Free Twenty Something by Iain Hollingshead

understand. I rang my dad and told him everything.
    â€˜Jack, you’ll go mad if you carry on thinking about the little details. You’ve got to look at the bigger picture.’
    â€˜Which is?’
    â€˜Well, were you happy with her? Do you ultimately want to be with her? Was she the right woman for you to spend the rest of your life with?’
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Well, that’s your answer, then. You’ve got to hold on to that. The rest will sort itself out.’
    He was right. Bless the wise old bugger, he was absolutely right. I resolved not to think about it any more. I’d dumped Lucy, I’d foolishly slept with her again (
after
him — so I still win that one) and they were both free to run their lives as they saw fit. If two lonely people wanted to liven up their drab existence with a couple of hours of meaningless grunting, that was their business. And, with these generous thoughts, I headed out for a night on the tiles with Flatmate Fred and Jasper.
Sunday 13th March
    I often wonder how different individual lives in Britain would be if alcohol had never been invented. Just imagine all the couples who would never have got together without a little encouragement. All those unsent text messages and undeclared intentions. Can you imagine dancing, let alone pulling, in a sober club? And just picture all the hair-brained moneymakingschemes and madcap adventures which would never have happened if ethanol hadn’t pickled the sensible connectors in our brains. Not to mention all the unfulfilled resolutions to sort our lives out as the wrath of grapes takes hold the morning after.
    Yesterday evening, for example, would have been a great deal less embarrassing for me if I’d decided to curl up on the sofa with a good book and a cup of hot cocoa. As it was, I came home on the night bus at 2.30am and decided to ring Lucy.
    This in itself was a stupid idea. All my generous feelings from my earlier conversation with my dad had evaporated. A two-day hangover was starting to kick in, and I wanted to have it out with her about Rick.
    What I’d forgotten was that I’d added Leila into the ‘L’s in my mobile, thereby distorting the order in my phone book. This unforeseen hiccup, plus the fact that I had just drunk the recommended monthly units of alcohol in a single weekend, meant that I rang Lucy’s parents by mistake.
    For some extraordinary reason I’d set my phone to record our conversation. Perhaps I wanted to use it in evidence later — I cannot fathom the drunken workings of my mind. And so, thanks to the wonders of modern technology, I can now transcribe the exchange.
    â€˜Archie Poett speaking,’ says a tired voice.
    â€˜Luscy. Ish that you, Luscy?’
    â€˜This is Salisbury 755750. What do you want?’
    â€˜Who the bloody duck face are you? Where’s Luscy? Hand the mobile over to her. I demand to shpeak to her. And I demand to shpeak to her now.’
    â€˜This is Lucy’s father. Who is this? Why are you ringing at this time? Is something wrong?’
    â€˜Luscy’s father, my blubbering bollocksh. You’re her new boyfriend. You’re sleeping with her, aren’t you? I bet you’ve got a tiny, flacshid, little penish. I know she’s there. Let me shpeak to her.’
    â€˜Is that Jack?’
    â€˜Yesh, it’s Jack.’ I think the mention of my name must have sobered me up slightly. There is a sudden note of fear in my voice.
    â€˜Jack, you’ve rung Lucy’s parents’ house by mistake. Put the phone down, have a cold shower and go to bed.’
    â€˜Yesh, Mr Poett. Oh, my God. I’m very sorry, Mr Poett.’
    â€˜And Jack?’
    â€˜Yesh, Mr Poett.’
    â€˜You won’t remember this, but I just wanted to say that you could have been a son to me. I’m very disappointed.’
    â€˜Mr Poett?’
    â€˜Yes, Jack.’
    â€˜Go fuck yourself, Mr