Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead Page A

proletariat. The workers of the world are uniting. We have nothing to lose but our network log-ins.’
    â€˜No, Jack. That’s a
non sequitur
. The workers of the world are revolting, and you are more revolting than most. Now take that postcard down and put it in your “In-tray”.’
    â€˜Yes, Mr Cox.’
    Mr Cox will be the first against the wall when the revolution comes.
Monday 25th April
    On the plus side, I have now given up on going to the gym — that temple to inadequacy and despair, vain aggression anddirectionless virility. I am bored of competing subconsciously with people twice my size (almost certain to lose) or against the machines themselves (absolutely certain to lose). The treadmill’s power supply will always last longer than mine. The step machine might not be able to carry on stepping without my help, but at least it won’t be lying on the floor retching its guts out.
    Gym-philes have two illusions: one, that they will get more action in the bedroom; two, that physical prowess will translate into wider success. These fantasies aren’t helped by the fitness fanatics currently occupying some of the most powerful positions in international politics.
    Well, I’m under neither of these illusions. Welcome back, my lovely beer keg. All is forgiven.
Wednesday 27th April
    The irony of the little Buddy ’n’ Leila sideshow is that Leila and I have made up and become really good friends again. Now that I’m no longer seen as a sexual threat, she’s even more open with me than before. And now that she’s no longer on my direct target list, I am much more at ease around her. Our lunches have started again. And Buddy works such long hours that Leila and I have regularly gone drinking
à deux
in the evenings. She even knows that I’m having a quarter-life crisis and am trying to get sacked (although I’ve kept the testicle bit to myself — cancer isn’t much of a turn-on, I’m told).
    We might have turned into genuine friends, but I still like the fact that I can see beyond her obvious charms. Others might think she’s fit; I think she’s beautiful. And somehow she manages to be bubbly and shy, giggly and serious, compassionate and ironic, modern and old-fashioned, ambitious and homely, in all the right measures.
    And, as for her, I think she looks up to me in a bemused — if depressingly asexual — sort of way. I might not be Buddywith his cocksure American ambition, but I do at least make her laugh. I think she admires my silly give-a-damn attitude. She is straight out of university. This job is a dream come true for her. She lacks my cynical nature.
    â€˜I’m not a cynic,’ I tell her. ‘I’m just a lapsed idealist.’
    â€˜Same difference,’ she giggles. ‘Now just tell me again why my favourite lapsed idealist would like to leave a job with such lovely colleagues and a six-figure salary.’
    That’s the problem. Some of the colleagues are just that little bit too lovely; the rest are subhuman/shagging the lovely ones.
    In some ways I’ve grown to see her in a new light. She’s no longer a very fit girl who happens to be a nice person. She’s now a very good friend who just happens to be attractive.
    Well done, me. But it doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped fantasising about her. She ticks every box and I’m madly in love with her.
Saturday 30th April
    Lucy rang up to say that she was pregnant.

MAY
Sunday 1st May
    Lucy refused to give any more details on the phone yesterday, arranging only to meet up on the Bank Holiday tomorrow to talk properly. Until then I am left in a living hell of unanswerable questions. Is she sure she’s pregnant? Isn’t she on the pill? Is she going to terminate it? And who the hell is the father — Rick, me or someone else?
    I try to take my mind off this by buying a newspaper, but the advert on the front page is for baby