on and about the sofa, although most of them where about the remote. A few wrestling matches with girls have been fought on that very sofa too. Sadly most, not all, but fair to say most, where again fought over the remote. I love that remote. It’s one of those remotes that control everything, you know, the TV, video machine, satellite, everything. Maybe that defines my life more then the sofa? No, remotes have come and gone, through wear and tear, lost and found and advancement. But the sofa remains. My sofa. My life. And once more here I sit mindlessly flicking through the channels on my sofa with my beloved remote, or Clicky, as I’ve named this one – and each one before her. The same day time drivel, it never seems to change. Infomercials trying to sell you what you’d be embarrassed to admit you purchased to anyone but your phone, reruns of soaps – the same people sleeping with each other, loving and ruining their lives, the news – what’s George W said now? Nothing on. Yet still I sit and flick, flick, flick.

The door opens. There’s no knock, no call beckoning me to let them in. It just opens and in he walks. He being Guy. We all have a friend like this, one who never knocks, just comes and goes as he pleases. One that has become so comfortable in your surroundings he thinks he’s family. The type that your mum has gotten so used to she wouldn’t think twice about slapping or screaming at. You also sometimes have deep insecurities that maybe, just maybe, your mum wishes he were her son and not you. You know the one. We all have them. He walks in goes for your fridge and bread basket, fixes himself a sandwich and sits down. Still no words. We don’t always want them, but we all have them. This particular model, Guy, hasn’t as yet reached that moment of comfort where he’ll reach over and change the channel. Let him try.

"What’s up?"

And it speaks. So not only does it eat, but it now speaks.

"Nothing much. I think I may be depressed, or something."

And that was my reply. A lousy reply that I wish I’d never said. But I guess mindless TV watching does rob you of some clear thought from time to time. This being one of those times.

"Depressed? Really? I didn’t know there was a game on today? Who won? Or in your case, who lost?"

A really stupid thing to say, with something like 190 countries in the world and more channels then anyone has the right to own on my TV there’s always a game on somewhere and sometime. Always. But here's the thing, even in this day and age, with the sensitive 90’s phase past us, guys will still not admit to most emotions, such as sadness, and feelings of depression as is the case here, without being coaxed into it by an apparently good willing, but truthfully manipulative female. Unless there is sport involved. If your team wins you have the guy given right to walk on air for a week. If you want you can organize a parade welcoming home your heroes. Generally you’re the only one at one of these parades, but the patheticness of that tends to be overlooked because, hey, your team won. If your team should lose you can mope. If your team should lose a match that is of some importance, be it sentimental, financial, or competitive, then in these extreme cases it is generally permitted that you can ball your eyes out until there are no tears left and your eyes dry out, you can walk around in your boxers, an old t-shirt, one sock, take no shower or bath, don’t shave and eat only cereal, for a couple of days depending on the importance of the game. A few years back this one guy’s team lost the title decider on the same day his mother died, he also had a lot of money backing his team – he’s still got the one sock on. Oh, and depression is also allowed.

"There was no game on, no one lost."

A lie, like I said there is always a game on somewhere. I just wasn’t watching it.

"But you said you were feeling depressed? We’re guys, and guys don’t feel anything unless their team loses."

Now as I explained that is a fair point as that’s how it generally works amongst guys. But there are a few things that must be taken into consideration when having a "guy conversation." If one of you happens to have what appears to be some sort of handbag casually slung over his shoulder as if that’s where it belonged, well then, that person should not have any right to lay claim to any of the hidden nuances that is being a guy. That person can not expect to be taken seriously, can they?

"Thanks for pointing that out Sherlock, nice handbag by the way."

"It’s not a handbag, it’s a utility bag."

"Yeah, and it really brings out the flecks of green in your eyes."

"Thanks man, I’ve been getting a lot of looks from people since I got this bag. That must be the reason."

So it seems not only is he unable to pick up what I thought was my very unsubtle attempt at sarcasm, but he truly thinks he has flecks of green in his very brown eyes. With his reply he edged closer and finally onto the sofa. My sofa. The self same sofa I’m actually sitting on. I mean where has he been? On the bus? A train? A taxi? Walking around the extremely unhygienic filth we tend to pass off as our neighborhood? What untold germs and their spawn is he unleashing upon my sofa? I tend to over think things.

"So seriously man, what’s got you down?" he asked with almost genuine concern.

Maybe I would have picked up on the true nature of his concern if I could just stop fixating on which bio hazard he was unleashing on my sofa. But I had to reply. Apparently it’s the done thing to do. I wouldn’t want to stray too far from the norm now, would I?

"It’s my life. I mean I’ve changed my degree three times in three years. I have no idea what I want to do, how I’m going to do it, or where I’m going to be in ten years time. Everyone is out there reaching for their dreams, I don’t have a dream. I need a dream. I need a plan."

Wow. That reply had just about more truths in it than I would care to admit. I do need a plan. I’m in a bit of a rut. Falling into and out of life directions because unlike most people, I have no clue what it is I want to do in life, apart from the obvious – be Ryan Giggs. Last time I checked, Manchester United don’t tend to sign twenty two year old trainee’s with absolutely no real football experience outside of school football five years ago. And the little matter of no talent. An untapped well of riches. Well, their loss.

"I had no idea either what I wanted to do either. I just closed my eyes and tried to picture where I’d like to be in ten years time. That’s where the idea of doing cartoon voices first came to me."

"You’re becoming a vet."

"Yeah well, my Mum said Jewish boys don’t do cartoon voices for a living. Besides, I still have eight years left."

"Good luck with that."

Just then the door opened again. I really have to start locking that door. The filth just keeps walking in from every corner of the dump outside. The filth in this case being my twin brother Murphy. Filth that’s supposed to be my genetic equal. I disagree. I’m clean. Science means nothing to me.

"I’ve got a huge problem. It’s huge, huge, huge." He announces with really elementary language.

"I just got my acceptance letters for medicine and vet. I don't know which one to choose. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t sleep, eat, and you don't want to know when the last time I took a shower was..."

Like I said, he’s filth. So I’m sitting around gripping about having no idea what I want to do, and he comes in with the same problem. Only he has options. I have none. I need options. It is really amazing though how my problem gets washed away, like no doubt the dirt on his face would be if he’s just have a bath, just because he comes in with his high pitched whining as apposed to be dry drawling. I don’t think people take me seriously. I talk, they hear, but they don’t listen. Maybe if I didn’t bath they’d listen.Guy reminded Murphy that he was doing vet, and they could do it together. I think he even used the term "vet buddies". Coupled with that silly handbag, he really isn’t doing himself any favors. Murphy is definitely leaning towards medicine now, and who could blame him? Who wants to be someone’s vet buddy? Especially with someone who slings a handbag over their shoulder? Their drivel is going on for way too long. With every second that passes more and more germs are invading my sofa. So I guess I have to say something. You learn to pick up the little subtle signs that it’s your turn to speak, something that comes with years of constant human interaction. I’m sure there’s some BBC program that details this. There usually is. There’s been silence for a while, both Murphy and Guy are looking at me, waiting, expecting something, anything I guess. I think it’s my turn to speak.

"Well think about it. You meet a girl, someday this will happen. And she’s like all "doctor hey? Very impressive, what field are you in?" and then you’re like "well, I’m a vet actually." She then gets this look on her face, like she smells something really bad, and she mentions something about an in grown toe nail and leaves, out of your life forever. Is that what you want? I’m telling you, the doctor thing is an aphrodisiac. Girls don't want to know you spend your day with your hand up a dogs bum, they prefer the idea of you giving lollipops to kids right after you jab their arm with a needle big enough to give an elephant a fright."

Sometimes I’m so profound. I mean that makes sense right? Vets are technically doctors, but not real doctors, right?

"It’s cows’ bums, not dogs’ bums." Murphy corrects me.

"I think you’re focusing on the wrong part here."

"I’m going to talk to Christina about this. I’m sure she can help without mentioning animal bums."

"Yeah I’d like to see her try!"

And with that followed one of my favorite sounds – the sound of a door closing, when someone leaves. So Murphy left taking with him his problems and his dirt. I felt cleaner already. But not too clean – Guy was still here.We spent a while trying to figure out who exactly Christina was. When I say we I mean Guy. I couldn’t care less. Why does everyone think that their problems are my problems? He finally settled on Christina being that on again, off again, on again thing Murphy spends his time with when he’s not polluting our apartment.The door flies open again. I really have to buy a lock for that door. A huge lock, as Murphy would say. One of those locks that survives bomb blasts. But I guess that would be pretty redundant unless the door and probably everything else was made out of the same thing, because who really cares if your indestructible lock survives some massive (my vocabulary extends slightly past huge) bomb blast, but your door is rendered timber. It’s not bombs I want to avoid, although truthfully I guess I do, in this case it’s the unwanted. The unwanted or unwelcome here being Steven. In every group of friends there’s the guy who no one really likes for very obvious reasons, but he’s been around for so long he’s a part of the group, even though you wish he wasn’t every second he’s around.

"I’ve just been to the gym. Been pumping iron. I’m so big it’s frightening. Who wants to feel my six pack? It’s really an eight pack actually. I’m so big and manly."

That was the first thing he said. It’s easy to understand why we all wanted him out. He actually asked us to touch his "eight" pack. I was too disgusted to reply. Fortunately Guy wasn’t.

"Yeah those shaved legs really make you look manly."

Granted he did have a handbag, but that was still funny. One nil to Guy.

"Hey, I don’t shave my legs. I’m just a smooth hairless guy."

"You know, saying that probably made you sound more feminine then actually shaving your legs."

Two- nil.

"Whatever. You mind if I jump in the shower, I’m sweating like a pig, and I hate showering at the gym. You have no idea what types of weirdoes hang out there."

"I think we have some idea."

And that’s three nil to Guy. A whitewash. This was almost bearable. The thought of Steven using my shower was a little off putting, but I guess he is going to clean himself. Rid himself of that very apparent coat of sweat and grime covering his skin. It’s the lesser of two evils. I guess.So Steven skips off to the bathroom. For a group of guys there seems to be very feminine quality’s creeping into our actions, or rather their actions. The skipping, the hairless legs, the handbag. There’s a pattern there.Guy suddenly remembers that he has somewhere to be. Very vague, but who am I to argue? I want him out, he wants to leave. Fair game right?And there’s the sweet music of someone leaving again. I collapse onto my sofa, my dear sweet loyal sofa. Tightly gripping "Clicky" close to me, I flick through the mindless drivel that’s still polluting my screen. With nothing to focus on my mind begins to fill with every conceivable thought. Why was my problem so quickly forgotten, not just by them, but by me to? It just got pushed away amongst the chaos that was everyone else? It was first in line but never served. Why me? That’s when the demons hit. God I hate being alone.

Chapter Two

How can I hate being around people but at the same time be terrified of being alone? What’s going on with me? Am I finally admitting something to myself that I’ve been to scared to see my whole life? Do I actually like people? Do I crave them? Am I frightened of being alone or just scared of what I may realize when I’ve got no one around to distract me? That must be it. That makes far more sense than the other one. I’m just scared that when I’ve got no one around to complain about I actually have to think about me and what I’m doing or going to do. Yes. I think that’s it. I’m far more comfortable believing that. No way do I like people or even need people. And what the hell is that noise coming from my bathroom?I struggled my way off my sofa, the same way I’d imagine a heavy set person would struggle their way off any piece of furniture, or anything else I’d think, but in my case, being only 60 odd kg’s it would be more a case of struggling off a comfort zone rather then battling gravity. Edging my way towards the bathroom door the noise became more and more audible. A murmuring and then screeching attempt at singing being gargled by the sound of water flowing. Ear propped by the door I held by breath a tried to make out words that were being strung together to form this ghastly weapon of song. Is someone singing Barbra Streisand? How do I know what a Barbra Streisand song sounds like having never ever heard one? But that was the first and is still the only option that came into my now stinging head. Someone is taking a shower and singing blue murder in my bathroom. Blue murder being my take on the situation rather then the song title, like I said I’ve never heard a Streisand song so have no idea if she ever sang anything called Blue Murder, and somehow doubt it. I could be wrong. Guy would probably know. Wait. Guy. He was here just now. And someone else. Someone else. Someone dirty, slimy, with no body hair.And that was the start of what was being formulated in my head as to who the mystery singing assailant was that ultimately lead to me making one of the biggest errors in judgment that has ever been erred in history. I swung my door open.When we were younger we’d often argue, me and my friends, about which of our senses we could do without if we ever had the misfortune of losing one. Back and forth the arguments would flow. If you couldn’t talk you could still communicate through sign, if you couldn’t hear you could still see and lip read, losing your sense of touch never came up, and losing your sense of taste was surprisingly high up on our ten year old order of merit. Losing your sight scared me to death. Not being able to see gave me a feeling of claustrophobia, like I was trapped in a dark box and too scared to even move. I didn’t even mention that because like all young thugs I’d get picked on forever tormented to games like Blind Man Bluff, which we hadn’t played since we were five but which no doubt would have miraculously become popular again following my disclosure. You know how young boys are – not happy unless someone is crying.And so I swung my door open with all the gusto and bravado of a theatre extra. At that moment I wished and prayed like so many other unanswered prayers that I could have lost my sense of sight a second before. It appears that our egotistical hairless friend was in fact not as naturally hairless as he had earlier claimed. There he stood before my unresponsive eyes, still wide open even though I begged and begged for them to shut and never open again, naked, with his head turned down and my razor in his hand. If only he had been using it to cut his wrists. Or at the very least shave his face. But no that’s not the way God plans things with my life. He was shaving his groin. With my razor. If anything, I let out a whimper, just audible above his singing. He turned and looked at me and with barely a care in the world, asked me if I had any more shaving cream, that I was out. That was a brand new can. Not opened yet. Where else had he been shaving. What else had my very EX razor touched. Yes I hate people. No doubt about it now

.Chapter Three

When walking in on someone you care very little about molesting your razor it’s fair to say that you never want to see or be around that person again. Firstly apart from the very obvious trauma and nightmares that will subsequently become part of your daily and nightly life, you have to go out and buy a new razor. Those things are expensive. The blades even more so. Of course I then have to replace all the pipes and tiles in my bathroom. One song that may or may not have been a Barbra Streisand song is going to end up costing me a fortune.It’s the type of situation that you feel somewhere down the line, days, months, years down the line, you’ll be laughing uncontrollably as you tell people of the day you walked in on your friend shaving himself with your razor. The type of situation where you somehow find yourself thinking "if only I had hada camera!" IF we where younger I could have brought the photo out at his 21st birthday party and we would have all had a good laugh at our very funny, youthful misadventure, or incident. Unfortunately we’re past 21 and if I had found it funny and photo worthy the only time I could have brought that picture out into the public domain would have been for his 50th birthday, and then people would be telling their kids not to talk to me and to blow this whistle if I came close to them. How I loathed this person set up against my sink.Unfortunately this feeling of loathing is one way as it turned out. Steven thinks we’re best pals now. He says we bonded. He may have bonded with my razor but I didn’t bond with anyone. Or anything. He even finds it necessary to call shot gun on the seat next to mine wherever we go to eat or drink. And so I find myself slouched over a table one hand on my head, elbow resting on the surface, staring at a glass of water, with Him sitting next to me. After all that happened I was still someone surprised by what he said next.

"I love you baby."

"Shut up. Don’t talk to me. Ever." I replied through the side of my mouth, not even lifting me gaze from the half empty glass of still water sitting across from me.

"No, I don’t think he’s talking to you, he’s got his little pocket mirror out again." Said Guy with a humorous but pathetic tinge to his voice.

With relief tinged with an expectant knowing I looked up in time to see Steven kissing his reflection and found myself once again praying. This time that the mirror would shatter, or at least crack a little. Once again my prayers were unanswered. I guess that half a glass of water must have flown through my system, or just sitting near Steven made me want to cleanse my system. Either way I needed to pee.

"Right, I gotta go pee." I announced to no one and everyone as I stood.

I turned ready to make my way to the bathroom, not expecting and not wanting any reply but as these things work I got one. No points for guessing who it came from.

"Oh, I’ll go with you" said the body shaver.

"What?"

"You need to pee, and I’ll go with you."He said this with an air of someone who didn’t sense anything was wrong, and clearly he didn’t.

"It’s okay, we’re not women, this isn’t a team effort, I can manage on my own."

"He’s right you know, I’ve seen him go to the bathroom before, he was back in a few minutes. He’ll be fine." That was Guys attempt to stifle the situation.

As can be expected, it fell on deaf ears. Steven followed me to the bathroom. Now not only was I once again in a bathroom with the last person on earth I’d ever want to be there with, but as in the nightmarish recent past, he was again making sounds. Only this time he was talking, not singing.

"Look you don’t have to talk to me when I’m peeing."

"I wasn’t talking to you."

"Yes you were, you kept on saying everything’s ok, and I kept telling you to shut up, and you just said relax, everything’s cool, and then you started whistling Hotel California or something."

"It was Hit Me Baby One More Time, a classic, and I wasn’t talking to you, I was talking to him."

"God?"

"No, him" he said nodding downwards "he needs to be motivated sometimes, you see it all started when my mother…"

And that’s when I made my quick exit and swore to anyone around that I would never again be caught alone with that person ever again.