Starter For Ten (12 page)

'Well, that's not true,' I say, even though it is.

'So how did you know all that stuff?'

'Mis-spent youth!' I say, but she doesn't get it, so I say, 'I suppose I just have a capacity for remembering useless knowledge, that's all.'

'D'you think there's such a thing? As useless knowledge?'

'Well. Sometimes I wish that I hadn't learnt how to crochet,' I say, and Alice laughs. Obviously she thinks I'm joking, which is maybe for the best. 'And lyrics to pop songs, I sometimes think that i could do without knowing so many pop lyrics . . .'

' "Give me spots on my apples but give me the birds and the bees ..."?'

Know it.

'"Big Yellow Taxi" by Joni Mitchell,' I say.

'"From Ibiza to the Norfolk Broads

Know it.

'"Life on Mars", Bowie,' I say.

'Okay, here we go, something new. "She's got cheekbones like geometry and eyes like sin/and she's sexually enlightened by Cosmopolitan . . ."'

Of course, I know the answer to this, but I do an engaging little pantomime of not-knowing, then say, '"Perfect Skin", Lloyd Cole and the Commotions?'

'God, you're gooooood,' she says and then, bizarrely, takes my arm, and we walk on through the park as the sun goes down.

'Okay, my turn. Do your worst . . .'

So I think for a moment, and take a deep breath and say,

'"I saw two shooting stars last night/I wished on them but they were only satellites/It's wrong to wish on space hardware/I wish, I wish, I wish you'd care."'

And I seem to have gotten away with it, in the sense that she doesn't projectile puke on me right there and then. And, yes, I know I should be ashamed of myself, and I am, really I am. She seems to take it fairly innocently though, and thinks for a moment then says 'Billy Bragg - "A New England".'

'Spot on,' I say.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?'

'I think so,' and we walk on through the tree-lined avenue, and the sodium lights blink on as we pass them, like the illuminated dance-floor in the Billie-Jean video. It occurs to me that what we most resemble at this moment is the black-and-white photograph on the cover of a TV-advertised exclusive 4 disc Ronco compilation album entitled The Greatest Love Songs Ever. Ahead of us is a large pile of newly fallen leaves, all russet and ochre and gold, and I steer her towards it, saying 'Hey, let's kick through some leaves!' 'Better not. There's usually dog-shit in there,' she says.

And I have to admit, she's probably got a point.

Shortly afterwards we get back to Kenwood Manor. She's held on to my arm all the way, which has to count for something, so feeling emboldened I say, 'Hey, what are you doing next Tuesday?'

Only a highly experienced eye like my own would spot the fleeting moment of panic that passes over Alice Harbinson's features, but it's there all right, if only for a moment, before she pulls a quizzical look, and taps her chin with her finger. 'Next Tues ...day? Let me think . . .' she says. Quick, Alice, think of an excuse, quickly girl, come on, come on, come on, ...

'It's just it's my nineteenth birthday, you see. The big One Nine! . . .' and I pause just long enough for her to stroll blindly into my trap.

'And you're having a party! Well I'd love to come . . .'

'Actually, not a party, I don't really know enough people for a party. But I thought maybe we could just go out for ...dinner or something?'

'Just me and you?' She smiles. Is the word 'rictal' or 'rictusly'?

'Just me and you . . .'

'Okay,' she says, as if it were two words. 'O. Kay. Why not? Yes! That'll be great! That'll be fun!' she says.

And it will be great. Great and Fun. I'm determined that it will be both Great and Fun.

QUESTION: Lanugo, vellus and terminal are all terms used to describe the different developmental stages of which part of the human body?

ANSWER: Hair

Today is a special day, because not only is it my nineteenth birthday, the last year of my teens, the beginning of a new and excitingly adult, mature phase in the life of Brian Jackson, but it's also the day of my romantic dinner for two with Alice Harbinson, and as a special birthday gift to myself, Alice, and the world, I've decided to completely change my image.

This has been due for some time, frankly. A lot of great artists, like David Bowie or Kate Bush stay on the cutting-edge by constantly changing their attitude and appearance, but I think it's fair to say that I've been caught in a bit of a style-rut lately. I'm not going to do anything extreme, I'm not going to start wearing knitted leotards, or get into heroin or become bisexual or anything, but I am going to get my hair cut. No, not just cut. Styled.

Hair has always been a bit of a bone of contention to be honest. Like using gel or washing your face or wearing slip-ons, having your hair cut was always considered a bit effeminate at Langley Street Comprehensive. This means that up until today I've been lumbered with this sort of nameless, formless thing that just flops lankly over my eyes, curling unhygienically over my collar and sticking out over the ears so that in silhouette my head looks a bit like a large bell or, as Tone would have it, the end of a knob.

But all that's going to finish today, because I've been eyeing up Cutz, a unisex salon - not a barber's - that I like the look of. It's modern without being avant-garde, and quite masculine, and clean, with copies of The Face and id to read, rather than a dog-eared, hairy pile of Razzle and Mayfair. I've spoken to a nice man called Sean, with a flat-top and an earring and a boys-y demeanour, who says he's going to do-me at ten.

It is, of course, massively expensive, but I've got the fiver Mum sent me in the post this morning (tucked in a card with footballers on the front - 'don't spend it all at once!'), and a fiver from Nana Jackson to go towards the romantic dinner for two tonight, so I'm feeling pretty uptown and ritzy as I stroll nonchalantly into Cutz, the first customer of the day. I approach the small group of staff, all hanging round the reception desk, drinking coffee and smoking Silk Cut.

'Appointment for ten o'clock? With Sean? Name of Jackson?'

They all look up, at my clothes and my hair, then look back down in a 'don't-get-involved' way, except for the receptionist, who strolls over and checks the appointment book. I can't see Sean, though. Where's my new friend Sean?

'Sean's not in today,' she says.

'Oh, right ...?'

'Nicky can do-you though. He's the apprentice. Is that alright?'

I follow her gaze to the corner where a skinny boy is half-heartedly sweeping up last night's trimmings. Is that Nicky? He looks about six.

'An apprenticed I whisper.

'He's the same as Sean, he's just a bit cheaper,' says the receptionist, chirpily, but even she knows it's a gamble.

You know in westerns, when the gang go to a brothel, and the main cowboy has to pick the prostitute that he likes the most, and there's always a sexy one with a beauty spot, the one that's clearly much more attractive than the other prostitutes, who are all fat or skinny or old, or have a wooden leg, or a mole on their lip, or a glass eye, and of course the cowboy always picks the sexy one? Well, I can't help worrying about the other prostitutes' feelings. I know that prostitution is wrong, but there's a kind of resigned, disappointed shrug that the rejected prostitutes give as they head back to their chaise-longue or whatever, that shows that while they'd rather not have loveless sex for money with a strange cowboy, it still would have been nice to be asked. And that's the look Nicky the Apprentice gives me. I can't reject Nicky, because Nicky is the prostitute with the wooden leg.

I'm sure Nicky will be great!' I say chirpily, and Nicky shrugs, puts down his broom, picks up his scissors, and gets ready to dome.

They make me up an individual proper coffee in a sort of jug with a plunger, and we have what I think is called 'a consultation'. This is a tricky one for me, because I don't really have the vocabulary. I thought about bringing along a photograph as a sort of visual aid, but if I turn up with a picture of David Bowie or Sting or Harrison Ford, they're just going to laugh in my face.

'What d'you want then? The usual?'

The don't know. What's the usual?'

'Short-backand-sides.'

No, that can't be right - sounds too old-fashioned. 'Actually I was thinking more of sort of keeping some of the length on the top, with a loose parting on the left, and sort of combed back, and short over the ears, and at the back.'

'Shaved at the back?'

'Just a little.'

'Like in Brideshead Revisited'?''

'No!' I laugh, meaning yes.

'Well, like what then?'

Be cool. 'Ummmm.'

'...because what you've just described there is a short back-and-sides.'

'Is it? Okay then, a short-backand-sides.'

'Want it washed?' he asks, lifting a lock distastefully between finger and thumb, like someone picking up a dirty tissue.

Will that be more expensive? 'No, no, no, I think it's fine, thanks.'

'You a student?'

'Yes!'

'Thought so.'

And so it begins. Young Nicky's actually pretty deft with the scissors, considering that the last pair he used were plastic and round-ended, and pretty soon he's hacking away with something like enthusiasm, as 'Purple Rain' plays loudly over the stereo. Meanwhile I sit and read The Face and pretend I understand it, and that I'm not worried about my hair, oh no, not at all, even though Nicky's the apprentice. The apprentice what? Apprentice plumber? Apprentice electrician? Apprentice lathe operator? I'm staring at an article about skate-boarding without really taking it in, so instead just look at the models in the fashion shoots, who are all skinny and androgynous and topless and languidly post-coital, and all sneer up at me, as if sneering at what Nicky's doing to my hair, and the electric razor's out now, and he's shearing the back of my head. Apprentice shepherd? I look up from The Face, look at the mirror, and it looks ...quite good actually, clean and fresh, structured yet natural. I look alright. In fact, I think this might actually be the one for me, the perfect haircut, the haircut I've been waiting for all my life. Nicky, I am so sorry for ever doubting you ...

But still he keeps cutting. Like when you do a great painting at junior school, and the teacher says 'stop now, or you'll spoil it' - Nicky's spoiling it! He's carving out great shaved strips over my ears, he's shaving so high up the back that the long hair on top looks like a toupee. Apprentice lawn-keeper?

Apprentice butcher? I want to reach over and yank the power cable out of the wall, but I can't, I just look dumbly back at The Face, something about break-dancing in Basingstoke shopping centres, and wait for the buzzing to stop.

Finally he stops. 'Gel or wax?' he asks.

God, gel or wax? I don't know. Is 'bag' an option? I've never had wax, so I say wax, and he opens a little shoe-polish container, rubs what looks like lard on his hands, and drags his fingers through what remains of my hair.

It's clear that I'm a long, long way from Brideshead here. I look like Winston Smith. I look like a shaved rabbit. I look skinny and wide-eyed and consumptive and a bit mad. Nicky gets a mirror and shows me the back of my head, where the electric razor has uncovered a Martian landscape of scars and boils that I didn't even know existed until now, one of which is bleeding slightly.

'What d'you think?' Nicky says.

'It's perfect!' I say.

Now that I've ruined my hair, it's time to pick a restaurant for our romantic dinner for two. Once again, no one teaches you how to choose a restaurant, and I've never been to a proper restaurant with just one other person before, just cafes and curries and Chinese with Spencer and Tone mainly, where more often than not, the traditional end to a meal is not a cognac and a fine cigar, but Tone shouting 'Runner!' So I'm working on instinct rather than experience, but sticking to a few basic rules of thumb.

First of all, no curries, just in case things get amorous. Also, there's nothing particularly attractive about sitting there with the object of your devotion, wafting your hand in front of your mouth going 'Bloody hell, that's hotV Secondly, try to avoid restaurants that are located within large department stores or supermarkets. I once treated Janet Parks to a slap-up sit-down lunch in Basildon British Home Stores, and I don't think it went down that well actually. Carrying your own food back to your table on a tray, generally speaking, is to be avoided; remember, waitresses are not a luxury. Thirdly, don't be too flash. Impulsively, I told Alice that I'd take her to Bradley's Bistro, which is pretty swanky, but I went to look at the menu and it's way out of my league, so we're going to have to go somewhere which combines fine cuisine with value-for-money. Even with Nana Jackson's river taken into account, I've still only got Ł12.00 for dinner for two, to include wine, two courses and a dessert with two spoons.

Walking around town, looking in restaurant windows, I keep catching sight of my new haircut, my face looking haunted and afraid. That hair wax is a rip-off too. They make you think it's going to give you control, but all it's done here is make the fringe cling lankly to my forehead, like an oil-slicked seagull. Maybe it'll look better by candlelight. As long as it doesn't combust.

I browse the restaurants in the chintzier village-y part of town, and finally make my decision - a traditional Italian trattoria called Luigi's Pizza Plaza. It does burgers and ribs too, and deep-fried whitebait, and has red-check tablecloths, and candles in wine bottles under great red vesuviuses of congealed wax, and complimentary breadsticks and gigantic pepper mills on every table, so I book the table for two, eight-thirty, name of Jackson, from a red-faced man with dirty fingernails who may or may not be the eponymous Luigi, then head back to my digs.

QUESTION: A durable blue twill taking its name from 'serge de Mimes'; the exuded sap of the tree 'hevea brasihensis', and woven filaments from the genus Bombyx Name the three materials

ANSWER: Denim, rubber and silk

I'm meant to be doing an essay on 'Nature Imagery in John Donne's Holy Sonnets', but I've been looking for a week now and still can't actually find any.