Turning Thirty by Mike Gayle

and pointed me in the right direction.
    I closed the curtains gingerly, removed my jacket and T-shirt, slipped on the first shirt and, in the cold light of the shop’s three-tier lighting system (position one: simulated daylight; position two: artificial light; position three: a thunderstorm), stared in disbelief at the mirror. For as long as I had known her Elaine had propagated the urban myth that clothes shops had specially designed mirrors that made customers look like beached whales. According to her, it was all part of a campaign by skinny women to take over the world. It was only now as I stood there afraid to move for fear of popping buttons off the shirt like the Incredible Hulk that I realised skinny men had some world domination plans of their own.
    â€˜How’s it looking?’ called the assistant, from outside the cubicle.
    I opened the curtain and let him look for himself. Together we stared into the mirror not quite believing our eyes.
    â€˜Isn’t this a bit tight?’
    â€˜It’s cut to be close-fitting,’ he replied tersely.
    There was no answer to his response that didn’t involve an expletive and/or a punch in the face, so I thanked him for his time and, clutching what little dignity I had left, disappeared behind the curtain to mourn the passing of my youth.

eighteen

To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Stuff

    Dear Elaine
    Make sure you remember to water the spider plants in the bathroom – and remember, just holding the shower head over them once a week doesn’t count. Also, don’t forget to pay off your credit card before they start charging you a small fortune in interest (again).

    Matt xxx

To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Not Dad

    Dear Elaine
    Forget that last e-mail. Who am I? Your dad? Don’t bother to water the spider plant. Don’t pay off your credit card. Do what you want.

    love

    Matt xxx

To:
[email protected]
From:
[email protected]
Subject:
Dad!

    For the record – I had already watered the spider plant but I admit had forgotten to pay my Visa bill. This is scary stuff, Matt. We’ve split up and not only do I have to remember to pay my own Visa bill but I have to miss you too. Don’t you dare stop moaning at me . . .

    much love

    Elaine xxx

nineteen
    During my first week at home I led a double life. By night I’d hang out with Gershwin – occasionally Zoë and Charlotte too – and by day I spent time with my parents, which was a bizarre experience. I hadn’t ‘hung out’ with my mum and dad since I was in my mid-teens, and during that week I recalled with a perfect clarity of vision why this was so. Overjoyed at having me, their eldest, back under their roof and trying, in their own small way, to help me forget my current circumstances, they determined to entertain me. For the most part this meant taking me out on day trips to places they’d been to a million times before and had enjoyed so much that they saw no reason not to return.
    Our first day out was to nearby Stratford-upon-Avon – which, in fact, turned out to be quite good fun. We visited Anne Hathaway’s house which my mum thought ‘a bit poky’, and then we all walked round the shops for a few hours until my dad announced that he wanted to go back to the car to ‘check something’. Permission was denied as Mum revealed that ‘checking something’ was Dad-speak for being bored and wanting a quick nap in the car. In the evening I attempted to treat them to a meal, but failed miserably.
    â€˜You’re not paying for me,’ said my dad.
    â€˜Why not?’ I asked, not even close to understanding his logic.
    â€˜Because you just can’t,’ said my dad.
    â€˜I’d die of shame,’ said my mother, with such vehemence that I was sure she was only this far (i.e. not very) from pinning me down and