Colin looked up. He had been sitting with his head in his hands for so long now he had actually started to doze off. It was only the slamming of the door that woke him from his stupor as the last of the volunteers left for the night.
Christ, he thought, what an evening. He had fragments of memory going through his mind, nothing quite adding up and everything in disjointed sequence. Now he remembered why he had sat in a trance for - he looked at his watch - over an hour.
Over an hour? he said out loud, to noone in particular, the room now being empty. He looked at his watch again. Gone eight. God his head hurt, throbbing, a migraine in the making.
His phone rang, still the silly jingle his ex-girlfriend had loaded for him, what was it? Some movie piece, Mission Impossible or Indiana Jones or something, he couldn't remember.
"Colin?" the voice queried at the other end.
"Mother, yes, hello, how are you?"
"You are still coming to supper, aren't you dear?"
Bugger. He had totally forgotten.
"Yes mother, just on my way. Will be there in half an hour."
"I've done your favourite dear, sausage casserole with sprouts."
"Fabulous mother," he answered, thinking of the stomach gases in store for him over the coming days. Whatever made her think this was his favourite dish? He couldn't recall ever telling her. "I'll be there shortly, bye." And he hung up.
The thing is, Colin did not even have a half decent excuse to give his mother as to why he did not want her company this evening of all evenings. If he lamented about the job she would be terribly upset and fret about his future again. If he said nothing she would suspect something was wrong and fret even more. If he pretended to be all upbeat and cheerful, she would start on one of her Daily Mail rants about how standards were no longer what they used to be and what was there to be so happy about when all these foreigners were invading the British Isles.
Of course, he could always just feign sickness and stay at home. But that would only prolong her fretting and, worse still, possibly even include a home visit from her.
Mothers, he thought, rubbing his temples with a bony index and thumb. They love you and they smother you. Or disown you. Or submit you to a feeding frenzy whenever you come within sight. "You are too skinny," he could hear the words now. "Mother, I am built this way." How many more discussions of this nature would he have to endure? He was 34 now. His dad had been the same, he knew, he had seen the photos. Surely his mother knew about genetics?
His mind wandered. What if he took someone with him? That Sally woman, for example, although given her performance earlier that evening maybe she was not quite the right candidate. Statements about rabbits and dog racing that were more confusing than coherent, and her dash for the door before he could answer, let alone comment. He was still slightly stunned by the force of her conviction and her belief in how flogging pink vibrators to a race track would resolve the problem at hand.
Still, she wasn't bad looking. A bit ragged and pale, and the hair tied back in a pony tail was slightly severe, but otherwise she probably scrubbed up all right.
He rummaged around in the pedestal near his desk, looking for the volunteer registration sheets. Where did she live?
"Mum, it's me. I'm going to be a little later than I thought. See you in an hour."
Christ, he thought, what an evening. He had fragments of memory going through his mind, nothing quite adding up and everything in disjointed sequence. Now he remembered why he had sat in a trance for - he looked at his watch - over an hour.
Over an hour? he said out loud, to noone in particular, the room now being empty. He looked at his watch again. Gone eight. God his head hurt, throbbing, a migraine in the making.
His phone rang, still the silly jingle his ex-girlfriend had loaded for him, what was it? Some movie piece, Mission Impossible or Indiana Jones or something, he couldn't remember.
"Colin?" the voice queried at the other end.
"Mother, yes, hello, how are you?"
"You are still coming to supper, aren't you dear?"
Bugger. He had totally forgotten.
"Yes mother, just on my way. Will be there in half an hour."
"I've done your favourite dear, sausage casserole with sprouts."
"Fabulous mother," he answered, thinking of the stomach gases in store for him over the coming days. Whatever made her think this was his favourite dish? He couldn't recall ever telling her. "I'll be there shortly, bye." And he hung up.
The thing is, Colin did not even have a half decent excuse to give his mother as to why he did not want her company this evening of all evenings. If he lamented about the job she would be terribly upset and fret about his future again. If he said nothing she would suspect something was wrong and fret even more. If he pretended to be all upbeat and cheerful, she would start on one of her Daily Mail rants about how standards were no longer what they used to be and what was there to be so happy about when all these foreigners were invading the British Isles.
Of course, he could always just feign sickness and stay at home. But that would only prolong her fretting and, worse still, possibly even include a home visit from her.
Mothers, he thought, rubbing his temples with a bony index and thumb. They love you and they smother you. Or disown you. Or submit you to a feeding frenzy whenever you come within sight. "You are too skinny," he could hear the words now. "Mother, I am built this way." How many more discussions of this nature would he have to endure? He was 34 now. His dad had been the same, he knew, he had seen the photos. Surely his mother knew about genetics?
His mind wandered. What if he took someone with him? That Sally woman, for example, although given her performance earlier that evening maybe she was not quite the right candidate. Statements about rabbits and dog racing that were more confusing than coherent, and her dash for the door before he could answer, let alone comment. He was still slightly stunned by the force of her conviction and her belief in how flogging pink vibrators to a race track would resolve the problem at hand.
Still, she wasn't bad looking. A bit ragged and pale, and the hair tied back in a pony tail was slightly severe, but otherwise she probably scrubbed up all right.
He rummaged around in the pedestal near his desk, looking for the volunteer registration sheets. Where did she live?
"Mum, it's me. I'm going to be a little later than I thought. See you in an hour."