Facebook

Ah, facebook. Invaluable social networking tool or stalker’s paradise? Or perhaps both? Even for the most normal of individuals, (I include myself in this group), it cannot fail to prod and awaken our inner stalker. You know, the one we didn’t even realise was there in the first place. And so, in response to finding ourselves hunted down by ex-boyfriends/girlfriends who we’d sooner forget, and ex-colleagues/school friends we no longer remember, we turn instead from hunted to hunter. We eagerly set about seeking out ex-boyfriends/girlfriends who, quite frankly, would rather we remained forgotten and ex-colleagues/school friends who haven’t the faintest idea who we are.

And then, of course, there is the case of mistaken identity. Dislodged incorrectly from the deepest recesses of our brains comes the vague ‘Oh yes, I remember you’ moment in response to a ‘friend request’, not helped in the slightest by the fact the requestor has failed to upload a photo of themselves to their profile. The arbitrary shadowy silhouette accompanying the request, therefore, leaves our poor brain to work out the identity of the sender all by itself. And therein lies the problem.

And so it was that I found myself in a slightly embarrassing communication as a result of my faulty memory. The friend request from Alistair MacDonald, accompanied by a rather non-specific ‘Hello you – how are things?’ message, prompted an immediate and rather distinct ‘Hey Alistair, I remember you!’ response from my mind’s nether regions. The only Alistair taking up lodgings in my memory cells was an ex-colleague from my days of media sales at The Guardian. That Alistair was one of those English-accented, but immovably Scottish, Anglo-Scots. A plastic Scot. The type that never misses an opportunity to sport a kilt and spout about his ancestry at the merest hint of a mention of a black-tie do. That Alistair journeyed to work on a motorbike, for frugal rather than Hellish-Angelic reasons, and in the colder months, his chosen mode of transport required that he wear long-johns under his suit trousers.

Alistair was a fun-loving type, as were most of my colleagues in those alcohol-fuelled days at The Guardian, so I was not disappointed to find myself seated to his left at our Christmas bash at Covent Garden’s ‘Break for the Border’. There is nothing quite like Mexican food and a few tequila slammers to add festive cheer and a boisterous tone to any Christmas party. Much tequila into the night, Alistair announced to myself and Carol, another female colleague seated to his right, that he was wearing long-johns under his trousers. This brought squeals of drunken laughter from the two of us, because, today, Alistair was sans motorbike due to the binge drinking that was certain to form most, if not all, of that evening’s proceedings. He had dressed himself that morning out of habit rather than necessity. Carol and I wasted no time in each grabbing one of Alistair’s legs and rolling up his trousers to the knee to satisfy ourselves he wasn’t lying. Alistair was too polite (drunk) to stop us and so his legs remained in a state of half-undress as our main courses arrived.

It was about this time the food fight started with the adjacent table of employees from KPMG, (believe me, accountants really let their hair down when they’re let loose!). If memory serves me correctly (which admittedly, it has failed to do on several occasions), KPMG were the protagonists.

Under the circumstances, a food fight was really only to be expected by the proprietors. The mushy South American fare suited itself much better to being flung than eaten (and let’s face it, no one really cares about the food at a Christmas party as long as the drink keeps coming…which in this case it did). Guacamole came at us from the rowdy number-crunchers. A chimichanga was our retort. They replied with an on-target combination of sour cream and the contents of a burrito. As we launched handfuls of refried beans behind enemy lines, we realised we were running low on ammo. We had to resort to desperate measures or the battle would be lost and so, with much Mexican-themed whooping and hollering, Alistair’s long-johns were torn in strips from his poor unsuspecting legs to be hurled across the restaurant. He was rather good natured (drunk) about the incident and it certainly didn’t seem to spoil his enjoyment of the rest of the night.

Yes, they were good days at The Guardian, fondly (hazily) remembered. And so, that brings me back to facebook and explains my reply to Alistair’s friend request which went, ‘Yee-Haw! Do you still wear long-johns?’. When he replied, ‘Er…did I ever?’, I suddenly knew I’d made a mistake, and, quite possibly, a horrible one.

‘Alistair....? Alistair…?’, I racked my brains, failing to find any other Alistair in my personal vaults of time. Thank goodness then for google! – the stalker’s next resort after all search attempts on facebook have drawn a blank. Having entered his name and restricted the search to the UK, I scanned the results in the hope of some little inkling that would point me straight to the identity of my new ‘friend’. And there it was. His business website, complete with photo to enlighten and embarrass me. An old business contact; a former client; a consultant for whom the response, ‘Yee Haw! Do you still wear long-johns?’ was as inappropriate as it must have been bewildering for him to receive.

All I could manage to type was, ‘Oops! Wrong Alistair… NOW I know who you are! How are things?’, which, thankfully, led to a back and forth dialogue about events in our lives since we were last in contact, with no further probing from Alistair (No. 2) about the long-johns comment. Otherwise, I would have had to go to the lengths of explaining the above and that would have just been too long-winded.

So, Alistair (No. 2), if you are reading this, you now understand my facebook comments (and I hope they’re not too dull in contrast to what image they may have conjured!) and Alistair (No. 1 – whose surname still eludes me), if you are reading this, ‘Hello you – how are things?’

Names have been changed, but only a little bit.

Henry

Henry trips me up.
I stumble; hit my head off the wall.
Shaken, I turn to look at him and he just smiles.
Always that smile.
He never dares to look me in the eye; stares off into the distance; distracted.
And always that smile.
Sinister, eerie, inhuman.

We are in the living room. Thankfully.
It’s safer here.
For Henry is dangerous despite his diminutive stature.
It’s on the stairs I fear him most.
It’s on the stairs where he poses the greatest danger; where the biggest fall awaits me.
It’s on the stairs where he could prove fatal.

Now and then I shout at him and swear revenge, but just when I feel at my most murderous, I look at him and he gives me that smile.
Like a baby’s secret weapon, pulled at the last minute against the fraught mother, pushed to the brink by its incessant wailing.
The smile that stops me in my tracks and gets me to just flick the ‘off’ switch.

You probably wonder why I don’t throw him out.
After all, it is my house.
But the truth is I need him. It’s my choice.
Believe me, my life would be a mess without him.
And it’s not really all his fault. I must accept some responsibility for the ‘accidents’.

And, you see, I know Henry needs me too.
For he follows me round the house like a forlorn puppy, constantly whining at my heels.
Who would he whine to if it weren’t for me?

Then again, what cause would he have to whine if it weren’t for me?

But today, somehow, is different.
As I rub the spot where the wall made contact with my head and I feel the indifference of Henry’s smile burning into me like shame, something inside me snaps and I shout, ‘Fuck you, Henry! Fuck you and your smile!’ and I kick him so hard I knock him off balance and he falls.
Before there’s even time to reconsider, I run to the cupboard in the hallway where I’m sure there is a hammer. My heart is leaping in my chest as I fumble in the cupboard’s half-light, then my fingers find its distinctive non-slip handle. I grab it and run back to the living room to find Henry prostrate and helpless.


Even now, he smiles at me.
But this time it doesn’t stop me in my tracks.

I take the hammer and I smash and I smash and I smash at his face; raining down blow after merciless blow until that smile is no longer recognisable.

And when I’m spent, I feel a sense of release.
As I recover my breath, I feel no remorse; no guilt.
Even as I grasp the full horror of Henry’s destroyed features, I know it’s OK.
I know everything will be alright.
And suddenly I am bereft of fear.

I stand over Henry and I stare at the deathly grin I created out of that smile, and I say, ‘You know what, Henry? I can replace you. I can find another who can take your place and, who knows? maybe be even better than you.
And do you know why, Henry?

Because you’re only a fucking vacuum cleaner!’