My Birthday - October 2006

Today is my birthday. Forty five years old. Half way to ninety, as I used to say, teasingly, to my ex-husband as he approached the same milestone. I think of forty-five as wise, mature, confident, sexy. He thinks of forty-five as the first step on the road to death; one of the many reasons that he is now ‘ex’.

So, it’s my forty-fifth birthday, I’m feeling wise, mature, confident, sexy and – double bonus - it’s Friday night. But I’m all alone in Prague and know hardly a soul. I have three options before me.

I have been invited for an evening of bowling with my new colleagues from my language school. With a little imagination on my part I could convince myself that it’s my party and that I like these people and that I love bowling. The reality is that it’s a regular work get-together, my colleagues are dull as ditchwater and I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than spend an evening wearing ridiculous shoes and knocking down skittles with a dangerously heavy ball.

The second option is to stay home alone and lie to people about what a great night I had, but I’m not a good liar.

The third option is the least sensible option. Earlier this week I received a message on ‘My Space’ from a man living in Prague. He’s called Chris, he’s 60 and originally from Blackpool. Anyone who freely admits that they were born in Blackpool must have an innate compulsion towards honesty and truthfulness, so I have decided that I trust him. In his message he invited me along to the regular Friday night gathering of a group of ex-pats. He gave me the name of a bar in Vinohrady and said they’d all be there after 6:30pm.

7:30pm and I’ve decided to go with the least sensible option. I’m going to spend my birthday in a bar I’ve never been to, with a group of people I’ve never met.

So, dressed to kill - or at least with dim lighting and a few feet of drunken haze, dressed to maim – and with the map of Vinohrady seared onto my brain, I set off on my latest adventure. Changing metros at Mustek, I step out at Jiriho Z Podebrad, acknowledge that I don’t have a clue where I am and stride confidently into the dark night in the direction that seems most attractive. After five minutes I decide that I could end up walking to Brno and never meet my new friends. Best to stop and ask a stranger for directions.

An exceptionally tall, friendly looking man walks towards me. I guess he’s in his early thirties.

“Excuse me” I say - street savvy enough by now not to ask ‘Do you speak English?, a question almost guaranteed to elicit an abrupt ‘No’ - “Is this bar in this direction?” I thrust a scrap of paper into his hand with the name of the meeting place clearly printed on it.

“Hmmm,” he says, glancing up and down the street. “Yes, it’s down there, I’m going that way anyway, I’ll walk with you”. He turns 180 degrees, heading back the way he had just come from and crosses the road. My short legs work hard to keep up with his long ones.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“England” I reply.

“Are you on holiday?”

“No, I live here, I’ve been here a couple of months”.

We continue walking – or more accurately, he is walking while I am jogging – and talking. He asks all the now predictable questions; do I have a job? what do I think of Prague?, why did I leave England?. Most of the answers I make up on the spot, already bored with the unadulterated truth that I’d spewed to strangers in the first few weeks of my arrival. He is really chatty and very handsome. A lovely fantasy is emerging unbidden. It starts with aborting my mission to meet strangers in a pub and continues with the two of us slipping into a cosy hospoda to spend the rest of the evening getting to know each other a lot better. The inevitable end of my fantasy is making me blush so I distract myself with the task in hand and force myself to concentrate on the buildings we pass.

“Just a minute – are you sure this is the right way? I say, checking the address on my slip of paper and realising that the building numbers are getting higher and we are on the ‘odd’ side of the street. “Aren’t we going in the wrong direction on the wrong side of the road?”

“Ah, yes” he replies, unsurprised, “we need to cross over. I’m sure it’s just up here. I’m going that way anyway.”

I’m a little confused and slightly perturbed by the fact that the way he is going has so far been in both directions up and down the street, but I imagine my fingers slipping through his long curls and my concerns evaporate like ether. We continue walking and talking. Up ahead I spot a neon sign and recognise the name of the bar, not far from where I’d emerged from the metro twenty minutes ago.

“It’s here” I announce, stopping outside the bar.

“Oh” he says, his eyes widening, then narrowing, in what I hope is a little sadness that our journey has come to an end, “well, it was nice meeting you.”

“Yes, it was nice meeting you too.” I reply.

Feeling my earlier reverie fading forever into oblivion, my brain makes a desperate scramble to call it back and make it a reality. With my best ‘regretful yet inviting’ smile I say: “I’d ask you to join me, but I’m meeting some friends….”

Full eye contact gives me a moment of hope, but words are still pouring unchecked from my mouth.

“…and I don’t actually know them, this is the first time I’ve met them, I don’t even know if I’ll recognise anyone when I get in there……”.

I trail off, painfully aware that I now sound insane. He smiles a smile with what I interpret as a tinge of regret for what might have been, though it may be a tinge of pity for an unfortunate, unhinged woman.

And so we part with cheery ‘goodbyes’ and a fleeting handshake. I push open the door to the bar, make my way by some mysterious instinct to a lively, crowded table and tap a likely looking man on the shoulder.

“Hello Chris,” I say, “I’m Daryl”.

Chris, many months later, with my daughter Sara