A Wedding of Convenience

 

It has been four weeks since I got engaged and I have discovered a common thread linking the conversations that follow my announcement. Usually within five minutes into the hand shakes, the back slaps and the hearty congratulations, the question is usually raised, “Your mum must be happy?”

 

And you know what? She is.

 

Well have a look at the wonderful pearls of motherly wisdom that I sometimes overhear.

 

“Thank God! Someone else can take care of him.”

“Imagine all the Avon boxes I can pile into his room.”

“Oh that poor girl, what is she getting herself into?”

“Darren, how does she put up with you?”

 

And let’s not forget the conversation I overheard last week, when Marina was telling her about a recently received enagement present.

 

“A few of the teachers at work got together and got us a really nice crystal vase,” Marina said.

“Wow,” my mum responded, “that must be pretty heavy.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty solid.”

“Good! You can throw it at him when he is being an idiot.”

 

Yes, it’s fairly obvious my mum is happy. She is happy that she can get rid of me. I would say that the feeling is mutual, but I have an inheritance to think of.  

As does my mother.

 

Case in point.  When Marina and I told my mother that we had decided the date of the wedding, there was a pause, before a pervasive chesire grin filled her face. I deluded myself into thinking that this was a smile of joy, after all, her only son is getting married.

 

The reality of the situation became apparent later.

 

My grandfathers’s 90^th birthday is a week after our wedding and my mum was slowly setting into motion the plans to have her own party. When exactly was this party? Why, the day after our wedding of course, because “it was convient.”

 

“Darren,” my mum told me, “That is great that your wedding is when it is, because all the relatives will be here and it will be great occasion. It is your grandfathers 90^th after all.”

 

Exactly. Why have wedding, when you can have 90^th birthday party.

 

So there you go folks, my mum is ectstatic, not because I am getting married, but because my wedding provided the perfect solution to her problem of how to get my numerous relatives to come up and celebrate my grandad’s birthday.

 

 

And you know what? I am sure the machievellian machinations of my mother is just beginning and this appearance will not be her last in the blogsphere. Who knows when or where she will strike next? But in any case I gurantee to keep you updated

 

Till next time…

Searching For Reception

Our mission was in 4 parts and is outlined as follows:

 

Part 1:

Take our original guest list, double that number, subtract three, add forty five and then multiply by three. This number should equal that of a small village and is the amount of family that need to be invited to the wedding.

 

Part 2:

Take a deep breath, close your eyes and resist urge to spiral into insanity.

 

Part 3:

Find a reception centre that is classy, yet contemporary, funky, yet fun, that offers flexibility and is able to fit the hordes we affectionately call our relatives.

 

Part 4 (optional, yet highly recommended):

Elope!

 

Upon reading this mission statement Marina and I had to take more than a few breaths, because we quickly realised planning an Anglo Indian wedding was like diffusing a bomb.  You make the wrong decision and it will most certainly blow up in your face.

 

To avoid any wayward explosions our search began in earnest. Okay I lie.  Marina’s started in earnest.

 

During the course of the week, we had organised appointments at various reception centres, with the first one being timetabled at 11. Before I continue let me just make it clear for those who don’t know me that I set my watch to Australian time and not Indian time, and therefore, am usually running on or near to time. Indian time for those who are curious is when you arrive at any appointment 1 hour late than scheduled and think you’re early. 

 

Based on my chronological habits and the whereabouts of the reception centre I did not think it would be necessary to leave Marina’s house any earlier than 10:30.  To say I was surprised when my darling fiancée, eager get in some nagging practice, stormed into the room at 9:00 with a flurry of swear words, talk of chiffon and general disregard for my masculinity and tried to hurry me out the door is an understatement.

 

Marina and I have been a couple for about 8 months and by this stage I was well aware of the two options I had at my disposal: Option (a) get up, stand up, stand up for my rights, but that would only get me into more trouble and probably on an episode of RPA or Option (b) give in and buy me a couple of hours peace.

 

I chose the latter and found out with wives-to-be, there is no such thing as a couple of hours of peace. The journey to the reception centre was filled with talk of colour schemes, what I should do with my hair, why I have to wear this particular cummerbund, centre pieces and while the list went on, for the sake of brevity I will stop the sentence right here.

 

After a ninety minute wait in the romantic car park, 11 o’clock finally rolled around and we were shown what was on offer.  Yes they had tables.  And wouldn’t you know it, they even had chairs. But that was not all. They had more.  And I am not talking about steak knives either. We listened intently as we were shown their marvellous, unbeatable, you have-be-nuts-to-miss-an-opportunity-like-this, all inclusive wedding package.  Marina and I were suitably blown away.

 

Apart from offering us a 3 course meal that were served on plates large enough to train Olympic ice skaters, there was the “expansive” dance floor, a well stocked bar, a stage, a horse and enough jugs of water to fill an Olympic sized swimming pools. I know, I know. We couldn’t believe it either. Marina and I were blown away at the value of money.  Just think of all the things we could have done with a free horse.

 

Eager to see what other farm animals other reception centres could throw in for our amusement, we continued our search.

 

It did not take us long to realise that searching for a reception centre was like reading a real estate advertisement – you had to know the language and then translate accordingly. The “free extras” were not really “extra” and not really “free” (apart from the horse) and the inclusions sometimes left a lot to be desired. “Water views” means a glimpse litter strewn estuary”, a marvellous atmosphere meant that 2 out of 3 speakers actually worked, and a romantic atmosphere meant that the lights were covered with dust. As for a free dance floor, it was nothing more than a metaphor for a piece of carpet that had been worn down. 

 

But don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t all bad.  Some places were quite spectacular, adorned with ice sculptures, silk drapery, marble columns, crystal chandeliers and enough gold and precious metal to make every guest feel like a pimp.

 

But regardless of which reception centre visited, I realised there was one constant in the magical world of wedding variables. No I am not talking about arguments about seating arrangements (I am sure I will get to that blog eventually) I am talking about chair covers.  If this not the biggest rort in the wedding industry, than I am a monkey’s uncle.  But considering how hairy I am, maybe that is not too far removed from the truth.

 

But I digress. It seemed that every package we were shown, highlighted ad nauseum, the virtues of chair covers. Seriously folks, the room is going to be dim, people are going be tipsy and the focus is on the bride and groom. But then again who am I to contradict convention, because who cares about the happy couple when your bum feels pretty and loved. 

 

Nonetheless, I was actually tempted to take my friend Bourke’s suggestion and ask people to bring their own bed sheets or at the very least take up needle work and stitch their own. Suffice to say, Marina was not terribly impressed with this suggestion.

 

But if you have an emotional arse, you need not worry; our reception is booked and I love the fact that each day brings me closer to my new friend Janome (I am up to chair cover 45, for those who are interested). Who said my blushing bride cannot be persuasive; she can do wonders with a rolling pin and I am not talking about rolling chapattis either.

 

Where are we having the wedding reception you ask?  That’s for us to know and for you to find out and rather than plague you with further bad jokes and puns, I bid thee adieu until our next exciting (?) wedding adventure.

 

An Engaging Question

The scene played out simply:  There I was on bended knee, a gentle wind rustling through the trees, the soft dulcet sunlight masking the Sydney skyline and the gentle caress of waves licking the shore at Ramsgate beach.

The question would then be posed: Marina, will you marry me?

Her answer, through a cascade of tears: Yes

For once reality exceeded the fantasy

The wind was brisk and refreshing, the sun seared through the dark clouds, draping the city in hues of orange and red and the waves slapped the shore in harmonious whispers.

Everything mirrored our third date and deciding not to wait for my best friend Rudolph to ring and ruin the moment like he did (and let me just say, a ring tone is not conducive to a romantic soundtrack), I dropped to my knee.

Shock filled Marina’s face. Not waiting for her to say anything I took a deep breath, suppressed the butterflies that were swarming up my throat and asked “Will you marry me?”

Marina blinked quickly and stuttered, “Are You Joking? You’re not serious are you?”

While not the words I exactly wanted to hear, it still meant that I had surprised her, which was the plan all along. Not answering her question, I replied “I’m not joking,” and pulled out the ring.

She stared at the box in my hand and when her eyes found mine, they were filled with tears. Sniffing softly, she said “Yes.”

What now? You ask.

Well a whole lot of fun and adventure.  And by fun I mean, meddling aunties, stressed out parents, arguments, the use of a veil as weapon of mass destruction, lots of rice (we are Indian after all), some cricket and a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on – well you seen a Bollywood movie haven’t you?

And I hope you will all join us for the ride.  Because as Marina and I hop aboard the rollercoaster cheerfully titled “The Golly Golly Gosh Wedding Palooza: The Marriage of Marina and Darren,” I will be posting blogs, insights and general wedding related rants at indeterminate intervals until the big day.

So stay tuned…

On Publishing “Between Borders & Buses”

I can’t believe it.

Surely this must be a dream. And if it is, I certainly don’t want to wake up. After four years of toiling over a keyboard, my first book, “Between Borders and Buses” has been published and released on an unsuspecting public.

Filled with numerous travel anecdotes, the book is an enlightening and entertaining tale of the mayhem, misadventure and mischief I stumbled upon when traipsing haphazardly around Europe.

On hearing I’ve written a book about my European jaunt, everyone automatically assumes that I am ecstatic and doing the dance of joy with every person I meet. They are partially right. Sure, I’m near cloud nine but nowhere near over the moon, because my elation is tempered by fear.

When writing the book, I was sure people would love to read about my motor scooter mishaps, how I avoided threesomes in the Greek islands and the best way to wrestle a stubborn tent in Portugal. But now as my book trickles into the market place, I am overwhelmed with apprehension.

Why?

Amongst the titbits of information to help backpackers and other budget conscious travellers plan their trips, my emotions are laid bare for all to read. It is this latter aspect that scares me the most. Sure people might not judge a book by its cover, but they might judge an author by his travel book.

What worries me are the conclusions people might come to as they read my tome. Take my Space cake shenanigans in Amsterdam for example. After reading about this indiscretion, will they guffaw loudly at my antics or throw the book down in disgust, hoping to use as it kindling in their fireplace?

To be honest, I would rather have readers shake their heads and “tut tut” disapprovingly over a typical “dodgy Daz” moment then a piece of bad prose and improper use of grammar. For that small mercy, I am forever indebted to my fantastic editor Merilyn Smith (correctediting@bigpond.com.au) who went, in my opinion, above and beyond the call of duty when editing “Between Borders and Buses.” To say she was a godsend is an understatement. If not for her or my proof reader, Tim Learner (timlearner@kooee.com.au), my book would have more than likely found a home next to the porcelain throne – and I don’t mean as light reading material either.

Now as I send the first books off to various customers, I understand how parents feel when they send their kids off to school for the first time. They have done everything they possibly could, from ironing their shirts, combing their hair and even packing their lunches, but in the end, the kid has to make it in the schoolyard by themselves. As I am sure every writer knows, in the world of book publishing, the school yard is a humungous and in all honesty, a bloody scary place.

Sure, people tell me I should be proud that I self published “Between Borders and Buses”, and I am. Admittedly, I did not do it myself. I read and re-read Euan Mitchell’s “Self Publishing Made Easy”, a must for every eager author, and learnt a lot of practical information from attending Samantha Tidy’s course at the NSW Writers Centre – “Self Publishing is not a Dirty word!” But all that doesn’t matter to the reader, who cares not how the book got published, just that it was. All they are concerned about is the quality of the words between that highly colourful art board cover.

Now you understand why I’m scared, terrified even. But you know what? I would not have it any other way. It makes each morning much more exciting and fresh, knowing that there are people out there, some of whom are complete strangers, engrossed in my story.

Sure there will be the naysayers who look upon my book with disdain and harsh criticism, but to quote a US president: “You can’t please all of the people all of the time.” The pain of each criticism though is nothing to the gratification that fills me whenever I hear someone talk favourably about “Between Borders and Buses.” Thankfully the book’s reviews thus far have been nothing if not promising.

But it is still early days and whatever direction “Between Borders and Buses” trends – good, bad or even becomes (dare I hope?) a bestseller – I am certain of one thing: my first book may be complete and the last sentence long since typed, but my journey as a writer is just beginning.

“Between Borders and Buses” is available at www.beyondyonderpublications.com

“All Aboard!”

With my book, “Between Borders and Buses”, a mere 7 weeks away, I give you all a sneak peak of my first chapter of entitled “All Aboard!”Also In conjunction with the sneak peak, my website is live as of now – www.beyondyonderpublications.com

Check it out and if you want to pre order the book feel free. And don’t forget to tell your friends

So without further adieu, let us begin our journey Between Borders and Buses…

Listening to the howling wind and the murmuring London traffic from my hostel bed it suddenly occurred to me how quickly the last two years had passed me by. It seemed like only yesterday I’d arrived in London and made my way to The Fox and Goose, the pub where I’d planned to work behind a bar for a couple of months to earn some quick dosh so I could bum around Europe for a while.

On my arrival the manager had taken one look at me and relegated me to the restaurant, probably because he could see I had no hope of reaching the wine glasses on the rack above the bar.

Not that being a waiter prevented me from having accidents. If anything, this increased my chances for mishaps. At least if I’d been confined to the bar there was only the danger of spilt drinks and broken glass. Putting me to work in the restaurant meant there were the added perils of spilt gravy, mushy peas, bolognaise sauce and anything else that could leave lasting impressions on the clothes and bodies of unsuspecting patrons. One such incident left me covered in cream and my manager wearing hot, sticky apple pie. Needless to say he was not impressed. The customers however were overjoyed at the impromptu cabaret.

I’d planned to work at the pub for about three months before beginning my small tour of Europe, but I was so busy experiencing the relaxed antipodean London lifestyle that my plans quickly fell by the wayside. Not only did I stay at The Fox much longer than expected, but my travel plans were pushed aside indefinitely. At least until my two year visa was about to expire.

Not that I spent the entire two years at The Fox. I may be clumsy, but I certainly am not crazy-okay, maybe a little. If I’d stayed at the pub for that long I definitely would’ve left London in a straightjacket and the only sightseeing I would’ve done is from the confines of a padded cell.

Working at The Fox wasn’t all bad, but after six months I was at the stage where if I’d had to eat yet another toasted sandwich and chips I would have gone stark raving mad.

Added to this was the fact that the staff house where I was staying, a mere ten minute walk from the pub, made the Leaning Tower of Pisa look sturdy, and I’d been silly enough to choose the bed that sat directly under the leaky portion of the roof. That said, the roof leaked only when it rained; being London this meant there was enough water collected in the yellow bucket I’d placed there to fill Sydney’s Warragamba Dam.

The food was similarly predictable. Breakfast was a choice of either cereal or fried eggs accompanied by some sort of pork by product-whether it was bacon or sausages was anybody’s guess-while lunch was a little something I like to call ‘Leftover Surprise’. Why? Because it was always a surprise what was left over from the lunchtime pub rush, and because it was a surprise if it was actually edible. While lunch gave most people indigestion, heartburn, the runs, or all of the above, dinner simply gave people the opportunity to swear profusely. It consisted mainly of toasted sandwiches and chips, soup and chips, and for the real adventurous who thought their heart-and stomach-could take it, there was melted cheese on chips. Obviously, this pub was in charge of keeping the country’s hot chips economy afloat.

Little wonder that after only a week of this I was pretty sick of toasted sandwiches and chips. Yet I watched with disbelief as the same people came into the pub day after day and ordered that same meal over and over. I soon began to wonder if the English had any idea about variety and if the only spice of life they ever got came courtesy of the local Indian takeaway.

That aside, I look back on my time spent at The Fox and Goose with fondness because in all honesty they were some of the best times of my life.

One memory that always brings a smile to my face is the time the staff got together to celebrate Australia Day. I was no longer working at the pub by this stage and had moved on to bigger and better things. According to the piece of paper I was handed just before leaving Australia, I was a qualified industrial chemist and I was eager to find out what that meant. My mates at The Fox weren’t too sure about my choice of career. They’d seen first hand how uncoordinated I was with pub food and dreaded to think how I’d behave with much more dangerous substances. I guess they were waiting for the headline, Clumsy Anglo-Indian Causes Right Royal Mess! Nevertheless, I finally found a company brave enough to hire me and was soon embroiled in the thrilling world of automotive coatings. It was as fun as it sounds and before long I could proudly say I was actually being paid to watch paint dry.

Anyway, when Australia Day finally arrived-something I’d been looking forward to for quite some time-I left work early and quickly made my way to the pub.

I arrived as the self titled ‘Bar Boys’ were closing up for the night. There was Toby, a tall blond larrikin who once talked me out of buying a T shirt just so he could buy it (and yes, you’re right in thinking he’s a bastard!), Robert “don’t fuckin’ call me Ronald” Macdonald who loved all things Bon Jovi and was adamant that everyone at the Fox kept the faith, and finally Lincoln, a lanky Kiwi who was the most high tech backpacker I’d ever seen. While others were content with just a camera or two, Lincoln turned up at the staff house armed with a video camera, a laptop and plans to turn our room into a high tech Mecca. In the space of a week he’d outfitted his laptop with a CD burner, the house with an Internet connection and there was even talk of installing a collapsible satellite dish before the month was out.

Once the boys had closed the bar the four of us and a few other workmates walked to the staff house. The place hadn’t changed much since I’d left. Eleven people were still crammed in there and it still looked like it was about to collapse any minute-the fence had already done so-and the roof over my old bed still leaked.

While Lincoln fired up the laptop and streamed Triple J, the first beers were cracked open and celebrations began and continued well into the next day. Admittedly, there was a short break at around four in the morning when pretty much everybody, overcome by copious amounts of beer consumption, crashed and burned.

Australia Day in London was not at all like Australia Day back home. The weather had a lot to do with that. Grey, miserable and reflecting the state of English cricket-shithouse!

But being the Australian pioneers that we were, Rob, Toby and I weren’t going to let a little drop of rain stop us and we waded into the backyard to fire up the barby. With the rain streaming and the wind blustering, you can imagine this proved quite difficult. Using our extensive knowledge of engineering and building practices, along with some old ladders and clear plastic sheeting we spotted in the shed, we built a pergola. Okay, that’s not exactly true. When I say we built a pergola what we actually did was prop ladders up against one another and hoped for the best. Even then it took us the better part of twenty minutes to settle on a design that successfully stood up of its own accord for longer than two seconds.

Finally, wiping the rain from our brows, the three of us stepped back and congratulated ourselves before a small breeze whistled through the backyard and sent the whole thing crashing to the ground and us scrambling for cover.

As a result, the barbecue-the smallest I’d ever seen at one and a half times the length of a loaf of bread and about two times its width-was moved into the shed. Looking at it, I wondered if it would even hold the weight of a sausage, let alone a few chunky rissoles.

Lunch was followed by a game of backyard cricket, which unfortunately didn’t last as long as we hoped. First, the light began to fade at about three o’clock, which was typical of a London winter, and second, Toby gave into the urge to smash the ball into the canal that flowed behind the houses on the other side of the street. This left us with little else to do but pop open more drinks and play drinking games until we all passed out.

For this most of us were glad because in the room directly above us the head housekeeper and her husband, both illegal immigrants, were again giving the bed springs a work out-they were notorious for it. It was a similar situation where I was staying at the time. I’d moved out of the staff house and into a bed sit in West London when I’d started the job at the paint company and while the roof wasn’t leaking the other residents seemed to be forever bonking. If it wasn’t the couple in the room next to mine it was the son of the landlord and his girlfriend. It therefore came as no great shock when I came home from work one day to find someone delivering a brand new bed.

Thankfully, Scotland wasn’t as bad. After I’d finished watching paint dry I moved up north to see how life was in the land of coos-hairy cows-and kilts. Instead of spending my time in Edinburgh or Glasgow I ventured into the Highlands, which turned out to be a great decision. The scenery was beautiful, like something out of The Lord of the Rings, the air was fresh and the people, well, let’s just say they were different. While they didn’t feel the need to shag around me like bunnies on Viagra-in itself a good thing-I did find a few of the locals a quid short of a fiver. It was a couple of weeks after I’d started work at a Scottish pub when the bar manager told me very casually that a girl had slashed his back with a knife.

“Why?” I asked him.
Apparently he supported the wrong soccer team.
At that point I made a mental note: When chatting to girls in Scotland (a) do not mention soccer and (b) make sure they’re not carrying concealed weapons of any kind. It was a mantra I would follow forever.

One day I was picking up a roll of developed film when the guy behind the counter casually asked me where I was from. I told him.
“Aye,” he said as his eyes glazed over. “Yeenaw, arv alwees want’d ta visit Awstreelya.”
“What’s stopping you?” I asked.
“Jist ma crim’nal reick’d.”
Deciding not to pry, I simply nodded.
“Yissee, in ma young’r dees, ah wa a wee bit sillay an kill’d sum people ata fitba match.”
“Oh – okay.” What else could I say?
“That’s the thin with us Scawttish,” he sighed. “We’re lurvely people, ba we’re aw fuckin’ nuts!”
I certainly was not going to argue.

Despite this Scotland was a place of amazing and rugged beauty and I was sad to leave. But I had a whole other continent waiting to be explored and the following evening would find me in Paris. I could not wait.

…..To Be continued….

(only if you buy the book )

All Dressed Up & Nowhere To Hide

It is everyman’s dream. To be trapped in a dark room, surrounded by women.Well I have lived that dream and I can tell any guys reading this blog to be careful what they wish for, because it may come true and your dream could become a nightmare.

Like mine did.

It was a humid Sunday afternoon and before the pressure cooker heat turned my girlfriend and me al dente, we escaped into air conditioned comfort of Westfield Hurstville.

After spending the better part of hour walking aimlessly through any store that took our fancy we decided the best way to pass the time was to watch a movie. My only condition was that it had to be a movie where I did not have to think. In man speak this translates into guns, explosions, busty wenches and car chases.

I realised all too soon that in girl speak this translates into something completely different. It means “let’s watch a movie about bridesmaids’ dresses.” All twenty seven of them. Yes ladies and gentlemen, I was dragged to see “27 Dresses”. To any guy who does not know what I am talking about, be thankful because innocence is bliss.

Holding my hand, Marina led me into the cinema and to our seats. Trust me it was not a symbol of affection. It was so I would not run screaming back out the door. Can I just say girls can be incredibly strong when movies about weddings are involved. As we walked down the darkened aisle, I am not ashamed to say that I have never been more terrified in my life.  Yes, I was surrounded by women, but none of them were in bikinis or bringing me pie.  My fantasy had gone horribly wrong.

Once we took our seats, I surveyed the cinema and did a quick head count of all the males present. In a cinema that holds about 250 people, I counted four. We were seriously outnumbered and from the fearful expressions on the faces of the other guys, I knew they felt the same way I did.

Praying for an emergency evacuation, I turned back to the screen, burrowed into the seat and chose to make the best of my situation. I figured I could use this experience to help me understand the workings of the female mind and then use that perception to help me craft “real” female characters in the novels I plan to write.  Yes, I know this was a stupid idea, and I am sure I have a better chance of understanding string theory and its relevance to the creation and destruction of quarks in a dark matter universe. But I am nothing if not stubborn (it’s a Taurean trait) and decided to try anyway.

After the obligatory ads for feminine hygiene products flashed across the screen the first trailer began. After the first couple of minutes, my confusion about the female species grew exponentially.

This particular trailer had no plot from the get go. It went pretty much like this – a group of bad girls go to poncy English private school. They cause trouble.  The principal is a cross dresser. The girls realise that the school is in financial trouble. They suddenly mature and save the school by raising the money needed.  And no, they did not acquire the required funds needed using the wholesome methods you might find in an Enid Blighton novel about Malory Towers. These girls preferred the tried and true Monopoly method – “Go to jail and don’t collect $200″.  Apparently the girls thought the best way to raise money was to steal a painting and then sell it. Well I think that’s what they intended to do, because the trailer did not make this very clear.

When I told my two close friends Chondona and Palak, who are both well read and are critical of bad plots in books and movies, about the preview that was shown, their reaction was pretty much the same as the rest of the cinema. They were disturbed that something of this standard could pass for a movie. Wow, I thought to myself, when it comes to appreciating a good story, men and women are actually quite alike. Who was I kidding? Like a soap bubble my perception of womankind popped when a certain man appeared on the screen.  Some girls know him as God.  Others know him as “the answer to my loins,” while others just know him as Mr. Darcy. For the guys reading this and have no idea who I am talking about, think two words: Colin Firth.

As soon I mentioned these two words to Chondona and Palak, they forgot all about the lack of plot, the paper thin storyline and the plain outlandish waste of 90 minutes that the movie probably was and concurred, separately I might add, that it would be a great movie to watch.  And yes you are right in thinking that every woman in the cinema felt the same way. When Colin came on screen, every single woman sucked in a breath, placed a hand on their heart (my girlfriend included) and sighed as one. One woman even yelled out “I want to bear his children!”  And yes I made that it bit up, but from the plethora of heaving bosoms I am sure I was not far from the truth.

The lights dimmed, the girls cooed with excitement, the movie started and I was swamped by a tidal wave of oestrogen. No joke! There was so much hormones filling the theatre, I was afraid I would start lactating.

After ten minutes of watching the movie and trying to understand the machinations of the female mind, my head began throbbing. Instead of continuing to mull over the nature of womankind and in the process give myself a migraine, I focused my thoughts on the issue of global warming. Trust me it was an easier problem to solve. 

I’ll be honest there were jokes I just did not get.  There is a part in the movie where the leading lady Katherine Heigl (who plays Jane) is displaying each of her 27 bridesmaids’ dresses. Apparently this was the hook that was causing women to flock to this movie in droves.  Why? If I knew the answer to that question I would be rich. All I know is if there was a movie called “27 Suits”, I certainly would not rush out watch it.  Maybe if the movie was called “27 Bangs: Big Gunn’s Revenge”, I would, but “27 Suits”, I think not.  But no, it was all about the dresses.  When I was speaking to Palak, she could not wait to see the movie so she could check out the aforementioned dresses.  I just don’t get it. If the dresses were actually nice to look at, I would actually get where the ladies were coming from. But they weren’t nice; they were some of the ugliest creations known to man. Yet girls were happy to part with their hard earned money to inflict themselves to this ocular diarrhoea. If that is not masochistic, then I don’t know what is?  Why ladies, why? Oooh my aching head!

And you know what annoyed Palak? Not the fact that they showed these horrible dresses over and over again, but that during the start of the movie, Jane puts on a Sari in the back of a cab.  Me, I did not give it a second thought, but Palak would not let it go. She even rang to tell me how the writer should have done better research. After a phone call that lasted 30 minutes, I knew the in’s and out’s of Sari etiquette and I had temporarily lost hearing in one ear.   

This movie got me thinking though. Bridesmaid dresses apparently suck.  Me personally, I have never seen one that I have not particularly liked, but to every female everywhere, ALL bridesmaid dresses were the spawn of Satan’s personal seamstress.  So why doesn’t someone, preferably a female cause God knows a man would not have any clue what to do, and yes I am thinking outside the square with this idea, design a dress that is simple and elegant.  Surely it can’t be that hard.  A bit of cleavage, a high split up the leg and a low back.  It works every time. Well it works for me anyway.

But this blog is not about understanding how my mind works, because that is fairly easy. Just think of a gutter and my thoughts are usually down there.  And if you don’t believe me, read my blog about my night at Hooters entitled “Having a Hoot”.  This blog however is about getting a deeper understanding of the inner workings of the female mind. Which at this point reminds me of conundrum within an enigma swallowed by babushka doll wrapped in a mystery!

Why? Well even at the end of the movie, when stills from the movie (including all 27 dresses) were flashing up alongside the credits, every girl was happy to sit back and stare at each horrendous dress with doe eyed appreciation. And if you think that was bad, you should have witnessed the reaction to the wedding dresses that were featured in the movie. And yes I suppose I could write about the feelings of joy and elation that gushed through the cinema with each glimpse of a white lacy creation, but be thankful I don’t.  If I did, this blog would double in size and even then I don’t think I will be any closer to an epiphany about the female species.

But I guess I should not be too disappointed about my lack of understanding about ladies everywhere. Greater men than me have tried to unlock the mysteries of woman only to go insane and have their closet filled with designer straight jackets. And because I have all the straight jackets I ever need, I have chosen not to focus not on the movie I saw, but the movie it could have been: “27 Bikinis”

Having A Hoot

Everyone loves Hooters. 

My friend Razia loves them so much that she even convinced my friends Shyamika and Michelle to eat there for Shyamika’s birthday.  Well I think convinced might not be the correct word.  Here, let me give you an indication of how I imagine Raz’s conversation with Shyam went down.

“Shyam where do you want go for your birthday?” Raz would have asked.

“I would like…” Shyam would have tried to reply.

“You know what you’d really enjoy Shyam? The chicken wings at Hooters.”

“But I want…”
“Come on Shyam! Remember when we were in the US? You loved ‘em!”

“They were okay. But I thought we could…”

“That’s settled! Hooters it is!  I love the chicken wings. We can invite Darren. I reckon he’ll be able to get us a discount, because I’m sure he likes the wings so much he has a frequent Hooter card.”

“Raz, knowing Daz, I don’t think the chicken wings are what he would go to Hooters for.”

Before I go on, let me say Raz was wrong and Shyam was right.  No, I do not have a “frequent Hooter” Card. And why would I want to visit Hooters for the chicken wings when everybody knows I’m a breast man.

Oh come on now. Don’t groan. You saw that joke coming from a mile off.  Everyone who reads this blog should know me well enough to know, if I am going to be talking about hooters then this blog will be full of bawdy, off colour jokes. It’s expected. There you go, you have been warned that you may, and probably will, be offended. With that disclaimer out of the way, let’s continue.

I reached the restaurant about thirty minutes before the ladies arrived. The Christmas Party season had just kicked off and I wanted be there early to ensure we got given a good table, and not because, as the girls kept telling me, I wanted to savour the view. That’s my excuse and I am sticking with it!

It was shy of 7:30 when Razia, Shyamika and Michelle rocked up. After a round of hugs Shyamika promptly asked, “So Darren where are all the hooters.” Thankfully before I had to be rude and point, she turned and stared down the barrel of two.

Now if you ask me, and since no one ever does, I am going to tell you anyway, this was a strange question for Shyam, let alone any girl to ask. Why? Well think about it. If ever a girl wants to look at hooters all they have to do is look down. I know I always do. And yes I get into trouble every time. Just ask my girlfriend.

This brings me to my next, and yes, somewhat sexist point. Once we had been shown to our table, and our order taken, conversation turned to breast sizes. Why? Well, why not? And no, for once it was not me who took the conversation in that direction, but Razia. She innocently asked if the girls need to meet a requisite size before they were given a job at Hooters. From the looks of things, I said no.  To which Michelle countered, “Darren how much do you know about size?” I replied, “Enough to know that I’m happy with a handful.”

This apparently was not the answer that they wanted and for the next ten or so minutes I was schooled in the nuances of cup sizes. Naturally this was followed by test.  Unfortunately the test was not a practical one, but theory based. Nevertheless I can honestly say it was the best test that I have ever been given.  The girls pointed out random waitresses, and asked me to guess their size. I am pleased to say that I passed with flying colours. 

After such an uplifting topic, I casually asked if there is such thing as breast envy. Do girls look at other girl’s assets and compare?  The reason that this question intrigued me is that while I was waiting for Razia, Shyam and Michelle to arrive, I noticed that every girl in the restaurant was slyly checking out Hooters girls. I can understand the guys ogling, certainly, but having the girls do it kind of surprised me. Were they checking out the competition, comparing, or just being bitchy?

Unfortunately I never found the answer to my question, because by then the chicken wings had arrived, and all thoughts about breasts vanished.  Well I am sure they vanished for the girls, but being a guy, thoughts of breasts, especially in a place like Hooters, are never far away.

By the nature of this blog, you are all probably thinking I am a pervert, and you are right in doing so. Yes, I went into hooters, yes I looked and yes I enjoyed the chicken wings.  What I did not do was grab a T-shirt and start chasing the waitresses for signatures.

And I guess this is where the difference between Hooters in the US and Hooters in Australia became stark.  Hooters in the US are billed as family restaurants, and surprisingly they are. I remember when I was in Hollywood and my hostel mates went there for dinner, we were surprised to find a party for an eight year old girl in progress. Back in my day, I had a clown running around giving me cake and presents. Nowhere at all did scantily clad waitresses put in an appearance. Not that I would have complained mind you.

And you know what? I don’t think the boy whose birthday was being celebrated on the night we were there would have been complaining either. He was turning 10 and was having food brought to him by a plethora of busty women. But to start chasing these women around so they can sign his T-Shirt is a bit a pathetic.  Don’t get me wrong, if he did it once so he had a souvenir to show off at school, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought and this paragraph would not have even been written.  However, when he, and his friends began to circle the restaurant with clockwork regularity (I counted at least 10 times) stalking anything in a pair of tight booty shorts, that’s when he and his friends lost their innocence and looked like vultures searching for prey.

Whoa….Where that pedestal come from?  Sorry! We certainly can’t have that in a blog about Hooters now can we? Oh look a gutter I guess I should get back down there.  But before I do, let me tell you about the chicken wings.  Even though I am breast man, and nothing gets me drooling uncontrollably more than a good looking breast – I’m talking about chicken people (or am I?) – the chicken wings were really not as bad as I expected. Okay, so they were not as good as the ones you get in America (as Razia and Shyam would attest) but there were decent enough, so that by the time I had finished my share, I had devoured over thirty wings, my plate was piled high with bones, I was covered in blobs of sauce and a goat had arrived to clean the mess at my feet. 

But I was not done, I wanted, no scratch that, needed desert. Without even needing to study the menu I ordered apple pie and ice cream and sent the waitress scurrying off to the kitchen.

Half an hour later the pie was still nowhere to be seen. I had at this point concluded that our waitress would make a bad wife. For the simple reason she could not follow simple instructions like going into the kitchen and getting me my pie.

After the girls responded to the comment suitably by slapping me upside the head, and I am sure once my girlfriend reads this, there will be a fourth slap involved, we left not really sure how we felt about our Hooters adventure.  I think Raz and Shyam were disappointed, because the Australian experience sullied their American one. Michelle, I think, was not fussed either way. Then again she was caught in a maelstrom of wedding preparation, and from what I hear, most brides to be are happy to spend some time not focusing on place cards, table settings and meddling family. And me, all I’ll say is this and you can make of it what you will – while I left Hooters will a full belly, it certainly does not mean I was content.

So I guess was wrong. Not everyone loves Hooters. After our experience, I know Razia, Shyamika, Michelle and I certainly didn’t and was left wanting more.

The Write Way

 I’m Pregnant.

According to the author Dean Koontz I am anyway.

Before you all think I’m crazy, I will explain what I’m going on about. But not just yet.

With this blog, I thought I would do things slightly differently. Instead of pulling out of my arsenal of sarcasm and cynicism, for which I am renowned, I thought I’d use a more reflective tone. (For those who are concerned that I have forgotten about my Hooters adventure, don’t worry it is coming.)

As most of you know, over the past 4 years I‘ve been writing a book in the hope that it will sell a gazillion copies, therefore allowing me to give up my day job, buy an apartment on the water, a holiday house in Lauterbrunnen and write full time. That’s the dream anyway. Shame reality always gets in the way.

But in all honesty, I can say I have achieved what I set out to do; sell one copy of my book to a person that is neither a friend nor family member. In this case the buyer – a library supplier – found me through the internet and the National Library of Australia.

Every bit of effort I have put in was worth it for that one sale. Some of you might be thinking that I am selling myself short. Considering my height, that’s not too far removed from the truth. But to be blunt, while my dream is to be a full time author, I realise its not the best way to pay the bills. That’s why I did Industrial Chemistry at University and not English. Admittedly, I have a natural aptitude for chemistry (and blowing myself up), whereas English was my worst subject.

This did not mean that amidst setting people and objects on fire, I forgot my dream. I was always going to write a novel. It was a desire I had for a very long time. Apart from my first book idea creeping into my head when I was 6½, I distinctly remember telling my Year 8 English teacher I was going to write a book.

While I tried often, I just could not get past the first page. Something did not seem right – later on I would realise it was my lack of maturity and life experience – and I constantly kept on getting side tracked by assignments, exams and Buffy marathons. Every time I walked into a book store or read an article about the next big name in writing, I wondered how published authors found the time to write.

I later realised that they did not find the time, but made it. This epiphany led me to another question: How did they make it? I did not find the answer to that until I graduated from Uni and left Australia and even then it was by sheer coincidence. Before I left for my trip to the other side of the world, I was known for watching over 25 hours of TV a week. This quickly dwindled to zero once I started travelling. Literally, the instant I removed TV from my life, and I’m talking my during my first week in London, it seemed that a floodgate of pent up creativity was let loose.

Rather than dam it up again, I have removed TV from my life and even now for the for the most part, (news and DVD’s not withstanding) I struggle to watch an hour of TV a week. And my creative streak, my inner muse, as Stephen King terms it in his great book “On Writing”, has never been happier.

It seems now that writing is always on my mind. I go to sleep, and I brain is busy working on that pesky idea about transcendce in a nether realm of reflection. I wake up, and there is a sentence that would work well in my next book – “Behind Bars”. And so it goes, amongst thoughts of work and life, my muse happily nags me with ideas, clips of random information and possible characters for my first fiction novel.

So how does all this relate to me being pregnant?

Dean Koontz once wrote that when a male author holds his book in his hands for the first time after it has been printed it is the closest he will ever get to experience what women emote when they cradle their new born baby in their arms. What about the dad I hear you ask. Dean Koontz goes on to say, yes fatherhood pride is undoubtedly an emotion that should not be forgotten, but a man cannot claim to bearing a creation within himself, feeling it grow, move and change with each passing day.

So is Dean Koontz right?

It is probably different for different authors, but I won’t lie to you. I am currently floating atop a sea of expectation, eager to hold my completed book in my hands for the first time.

So yeah, maybe Dean Koontz is not that far from the truth, and maybe I am up the duff. Either way, I thought I would let you in on the appended emotional journey that I took when writing my book.

Euphoria. Excitement. A rush of adrenaline. That’s what I felt at the conception of this book. With each sentence I typed, my imagination became filled images of my book launch, book cover and the notion of being an author. Between Borders and Buses, did not even have name at this point, and had just been upgraded from a twinkle in my eye to something more tangible. In those first couple of weeks, I thoroughly enjoyed throwing letters on a page, feeding the stories, giving it life and weaving its plot points like a foetus’s developing nervous system.

But once the initial joy wore off, I had to deal with the reality of writing a book – something that is a lot easier said than done. Sure I did not experience morning sickness, swollen ankles and other symptoms that go hand in hand with being pregnant. There was however the sickness and tiredness I felt during those long nights, staring at a blank page, wondering how the heck I am going to link a paragraph about the St Stephens in Vienna to the legends associated with it and the same time tell people about the Hapsburg dynasty. All the while make it interesting and readable.

With this ebbing and flowing of creativity, the book, like the baby changed. Its genome written; DNA strands splitting and reforming, fingers of prose growing as paragraphs took on a life of its own, until finally I could say I was done. But my book’s gestation was not yet complete. My editor had a lot to do with that. My creation moved, changed positions and grew in ways I did not think possible.

So where am I now? Well I am well into the third trimester and like many mothers say, all I want is to get this damn thing out of me. But as they say, the last step of the race is always the hardest, and now I can honestly say that the end is in sight.

Bring it on 2008, I say!

But until then, here’s a sneak peak of the blurb and the cover.

Hope you enjoy it.

Darren

“Off to feed his craving, because he’s pregnant again “

What happens when you take a clumsy Australian of Anglo Indian descent, a backpack, stick him on a bus in Europe and close the door? A good question, the answer to which Darren was eager to discover.

After spending an eternity behind bars serving beer to red­­­-faced Poms, Darren is allowed to escape and decides to make the most of it.

Relying on nothing but his wits and a rough plan, he leaves the UK for an eye-opening, sometimes annoying, but always memorable experience around Europe.

From space cakes in Amsterdam, motor scooter mishaps in the Greek Islands, a severe lack of direction in Sicily and a stubborn tent in Portugal, Darren realises he needs more than his wits to survive Europe-he needs a bloody miracle!

Informative enough to make you go “Oh really? I didn’t know that” and entertaining enough to make you sit up and giggle, Between Borders and Buses is guaranteed to ignite your desire to pack your bags, hop on the next flight out of the country and discover Europe for yourself.

“Seven Minutes…and the clock’s ticking dude” (Part 2)

First impressions last.

Some guys make it with humour. Others have a great smile. While a few even boast a well thought out line – “Wow! That dress really brings out your cleavage.” Thankfully I don’t need lines, quick wit or even a great smile. I make an impression the only way I know how – by being myself. Trust me this is not as good as it sounds, especially since I am so accident prone crash test dummies look upon me as their inspiration.

During the scramble to take our seats the girls had chosen the side of the table that faced out onto the harbour. The guys followed, sitting opposite their respective first date. We barely got past a round of nervous “hellos” before we were notified that the girls and boys had to swap sides.

This is where things went wrong.

As everyone on the table shared a communal grumble on having to move, I reached out for by bottle of beer, feeling the cool condensation on its sweaty neck. Too busy engaging in small talk with my date and not paying attention to what I was doing, I picked it up off the table. I realised only too late that my grip was not tight enough.

Time slowed down. All noise vanished. My heartbeat quickened. Horrified, I watched my bottle of beer tip towards my date and come crashing down with a fizzy thud. Mortified, I sprung into action but it was too late. Beer spurted across the table and towards the front of my first date’s dress.

I was speechless. She looked down at her dress and the wet spot I was responsible for. Sure her was dress black and hid the stain well, but that was beside the point.  “Oh my God!” was all I could manage. I could not take my eyes of my date’s crotch and the wet spot that was beginning to spread.

I met her eyes and mumbled, “Sorry”

“That’s a bad start,” she said.

“You’re telling me,” I agreed.

We were each given a piece of paper to write notes about our respective dates, and help us recall what they were like should we be matched with them at the end of the night. She unfolded her piece of paper, and through a wry smile wrote: Darren spilt drink…not looking good.

“At least you’ll remember me,” I said, hoping to save myself with wit.

“Yes, I will and in your case that might not be a good thing.” She informed me

“Crap!”

“But everyone deserves a second chance. So c’mon beer boy, let’s get started and see if you can redeem yourself.”

Okay, so it wasn’t the most the flattering nickname, but it could have been lot worse.

We swapped places and the date began.  As expected, the conversation was fairly standard and the seven minutes zoomed by. My second date was also a blur. However when I reached my third date time screeched to a halt and I actually felt like throwing beer on her so we could have something to talk about.

As usual the conversation took us through our respective occupations, hobbies and interests and ultimately settled on age. When I told her mine, 29, I actually saw her interest dwindle and shutters roll over her eyes. Her answers became monosyllabic, her eyes wandered to the passing scenery and she leaned away from the table. Where I was concerned, she was closed for the evening.

This did not bother me. I don’t expect every girl I meet to want to jump my bones. Sure in my imagination it happens every second, but not in real life. Shame really. But we are not here to discuss my psychological shortcomings, but the fact that my third date shut down 3 minutes into the 7.  It’s not as if I was asking her to marry me, I just wanted to chat. But she would have none of it.

Finally, seven minutes ended and after barely a goodbye I bounded over to my next date where the conversation was as interesting as it was varied.

By the time my eleventh date concluded my throat was hoarse, I was thirsty and ravenous. Thankfully, it was time for a break, during which we were informed that a selection of mouth watering canapés would be served. And before I go on, can I ask when did society become this pretentious. One moment its finger food, then all of a sudden its canapés. Bloody French! If they’re not blowing up atolls, they are infiltrating the English language.

As the first round of party pies swept through the cabin our entertainment got ready.  In the email confirming my booking there was a paragraph that notified us that one of the organisers would entertain us with her singing.  Bring it on, I thought.  Nothing like a bit of jazz to set the mood.

Once again my dreams were shattered. As soon as she opened her mouth seagulls exploded, the captain lost control of the ship and a tidal wave set out for Germany. At one stage it was so bad one of the guys rang the cops and asked to be taken away, preferring to drop the soap rather than put up with her voice.

But you know what, I don’t blame the girl, I blame her parents. Instead of encouraging her daughters severe lack of talent, they should have taken her aside highlighted her other numerous talents, of which I am sure she has many and cajoled away from singing.  It’s called tough love people! If I ever become a father, I can tell you that I’m going to be honest with my kids. I would rather they hear it from me, then have some crazy writer detail their shortcomings in a blog.

My tough love is not limited to the kids. My friends get the brunt of it too. Whether telling my friend that the dress she likes in a shop window is ugly or telling another friend that her butt not only looks big in a pair of pants, but has its on gravitational pull I have earned the reputation of being a tactless wonder! Hmmm…and I wonder why I haven’t got a girlfriend.

The second half began and it was pretty much like the first half – a whole lot of shouting. We had no choice. The layout of tables and the resultant seating plan – let’s just say there is more room in a cattle truck – left a lot to be desired in terms of quiet conversation. Each couple’s chatter collided with those around it creating a pile up of noise that crashed around the table killing the ambience and making it impossible to hear what anyone was saying. It was like a nightclub, but without the loud music and dim light.

I won’t lie, I was beginning to get cheesed of at this and I wasn’t the only one. Numerous times a few of my dates would start by both of us complaining about the noise factor, and those girls that had been speed dating before advised me not let this experience sully my judgement of what an event like this should entail.

Taking this advice to heart I continued on until I came to Miss Jack the Ripper. I will admit conversation with this girl was tough and it was only when the topic of conversation moved onto movies, that she really opened up.

“I love horror and slasher movies,” she told me, grinning.

“What’s your favourite?” I asked

“I love the Saw Trilogy.”

“I’ve seen the original,” I said.

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Get 2 and 3. They’re gruesome!”

“I’m sure they are,” I did not know what else to say.

“Don’t take this wrong way,” she leaned in further, as if about to tell me her darkest secret, “I really like serial killers.”

Thinking I misheard I asked, “Sorry, I missed that.”

“I admire serial killers,” she repeated

“Okay,” I said, hoping my seven minutes was nearly up.

With a gleam of excitement I had witnessed only lions before they rip out a gazelle’s throat she elucidated: “Look I guarantee if you went out and killed someone tomorrow you will get caught.”  Through a smile, I inched away from the table and began to think of the best way I could make my escape.  ”But serial killers murder, maim and mutilate over and over again and never get caught.  Now that’s smart!” Her eyes were glazed with maniacal glee.

Mercifully before she told me why she preferred Charles Manson over Ivan Milat and the best method of evisceration during a high tea, the date concluded. Too filled with fear to look back, I scurried to my next date, leaving Miss Ripper to scope out her the next victim.

Three hours and 22 dates later the boat pulled into the wharf. I was tired, my throat hurt and I really did not want to chat anymore; not under those conditions anyway. Don’t get me wrong, I would definitely have another crack at speed dating, but only on dry land.

Before I sign off I really should address the question on everyone’s mind: Did I meet any prospects? Well I think it’s too early to comment and some things are best left unsaid (or unwritten) for now.

But if anything does eventuate you will know soon enough…

“7 Minutes…and the clock’s tickin’ dude”

Seven minutes. Not much time is it. Enough to boil an egg; burn some toast; listen to the Verve’s Bitter Sweet Symphony or even have a quickie.

Have a guess what I did? If you selected choice (d) then guess what? You picked wrong! Seriously people, do you really think that you would find out about that on this blog. However, feel free to check out my other blog where my alias Dr. Boom Boom will relay all those sordid details.

What I did do was use those seven minutes to meet a woman. I did this Twenty two times. For those who are wondering what the hell I am on about, I went speed dating. And hey, if that doesn’t work in my quest to find a woman, there is always the option of selling Avon door to door so I can meet some desperate housewives. Hey do you blame me, from what is shown on TV, they look like they have a bloody good time. And TV never lies…does it?

I had been planning to speed date for awhile, but constantly kept putting it off, making silly excuses, such as “I’m washing my hair” or “they are drawing the lotto jackpot and I wanted to hear them call my numbers.” If I was honest with myself, I would have said I was nervous, scared and definitely apprehensive. As for using the event to meet “The one” – if she really exists – I really did not expect too. Being the hopeless romantic I am, I always expected finding “the one” would be a “locking eyes across a crowded room” type event. But as they say, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

My excuses ran out when I received an email from a speed dating company informing me that they had secured a boat and the next speed dating event would be on the harbour. Instead of procrastinating further and before I thought of reason not to, I jumped online and secured my spot.

Once I did that, my fear and apprehension were quickly swamped by a burgeoning excitement and when I told all my friends what I was planning to do, they were very supportive. One good friend of mine even commented on how cool speed dating was and how he “would love to join me”. Understandably, his wife wasn’t to keen on the idea.

In the weeks leading up to the event, my over active imagination went into overdrive. No! I did not start to picture myself in a white sailors outfit singing Jolly sea shanties. I may be happy, but I am certainly not that gay! I saw myself on a lush catamaran or cruiser, where the candlelit air shimmered with romance and each table was punctuated with a solitary rose. To make the night even better I envisioned that all my dates would be backlit by the lavish Sydney skyline.

When the night finally arrived, I rocked up to Wharf 9, opposite Cargo Bar, filled with nervous anticipation. Already a small crowd had gathered and was being marshalled accordingly. Any nerves I had were quickly replaced by shock.

Remember that image I described earlier about how the night would be like? Well needless to say, it was nothing like that. The boat was neither a grand catamaran nor cruiser, but one step up from a row boat. Watching it bob recklessly on the water’s serene surface, I instantly knew it would not take much to sink it – a freak wave, a gust of wind, a collision with a shoal of sardines.

Taking my life in my hand, and wishing I had my Speedos handy, I clamoured across the gangway and realised the romantic atmosphere I was expecting had been tied to the anchor and thrown overboard. Not to say the boat did not have ambience, it did. It’s just that it was supplied by a burly man behind a kettle drum, hammering out a rhythmic beat and yelling at us to “Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!”

I am pretty sure everyone else was feeling the same, because I noticed everyone staring at the layout of the boat with an expression that exclaimed “You’re bloody joking?” The tables that lined either side of the boat, instead of being evenly spaced, as I envisioned, were butted together, covered in a communal table cloth – like a bridal table – and dotted by evenly placed numbers, ranging from 1 – 22.

Not really knowing what to do, and instead of sitting at the seat that corresponded to the number that I was given, I copied everyone else and made a beeline for the bar.

Drinks in hand and like year 7 discos, the boys and girls quickly retreated to separate sides of the boat, slyly scoping each other out until we were instructed to take our seats.

With a swig of my beer and a deep breath I walked slowly to mine. It came down this really: Twenty two dates, seven minutes each. My grand speed dating extravaganza began…

…….To Be Continued…….

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