"Yes Tim," I spoke into the telephone to my friend, partner, occasional helper and drinking buddy. "You rang earlier. What can I do for you on this bright and sunny day?"
"You might think it's bright and sunny, Sam," he groaned back at me. "But I've got myself in a bit of a pickle, and could do with some help mate."
What?
Sam got himself into a pickle? Another one? Nothing new there. I could just picture the poor tortured soul, sitting there without a hair in place and his big, black-framed glasses somewhat askew. With any luck, since it was the beginning of the week, then his socks might just match one another.
"What have you done this time Tim?" I asked, grinning to myself. Tim was half way to being a genius, especially with computors, but socially, was, to say the least, a little inept.
"It's the pickle of all pickles Sam," he confided in me. "And you're the only one who can help me out."
"I suppose this involves a woman again, does it?"
"Got it in one Sam," he replied with the first trace of any humour in his voice. "How about you meet me down at the Feathers for a pint and a chat?"
"You paying?"
"Course I'm paying," Tim answered. "Don't I always?"
"Bloody cheek my man," I admonished him with a laugh, knowing that the pair of us could well afford to pay, both, in our own fields, having done quite well for ourselves. "See you in twenty minutes then."
"Make it half an hour," Tim suggested, and the rendezvous was set.
--------------------
Actually Tim, thirty-one, and a year older than me, despite our obvious differences had been one of my best friends since our teens, when he'd helped me with the intricacies of maths and things, and I'd given him entry to the social set, that he otherwise wouldn't have been accepted into. All sounds a bit contrived and commercial maybe, but besides that, the pair of us hit it off from the very start. He was top of the class, year in and year out, and I was the star on the rugby field. Time passed, and Tim now had his own IT business, that I'd invested in from the early days, and I'd moved on to play rugby for Northampton and England, the star fly half, and terror of all the other rugby playing nations round the world. OK, so maybe that last bit was an exaggeration; quite a big one in fact, but even my own modesty doesn't prevent me from confessing that I was fairly good at what I did best. I didn't earn the millions that the top soccer players did, but I didn't do badly, had invested wisely, and would be more than comfortable when I eventually retired from the game.
It worked well for the two of us, me doing the occasional celebrity hand shaking for Tim to promote his business, and Tim doing all my computor stuff, including my blog and my web site, and of course unscrambling my Mac book every other week or so, after I'd done something completely unforgivable to it ----- Again!
Why don't computors understand what you're trying to do?
So!
Half an hour later found me sitting there with my old pal Tim, a pint of Breakspears in each of our fists, a grin on my face and a frown on his.
"So what have you done this time?" I demanded. "It's not that barmaid down at the Squeaky Duck again is it?"
"No not her this time," Tim mumbled back, glancing over at me guiltily. "Bit of a problem with a chat line."
"A chat line?" I laughed out loud. "You never did have any chat up lines. Who is it this time you're trying to chat up."
"Not chat up line, you silly bugger," Tim grinned back at me, looking just a little happier. "A chat line. You know. On the internet, when you link up with other people to chat and things."
"Can't say as I do Tim," I was forced to admit. "You know what I'm like with computors."
Tim nodded his head knowingly, a bit too bloody knowingly for my liking, before continuing with his explanation.
"Chat lines are where you go on line and meet people and chat to them."
"Sounds interesting," I commented flatly, with an obvious lack of enthusiasm. If I wanted to chat to someone then I did it face to face.
"Sometimes you get chatting to members of the opposite sex," he went on, and my eyebrows rose, and my interest with them.
"So you've got chatting to some female have you?"
"Spot on mate," he replied.
"So what's the problem and what's it got to do with me?"
"Well we got pretty friendly Sam," he confided, leaning forward as if we were secret conspirators. "We've been chatting for six or seven weeks now, and we've agreed it's time we met up."
"Great," I responded, throwing my hands in the air. "So you've made a date. Congratulations, what's the problem? Not some dog is she?"
"No not at all," Tim shot back, all smiles. "She's really rather gorgeous."
"Gorgeous as in gorgeous, or gorgeous as in not bad looking," I queried, knowing just about all the women that Tim had dated, none of whom were exactly gorgeous. Nice girls nearly all of them, even the barmaid from the Squeaky Duck, once you got used to the way she dressed; but gorgeous ---- No way ---- None of them. Tim was a great chap, good fun, generous and no real downside, but attractive physically to women he wasn't. Tough maybe, but life was like that.
"Look Sam," he carried on, pushing his glasses back up his nose, as he fired up his I-pad. "I've got a photo of her."
I leant over his shoulder to look at the screen, quite prepared to be impressed. Despite what I'd said about Tim, he did know a pretty girl from an ugly one, so it was with some interest that I watched as a head and shoulders picture of a girl came up on his screen.
Bloody hell!
Fry my balls in bacon fat!
The girl in the picture was gorgeous.
No, not gorgeous ---- She was ..... She was ....... She was simply lovely!
"Impressed eh?" Tim demanded, grinning fiendishly, and giving me a friendly punch on the shoulder.
"Any more pictures?" I asked, convinced that, as stunningly pretty as the girl was, she must be fat or something. Maybe only had one leg or some serious personality disorder?"
"How about in a bikini?"
Strewth!
My heart started to beat faster, and just looking at the girl in the small bikini, got my little fellah down below interested.
Tim, my pal Tim had a date with this beauty???
Didn't seem possible, but that's what he'd said.
"So what's the problem then Tim," I growled out at last, quite unreasonably a bit put out. "You've got a date with a beautiful woman. Go for it man."
"Not that straightforward," he slowed me down.
"Why?"
"I had to send her a photo as well."
"Well that's great Tim," I encouraged him. "She knows what you look like, so no problems eh?"
To be honest, a guy like me has never lacked for pretty women, and as a fairly well known sports star I could to some extent, pick and chose as I wanted.
But I was jealous!
Silly I know, but I was thirty years of age, and for some time I'd been hoping to meet that special girl, and here he was, perhaps, my pal Tim having beat me too it. Jumping the gun a bit of course, but the girl just had that look about her. Sort of girl next door, albeit prettier than any girl I'd ever had as a next-door neighbour.
"Go for it Tim," I repeated, trying my best to sound enthusiastic for him. No. Seriously. He was my pal and I was happy for him. Absolutely!
"That's the problem mate," Tim whispered, looking down at the floor.
"What's the problem?"
"The photo," he mumbled back.
"What was the problem with the photo?"
"I sent one of you Sam," he replied, sounding as if he was being strangled.
