At Home with the Proctors
It was breakfast. The Proctors were sitting at the kitchen table. Well, Brian and Ron were on the floor, which wasn’t a problem. They were used to it, and Alfie, the terrier, was malting his winter coat: the kitchen floor resembled a Shag Pile rug. The effects of Alfie’s malting had probably doubled the value of the flat. Alan looked worse than usual.
His eyes were glazed, cheeks puffy, and he groaned and his jaw locked from one side of his mouth to the other Alan had spent the night out with friends from work. He had patronised a series of establishments on Park End Street, clubs that had utterly failed in their attempts to be simultaneously notorious and stylish. Despite his advanced years, and the fact that he long since replaced the romantic with the rheumatic, Alan had embraced ‘club culture’.
He had danced the 1950’s ‘Cha Cha’ to Eric Pryce’s Call on Me. He had ‘strawpedoed’ a massive five Smirnoff Ices, which, owing to his age, had wreaked havoc with his dodgy bladder. He had even caught the eyes of legions of under-dressed and over made-up girls.
At the behest of one of his companions, he’d taken several small pills, which had made him dance the ‘Cha Cha’, and other Fifties boogie-woogies, with unprecedented vigour, and had opened his eyes to a morass of unknown colours. However, he was now convinced that he hated the entire event. He asked his daughter Katya, who was always clubbing, what the attraction was. “Well it’s dancin’ and friends,” she replied. “Dancing?” “Yeah. I love dancing. And I like getting wrecked.
“So expensive,” answered Alan, trying to lend objectivity to his disapproval. “I can’t understand it. It’s so hot. I haven’t sweated that much since we went to the beach at Margate.” “Never usually find that. You must just be old.” Alan ignored this slight, knowing that it was entirely accurate. He continued, “It’s so noisy. Can’t hear what anyone says. And also, we might as well have been a brothel.” Alan could never escape his sense of moral propriety.
He continued earnestly, “And another thing. It were full of doubtful types,” his disgust was unconcealed. “There was a stunnin’ thirty-yarder. And she, well I should say he…” “Oh my God!” Katya exploded with malicious delight. Alan continued, “And those pills you all take. The ones that make all the colours and that.” “Those pills?” Katya asked in shock. The rest of the family stared in disbelief. “I’ve never taken ‘em.
"They weren’t bad,” said Alan casually. “Only took eight.” “Eight ecstasy tablets!” Brian shouted. Alan was less ecstatic, “Ecstasy! The bastard said they were vitamins, ‘compulsory for clubbing’.” Katya stared despairingly at her father and said, “Eight E’s and you’re still moaning.”.
18th May 2006