Gervase Phinn: Brief encounter

I spent a good hour getting ready, scrubbing my face until it shone, covering up two angry red spots with some of my mother's flesh-coloured face powder, brushing my teeth violently, slicking my hair with Brylcreem, splashing my brother's after-shave liberally over my face and body, squeezing into tight drainpipe trousers and polishing my winkle-picker shoes to a high shine. I looked in the bathroom mirror and thought myself pretty presentable.

Brenda sat in the corner of the caf, dressed in a shocking pink cardigan and wearing sensible sandals and white ankle socks. Her hair stuck out at the sides like giant ear-muffs.

"Hello," I said brightly.

"Hello," she replied.

There was no trace of a smile. She looked me up and down and I could see she was not overly impressed with what she saw.

"Want a drink?" I asked.

"Milkshake," she said. "Strawberry. Large one."

This is going to be an expensive evening I thought to myself. "So what do you like doing?" I asked.

"Knitting," she replied. "I'll knit you a cardigan if

you want."

"Great," I replied.

"I thought we would go to the pictures," I told her as she took a gulp of the milkshake, leaving a pink moustached above her lips.

In the cinema there was a row of double seats at the back. The arm rests had been removed so that couples could snuggle up to each other and more likely have a good snog when the lights went out. Brenda, armed with a large carton of popcorn and a bag of liquorice allsorts, which I had bought for her, headed for the rear seats.

"I like it down the front," I said, striding down the aisle.

Brenda sat through The Amazing Colossal Man munching away merrily. When she had consumed the entire contents of the carton, she started on the liquorice allsorts. Just as the monster appeared on the screen, she thrust her face forward and planted her lips on mine. This occurred a few times before the film came to an end. It was a quick, unexpected, jerky, liquorice, popcorn-tasting experience and not particularly pleasant.

"Are we having chips?" she asked, as I walked her home.

"If you want."

"I like scraps the best," she told me.

Scraps were the bits of fried batter which came away from the fish and they were given away free. Scraps were not the only things she liked. She ordered haddock and a double portion of chips and mushy peas which she consumed at lightning speed.

We arrived at the gate of her house. "What film are we seeing next week?" she asked.

"I'll let you know," I replied.

She puckered her greasy lips. I could smell the vinegar as she came closer.

"Bye," I said walking off with an empty pocket. And that was my first fleeting romance. It was "a brief encounter" for I found that scraps were the only things Brenda and I had in common.