Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead

Flatmate Fred, who were dancing either side of another girl, gave me a big thumbs-up. Rick waved from the bar where he was ordering Smirnoff Ices and chatting up the cross-dressing barmaid.
    So I did the honourable thing, took her back to mine and took her to heaven and back five times before sunrise. It was even better than sex with Lucy, because there was no gulf between what it was supposed to mean and what it actually meant. It was raw and it was inevitable and it was very, very good.
    I recall one particular highlight when she put a finger up my bum.
    â€˜Don’t touch me there Oh touch me there Touch me there.’
    Spring is in the air, and I am one frolicking, randy ram.
Sunday 17th April
    I am no expert at one-night stands — in fact, this was my first since university — so I had no idea of the etiquette the next morning. Was I meant to wake her up and sleep with her again? Did she expect a cuddle? Did she want breakfast? Could I walk around my own room naked? Were we meant to go to a Sunday-morning church service together? And why was my school tie knotted around the bedpost?
    So many meaningless questions and only one really counted: what the hell was she called?
    She was still asleep, so I had a rummage in her handbag, which was lying by my bed. I fished out a credit card — ‘Miss P. M. Gilmour’.
Oh shit-sticks
. Was it Polly? I was pretty sure she was a Polly. She looked like a Polly. Definitely not a Penelope. Or was she Pam? What if she was called by her second initial? Mandy, Marian, Mary? She was hardly the virgin Mary. Miss P. M. Gilmour. I couldn’t call her Miss Gilmour.
    â€˜What are you doing in my handbag?’
    Polly/Marian had woken up and wasn’t looking very happy.
    â€˜Oh. Sorry. I was just being nosy,’ I stammered.
    â€˜You can’t remember my name, can you, Jack Lancaster?’
    â€˜No, don’t be silly. Of course I can remember your name.’
    â€˜Well, what is it then, Jack Lancaster?’
    â€˜Er, Miss Gilmour?’
    At which point Rick, Flatmate Fred and Jasper all charged into my room singing ‘Build Me Up Buttercup’ and tried to give me a wedgie.
    Miss P. M. Gilmour gathered up her tattered dignity and her school uniform and ran outside.
    â€˜Polly, Polly, I’m sorry. come back.’ I ran after her.
    Miss P. M. Gilmour put her head round the corner and said in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘Jack, it’s Prudence. And, by the way, you’ve got a small cock and you’re crap in bed.’
    Yeuch. Prudence — lucky escape. I was also consoled by the fact that she had to do the walk of shame in her schoolgirl outfit the entire way back to Clapham.
Friday 22nd April
    A very boring week at work. My continuing campaign to undermine the system from within is the only thing that’s kept me going.
    The attrition war is mounting. On Monday I put my bin on my desk and fastened the word ‘In-tray’ to it with sticky-backedplastic. No one batted an eyelid. On Wednesday I changed my voicemail to ‘Please leave a message for me to ignore’. No one rang me. On Thursday I changed my email footer. It now reads:
    Jack Lancaster
Managing Director
Tantric Love Ltd
0898 69 69 69
    No one commented.
    Today I brought in a postcard from home and glued it to my monitor. It was a free card handed out by the Unison trade union: ‘Work me to the bone, pay me a pittance, never let me go home.’
    Mr Cox swung by my desk.
    â€˜Jack,
salve
. Not to mention greetings. Are you quite well? You’re quite well, I trust.’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Cox, I am very well indeed.’
    â€˜That is not unpleasing to hear, Jack — far from unpleasing at all. So you are quite
compos mentis
, then? It’s just that the picture postcard that you are displaying on your monitor might suggest otherwise.’
    â€˜Oh really, Mr Cox? I’m merely identifying with the struggle of the