17. Down and Back Up

Saturday evening. Party night, and I'm shattered before this thing even starts.

Let me explain. I was in Birmingham last night, and didn't get out of my last appointment till late. The traffic news warned me of 10 miles of stationary traffic on the M25, and a myriad of other delays. Bugger that - so last night was spent in the Warwick Holiday Inn. I felt like Alan Partridge, only without the mismatched Pringle sweater.

This morning I dragged myself up ad six and drove home through snow (in March??) to get home before ten, and then party prep was in full effect. . .

Wash up. Hoover. Clean towels in bathroom. Sort furniture. More hoovering. Sort bedroom. Clean sheets (just in case). Buy more beer and dips. Prep food. Shower. Shave. Clean bathroom again.

Text messages are coming in thick and fast from people asking for directions. Nik tells me he's got 15 friends coming from his dance class, all of whom are female. The odds, therefore, should be in my favour. Yeah, right.

By six everything is ready, and in my tidy and (now) minimalist living room, looking around me and fighting the urge to sleep. But then the dread steals over me.

It's that common feeling - that fear that creeps up on you when you plan and prepare a party for friends. Questions assail you, making you wonder if you've done everything right. Is there enough booze? Have I done enough food? Is there something that everyone will like? Have I got enough space for everyone? Will everyone turn up? WHAT IF NOBODY TURNS UP?? Oh God, it's all going to go wrong - nobody's going to come, I'm going to feel like a complete Norman No-Mates.

Six-thirty. Text message from Keith & Karen. "Can't make it tonight. Sorry". No other explanation. Aaargh! They only phoned this morning to confirm the address! Still, it'll be alright.

Seven-fifteen. Text from Brad. "Naomi ill. Really sorry.". Shit, there goes another two.

Eight. Nick, Sharon and Patricia arrive. Thank the Lord, some people. I can always, always rely on Nick and Sharon. Then Ian arrives, and Neil just after him sans wife, who's also ill and can't make it. Then Elizabeth, and Sue. And that's it.

Most of my guests have stood me up - I'm fuming about it.

All of Nick's guests have stood him up - he's fuming about it.

It seems the majority of my friends have found something better to do with their Saturday night. I've thrown six parties in the last three years, and this is the first time that my fears have ever been realised - I threw a party and nobody came.

But once a few drinks have gone down, my thoughts start to change. I look at the small group, eating the food, chatting and laughing, and I realise - this is what matters. The people who have made it are people who care about me and value our friendship. Some people aren't lucky enough to have seven close friends. I am.

I actually manage to have a decent conversation with Elizabeth without being blunt or putting my foot in it, which is definitely a step in the right direction. However, I still don't think I've got a chance in hell. She is lovely, though. . . why am I thinking like this?

The group are loud and raucous, which is surprising for such a small crowd. But the wonderful thing is that it isn't forced or false. They're just enjoying themselves, and are comfortable with the fact that they're with friends and, for them and for me, that's enough. It's selfish to want more than that, really.

My friends, I realise, are like having another family. there's the inner circle of immediate family members - me, Nick, Sharon and so on - and the more distant relatives who are sometimes around, sometimes not. But the immediate family are always there, always looking out for each other, and that's absurdly heartening.

Neil heads off first, Elizabeth and Sue not far behind. I get Elizabeth's coat, hold it open for her to put on, give her a chaste kiss on the cheek and she's gone. Then I realise I did it again - polite, friendly, mannered - doing all the nice-guy things yet again. I will - I absolutely WILL - break this habit!

Or will I?

Once Nick, Sharon and Patricia are gone, with Nick uproariously drunk, Ian and I stay up for a while, chatting about The Breakup and other things, until I realise that it's 4am and I've been up for 22 hours. Time for bed, said Zebedee.

And with Ian tucked in his sleeping bag on the living room floor, me warm and comfy under the duvet, I stop and think about the nice guy I am, and I realise that maybe my original target - to be nastier - was too general. What parts of me do I want to make nastier? Surely manners are too important to be got rid of - and how many women like men with no manners? Not many, I'm certain of that.

Tiredness starts to overwhelm me as I ponder this. No, go away! This is important, I must think about this. I must come up with some. . . zzzzzzzzzzzzz

Sunday morning, and I wake with the concepts and thoughts gone from my mind. Ian and I wend our way to the Roffey Griddle, and meet Nick and Sharon for a nice greasy fry-up, then it's back to mine for coffee. The conversation ranges widely - through films, computers, sex, philosophy and just about any subject our alcohol-ravaged brains can find an opinion on, and something profound creeps over me.

I'm not alone.

This is what it's about in my life now. It isn't about having a relationship. I don't always need someone in the flat with me, because my friends are always available for me just as I am for them. Their warmth and friendship will always beat The Silence, and memories of evenings and time spent with them will mean that I need never be fully alone.

Now I just have to learn how to accept that emotionally when I am on my own.

But today is good. And those people who found excuses to avoid the party - well, they lost out on the rewards we got because they didn't get to spen an evening with their friends. It's their loss, not mine.

There's just one achievement left for me now. I have to work out how to be less of a nice guy, while still being a nice guy. That's practically Zen and the Art of Relationships. We shall see, let me ponder. . .

16. Purgatory and Parents

I'm dead. I must be. This is Purgatory, and I'm paying for the sins of a misspent youth in traffic on the A4.

I came up with the brilliant idea of visiting my parents this weekend - I haven't seen them since The Breakup, I have the party next weekend and it seems like a great idea to head down there, get some TLC and play with the dogs. Fantastic idea. Well thought through, Neil.

So, off we go. From Bermondsey over Tower Bridge. Fine so far. Trafalgar Square, The Mall, Hyde Park Corner - this is easy!

Oops. Knightsbridge. Stuck.

And so it was all the way down through sodding Earls Court and the fucking Cromwell Road, the sodding fucking bastard Berkshire corridor of the M4. . . By the time I staggered out of the car at my parents' place in Devon I could barely move. Seven hours behind the wheel. Aaaargh. And I can't smoke in the company car either, so I was desperate for a fag.

A huge hug from my wonderfully demonstrative Dad, the same from Mum, and then I'm flattened by 13 stones of exuberant Rottweiler and dribbbled on by a similarly ecstatic Boxer. That's the end of this suit!

I'm home. I've never lived down here in the wilds of the West Country, but I feel like I'm home.

The house is as warm as the welcome and even my cat Thomas, who I had to move down here when my last relationship collapsed (and who's never forgiven me for it despite the fact that he loves the place) manages to come and say hello. Once I'm in, ensconced on the sofa with dogs at my feet, a cat on my lap and the folks waxing lyrical about how happy they are for me with the new job, I decide I'm never going to leave. I shall give everything up, and stay here forever.

When you're young, thoughts of leaving home rarely enter your mind, except when you're told off and you plan to run away. Then, as adulthood rears its head, you dream of independence and a place of your own, where you can do all the things you're not really allowed to do - where you can have your own life. And off you go, and it's great.

Then, when you do go home, you get these mixed feelings. No matter how you feel about your own independence, when you're at home - your REAL home, your parents' place, where your childhood photos are in the albums and so on - you want to stay. You're a guest now, so you don't have the same chores to do when you visit, but the cooking always seems better, the bed more comfortable and the life happier. I think most of that's just rose-tinted vision, but at the time it's a strong feeling. It's even stronger when you haven't been happy for a while.

So I sit back and let the sounds, smells and atmosphere of home fill my head, and I feel the tension flood from my system. This is not a metaphor. It isn't a flowery description. I can actually feel my muscles relax, my neck ease and the weight of the last few weeks lift from my shouldners. I don't know if this place is haunted - it might be, it's a rambling 17th Century pile - but if it is, that's one poltergeist that gives a hell of a massage. I relax, let a Scotch warm my system and, for the first time in ages, end up sleeping for twelve hours in a bed full, it seems of warm feathers.

By Sunday, I feel as though I've had a full weeks' break, and I can face going home and getting on with things. I'm more energised than I've been for the last month.

It's great to go home.

The rest of the week passes in a blur of appointments and office work, trying to get a handle on things and settle into the new job. The Silence doesn't have a chance to rear its head - I'm working far too hard and am almost unconscious by the time I get through the door in the evening.

But when I stop and think about it, I realise something. The flat feels. . . what? Better is the only word I can use to describe it. It feels - better. More homely. I don't dread coming home any more. It's getting easier to face The Silence.

Is it me? Am I finally beating it down - is The Silence at last going to be tamed? Made mine, as I wanted it to be? We shall see.

But first - Party Time!

15. A New Hope

Now then. Hmm. It's been a while since I've found time to write - the new job is taking up every moment of my life. But one thing I do know is that, for the moment, The Silence has faded.

Part of that could be simple exhaustion - up at five, into the car by six, into the office by half seven, work till five-thirty then home from London so I'm lucky if I get home by eight - but part of me feels that it could be more than that.

I'm siezed by a sense of optimism that buoys me upward and encourages me to ride it wherever it takes me. No amount of office-related exhaustion seems capable of dimming the glow I currently feel, and I have to say that after the last few weeks it's wonderful!

But when the new job started, I thought I couldn't have been more tired.

I was so terrified of oversleeping and being late on my first day that I lay awake all night reading and sneaking glances at the clock. I finally got moving at 4:45 (I'd allowed myself to forget again that there was a 4:45am - I certainly never thought I'd be dragging myself out of bed voluntarily at that time), made myself presentable and by half-past-five was on the long drag to the station.

Presentable? Now there's the understatement of the century. No man going on a first date took as much time and trouble as I did that first morning. Suit? Ironed twice, brushed three times. Shoes? Polished the night before, then again at 0500. Shave? I can't recall the last time I took forty minutes over a shave, making sure I'd removed every last errant bristle. And so ad nauseam. It was like being back in the Navy, getting ready for an inspection!

And of course when I got to the office, everyone else was in shirtsleeves with ties loose in their collars, looking comfortable and relaxed while I felt like an undertakers clerk in my black suit and double-cuff shirt. Bugger.

But it's a wonderfully friendly office and, despite being thrown in at the deep end, I think I'll like it here. Especially if it keeps The Silence at bay.

14. Unpleasant Imaginings

She comes to collect the last of her stuff. Her face seems obscured, and I see her as if in soft focus, there in front of me as real as she's been in my thoughts since the Breakup.

Time compresses and dilates, seeming to lose all sense of meaning. I'm here, she's here, everything is good and for some reason we're taking a bath together. The water is deep, hot, and scents of Radox infuse the steam around us. I know this shouldn't be happening, but it feels calm, and I feel safe and settled. I'm happy - this is the way our relationship was always supposed to be, and if she'd been like this we'd never have broken up.

After the bath, we head down into the town centre, and we seem to float through the square past other shoppers whose conversations I can't hear, whose forms seem as insubstantial as ghosts. My thoughts are solely with the woman at my side, who I can see less clearly now. How did I get here? I can't remember. I'm still warm, comfortable and at ease, though, and the questions I want to frame in my mind just fade into nothingness along with the shades of other people around us.

But once we get back home, the atmosphere changes. It gets darker. More threatening. She's angry. Accusing. I can't seem for form a reply. I try to speak, but can't get words past my lips. I'm helpless in the face of her aggression. Her face shifts. Changes. I can't see her features. Panic strikes me. I'm fighting for breath. Try to run away. Escape. But I find myself gripped by sleep. Darkness overwhelms me. I sink into unconsciousness.

Blackness. Cold. Fear. I know she's ther. But I can't see her. I can't open my eyes. She comes at me out of the darkness. I'm frozen., Paralysed. Help me! She's wailing, incoherent. I'm assailed by her screams and those of a rape alarm combined, inexplicably, with flashes of blinding light that force me into a corner. Try to call the Police. Grab for the phone. No words come out. I'm on me knees, hands pressed against my ears, as this cyclone rages around me. I'm going to die. I know it. And I can't help myself. Blackness once more.

I wake to find her next to me. This isn't my bed. I am disorientated. Then I realise she's moving. I try to break free. Run. Flee. Escape. She attacks again. Her nails are talons. Raking my face, tearing my flesh. I still can't move. Somebody help me! I'm going to die and I can't save myself. I must move. I have to. My limbs are lead. Rooted to this bed. This pillow. This grave.

"Somebody help me!" I hear myself screaming.

My scream jerks me awake.

The dream was so vivid, so intense, so paralysingly real that for a couple of minutes I daren't even turn over to look at the clock.

3:59. The welcome, friendly sight of my alarm clock.

Light on. Look to my right. Alone. At home. Relief.

It appears that The Silence has visited my dreams now. I hope that this is the first and only time. I get out of bed, go through to the living room and try to light a cigarette. My hands are shaking so badly that it takes me three attempts to get it lit.

4:20. I finish my cigarette and go back to the bedroom. The shaking has passed, and though I have (for the first time in my life) total recollection of the events of my nightmare, the worst sensations have gone and I'm only left with the last traces of the fearfulness that had so gripped me.

In 'The Matrix', Morpheus turns to Neo and says, "have you ever had a dream, Neo, that you were so sure was real? What if you were unable to wake from that dream - how would you tell the difference between the dream world and the real world?".

That's what tonight was like. The imagery was solid, right down to sensation. I could even smell the body wash she uses - the soap-free stuff that you can only smell when you're in contact with it. I could feel her skin. I could see her face through the darkness, and hear her words. As I woke, the feelings were still there, with the tingling still in my fingertips and the smell of her hair in my nostrils. No wonder I was still shaking.

I can't remember the last time a nightmare scared me the way that one did. I don't heave them often - I can rarely remember dreams anyway. I'm not one of those people who can sit and discuss dreams over morning coffee. I always thought that dreams were just the brain filing away experiences - the neurological equivalent of a computer hard drive. But she was never violent, never attacked, me and, truth be told, didn't even make the Breakup all that difficult.

So why the strange mix of images? My mental hard drive defragging? A conflict of combined past experiences mixing with the recent stress? God knows, I'm not a psychologist. I just think it's The Silence, finding a new way of getting to me, and my brain fighting off The Silence as I sleep.

5:00. Light off. I push the nightmare from my mind, or at least try to - the intensity of the images are such that they seem scorched onto my retinas - and turn over. To sleep. Perchance to dream. And in those dreams - what?

Hopefully nothing as bad as that. Ever again. Please.

13. Planning

Nick rings me just as I'm trying to persuade Lydia at the coffee bar to show me the photos from when she shaved herself for charity. (Her head, you perverts. Though I have to admit I wanted to ask the same question. It now dawns on me, as I'm writing this, that I should have done - it would've been worth a few bonus points from Good Guys Anonymous.)

"I've just been talking to Elizabeth", Nick says. "She reckons you should throw a party".

Hmm - that would give me a chance to try being more pleasant to Elizabeth. Though I doubt I'm in with any sort of change. Still, nothing ventured nothing gained and all that. Jack Nicholson wouldn't hesitate, Neil. . . .

"That's a great idea!" And with my usual massive degree of deliberation I think up a date and proceed to text just about everyone in my phone book to invite them. So I'm now hosting a party for 30 people in a two-bedroom flat - in two weeks time.

As I waslk home - still haven't started the new job yet, so still no car - I start to think about what I've just agreed to do. A wave of dread chills me to the core, despite my overcoat and scarf. I've just taken over all the bills on my flat - trust me, it isn't cheap to rent in my area - my final pay packet was a lot smaller than it normally is because I didn't stay until the end of February, I'll be two weeks into my new job, and. . . and. . .

And I've never hosted a party on my own, only ever with a girlfriend to help.

Christ, what have I let myself in for?

But there are good angles to this, as well. My friends will be there. I have enough space to handle a lot of people, I can ensure that women outnumber men (well, I have to give myself a sporting chance, don't I?) and most importantly, a home full of happy people will help drown The Silence.

I bump into Nikki on her way home - she's on a break from work and we chat briefly about her ex-boyfriend and his new partner That reminds me - I mustn't invite those two this time. Last time they came to a party of mine, they boffed each other everywhere except the garden shed and then left early having thieved several bottles of wine. They're off the list then. I'm down to 28.

Half a mile up the road, I realise I didn't invite Nikki. And she's 20, cute and single! What a complete pillock. Oh well, I'll pop in and see her at work tomorrow. You never know, she may even say yes.

The idea of throwing a party has given me an unexpected benefit. It's lifted my morale, and The Silence is relegated to the darkest corners of the room as I immerse myself in planning. I know I have stacks of time before it happens, but it seems that the busier I am in dealing with this, the more The Silence retreats. That can only be a good thing.

I start working on where things will have to be moved to, and drafting an email to those friends I couldn't reach who I want to invite. I have to push the guest-list numbers up - assume three-quarters will come, then take a few off - I reckon I need to invite upwards of 40 people to ensure a good evening.

Shit, I'll need to tell the neighbours! But not that noisy bastard downstairs, I'll give him a taste of his own medicine.

Furniture and guest-list planning is suspended as I frantically draft a note to my neighbours. I don't know if any are single women, so I had best make it an invite as well. That ought to push the numbers up. . .

Life is good. For an entire blissful evening The Silence is dispelled. I'm sure it will be back, but I don't have long to go before I'll have work to occupy me again and I now have something other than beer and rugby to look forward to.

12. Insomnia And Ideas

Tonight is a bad one. The insomnia monster has come to visit, and it's one-thirty. The same happened last night as well, and it's turned into a bit of a bastard. I didn't get to sleep until five, and ended up sleeping past eleven.

I have nothing to get up for in the mornings.

In some ways, I feel like I did when I was unemployed. I became nocturnal then too. With little to get up for in the morning, I tended to stay up later at night, and off went my sleep pattern. This time, of course, there's The Silence to contend with. In the dark, your thoughts stand out in The Silence and seem to take on colours and pictures. I can see visions in my mind's eye - no, they're not hallucinations, the only drugs I do are nicotine, alcohol and caffeine and the amount of those I get through is bad enough - visions of activities, TV shows, even pages from whatever books I'm reading at the time. And, always, visions of her.

The vision of my ex changes often and, I'm ashamed to say, is rarely complimentary. I see - no, often I still FEEL - the anguish that her words and actions brought me. I replay her words in my mind, and I can still see her expression, blank and emotionless as she listened to me breaking my heart. However, despite a straw poll of female friends, relations and co-workers which proves that my buying the trip to Paris was a good thing I still have my doubts about my own actions, and that's what upsets me most when I'm in the pitch black, alone with The Silence.

It's this doubt and upset that converts to anger, and it's the anger which collaborates with The Silence and creates my insomnia. I wonder about why she hated me enough to do the damage, what she was scared of giving or receiving that made her shy away from my affection. I hear Yoda in my mind, giving me the old Jedi lecture, "fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering", and I ask the darkness what she was afraid of. I listen to The Silence, straining to hear something in the doleful dripping of the leaking shower-head that might answer my question. She certainly managed to get through your little flowchart there, Yoda my old mate - and then she neatly transferred the suffering onto me.

But do I hate her? Surprisingly (I think) the answer is no. She had her reasons, and like all of us who've survived past our mid-twenties she had her emotional baggage. Somewhere in that portfolio of past experiences was her reason. It probably even seemed rational to her at the time. She was always fiercely independent anyway, and I don't think she was ever committed to our relationship, despite her proposing to me.

I sometimes think the mistake may have been mine. Dad's always said that I am a sucker for 'lame ducks', and I think I have some kind of subconscious talent for choosing them. This ex isn't the first - merely another name in a long list of failed relationships that have collapsed despite my best efforts. At 2am I'm forced to question my original definition of what women want - perhaps a qualifier is needed, such as this definition applying solely to the women I tend to meet.

Listening is both the problem and, possibly, its solution. I think I'm a good listener - I have to be in my profession - and the only time my gob goes into overdrive is when I'm with the parents, who normally last just a few minutes before telling me to shut up. But I listen. And because I listen, women tell me things. This is the problem.

Two years ago I was in a pub, and I saw an unhappy-looking girl next to me. I smiled and said, "cheer up, it might never happen". "It just has", she replied. "My mother died last week and we've just buried her". (Once again you can marvel at my skill in saying stupid things at the wrong moment.) So I bought her a drink, then a bottle of wine, and ended up joining her and her sister at their table. And I listened. And once I started listening it would have been impolite to stop, so after two hours I had their life stories their medical histories and their mother's life story too. And no - I didn't pull them, so don't even think it.

So listening is the problem - I get too much information.

But it's also the solution. I rarely, if ever, listen to myself - to the little voice inside all of us that offers advice. Jack Nicholson, Meg Ryan, Nick Hornby - whoever you believe is your guardian angel, whoever you think acts as your conscience. I rarely look on women with objective eyes, and get the opinion of myself coldly. For 'nice guy', read 'knight in shining armour' - this woman is unhappy and I can cheer her up. You see the problem?

In my attempt to be the good guy - to be SEEN as the good guy - I turn off my own objectivity and end up trying to support the unhappiest women. And they tend to be the lame ducks. I become an emotional crutch for the neediest people because I listen to them rather than to myself. I need that Good Guys Anonymous meeting in my head, I really do.

My name is Neil and I'm a nice guy.

So maybe listening is the solution as well - to myself rather than to the women, that is. But I still hold on to the idea of being just a little nastier, a little more of a closed book.

11. Back In the Saddle Again

If I was going out on the pull, I wouldn't be wearing the clothes I am. And, truth be told, the Malt Shovel isn't the place I'd go to look anyway. But stranger things have happened. . .

Mitch and I meet up, and it's Naomi behind the bar which is a bonus. She's engaged to our mate Brad, a fellow rugby player, and she's always good for a laugh when she's working. We start sampling the beers available for this mini-festival, and settle down to watch the Quins (hopefully) trounce Newcastle.

Damn, this is good. Once we get rid of the obnoxious wedding party in the corner, we all relax and mitch and I start our usual behaviour of noisily supporting the Quins and slandering the referee. By the end of the first half I'm happy. Thoughts of The Silence are long gone, the beer is surprisingly good and the Quins are winning. The day just couldn't get any better.

"Excuse me, would you help me out for a moment please?"

Dammit woman, there's fifteen minutes of the second half left! Don't distract me! But she's pleasant looking, has lovely eyes and is smiling at me, holding out a mobile phone.

"My friend's on the phone. Would you pretend to be chatting me up and tell her that we'll be in the pub for as long as it takes you to pull me?" And that, my friends, is what my old sales instructors would have called a clear buying signal. Back in the saddle again. . .

"Of course. And you are. . . ?" Her name is Heidi, and after the phone conversation with her friend the real conversation starts. Lots of eye contact, quite a bit of physical contact too - God, I'm out of practice at this. Mitch has disappeared to the other side of the bar with Brad to do some serious imbibing. I'm on my own.

Heidi wants to be a writer. She's working on her first novel. Good for her, I think. Not something I'll ever do (how wrong can a man be?) We talk more, and another bottle of a decent white seems to appear from nowhere.

The conversation ranges through all the usual finding-out topics - books, films, plays, what we have seen, want to see and loathe - and I can't help feeling that it's all going too well. Tastes seem to match where potentially they should differ, and I wonder who's lying here. Who's in control? Am I leading this, or am I being smoothly led to a planned and inevitable conclusion?

This doesn't stop me going along for the ride, though, making all the right noises, following all the hints. More physical contact, more wine.

(A quick aside here. Guys, you may hate me for saying this, and women will definitely hate me for giving away one of their trade secrets - but in my opinion it's women who control sexual encounters. And they have an innate talent for making men think that they're in charge. Don't believe me? Then go to a nightclub, stay sober and watch the people. See that guy at the bar, buying his mates a round? Now watch the woman behind him. She's just a hairs-breadth too close, isn't she? He turns round - and over goes the drink. He wants to hit someone, but there's an apologetic woman there. He can't thump her, so he buys her a drink. From that point on, she's in control of him. If she wants to leave with him she can - if not then bye-bye, sucker. Now, watch him talking with his friends. He's convinced he pulled her. It was his charm that got her. He doesn't even know that she was watching him for ten minutes before that spilled pint, and is exactly where she wants him to be.)

So there you have it. Another profound psychosexual theory from me. I could be the next Doctor Ruth, if I was female, Jewish and 3'6". And if knowing this incredible nugget of information did me any good at all. But, of course, it doesn't I just go along with it, and let the conversation and the wine take me where she wants to go.

Somehow - I'm still not sure how - Heidi agrees to have dinner with me. We decide that we'll stop briefly at her place, she'll change, and we'll head out from there.

She tells me about her conscience - she says that she imagines Jack Nicholson and Meg Ryan in her head as a sort of devil/angel mix. I really hope that she's listening to Jack tonight, though thankfully despite my nerves and the wine I manage to avoid saying so out loud. I wish I had Jack Nicholson in my head telling me what to do - he doesn't strike me as the kind of bloke who needs to attend meetings of Good Guys Anonymous.

Dinner is lovely and so, predictably, is the rest of the evening. . .

Another 4am in another bed. I lie awake and listen to a stranger breathing, and an odd realisation comes over me. I want to be at home, with The Silence. It's mine. I may not like it yet, but it is mind and I'm starting to get used to sleeping alone. Suddenly the bed feels crowded and uncomfortable. The gentle snoring to my left is not a reassurance - it's an annoyance, keeping me awake. There's no place like home, there's no place like home - but it would be rude to leave while she's still sleeping.

Another thought grabs me. Despite the success of the evening, I have failed in my vow to myself about being nastier. I replay the evening in my mind - opening doors, offering wine for her to taste before pouring, holding her coat open for her to put on - and I realise that I need to start again. I wasn't nasty. even my conversation was honest and open, and I didn't leave personality gaps for her to find. Damn, this is harder than I thought. Back to Good Guys Anonymous.

My name is Neil and I'm a nice guy.

Shit - I've just done it again by not leaving while she's asleep.

Sunday morning, and it's a little uncomfortable for both of us. Heidi's a little guilty about picking up a guy she met in a pub, and I want to be off back to my Silence. I want to see if last night has changed the way I feel about it. There's coffee, and polite kisses goodbye, and an exchange of numbers. I wonder if we'll meet again. At the moment, though, I have my doubts.

The walk home is a long one, and I've covered three miles before I realise something. Johnny Fucking Mathis has finally shut up. No doubt he'll be back, but for the time being I bounce home to face The Silence in the afterglow of sex and the glorious lack of a melancholy song in the back of my mind.