Showing posts with label Peter Glassborow. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Peter Glassborow. Show all posts

Wednesday, 4 January 2023

Five Qualities in a Friend by Peter Glassborow, champagne cocktail

 

I’m Steve, and I made my move on a Friday evening. It was at our normal table of friends. There are usually eleven or twelve of us, sometimes more if someone has a new boy or girlfriend to introduce.  It’s just a couple of drinks after work, typical for a Friday evening for a lot of people. Work done for the week so plan the weekend, have a few laughs and generally relax. Most us are still single with two couples, one couple married and the other pair at the six month mark of living together.

The big table is at the back of the pub and is a decent walk to get another round in. But it also means it’s not too popular so we usually can get it just for us on a Friday evening.

I waited for the appropriate time, when any current serious subject had been talked about and the conversation was about to drift onto new minor subjects.

I rapped the table with my empty bottle and spoke loudly so they would all look my way. ‘My friends I have an idea I would like you all to hear about. Actually it’s an old idea so you may have heard it before, or something like it. And it is because of this idea that I now I intend to take a new direction in my life.’

‘You’re getting another job,’ Joe yelled out, ‘and about time too. Hitting nails into bits of wood is not a proper job.’

‘But selling people clothes that don’t suit them is better, Joe?’ called Abe.

‘They’re good clothes,’ Joe protested.

 Abe shook his head. ‘Not good enough for some of us.’

Before the conversation could degenerate into another friendly exchange of insults I spoke out loudly, ‘No, Joe, something more serious, something life changing.’  That had their attention so I added, ‘It’s about marriage.’ That definitely had their attention and there were exchanged glances, particularly amongst the girls.

‘The usual procedure for marriage is that you meet someone, and you go on dates and become lovers. And then you fall in actual love with them, which can happen after the first date, but usually later. Then you get married or move in together, which is basically the same thing because now you are committed to being together.’

‘Then you become friends. But sometimes that goes wrong because you don’t become friends, because a lover is not automatically a friend. There might be things you don’t like about them, or them not liking in you. Or you have different attitudes to life or long time goals.  And as time goes by it’s enough to make one or both of you fall out of love with the other. Then you split up, and get divorced or no longer live together.’

There were several there who that had happened to already so there were wry expressions to show that they were remembering their experiences. ‘So you fell in love with someone who was not the sort to be a friend, but you assumed they would be because you loved them.’

‘True,’ Suzie said nodding her head as she was one whose lifetime relationship flopped miserably after a year or so.

Jackie chimed in with, ‘Have to agree with that.’

Bill’s eyebrows shot up at what Jackie, his partner, had said. ‘Not for us I hope.’

Jackie patted his knee. ‘No, darling, we are forever.’

‘Oh here we go again,’ someone groaned, ‘just six months of kissy-kissy must mean it's forever.’

‘You two should get a room.’

‘What do you mean a room? They’ve got an entire house together.’

Lucy held up a hand. ‘Can we please all shut up because I would like to hear where Steve is going with all this.’ There was a general consensus to stop talking over me and I was able to continue.

‘So the idea is to do it more logically, or perhaps I should say more practically. The general idea is that you pick a friend, someone you have been around long enough to know them well. All their little ways are familiar to you, and there is nothing really horrible there because if there was they would not be a friend, just an acquaintance.’

I had all their attention now, and apart from a few more exchanged glances all the attention was on me. As I spoke I kept sweeping my eyes around my friends ensuring I did not meet the eyes of any of the girls, single or not because I did not want any of them to get ideas.

‘So it should be someone you have probably known for quite a while, maybe even back to schooldays together. Then you marry her. Being married you will be physical lovers, and hopefully living the rest of your lives together your friendship will develop into actual romantic love. And if it doesn’t, then at worse you will still be spending your life with your good friend.’

‘Now in my case there are five positive qualities I would like any friend who becomes my wife to have. And I’d like you to know what they are first before I go on to my reason for telling you all this.’

‘This’ll be good,’ Joe interrupted and for this he got a mass, ‘Shush!’

‘This is in no particular order, but I will start with intelligence. That’s got nothing to do with education. What I mean is someone who can see things for what they are and realise what is really important in life. Someone who will not collapse when faced with a problem in life, but will use their brain to come up with a solution.  It means she can set goals both for herself and combined with me for our marriage. Goals which are logical and practical. Above all I want someone who I can talk to about anything.’

‘Next is to be good-natured. That means not being a drama queen.’ Here there were a few laughs and lots of grins and friends nudged friends, both female and male, as if implying they were drama queens. ‘Instead she thinks well of people, unless they are proven to be not nice. She is someone who does not automatically take affront at what I might say, which men will often complain is what most women do.’ Heads nodded here in agreement, both male and female. ‘Being good-natured means she does not get angry easily, and when she is angry it’s for a good reason.’

‘And not because I left the toilet seat up,’ said Brian.

Pat jabbed him in the arm. ‘I don’t get angry over that.’

‘But you always complain.’

‘Because you always do it.’

‘For God’s sake you two,’ snapped Lucy. ‘Stop bickering or Steve will never finish.’

‘And so does your dad.’

 Once the table had settled again and I continued. ‘Next is a sense of humour.’

‘For you, Steve, that’s a definite requirement,’ Abe called out and there were cheers of agreement which was very nice.

 ‘Thank you. A sense of humour does not just mean getting the joke. I think it also means looking on the positive side of life and to laugh at problems to lessen the negative impact they have. It means ridiculing nasty people so they are weakened. It means she would rather laugh with me than cry. Laugh at her and my foibles rather than sulk over them. Laugh with people rather than at them.’

I paused a few seconds for affect. ‘But do people have a sense of humour because they are good natured, or vice versa? Are they actually two facets of the same thing? I don’t know, but I want my wife to have them.’

I took a sip of my drink. Keeping them waiting would only increase their interest in what I was getting to at the end of my speech.

‘The other two are physical. There is the expression ‘fair of face’, and I like that expression because it sums up something that is hard to describe. Truly beautiful people are like truly ugly people, they are rare. And more important to me than beauty is a girl who is fair of face. To me that means someone whose normal expression is pleasing, and so I want to look at her face because it is nice to see. Also she looks at me with pleasure, with affection and it shows in her expression.  It’s the face I want to see across the breakfast table, that I want to see on the pillow next to me. The face I look forward to see coming through the door after work.’ 

‘But is it that they are fair of face because they smile a lot? Because it’s smiles I prefer to see, and it’s the face of a good-natured person I am looking for. And again are these parts of the same thing?’

‘And finally a girl who is slim with curves, because that’s what girls are supposed to be like. Now this could mean a girl who is buxom or plump, but not obese. Some girls say they are flat chested. But they are actually small breasted, because no girl is actually flat chested in the way a man is, so a small breasted girl also has curves.’

‘A curvy girl is what a heterosexual man wants. When he is hugging his girl or being hugged by her he wants to feel soft curves pressed against him. And when she is asleep in his arms, her head on his chest, he wants his arms around those same soft curves.’

‘I have made no mention of wealth, neither the girl’s present or future potential earnings, as having money is no guarantee of happiness. Neither is her height important nor the colour of her hair, skin or eyes.’

‘So finally I believe I have a friend with all those qualities, which is the reason why,’ and now I am looking straight at my friend who I made sure was sitting directly across the table from me, ‘I am formally asking Christine to marry me.’

There were gasps, cheers, laughs and a few ‘Oh my God!’ and ‘Yes!’ shouts and everyone was talking at once, except poor Christine who was pink faced, open mouthed, wide eyed, stunned and not taking her eyes off me.

It took a minute or two to get some sort of silence so I could finish, and once again it was Lucy who got the noise reduced by first swearing some really rude words and repeating several times, ‘Do we want to find out what happens next, because I don’t think this is over yet?’

I had to make myself clear to Christine so I leaned forward to look straight into her eyes. ‘This is not a joke, Christine, I am completely and utterly serious about everything I have just talked about. I have six reasons to want to marry you. The first is that you are my good friend, and the five qualities that you have make up the six reasons I want to marry you.

‘I am sure you are embarrassed now, and I don’t want to make it any worse for you by staying here. So I will leave. If your answer is no then I will accept it without comment or complaint. I will not sulk or hold a grudge, because that is not my way and you are being honest with me.

‘If you say no then it would be awkward both of us still being in this group, and you should not lose your friends over me. So it’s only right that as I was the one who set this all off that I should stay away if it’s a no.

‘Of course if you want to talk about this later, either in person or by text or email, to help you make a decision then let’s do so. I leave it all up to you.’

I stood up and walked towards the door. There were a few calls to me from our friends to stay but I was determined to do what I had planned. And I had spent a long time making sure that I knew what I wanted and how I would carry it out. I could only hope now that Christine and I would soon have some long, long talks.

Then one of my friends called louder than the others, ‘Steve please wait!’ And the voice that called me was Christine’s, and I had to stop for her.

I looked back to the table. Christine was standing now, still pink faced but apparently over her initial shook.  ‘Please come back and sit down.’

I was not sure what was going to happen now, but I went back and sat down. Our friends were all silent now, their expressions a mixture of hope and concern.

‘Go through the five again, Steve,’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘Go through the five qualities you are looking for, because my mind is a whirl and I want to get it right.’

‘Intelligent, good natured, sense of humour,’ I recited with other voices muttering as our friends joined in, ‘fair of face and slim with curves.’

‘Love those curves,’ Joe muttered then grunted as someone’s elbow went into his ribs.

Christine smiled, an over wide smile which made me suspect that she was going to say something sarcastic, a massive put down which I would endure without complaint as I had put her in this position without any warning. I now thought that maybe I should have made my speech only to Christine and not an audience of our friends.

‘So, Steve, can this list be applied to what a girl seeks?’

‘Yes,’ Jackie called out before I could reply.

‘Yes?’ Abe asked, ‘You mean a girl also wants soft curves, Jackie? Does Bill know this?’

‘No I don’t,’ Bill said.

Jackie stuck out her tongue at Abe.  ‘I mean with modifications for another gender.’

‘To her or the list?’

‘What do you think, dumbo?’

‘I don’t know; that’s why I am asking.’

‘Someone is going to get a severe smacking soon if they don’t shut up,’ snapped Lucy holding an empty bottle by the neck in a threatening way.

I shook my head. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, Christine but why not?’

Christine nodded. ‘Then I will go through it, but it’s what I want in a man if he is to be my husband.’

‘Let’s go, Christine,’ one of the girls called and was hushed.

‘Intelligent was first? Yes, Steve, you are. Good-natured? That’s definitely you.  And there’s sense of humour? Do we think Steve is funny?’

There was a roar of approval from our friends.

‘The majority are in agreement there. Fair of face? Now that can apply to female or male, and you always look pleasing to me, Steve. So that’s fair of face ticked off.  Now what’s last?’

‘He’s slim and curvy,’ was the shout accompanied by a wolf whistle that I’m sure made me blush.

Christine continued. ‘No, but lean and muscular is how I want my man. Not weight lifting muscles all bulging out of his clothes, but enough so when my head is on his chest there’ll be two strong arms going round me, holding me close and making me feel safe.’

She cocked her head on one side. ‘Would you keep a girl safe, Steve?’

‘Always.’

She smiled. ‘Yes, and I’m sure you mean that, and anyone as your wife will always feel safe with you around. So I listened to your idea of friend first and hopefully romantic love later, and I found myself agreeing with it all. It is obviously logical and will possibly lead to a happier marriage than one founded purely on romantic love. And as you said the worse that can happen is I will still be spending my life with a friend.’

There was just a few seconds pause before she finished with, ‘So my reply to your formal proposal is yes please.’

The cheering, shouting and laughter was so loud that every head in the bar turned to look.

I just stood there for what seemed like ages so stunned was I that Christine would give me such a quick and positive answer. I don’t know if it was me went round the table to her, or she to me, what I did know was that my lovely Christine was in my arms and we were kissing like our lives depended on it. But what I was sure of was that I was crying as much as her.

The wedding was a massive success, and one reason was the video cameras which I had got the manager’s permission to set up and kept secret until the wedding. For my bridegroom’s speech I said, ‘Just watch this.’ I had paid an expert to put the two videos together so they played side by side on a screen at the end of the hall where the reception was held.

On the left I was making my speech, on the right was Christine listening. It caught the whole thing very well, and the expression on Christine’s face when I asked her to marry me was utterly marvellous. Also marvellous was my expression after Christine had gone back through the five qualities and told me, ‘Yes.’

Both Christine and I had more tears at us crying together. Our mothers cried, and our fathers were damp-eyed at least. Our friends and relatives joined in so everyone was at least wiping their eyes.

Now of course Christine and I disagree over who loved who first. What we do agree on is that we are spending our lives together as the very best of friends-who are in love.

About the author

Peter was born in London but his family emigrated to New Zealand when he was a teenager. In middle age he set out to be published. Now retired Peter enjoys not getting up early to go to work and dreaming up more stories. 

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Thursday, 22 December 2022

Santa's Phone by Peter Glassborow, mulled wine

 When I was six years old my Mum and Dad decided that they were earning sufficient money that we could all start going away for Christmas, that being summertime in New Zealand. Their choice, that first year, was to head for a seaside camping ground. My Dad had consulted all of his mates to find what he called, ‘A good old fashioned family place’. Finally he decided on a distant camping ground which he booked a space in for two weeks commencing on Christmas Eve. It was a choice that was to prove so successful it was repeated every year after that as my family’s annual pilgrimage. Borrowing a tent and trailer my parents packed it with everything possible, and on Christmas Eve we set off.

            Now in those days I was younger and still a traditional believer and follower in the conservative values. One of these was that Santa Claus leaves presents on Christmas Eve for all good little boys and girls. The problem was we were moving into the camping ground on Christmas Eve, so how would Santa track us down? Should we write a letter? As my brother and I were both at school we could write okay, as long as we had help with the spellings. But would it get through in time? The North Pole was a long way off, and we knew nothing of the postal service apart from the postie passing our house each morning and leaving the little flag up on our mailbox if he left us any mail.

            Mum found out about our concern and told Dad. He got my brother and me together and assured us that he would personally make a phone call to Santa from the camping grounds in sufficient time to divert the sleigh to the correct location. We were impressed by what our Dad was promising us, but were a bit dubious on how it was to be done.

           The journey to the camping ground was a long one back then, lots of motoring along dusty country roads with stops to let the old car cool down what with the unaccustomed load of family, trailer, and camping gear. ‘Soon be there,’ Mum kept promising as the car wound around yet another corner to reveal more hills and sheep, but no sea.

           It was getting towards sunset when we finally arrived. The grounds’ owner had a small weatherboard home with an office sign over his garage. While we kids got out and looked around Mum and Dad went in to pay, Mum warning us not to stray before they disappeared inside the office.

           Looking round we could see that there was a kids’ playground with slides and swings that looked promising, while in an adjacent paddock some kids and parents were having a game of cricket. The sea was only a few minutes’ walk away and it all looked very exciting.

           Mum and Dad came out of the office with the owner who pointed where we were to go. ‘Nearly there, boys,’ Mum said with a laugh as Dad drove to the far end of the grounds and stopped by a peg with ‘47’ on it.

          ‘This it for the next two weeks, kids,’ Dad said, and we all started emptying the car boot and trailer. We assembled the tent and annexes fairly easily- thank goodness we had rehearsed it six times on the front lawn in daylight the day before. Then after a good meal of Mum’s sandwiches and lukewarm tea out of a thermos, two Coleman lanterns were lit and the beds made up.

          My brother and I were to sleep in the annex, a promising adventure in itself with rustly canvas sounds whenever the wind blew. With everything set for the night my parents made their introductions to the neighbouring campers while my brother and I lay on the strange camp beds and whispered together. Our whispering was only about one thing, how would Santa know where to come? Had Dad forgot about making the call?

            Finally my brother plucked up enough courage to climb out of bed and go interrupt Mum and Dad’s, ‘quiet drink with the new neighbours.’ 

           ‘My God! Almost forgot,’ I heard my Dad boom. ‘Get your brother, boy. We’ll soon get this sorted.’

           In the days before cell phones the camping ground was blessed with a single pay phone. It was situated in a red painted phone box under the solitary light. This stayed on all night in the middle of the grounds so that campers could find their way to the ablutions. However this single light did not really illuminate the ground underfoot very well, so there was danger of tripping or stubbing toes. And it certainly did not drive away the really scary shadowy places we had to go through. So armed with a torch and a fist full of small change from Mum’s purse,  Dad led my brother and I in our pyjamas down to the phone,          

            ‘You boys wait out here,’ Dad directed and then he stepped inside the phone box and pulled the door to leaving us to watch through the glass windows. To our surprise he dialled the North Pole without consulting any piece of paper or phone directory. We were impressed, and even more so when he got through straight away, with none of the usual problems that went with making toll calls overseas in those days.

            ‘Hello?’ My Dad had a stentorian voice and it boomed out through the closed door. ‘Hello? Is that the North Pole? I want Santa’s secretary please.’ My brother and I trembled in anticipation and fear. What if Dad got it wrong? What if they did not take sudden changes of address?

            ‘Yes, it’s Mister Parker here, Mister Elf, Mister Steven Parker. Just want Santa to know there’s been a change of location for my boys.’ My dad then gave a long, detailed description of the route we had driven from our home, and where in the camping ground our tent was. By now I could see there were a number of heads popping out of nearby tents and caravans to listen.   

            My dad then gave landing instructions. ‘Should be no problem landing the sleigh on the beach, Mister Elf, plenty of room,’ and he nodded vigorously in response to something Santa’s secretary said. Then he concluded with, ‘And a Merry Christmas to you as well, Mister Elf. Nice talking to you, cheery-bye.’

            Dad hung up the phone and stepped out of the phone box to a scattered round of applause from the nearest tents and caravans. My brother and I were a bit surprised by the applause, why were they doing that? Dad just grinned and led us back to the tent. ‘All sorted, boys,’ he told us on the way, ‘Santa will definitely be here tonight.’

            Later, tucked up again in our camp beds, we heard several men pop in to introduce themselves to Dad and congratulate him on his phone call. ‘Clever idea, mate. Might try it myself next year,’ one said. It pleased me that my Dad had thought of it, which meant next year the other kids in the camping ground would not miss out on their presents either.

            Of course there were the presents in the morning, just inside the flap of the annex where Santa had left them. Other kids had got their presents as well, and I wondered how Santa had known about where they were sleeping?

            The phone call to Santa by Dad was repeated every year after that. His idea was copied by other dads to the extent that the camping ground owner had to draw up a roster for the phone’s use on Christmas Eve to fit everybody in, otherwise some phone calls to Santa would not get made until after midnight. 

            That first holiday was a great success, and our family decided they would go to the camping grounds every year. After a few more years we got our own tent and other camping gear, and a trailer to carry it all, and we became very sophisticated campers. We were the first to bring a TV for instance.

            Dad stopped making the calls to Santa once we got old enough to realize what was going on. But my brother and I still liked to go down to the phone box and listen to other dads making the calls, but our Dad’s had still been the best.

           Once I left home I didn’t go on the family holiday every year again until I got married. Then Belinda and I became regular holiday campers meeting up with Mum and Dad there every Christmas. And once we had our daughter, Eve, I became one of those dads making the calls to Santa on Christmas Eve. That gave me more pleasure than I could ever imagine, so at times I think I looked forward to it more than Eve did. I still have vivid memories of her little face pressed up against the glass windows, wide eyed as she watched and listened to me.

           That was all a long time ago of course and cell phones have now made the phone box obsolete, but the camping ground’s new owner has kept it. And even though there are no wires connecting, strangely it still works for those special Christmas Eve calls. Because it is only for special calls it now has a sign on it saying ‘Santa’s phone’, and its use is restricted to calls by parents. That’s to stop big kids ruining the illusion.

            It used to be only Dads made the calls, but times have changed, and brought a lot of solo parenting, so there are mums making calls now.

            I don’t go there over Easter but I am told that then the sign gets changed to one saying ‘Easter Bunny phone’ and its use guarantees delivery of chocolate eggs. Some parents have even been heard using the phone to contact the tooth fairy, and it’s available all year round for that.

           What would make my Dad happiest, if he was still around, is the small plaque screwed to the wall inside the phone box that says it was my Dad who made the first inaugural call all those years ago. The camping ground owner put the plaque there the Christmas after Dad died. I told the story about Santa’s phone at his funeral, standing alongside Dad’s coffin with its draped New Zealand Ensign and his war medals. Most of the people in the church had heard the story before but they all smiled in fond remembrance of my Dad, and his kind ways.

           There’s a clipboard outside Santa’s phone box that you book your time on, ‘Calls restricted to five minutes only please’. I’ve got a call booked early, for seven p.m, this year. Last year I left it late to book and could not get on until nearly midnight. Eve, my daughter, was not amused at the grandkids being up so late.

            It was their first year with us at the camp, and her youngest was just old enough to understand about Santa. I told my daughter she or Mike, her husband, should make the call but she declined. ‘No, Dad,’ she told me, ‘it wouldn’t be Christmas without you on the Santa phone. You always did it best of all the dads when I was a kid.’

          She’s wrong of course, my dad did it best, I just copied him. But I just had to hug her for saying that anyway.

 

About the author 

Peter was born in London but his family emigrated to New Zealand when he was a teenager. In middle age he set out to be published. Now retired Peter enjoys not getting up early to go to work and dreaming up more stories. 

 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)