There's no such word as nice? Unfortunately there is

SOME time ago I met up with a former newspaper rival and good friend. Following a whirlwind romance, premature declarations of undying love, move-in and the commitment of a dog, came the inevitable and far from amicable split.

“What went wrong?” I asked him.

“I just wanted to watch the football on a Sunday and she kept nagging me to go to a fucking flower market. The realisation came one morning when I came out of the bathroom and stood in dog shit and thought; 'I need to get the fuck out.'”

A long pause followed before he added; “Who the fuck goes to a flower market?”

More than a year later I discovered the answer to this question, which once burnt so deep into a grown man’s soul it marked the final shovel of earth thudding down on his coffin of circumstances.

Visiting Columbia Flower Market at the weekend was an experience which silently screamed a thousand truths. Engulfed in a swarm of dangerously high levels of human traffic, I was swept along amid a current of couples laden down with miscellaneous floral purchases wrapped in brown paper. Expressionless couples seeking to add colour to their mundane existences, laced with underlying hatred fuelled by a morning argument and an unwatched football match.

Initially I did think that perhaps a one-off trip to a flower market wasn’t exactly fair grounds for the termination of a live-in relationship. Yet as I forced my way through the crowds my friend’s wise words haunted every stride.

“Who the fuck goes to a flower market?”

It’s not the flower market but what the flower market signifies. Sullen-faced couples parading an array of colourful Sunday attires by way of compensation for their lacklustre lives.

These are the nice couples. The sort of people you visit for tea and cake and come away saying; “Wasn’t that a nice afternoon?”

The people who, on a Saturday evening, settle down in their separate chairs to watch Murder Mystery box-sets while she simultaneously knits to alleviate the chances of either admitting that they have fuck all left to say to each other.  

Non-descript, plain old nice.

But it isn’t arbitrary that entering the realms of couple-dom must mark the obliteration of prospective partner’s personalities and mass-sacrifice of any personal interests.

After sticking two fingers up to ‘nice’, my friend is now a prime example that you can have the best of both and he is an example I wish to follow. 

You know you’re getting old when people starting telling you you’re “not that old.”

With extra emphasis on the “that,” which is the verbal equivalent of it being underlined, in bold italics, font-size falling off the page.

A few days ago I was in the playground at the primary school where I work when a boy shrieked with horror. A scream so chilling he could quite realistically have spied the ghost of Jimmy Savile lingering outside the Year 1 toilets. Compelled to ask what troubled him, the response was terribly disconcerting on my part.

“Your elbows! They’re so wrinkly and they have baggy lumps,” he squawked.

It’s official.

I have old elbows.

Guessing my age, most children in the school go for early 20’s, and children are born with an inbuilt incapacity to be in any way economical with the truth with regards to the personal appearance of their elders.

In short they don’t lie.

A misspent youth indulging in life’s elixirs, namely alcohol of all forms, cut-price mouthwash and methylated spirits included and a penchant for socially chugging on Marlboro Lights, has blessed me with a dewy(ish) complexion. 

My gradually graying roots are easy to disguise and, eternally damned with the body of a 14 year old boy, it would defy the laws of science for my non-existent breasts to sag.

I would never have predicted the first give-away sign of my demise into the world of bed-baths and zimmer-frames would be my elbows. Elbows which reveal a truth so horrific they can cause a young boy to howl.

Having no desire to demand people guess my years to satiate an ageing ego, I find it odd that many total strangers will pose this question as an ice-breaker.

During an interview earlier this month, a member of the competition asked “how old do you think I am?”

When someone invites me to play age-roulette I immediately assume they aim to shock, that they will be older than me and looking for consolation that they don’t look a day over 25.

Upping the stakes I offered “33?”

“I’m 25,” she replied, which was awkward.

Hindsight tells me I should probably have dropped the “I’m not very good with ages” line and refused to answer. In fact no, if you don’t want to be offended then don’t fucking ask.

Granted in 10 years’ time I’ll be wondering what all the fuss was about. Forty-two, undoubtedly still single, the first batch of stray cats running riot over my urine infused bedsit, I’ll scream from the rafters to all 30-somethings “enjoy it while it lasts!”

So I’m taking heed of the wise words of my futuristic self. Contrary to popular belief among the 18-25 bracket, 32 isn’t THAT old and I’m having a fucking ball!