Dumped, Actually(10)

I was planning on writing a lovely long article about my successful dream proposal to surprise everyone at the website with – but I obviously won’t be able to do that now, will I? In fact, I had a great idea for an extended feature about spectacular wedding proposals in general, with mine as the centrepiece – one I’ll have no chance to do.

With that idea firmly thrown out of the window, I’ll need to think of something else, which isn’t going to be easy, considering my state of mind.

I might have to dust off that story about mocktails I’ve been avoiding, largely because I’m not the biggest fan of cocktails – alcohol-free or otherwise.

But now even I’m getting sick of hearing me talk about how horrible everything is, so let’s get up and go for a soothing walk around the park, shall we?

It takes me about ten minutes to amble through the streets to the broad expanse of publicly owned green space, which has actually gone a rather sickly shade of yellow thanks to the lack of rain recently.

I immediately decide that this was a terrible place to come when I start to spot happy couples walking along arm in arm all around me. Whatever pleasure I may have thought I could get from this little sojourn is extinguished as I pass my third cheerful couple, playing with their equally cheerful little dog.

Right after this, I am almost struck dumb with misery when a hugely expensive grey Aston Martin passes me on the road just outside the park with a number plate that reads ‘DB SAM’.

Seriously. I kid you not.

DB SAM.

Dumped By Sam.

Of course, it doesn’t actually mean that. It’s an Aston Martin DB 8, and the penis in the huge black sunglasses sitting in the driver’s seat is probably called Samuel . . . But at the same time it absolutely DOES mean that. I’m 100 per cent sure of it.

I came out for a stroll through the park, but it’s quite clear that the universe is trolling me this evening – the infinitely wide bastard.

I actually stop there on the pavement and look down at my shoes with a leaden sigh.

When I begin walking again, it’s not in the direction of my one-bedroom flat. Instead I head towards the town centre. I am not really conscious of why I’m heading in this direction, at least not at first. The shops are a good half an hour’s walk away, and I really should be going home, as I have an early start tomorrow – and yet, here I am, trudging along the pavement in the direction of Aldi and H&M, for reasons which escape my conscious mind for the moment.

But then it comes into view.

The thing my subconscious has been guiding me towards ever since I saw that bloody number plate.

The multi-storey car park squats like an ugly grey eyesore at the edge of the town centre. Butted up against the aforementioned Aldi, it is usually full to bursting with the vehicles of enthusiastic and unenthusiastic shoppers alike. From it, you can easily make your way along the main high street and into The Spire – the new shopping mall somebody thought would look really good plonked next to the five-hundred-year-old church, which was quite happy for half a millennium without a Starbucks parked beside it, thank you very much.

At this time of the evening, the multi-storey is largely empty, as most of the shops have closed for the day. I see a few people wandering around Aldi looking for bargain meat, though. I myself often wander around Aldi looking for bargain meat. It’s what you do when you’re in Aldi. You look for bargain meat, and those knock-off Oreo cookies that taste exactly the same, but cost half as much.

Samantha and I shopped in Aldi three days before she dumped me. We bought a big shoulder of lamb for five quid, and two packets of Moreos.

Oh good grief, I don’t want to start crying outside Aldi. People might think I missed out on the bargain meat, and throw a load of cut-price bacon at my head in pity.

I duck into the multi-storey to get out of the eyeline of those who might pelt me with sympathetic pig products, and trudge over to the stairs.

The car park has a total of six levels, and actually has rather an impressive view from up the top. It might be nice to go have a look at it, given that the late evening sun has broken through the clouds and is lighting up the sky with a very pleasant red glow.

At least, this is the reason I give myself for going up to the top of the car park. I try to ignore the fact that the locals call one corner of the top floor ‘Street Pizza Central’ because in the last ten years a handful of people have ended their lives by jumping off it.

Look, I don’t think I’m actually suicidal. Not really.

Okay, I’m in a dark place right now, and I can’t see a way out, but that doesn’t mean I want to end it all with the sweet embrace of death.

But being in a dark place means you have dark thoughts, and sometimes those dark thoughts lead you to places where those dark thoughts can come to the surface. It’s like probing a rotten tooth with your tongue. You don’t want to do it, but you just can’t help yourself.

Does it make you feel any better if I tell you that this isn’t the first time I’ve been up here in the past two weeks?

I’ve actually made the slow walk up these steps a total of four times now – one visit for every one of my failed adult relationships. And not once on any of these occasions have I jumped off. Not once.

And I see no reason why that should change today.

But I have very dark thoughts, you see.

The top level of the multi-storey is completely empty when I arrive, just a tiny bit out of breath. This is fairly typical. I’ve only seen a maximum of one or two cars up here in the evening before, at the absolute most.