A Dave In The Life


The news of the Harrods bombing had shocked Dave, but perhaps not as much as he felt it should. This worried him. He felt guilty for not being like the politicians and commentators. Rather than think about it he had, within seconds of hearing the newsflash, put his Eurythmics tape in the player. He sang along to "Here Comes the Rain Again" whilst driving up Honey Pot Lane to the roundabout at Queensbury. Was he so shallow that even IRA atrocities scarcely detracted him from his own problems? Theresa Doyle was the name of his problem and, whilst exciting him with her very existence, she was also the receptionist at Dreamline Bedroom Furniture. Dave supposedly worked for the same company as a warehouse supervisor; a temporary arrangement to tide him over until his big break.

Being the warehouse supervisor, it was largely up to him to dispose of the scrap melamine boarding and broken mirrors returned by the fitters. Dave had discovered the ideal method of disposal. This was to load them into his car and take them to his friend Alex who was building a recording studio. Alex had recruited a number of musicians to help build the studio in exchange for recording time and Dave and his songwriting partner Gary had jumped at the opportunity. So far they had recorded nothing but Dave had learnt how to soundproof and how to cut glass and mirrors. He had tried bricklaying and rendering and many other useful skills. As a songwriter Dave found it comforting to know that someone admired his material although he could not be sure whether it was the sparkling pop masterpieces or the pieces of white boarding that most impressed Alex.

Loaded with scrap doors, Dave made his way up to the roundabout known locally as Apex Corner, though it appears to call itself Northway Circus. It was Dave's habit to avoid the North Circular at any cost. This he did by using Totteridge Lane, a small winding almost-country lane that snakes its way from Mill Hill to Whetstone; past roadside ponds where urban anglers angle, safe from exhaust emission deprivation and its resultant panic attacks, past opulent houses where Dave had once witnessed contractors burying bomb shelters. Barnet sheep farms lay to the North overlooked by the drinking herds flocking outside the Orange Tree pub.

Luckily for Dave, he associated no melody with the name "Theresa", though its Irishness and her mismatching dark curly hair and pale complexion did conjure images of dancers jigging like Thunderbird puppets with their arm strings cut, fussing mothers with a whistle in their accent, Kerrygold butter, tin whistles and Dexy's Midnight Runners singing "Come on Eileen", not things he especially wanted to be involved with. He found he had the seeds of a song starting to germinate like eight germs that no Domestos (or any other Greek Island) was going to exterminate.

He turned left at Whetstone High Road opposite The Griffin pub in front. It is there that the stone which gave the town its name stands, presumably once used for sharpening things. Locals who would have first heard the name spoken by their parents tended to pronounce it "Wet-stun". Immigrants into the area however would see the name written down and so pronounce it as it is written. Likewise a local would call Southgate, "Southgit", but as Dave rushed like a Russian through Southgate, pronunciation was in the region of the three hundred and fiftieth thing on his mind. His most urgent need was for a guitar and notepaper. He had to stop his thoughts from wandering for fear they should wander off with his new song. Like a man struggling not to fart, knowing that any relaxation of the buttocks would cause the opening of the sluice gates on his diarrhoea, so Dave had to restrain himself and hold the song in until he got to Alex's.

It was ice cold in Alex's -- the heating was down. Dave played his new song to such effect that Alex's wife Geraldine had to ask what had inspired it. Geraldine was an astrologer and should have seen what was coming, but still she allowed herself to be drawn into Dave's quest for sympathy.

Dave's friends all maintained that, had he ever experienced a true emotional crisis, he would not be so inclined to allow himself to be devastated by fairly trivial issues. In his defence he would argue that it was because he had never had a major crisis that he had to vent his angst in this way. His problem being that, unlike almost anything else, to have a failed love affair you first have to succeed and Dave was unaccustomed to succeeding at anything.


'Girls like that always get what they think they want but they always end up with what they deserve.'