I’d always stare at the lightly greased laminated menu that was displayed on the counter for a couple of minutes, whilst feeling slightly nervous at the thought of the queue of people waiting close behind me — all probably wishing I’d just hurry up and get out of their way. I also didn’t really like the anxious, shallow breathing kind of feeling I got from having the young girl behind the counter stood right in front of me silently waiting whilst my eyes hurriedly scrambled to and fro across the sea of words on the page, almost bumping in to each other. I’d put myself through this gruelling ritual almost every time I went in there, and then I’d give up and just end up ordering the same boring old thing that I always ordered.
‘Could I take a name please?’
I gave a pathetic hesitant cough. ‘Yes....West.’
‘Your order will be about fifteen minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
I turned around and walked through a group of people, trying not to make eye contact as I went to wait near the back of the room with the other awkward people.

I hated giving my name for things, and I was glad I only needed to give my surname for a takeaway. The problem was that I had a strong, confident sounding name. My name is Leighton West. It’s the name of a person who lives an interesting, edgy life. Someone that has an interesting job and a cool car. Someone that has an adventure worthy of a few pages in a comic book from time to time. Someone that wears a sharp suit and is good with the ladies — and has the balls to carry it all off. But about thirty seconds after meeting me people soon realised that, yes, I had the name, but I was no man of mystery. There was no cool car, interesting job or long line of gorgeous women following me — and I certainly didn’t have the balls to back it up.

I remember taking my concerns about this to my mother back when I was in my early thirties. It seemed like a good idea at the time — after all she was the one who had bestowed upon me this unfortunate name combination. I had quickly regretted ever bringing it up when she unhesitatingly came out and told me that I looked more like a young version of Rigsby from Rising Damp than a James Bond. This had done nothing for my confidence, and if her observations had at all been accurate, then by now I must have looked like some kind of middle aged version of Rigsby — probably as per ‘Rising Damp’ series four… I suppose I did have the slick hair and the jumper… mind you, she did also once tell me I looked a bit like Tom Cruise, which made my day. Until she added that it was only when I wore a baseball-cap: and when it was dimly lit: and at a distance.

------------

By the time I’d pulled up outside my house, around nine, the smell of curry that had filled my car was making my mouth water. It was a Rogan Josh with Pilau rice, plain naan bread and an onion Bhaji; all about to be washed down by a nice pint of Mc Ewan’s Champion 7.3 percent ale. As I walked up the garden path, I was called from over the fence by the familiar voice of my neighbour Mr Collins.
'Good evening Leighton.’
‘Hello Mr Collins.’
I didn't actually know his first name. We didn’t speak that often. He’d introduced himself as Mr Collins seven years ago when I moved in back in 2001 and he'd been Mr Collins ever since. I didn't know that much about him except that he was married to Mrs Collins, they had a red Volvo estate, they were somewhere in their sixties, they loved gardening — and they were nice. They were the sort of nice people that you would give your front door key to in case of an emergency.
‘Got yourself a take-away have you?’
‘Yes, got myself a curry. I can’t wait to get indoors and sit and eat it in front of the telly.’
I’d hoped he would get my subtle hint.
‘I won't keep you then. I just needed to tell you that a man from your electric company called around. He said you didn’t seem to be in so he tried knocking our door. He said that there was a fault with the power in our road and that he needed to test the power feed to your house to eliminate it as a cause of the problem.’
‘Oh, right, good. He was working late wasn’t he?’…I was trying to sound interested. After all, he had done me a favour.
‘All the utility company’s do these days. They are all twenty-four-hour services now, in this modern world. Anyway, he said it was urgent, so we let him in with the key you gave us for emergencies. I hope you don’t mind? I kept half an eye on him as I was working in the garage, and he did give me some paper work that I need to pass on to you.’
‘No, I don’t mind. I appreciate your help, thank you. It’s a good job you have a spare key isn’t it. Anyway, give my regards to Mrs Collins and I will say good night to you; and thanks again.’
‘Good night young man.’
I didn't know why he called me young man. We were both getting on a bit, but in some ways, it did make me feel good. Mrs Collins was bad enough, calling me love and sweetie at every possible occasion. I had a feeling she fancied me, or maybe she was completely unaware of the suggestive way she handled her yard broom as we made small talk over the fence on occasion.
I went in doors and retreated to my chair. I shovelled down my curry and stared at the TV for the next four hours or so and then crawled up to bed. It was a big day tomorrow, so it probably wasn’t the best thing to have done.