7.15pm and at last I’m home after a very long day of office-based drudgery.
It feels like I’ve driven through a hurricane all along the beastly M53.
With a sigh I pull in by the kerb near my flat. It is cold. The weather is still nasty.
The rain is hitting the pitiless cobbles of New Brighton and forming little rivulets of spite.
I’m about to splash off home when a plaintive voice catches my ear from further up the street. Two voices, in fact…

A male voice is pleading with his lover: “C’mon, love, c’mon. As long as I live, I will care for you. You MUST know that. Come home, COME HOME NOW. I can make it right.”
The woman’s voice is harder to make out. Mainly she is crying inconsolably.
I can’t make out her words but the tone is of a woman who is kidding herself she doesn’t need this man – or any man.
She doesn’t sound like she means what she is trying to say to him through her sobs.
But she does sound very, very upset, God love her.
I can’t bear to eavesdrop any longer on a sad little drama that almost everyone can relate to…because we’ve all been in similar positions at one time or another, haven’t we?
Love can do that to you – when it goes wrong.
It can wrench your heart out and throw it in the gutter.
Love can have you howling at the moon and render you incapable of any sort of communication other than blowing snot bubbles.
At that precise moment, I wanted to go home, I really did. It was only a few yards away. I wanted to have a cup of tea and watch The Bill. I wanted to relax.
But the audible sadness close at hand was both distracting and affecting me. I was having flashbacks to terrible rows I used to have with my ex-girlfriends in East Anglia years ago.
One of those rows – while we were on holiday in Florence – was so bad I threatened, indeed attempted, to throw myself off the city’s famous Ponte Vecchio (old bridge).
It wasn’t “Treacle” Tartt, but my other girlfriend from the Eastern counties, Magdalena, that I’d been rowing with that time in Italy.
Actually, it was me, not her, who was doing the big emotional volcano act. Did I really did want to end my life right there and then in the murky waters of the River Arno? Probably not, but I was in a right state, believe me.
Can’t remember what saved me – probably something Magdalena said, or maybe just a glimpse of her beautiful face – but anyway, half an hour later we were as happy as anything, drinking iced Bardolino and scoffing spaghetti alle vongole in a restaurant.
I hope the couple I witnessed arguing desperately in the middle of New Brighton on Tuesday night found a similarly happy ending to their heartbreak … though if they went looking for a good restaurant and fine wines locally they’d be disappointed.
As I say, seeing and hearing their upset, well, it upset me. So instead of going home to watch the telly, I went straight to Hell’s Waiting Room for a few medicinal drinks.
It wasn’t just those rows. It had been a hard day, starting at 7.30am, actually, at BBC Radio Merseyside, followed by a day of thankless toil at the office.
Actually, I got something of a shock when I arrived to review the newspapers for the breakfast show because the regular presenters, who I’d got to know over the months, had been replaced with … Damon Grant off vintage Brookside (AKA actor/presenter Simon O’Brien) plus a smiley lady called Lucinda Moore.
They asked me about this blog so I tried to explain what it’s all about (basically whatever is in my head at the time I sit down to write it).
Damon (OK, I mean Simon) told me he lived in New Brighton. I think he’s posher than me so it’s not surprising I haven’t seen him in the Waiting Room.
I bet he drinks in the Margarine Arms where Wallasey’s congniscenti congregate.
* Anyway, back to my story… after being at my desk in metaphorical chains as the day (17 Oct) dragged to a dismal close I was sorely in need of some human company, some human warmth, during the evening.
In the Waiting Room a small but eclectic mix had assembled, including a lady much worried by her mental health and asking for advice.
Apparently, she has been offered counselling by medical staff but is unsure whether to have it.
Feeling as mad as cheese myself right then, I did not feel qualified to talk in any detail to this troubled lady, beyond making some vague, reassuring noises.
But one of the regulars who was willing to give advice was Vittoria, who said: “Don’t have a counsellor, and if they make you, make sure it isn’t a woman, because they don’t know when to shut up.” Hmmmm.
Later, I moved out of that part of the pub because it was becoming a bit too lairy for my tastes, and I slipped into the front bar where I sipped slowly with Billy Bustimes, the pair of us falling into the role of tap room philosophers.
We also got talking to someone who was training to be a social worker, and he pretty quickly tried to start an earnest debate about Islam and race relations but I had no appetite for that, and neither did anyone else, though for a short period barmaid Tallulah Swells gave us the benefit of her thoughts.
Eventually, I did go back into the music lounge, only to round off the evening with a double Southern Comfort and a great rendition of Down In The Tube Station at Midnight by Popstar Paul.
It was a nice conclusion to a tiring and trying day.

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