“Alright, Luke, how’s it going?”

Mr. Patel has called me Luke the last three times I’ve been into his shop.

“Not bad,” I said, “just been playing football.”

“I played football last night. We won.”

“Great, what was the score?”

“Well, let me tell you the story, Luke.”

He handed me my change and I leaned on the checkout, making myself comfortable.

“We were three-one down, then we pulled it back to nil-nil. Then I made an amazing save, kicked it out to our striker and he scored. One-nil. Unbelievable!”

Does he understand the rules? Can he count? I checked my change carefully.

“Right, well done. See you later then.”

“Bye, Luke.”

I left the shop feeling confused, which often happens after my conversations with Mr. Patel. There is really no excuse for him calling me Luke. Earlier this year, I crashed my car and dented his van, so we exchanged personal details.

The crash happened twenty metres away from my house. Louise and I had just moved onto the street, so this was a solid introduction to our new neighbours. I was partially to blame but the sun was the real villain. Blinding.

I’d just passed my test at the third time of asking, which was a huge relief. Credit must go to my driving instructor, Harry, a man in his sixties who always wore a black shirt and sunglasses and liked drinking Carling, though not at work, he assured me with a chuckle. Several times.

Harry never met Louise and, other than the odd comment, I hadn’t mentioned her much. For some reason, however, he’d decided that she was a dangerous driver.

“This is a thirty zone, slow down. Just because your missus drives quickly doesn’t mean you should.”

“I bet your missus would have overtaken that truck, Andy. Believe me, that would have been a bad move.”

This wasn’t the only thing Harry made assumptions about. During one lesson, we were in an industrial estate, practicing reversing around a corner when he said.

“I was once driving along a country road at night and I saw a cyclist with no lights on. I didn’t hit him but I could have done. What was he thinking?”

“I don’t know, Harry.”

“Do you know what I think, Andy?” He said, looking out the window wistfully. “I think he’d decided that this world was no longer for him. He’d had enough.”

I thought this a rather bleak conclusion to draw and wondered how many other people Harry had deemed suicidal with little evidence over the years.

Anyway, I digress. This is supposed to be a festive blog and I haven’t touched on Christmas yet. Perhaps I’ll send Mr. Patel a Christmas card so that he knows my name? There we go. Seamless.

Following a lack of interest, my work Christmas do was postponed until the new year. It needs rebranding really but “midweek drink in January” doesn’t have the same ring, does it?

I have been to one party, at least. Louise and I started ballroom dancing classes a few weeks ago and, despite our limited talents, were invited to the Christmas dance (on the proviso that we paid a fiver each and brought a bottle of wine.)

We were among the first to arrive at Hawksworth Village Hall and sat nervously on the edge of the dance floor. A pair of gentlemen in their eighties strolled in; David and Everett.

“Nice to meet you, how are you?” I asked Everett.

“Well, I’ve been to the doctors today. I’ve got a cough.”

“Sorry to hear that. It’s been going round hasn’t it? I had a cough last week.”

“Mine has lasted for thirty years.”

“Oh.”

By the time the first song — a waltz version of Mistletoe and Wine — had started, around twenty people had arrived. Louise does — and always will I fear — have issues with me leading but it went okay. We managed to get around the dance floor without clattering into anybody, anyway.

The second dance was a Rumba, something which I cannot do. David ambled over to us. His trousers were pulled up to his armpits.

“May I dance with the lady?”

As David whisked Louise off and began showing her the steps, I was put with a middle-aged lady, who was wearing a fancy frock.

“So, do you know the Rumba?” she asked.

“Nope, not at all. You?”

“Yes, I suppose I’ll have to lead then?”

The next five minutes were painful. I couldn’t get the steps and kept standing on my partner’s feet. She was not having a good time and kept longingly looking at Everett who was skilfully doing the New Yorker.

When the dance eventually finished, my partner left to get some Pringles and didn’t return. Besides me, David continued to stand with Louise. He was holding her hand.

The next dance was the Cha-cha-cha.

“May I dance with the lady again?” David asked me.

“Well, we know this one,” I said, grabbing Louise’s available hand firmly.

One of our teachers overheard us.

“No, you don’t know this one. You haven’t learned it yet.”

For fuck’s sake.

“I’ll have to show her then,” David said, smiling at Louise. “Just so you know, I sometimes add my own moves.”

This time, I was partnered with another middle-aged lady who was also a better dancer than me. She told me her husband had left. I wasn’t sure whether she meant he’d left dancing classes or left her altogether.

Again, I was clumsy and off-the-pace. In the corner of my eye, I saw David twirling Louise around.

When the music stopped, David remained holding Louise’s hand once again. Momentarily forgetting that David was well into his eighties, I felt a pang of envy in my stomach. Get off her, David. Stop holding her hand. Are men genetically programmed to feel this kind of jealousy, whoever the rival? Had David been a muscular twenty-eight-year-old at Oceana, this would been more understandable but I knew I was being irrational. I told myself to stop being so ridiculous and calmed down. David was a nice, old guy. He wasn’t trying to steal my woman. Was he?

“Next up, we are doing quick-step,” the teacher shouted out.

“May I…” David began to ask.

“No. We definitely know this one.”

We didn’t know it. I marched off to pour myself a Buck’s Fizz.

Dancing is one of several new hobbies that we’ve tried our hand at this year. We’ve also done military fitness classes, dog walking and meditation. I reckon there’s probably something in meditation but at the last class, a middle-aged man in an Airwalk t-shirt got out a didgeridoo and started a “sound bath” while a woman in a floral dress talked about “gentle loving kindness.” I felt comfortably out of my comfort zone and considered whether we were victim to a candid camera prank. If you’re thinking that these extra curricular activities make me reek of being white and middle-class, think again; over the past few months, my friends and I have been having regular games nights, where we play board games, eat cheese boards and drink red wine. On these nights, we sometimes listen to Skepta.

Louise loves Christmas, which is all well and good but can be trying. Last week, my mum took me to town to pick some new clothes as a Christmas present. Among the clothes was a smart new jumper, something I’m in desperate need of, having been wearing the same frayed black cardigan for several years now. I took it home, excited about putting it on. The new me.

“What are you doing?” Louise asked, scowling as I took it out of the bag. “That’s a Christmas present, you need to wrap it up and put it under the tree.”

I’m spending Christmas in Leeds for the first time in six years and it will be Louise’s first festive period up North. I’m a bit nervous about going to the Original Oak on Christmas Eve as per tradition. Am I too old for it now? Will it have changed? Will people think I have changed? I won’t have changed clothes since last time, I suppose. I do enjoy Christmas Eve and I’m looking forward to showing Louise the classic pub, midnight mass, Rajiput’s sequence. What better way to start your Christmas?

I’m hoping to get my new book finished over the holidays too but this depends on a) whether or not I get a box-set for Christmas and b) how committed I am to turning my Fantasy Football season around. Either way, it’s nearly finished so fingers crossed it will come out in the not too distant future. That’s so vague, isn’t it? I might as well say in due course.

Right, I’m off to Patel’s.

Merry Christmas.

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