Shock to the cistern

"You ever walk into a ladies' toilet by mistake?" Al asks, as we're towelling down in the changing room at the gym after a fairly ferocious workout. Al is more competitive than he likes to admit. 

"Do I take it you have?" I say.

"Too often in recent months," he says. "I have a theory that it's not my fault. So I was hoping it had happened to you too."

I pull my trousers on and zip them up. "Let me get this straight," I say. "You've started strolling into ladies' toilets but you're not to blame. Are we talking aliens and mind control?"

"Eyesight and stupid signs," he says. "Sailors and mermaids, senores and senoras, damas and caballeros."

He shoves open the outside door and we emerge blinking into a deceptively sunny day, with a hard bite to the air. "Steers and heifers, for heaven's sake," he says. 

"Then there's those modern, trendy, abstract, stupid wiggly little fuckers," he says. 

"Even if I didn't need reading specs, which I do, I'd have to peer at those for ages, trying to figure out what sex they're supposed to be."

"On the plus side, you're still outside the toilet," I say. "I'm not seeing how you take the plunge and get it wrong." 

"It's like falling between two stools," he says. "You know when you miss a three foot putt and get the same shot at the next hole? You don't want doubts creeping in so you rush it, the ball goes four feet past and you miss the return?"

"Of course."

"So now you're steaming. Panic sets in. Your ears are ringing and you've lost all touch and feel."

"Nice sporting analogy," I say, turning up my jacket collar and sinking my head down against the cold. "But I don't see the connection." 

"It's not difficult," he says. "While I have my nose hard up against a door, trying to figure out from some ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic if it's the Gents, a bloody woman barges past me and mutters 'dirty old pervert' under her breath, because it's the Ladies.

"Twice," he adds.

"Same woman?" I say.

"Different woman," he says. "Different toilet." 

"Unpleasant," I say.

"Very," he says.

We concentrate on the traffic coming fast from three directions, to negotiate Roman Drive, then pick up the chat when we're safely back on the pavement.

"So next time you rush it and get it wrong?" I say.

"I do," he says. "And it isn't a particularly hard sign either. Angels and demons." 
  
"I've seen that one and you're right," I say. "Not hard if you're thinking clearly." 

"I'm not though," he says. "And it takes me too long to realise how badly I've got it wrong."

"I'd have thought the absence of urinals would have made it obvious," I say.

"Nothing's obvious when you're brain's just going through the motions," he says. "First I notice the walls are pink. Never seen such a pink place in my life. Then there's the flowers in jugs behind the taps. 

"Finally I realise there's nowhere to take a piss and at that moment the door starts opening inward, and all the blood rushes to my head."

"Bloody hell!" I say. "What happens next?"

"I nearly get it wrong," he says. "My first thought is to hide in a cubicle. Then I realise I could be stuck in there for ages if it gets busy."

"And you'd have to listen to women in a toilet," I say. "Could scar you for life. What's your second thought?"

"Brass it out and walk past her," he says.

"I'd have done that," I say.

"I nearly did, but at the last moment I dodge behind the door. The woman comes in, heads straight for the cubicle and I start to sidle out. But you know what they're like. Asking a woman to walk past a mirror is like asking a guy's eyes to stay away from cleavage."

"She sees your reflection?" I say.

"She does," he says. "But a couple of brain cells flicker belatedly to life and I go, "You'll be all right now, madam. I've got the cistern working again."

"Smart," I tell him, as we turn into the drive of the Bearsden bungalow Al has lived in for 40 years. "Nice recovery."

"But how do I stop it happening again, as my brain slows and my eyesight fails?" he says.

"Don't drink," I tell him. "Avoid public toilets. Get a guide dog, a catheter or a kind lady to take you by the hand." 

"There is always an answer, isn't there?" he says.

"There is," I tell him, as we step inside his house. "Why does your toilet have TOILET in huge letters on the door?"

"You don't want to know," he tells me.

Ball game II

Al  has had more than his fair share of ailments in the past 30 years, so it's easier to list those that haven't afflicted him than those that have. He's avoided measles, mastitis, nappy rash and period pains. That's about it.

Pretty much everything else you can think of he's had. Frozen shoulder, runner's knee, collapsed lung, tennis elbow, coxsackie virus, myalgic encephalomyelitis, colds, flu, pneumonia and hospital superbugs that damn near killed him. Oh yeah and depression.

But his latest malady, which I notice when we're changing at the gym for our Wednesday workout, is bigger than any of those.

It's bad form, of course, to show an interest in people's tackle in a male changing-room. A fleeting glance is acceptable, even expected, but repeated peeks or a prolonged stare with raised eyebrows will get you complained about. Or propositioned.

So normally I wouldn't dream of doing a double-take and a sharp intake of breath. But I can't help it. Al's equipment is a magnet for my eyes. I get away with it because there's no one else in the room, we've seen each other naked loads of times, neither of us is gay and there's a good reason for my current fascination with his testicles.

"You've noticed," he says.

"Hard to miss," I say.

"I'm up here," he says.

"Sorry," I say. "Can't take my eyes off it. What happened? You catch it in a door?"

"Nope. It gradually went that way over a couple of weeks. I didn't notice at first. Then it became obvious. One testicle much bigger than the other."

"You going to the doc's or will you buy a wheelbarrow for it?"

"I've been. He gave me antibiotics and said it would shrink back down again."

"You should have asked for something to make its mates grow big as well."

"I did. Stony-faced pill-pusher never cracked a smile."

"Probably hear stuff like that all the time when you're a balls doctor."

"I guess," he says, pulling his shorts on. "He also sent me for an ultrasound scan, just to be safe. I got a letter the following week warning me, in bold letters, that it might be done by a female. That got me worried."

"I can see why. How long is it since a woman saw you naked? Twenty years?"

"More like fifty," he says. "So I kept my fingers crossed that nothing would come up during the examination."

"Did it?" I say, as we head out the door towards the gym.

"Not a twitch," he says. "Which was a relief and a disappointment. There were two females doing the examination. One rubbing jelly on my genitals and moving them around to get a better view. The other studying it all on the screen above my head." 

"Must have felt exposed," I say.

"And then some," he says. "'I can't see a thing to worry about,' the female at the screen says. 'Me neither,' says her friend down below, and I catch a wee smile on her stupid face."

"Embarrassing," I say, giving him a comforting slap on the shoulder.

"Humiliating," Al says. "It's the last time I let a woman look at my tackle, I can tell you."

I glance down. "That's what you think, son," I say. "You're going to need a bigger pair of shorts."

"Bugger," he says and turns on his heel and heads back to the changing-room.

Some science of swollen testicles 
1.  Orchitis is the term for inflammation and swelling of one or both testicles, caused by infection.

2. Men with smaller testicles are more likely to feed and bath the baby. 

The Good Life

Al has never been what you'd call conventional. He figures things out for himself and this takes him to places, sometimes, that can seem peculiar to travellers on tramlines.

So the potatoes stacked high in his kitchen window don't bother me any, as I wander around the back of his house, hunting for some sign of his whereabouts. We're supposed to be having a meal together, but he is never easy to find in the sprawling old Bearsden bungalow he has occupied for years. 

A woman once shared the house with him, but she is long gone. She was a police officer, not a profession noted for original thinking, and the disparity grew too great in the end. So they drifted amicably apart. Al does everything amicably. Yet I've seen him drive people insane.

Once he has figured something out he will not budge. He has anticipated your arguments and refuted them in his head. "Doing the sums," he calls it. But not being combative or fast on his feet, this can come across as stubborn and pig-headed. 

At his work, as a marine engineer, his creative thinking saved lives and millions of dollars. Now in his retirement it makes him grow big fat vegetables, worry about climate change and exercise his sideways sense of humour on unsuspecting strangers.

"I hardly ever drive these days," he tells me, when I find him behind the broccoli in his garden, and ask why the car in his drive is laced with spider-webs. "I've done the sums. I don't need to. Five minutes walk away is an Asda's, two Indian carry-outs, a fish and chip shop and a brand new Alzheimer centre."

"That's handy," I say, taking the huge heads of broccoli he hands me and accompanying him to his kitchen.

"Very," he says. "First time I saw it, on the way to the supermarket, I went in and had a look at their leaflets. Got talking to them. I asked what they did and how long they'd been there. Said I hadn't noticed them before.

"On the way back from Asda's I called in again, had a look at their leaflets and got talking to them. I asked what they did and how long they'd been there. Said I hadn't noticed them before."

"I had an aunt who got Alzheimer's," I say, stepping over buckets and basins bulging with big red potatoes, and finding a small space to stand. "I phoned the Society and they tried to be helpful. But there's not much anyone can do. You think you'll catch it?"

"Probably," he says. "You know why I was a good engineer?"

"You'd a brain bigger than ten of these potatoes," I say.

"Certainly," he says, taking the heads of broccoli from me and piling them in the sink. "But also I'm aware of something other people keep forgetting."

"Which is?" I say.

"The world is not organised for our benefit. Things go wrong. It's the first principle of engineering. Shit happens."

"Doesn't make you a cheery companion though," I say, trying to catch sight of him beyond the stacked pyramids of potatoes.

"But it means I prepare for every possibility," he says. "I do the sums. When I retired I put my money into National Savings. Everyone said I was stupid and should invest in shares. What happened?"

"They lost their money in the crash and you've still got yours," I say.

"Correct," he says. 

"But what's the use of sackfuls of cash you don't spend and have no one to leave to?" I say.

He goes silent. "I have someone to leave it to," he says, not meeting my eye.

"The policeperson?" I say. "Have you two got back together?"

"Don't be daft," he says. "Getting back with your ex is like breaking into Alcatraz."

Again the silence, stretching. "I'll tell you sometime," he says. "Maybe."

"Fair enough," I say. "Now about these root vegetables. What's the plan? You already have enough to feed a medium-sized medieval village."

"Well, I never turn the heating on in here," he says. "So these potatoes will feed me for five years. I've done the sums. Whatever happens - power failure, premature senility, the end of civilisation - I will survive."

"In here with your potato mountain?"

"In here with my potato mountain."

"All you need is Felicity Kendall," I say. 

"Only if she doesn't eat," he says. "I didn't include her in my sums."

Sausages

Al takes global warming personally. So his house is as warm and welcoming as the dark side of the moon. Not that there is a dark side of the moon, despite the over-hyped Floyd album, but you get the drift. Arctic, Baltic, bloody freezing.

"Do you ever heat this place?" I ask over breakfast, the morning after we'd chatted in the Bon Accord and he gave me a bed for the night.

"Of course," he says. "My central heating comes on between December and February every year."

"So that's like ... January?"

"Pretty much," he says.

"You heat the house one month out of twelve? Why don't you freeze the rest of the year, the way I'm freezing now?"

"You're not freezing," he says. "You're slightly below the temperature your pampered adult self has got used to. You've gone soft from a surfeit of cocoa, women and central heating, You must have been tougher as a boy."

"I wasn't," I tell him. "I was harassed by hypothermia. We had one coal fire in the living-room. The rest of the house was shrouded in ice. You took a sledge and huskies to get to the bathroom. My dad stepped into the hall one winter and froze with his hand out reaching for a book. We used him as a coatstand till he thawed out in spring."

Al puts a sizzling plate of hash browns, beans, tomatoes, scrambled eggs and vegetarian sausages in front of me, accompanied by coffee in a white mug with black lettering that says: "The wind moans, like a long wail from some despairing soul shut out in the awful storm."

"Guy that wrote that died of apoplexy brought on by overwork," I tell him.

"Serves him right," he says. "It's a present from my mum. She said it reminded her of me. How's the breakfast?"

"Hot, huge and unexpected," I say. "Like the climate."

"It's not funny," he says, waving a forkful of food at me. "The planet's screwed and you're sat scornfully scoffing sausages. If we all turned our heating down, civilisation might survive."

"But we won't," I tell him. "It's the Tragedy of the Commons. Land owned by all gets ruined by a few. Human nature. So you might as well turn your heating up before frostbite eliminates my extremities. It's pointless. It's tokenism."

He bites half the greasy brown cylinder on his fork and points the other half at me. "Why are you eating fake sausages full of fluff and grass instead of a man's meal like this?" he asks me. "It's pointless. It's tokenism."

He lays his fork on the plate, stands up, loosens his belt and drops his trousers and I start back in sudden fear. 

Long, thick and blue, it stretches almost to his ankles. I've never seen anything like it. "My God," I say. "What's that?"

"Thermal underwear," he tells me. "It's the future."

Scary story

"What's the most frightening thing that ever happened to you?" Al asks, as we exit the cinema, having watched two hours of tedious chainsaw schlock.

"That's hard," I say. "Do you mean frightening at the time or frightening later, when you grasp the enormity of what you've done?"

"Oh, either. Let's not get too analytic."

"Well, there was that time we were coming back from the pub and decided to walk along the parapet of the viaduct. You remember?"

"Yeah," he says. "But it was too easy, so John Gibson suggested hopping and we did that for a while and he thought it was still too easy. So we tried hopping backwards and you fell off."

"I did. But on the side with the three foot drop, not the fifty foot. Which is why I'm here today."

"So that was frightening?" Al asks.

"Not at the time. You're armour-plated at that age. But it scares me now. We could have died."

"We didn't," he says. "Will I tell you what's scarier than chainsaws or viaducts?"

He pushes open the door to the Bon Accord and the iconic image on the wall of Baxter and Bremner piques my nostalgia. I order two pints, while he keeps me waiting for the punchline, but I know what's coming.

"Women," he says, lifting his beer and heading for the table in the corner, below the bookshelves. "Women are scary."

"Nah," I say, when we're sat side by side, surveying the bar. "They're not scary. They're just different. You have to not talk to them like guys." 

"I know what not to do with them," Al says. "Pretty much everything I've done with them my whole life. What I don't know is what to do with them."

"You got to get back in the game," I tell him. "You won't learn anything about women by talking to men."

"Except you?" he says.

"Except me," I agree, taking a long pull of my pint. "You should ask my sister out. She likes you."

"Way too nice," he tells me. "I was thinking I'd start at the easy end and work up."

I glance at the wall-poster of Jim and Billy, fresh-faced, young and confident. Everything Al isn't. "Lot of guys make that mistake," I tell him. "Then end up settling for a woman who makes them miserable. Start at the top and work down would be my advice."

"You'd get a load of rejection that way," he says. "Rejection is scary."

"I'll tell you what's scary," says an old guy at the next table, wearing woolly gloves with no fingertips, who's clearly been earwigging. 

He lowers his voice to a whisper. "You live alone. You wake at three in the morning. It's pitch dark and silent, except for the tick of the bedside clock and the faint rustle of winter wind in the trees." 

He pauses. "Then somebody knocks on your bedroom door," he says and starts nodding his head. 

Al and I digest this in silence. Both of us live alone.

"You know that spare room in your house?" I say.

Al shudders and grabs his beer. "It's yours for the night," he says.

Wife swapping

"The trouble with wife-swapping," Al informs me over lunch in the Burnbrae Hotel, "is that you have to take one back."

He lifts his pint, takes a long pull, then sits back in his chair looking deeply satisfied, whether by the beer, the one-liner or life in general, it's hard to tell. Maybe all three.

"You must have been tempted to get married sometime in your life," I say. "Maybe when you were young and pretty?"

"You saying I'm old and ugly?" he asks.

I study him, taking in the bald head, shaved close for added shine, the friendly face and the small pot belly he's acquired since giving up smoking three months ago. "How can I put this tactfully?" I say.  

"Don't try," he says. "You're useless at it."

"Well see that old guy at the bar, face like a bag of spanners?"

He twists around to get a better look. "I see him," he says.

"I wouldn't climb over him to get to you," I tell him.

Al barely acknowledges the insult and looks instead around the interior of the pub, gloomy even on the brightest of days, seemingly searching for someone. "Ah, there she is," he says. "You see that lovely blonde waitress over there?"

Tall, slim, willowy, dressed in black, moving athletically. "I see her," I say.

"Well I used to be engaged to a woman just like her," he says. 

I take a closer look, turn back to study Al and try to hold down a sceptical eyebrow.

"Hard to believe, I know, when you look at the human flotsam I've become," he says. "But it's true."

"What happened?" I ask.

"Story as old as time. Boy meets girl. Boy falls in love. Girl loves him back. Girl gets abducted by aliens. Boy never gets over it. Goes bald, drinks beer. The end."

"That's a sad story," I tell him. "Is any part of it true?"

"All of it. Except the aliens. It was actually the Bradford and Bingley Building Society. She got offered a job down in Yorkshire. She went. I stayed." 

I catch a flicker in his eyes and look away. "You ever hear from her again?" I ask.

"Yeah once," he says. "Got a message on my answer-machine asking if I needed home insurance. I didn't."

The willowy waitress approaches our table and asks if everything is all right for us. Al tells her it is and meets her eye.

She touches his shoulder, then turns and walks away.