This Charming Man

You'd think the receipt of a rejection e-mail this morning on the basis of “candidates with more relevant experience than yourself “ would put me in a negative frame of mind. You'd be right. However it's not all bad as while I'm head sore and miserable today, I did have a very pleasant time this previous evening in my local Wetherspoon's with a delightfully charming man, who for the sake of protecting the innocent I shall henceforth refer to as Mr Jones. As is normal on such occasions I tend to arrive slightly early and he arrives slightly later than the specified time. This gives me the opportunity to browse the selection of beverages on offer and contemplate what I should drink. I'm not much of a drinker you see. I used to be. There was many an occasion I would go out with friends and drink the night away without fear of repercussions. These days however I'm more likely to end up with chronic acid, leading to sleep deprivation manifested as frequent visits to the porcelain altar whereby I would attempt to have my diaphragm exhumed from my body by way of my oesophagus. The temptation is always therefore for me to have 'foo foo' drinks. The likes of Smirnoff Ice and WKD or any of those that could be referred to as alco-pops, as historically they have caused significantly less troublesome nights and following days. The problem is when I'm drinking with another man it somehow feels wrong. I'm not sure I can explain what it is, but there just seems something unmanly about sitting in a pub having 'man time' drinking a little bottle of an oddly coloured fruit based drink, irrespective of it's potency or alcohol content. Men drink pints. Pints of beer.

I'm old enough to know better and there's so many aspects of things I do or say without concern for what others may think of me as a result that I should be comfortable to drink anything I like, irrespective of how I may be perceived. So why can't I?

Anyway, Mr Jones was a delight as always. A genuinely charming man who it is quite a pleasure to be in the company of. He's the type of chap, and I use the term in consideration of every WWII movie that saw anyone of good standing being referred to as jolly decent, who exudes warmth.

Much of the evening was spent discussing my varied and wonderful neurosis. I say discussing. I suppose inflicting would probably be more apt. Mr Jones being the rapturous Adonis that he is (I know I may be venturing into some form of homo-erotica here, so for the avoidance of doubt: I'm not and neither is he, though if he was and so where I, I most certainly would, though he would no doubt spurn my advances in the most humble of ways and I would find myself alone in the gutter offering my services to the most foul and abusive for little more than a packet of Spicy Nik-Naks and a cup of Bovril) took it all in good humour and at the end of the evening sent me away with a spring in my step. Jolly decent chap.