You Don't Know What You've Got Till it's Gone

In which The Author wonders what to do next

In an unexpected sequel to the previous post, I can bring you an exclusive update to the Clare Situation.

In spite of Charlie the barbint's encouragement to me on Sunday night, in spite of Karen's well-intended advice to Clare on Monday night, in spite of all the time Clare and I have spent together over the past couple of months, in spite of all our ideas to have at least one fucking day away from Aberdare, in spite of my spending pretty much the whole day with her yesterday, and in spite of my chatting to her online every day since we first became Facebook friends, I have concluded – on the basis of overwhelming evidence – that we've got about as much chance of getting involved romantically and/or sexually as I have of being the first human to set foot on Mars.

There are three main obstacles in our way, so I'll deal with them in turn.

I haven't mentioned until now that Clare's brother Phillip has a learning disability. It's never bothered me. Twenty years ago, when Sam and I were engaged, she was working in that field. As a result, I met her clients a number of times. She was always impressed by the casual way I interacted with them (see Learning Disabilities in my main blog). Friends of mine who have children with 'special needs' have often remarked on the fact that I don't patronise them, or ignore them, or sideline them. It's possible that the job I do now demands a certain level of 'autistic spectrum disorder', after all, so perhaps I recognise a kindred spirit when I meet one.

On the other hand, a lot of the fuckwits in town don't know how to deal with people in that position. They either take the piss out of Phillip, bully him, or become downright aggressive. While he's perfectly happy to come to Aberdare and have a few pints, Clare's (understandably) very protective of him. This makes her pretty much his unpaid carer whenever they're out together.

However, after a little while, you can tell she'd love to break free and do her own thing. It generally isn't worth the hassle though, because it'll either lead to a temper tantrum, an argument, or the Incredible Sulk which lasts for hours on end.

Furthermore, Phillip becomes very jealous if Clare does something which he's not involved in – like (for example) going for lunch with a friend.

As a result, he's something of a third wheel whenever Clare and I discuss plans. The only reason we were able to go to Cardiff without him tagging along was because we arranged it late at night, and she sneaked out when he was on his way to do his voluntary work.

The trouble is, he knows about the Bristol trip, so he's already invited himself along. I'm happy for him to come, because the three of us get on well and we always have a laugh. But we'll need to be back in Aberdare before the karaoke evening gets under way. If we aren't, and they start without his getting the chance to do 'American Trilogy' for the nine hundredth time, Clare and I will never hear the last of it. That's fucked any possibility of our having a couple of extra pints in Cardiff before the last train.

When I whispered to Clare earlier that any little 'weekend break' in London – something we've talked about a couple of times – would be strictly for the two of us, Phillip's superhero hearing picked it up. I think that was why he dragged her up to the karaoke evening at least two hours before it all got started. How very dare I suggest taking his little sister out of the country for more than a couple of hours?

The second obstacle in our way is the very thing which allows you to read this: the fucking Internet.

Like most young people I know these days, Clare spends almost her entire time in a WiFi-enabled pub chatting to random people she's met online. The other night she asked me if she could log into Facebook on the Netbook, so that she could untag herself in a couple of photos she'd rather forget about. When she went to the ladies', I had a glance at her Timeline. I wasn't spying on her – she wanted to me to look at a picture she'd shared and which she said I'd enjoy.

As I'd suspected, it was full of posts by ropey-looking chavs from all over South Wales, ranging from their mid-teens to their mid-thirties. To a 'man' (and I use the word advisedly) they were boasting about their prison records, drug deals, fucks and/or fights, and trying to get Clare to meet them. Most of them were swearing their undying love for her, because they'd seen her profile picture and thought she was the best thing since sliced bread.

I'm not being nasty to Clare (she's a very pretty girl, remember), but she wasn't even the most attractive female in the bloody pub at the time – never mind in the whole of South Wales. Either these fuckwits have spent so much time in chokey that they've forgotten what women look like, or they need to learn to access decent online porn.

[A digresion: Actually, given Clare's especially unflattering profile picture at present, if that young lad from Pengam thought she actually was the best thing since sliced bread, he's given me a business idea. I'm going to open a little supermarket in the village, selling Vesta curries, Angel Delight, Goblin tinned hamburgers in gravy, Norscä shampoo, Slimcea diet bread, Texan chocolate bars, Tweed perfume, Brut aftershave, and all the other 1970s must-haves that were advertised on the TV when I was a kid. The natives have obviously missed out on so much of modern life that it'll be a roaring success from the moment Bernie Winters cuts the ribbon and the Dagenham Girl Pipers march down the central aisle.]

At any given time when her phone is connected, Clare'll be simultaneously sexting at least half a dozen kids called Kyle, or Josh, or Chet, or something else that sounds like it was made up out of left-over Scrabble letters. Nine times out of ten, if I try to engage her attention, I have to join the back of the queue. (And I'm the guy sitting opposite her and buying her drinks, remember.)

The biggest joke is that she's signed up for all manner of dating apps, in spite of protesting at length that she wants to concentrate on herself and isn't interested in men. This very afternoon, in fact, she wore a ring to town because it's karaoke in the Lighthouse tonight.

'If anyone asks, I'll say I'm engaged,' she laughed. 'Engaged to myself!'

That was at five o'clock, when the three of us (inevitably) were in Thereisnospoon. I'm willing to lay odds that by 10.00 p.m. the ring will be in her back pocket, and she'll be stuck to the face of her next ex-boyfriend.

On Monday night, in fact, literally within minutes of Karen telling Clare that she could do a lot worse than going out with me, she'd left with Gareth, the DJ from the Lighthouse. Even though nothing happened between them (she says), she thought that maybe she'd met someone who liked her. (Remember, she'd only just baled out on me.) Then she spent half an hour yesterday telling me how much she loved the single life. Go figure …

The third obstacle is Clare's personal history. From what she's told me, her parents' marriage was fairly violent. Her father currently has a partner whom Clare gets on with quite well; her mother has remarried, and Clare hates her stepfather. She's had a long string of boyfriends, widely spread in age, but mostly wasters, as far as I can tell – although at least one of them was man enough to give her a child. Finally, she got a result. A baby could give her unconditional love; exactly what she'd been looking for – until Social Services got involved, anyway.

Like many young girls I know from similar backgrounds, she seems to be on a relentless quest for 'love' with people who are equally dysfunctional. Needless to say, it's doomed to fail, because they're locked into the same cycle of self-destructive behaviour, abuse, violence, and ultimately kids in care, that their parents were.

Yes, sure, it's nice when you meet someone with whom you've got something in common. If it's a shared taste in films, or a band you both like, or a particular restaurant you can revisit many times, that's a good thing. If it's simply the fact that you could both be minor characters in an Irvine Welsh novel, that's not a good thing.

So, how do we reconcile all that with Clare's endless protestations that she's 'happy on her own', 'doesn't need a man', 'wants to focus on herself', 'stronger by being alone', and all the other life-affirming crap she posts on Facebook every day?

Well, that's obvious, of course. She's fallen back on the classic attention-seeking technique of 'Don't take any notice of me, I'm fine!' – to which everyone responds, 'Oh, what's up, babe? Mail me now', and so forth.

In fact, I'm becoming convinced that the lady doth protest too much. I suspect that all this 'single forever' crap is entirely for my benefit, because she knows I like her.

She doesn't want to take the risk of accepting my offer, because if she sees that it's possible to go out with someone who genuinely cares about her, it'll send her fucked-up little world spinning entirely off its axis.

As I said in a text to Karen earlier, I can't possibly compete with all these external factors. I dare say that I'll be a shoulder for Clare to cry on when her next little relationship goes tits-up, just as I was last time.

I hope I remain enough of a gentleman to say, 'Well, that's too bad, babe – fancy a pint?' instead of, 'We all told you so, didn't we, you silly bint? You need to learn how to recognise a good thing when it's under your nose. Now fuck off and leave me alone!'

Perhaps then she'll finally wake up and smell the coffee. After all, in the words of the song, you don't know what you've got till it's gone.