Hiding

The Library Officer and I are kissing in his office during our lunch break. I keep listening for colleagues returning from lunch. Thankfully, there are so many doors and gates to unlock in a prison that at least no one could ever take us by surprise. But I've never had a relationship with anyone I've worked with before and worry about our colleagues finding out. I suspect a couple of them are already suspicious: prison society is like a medieval village where everyone knows everyone else's business, and I think one of the officers may have seen me getting out of The Library Officer's car the other morning. I've not worked here for very long to have embarked upon a relationship with someone, and being civilian staff, I'm more noticeable. My big curly hair does not help me stay unrecognised.

"We're not doing anything wrong," he whispers, kissing my neck. "It's not like we're having sex." He raises an eyebrow, hopefully. "Oy!" I gently slap his face. When a key rattles in the door, we jump apart. He adjusts himself and I wipe his saliva from my mouth. I become super awkward around him and can't even look him in the eye or respond to him in a normal manner with our colleagues around. Trying to concentrate on my work, I'm conscious of his twinkly gaze following me as I walk around the library and my movements seem disjointed as I randomly pluck books off the shelf only to put them back a moment later. A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. I sneak a glance at him, he winks at me and I duck behind a shelf.

The Conversation

I have spent the last five nights at The Library Officer's house but need to go home and get my clothes ready for work, do some washing and let my parents know I'm still alive. Before I leave, while we're cuddling on the sofa, he says how much he's enjoyed the last few days. "I can't remember the last time I was with someone I liked so much. You're intelligent, beautiful and fun," he whispers into my ear. I stroke his face then kiss him. "I wish you were the mother of my children," he murmurs. I freeze, stunned by his words. "That's quite intense," I finally reply. "Especially as that's not something we will ever get to do." I can't believe we're having this conversation. I've known him for three weeks and we only went out for the first time less than a week ago. He can't have more children though, and I was surprised by how sad that made me feel when he told me. "If that's something you want to do one day then we will have to deal with it," he says. "I will be thirty-six in a couple of months time, " I point out. "I should be making that decision now before I get involved with someone I can't have children with." He looks sad and I get an idea of the serious issues surrounding a relationship with such a big age difference.

"You wanted a fling," Mrs B had texted me earlier. "Enjoy yourself!" I did want a fling, an ego-boosting  sexual relationship but it's obvious that he wants more and I realise I would have been disappointed if that's all he had wanted. But the sensible part of my brain thinks this is all we should have. Too more is too complicated.

Daughters

I am in the shower at The Library Officer's house when I hear voices from downstairs. I take my time getting dressed but can still hear him talking to someone and there is only so long that I can hide in the bedroom pretending to do my hair. Finally, I walk downstairs and am introduced to one of his daughters, Daughter Number 3. It's awkward but he seems oblivious. "You can both chat while I have a shower," he says. We don't chat: she sits at the kitchen table using his laptop and I sit in the living room, texting my friend, Mrs B. "At least he didn't make you hide," she writes, trying to console me. He reappears after a few minutes and I'm so glad he doesn't take showers for as long as I do.

I wonder what his daughter must be thinking. I haven't known him for long enough to know whether there has been an array of women through his house and bedroom. It's not the feeling I get from him. He seems so surprised and pleased by what has happened between us, as am I. But I feel so young compared to him, and even more sensitive to looking younger than I am. It's something I try talking to him about after Daughter Number 3 has left. "Did she mind me being here?" I ask. He looks unconcerned and shrugs. "I have my life as do they," he replies. That seems fair enough and I don't know what else to say. I've never dated anyone who had children, let alone four grown-up daughters. I try putting myself in their situation and find myself more judgemental than I had hoped to be.

Getting To Grips

I've only slept for a couple of hours when the alarm goes off. I turn towards The Library Officer and he is staring at me, smiling. We kiss and cuddle until finally dragging ourselves out of bed. He has to work and I am on a Ninja Training course that starts at 7.30am and need to pick up my gym clothes from my parents' house. He drives me to their house and waits outside while I change and discover the gym shoes I need are in the loft. It is only 6.30, everyone is asleep and I have to pull down the creaky metal ladder to the loft and climb up and search through all my possessions until finding them. This is what happens when you don't exercise, I tell myself.

Bleary-eyed and big haired, I am the first person to arrive for the course. We are being trained to deal with physical threats from prisoners and I am partnered with the only other girl: a tall, thin basketball player who is about fifteen years younger than me. Fuck, she is strong. We are taught kicking, punching and blocking moves that involve us having to kick, punch and block each other's blows. Fuck, they hurt. I am shagged out and alternating between dreamy smiles and yelps of pain.

When the course finishes, The Library Officer leaves work early to meet me and drives me back to my parents' house so I can pack a bag to stay at his place. He waits outside and my mother asks if my "friend would like to come in." I think it's a bit early for introductions, especially as I have no idea how my parents' will react to my "friend" being so much older than me.

Back at his house, I shower and dress and we go out for lunch and drinks. He holds my hand as we walk through the small market town where he lives. It seems too soon for the intimacy of hand-holding and I feel self-conscious. He has lived in this town for most of his life and seems to know everyone so I feel like we are on display. I am conscious of us looking like an older man with a young bit of totty, but I also like that he wants to hold my hand and that he's completely unembarrassed to be seen together. The break-up with The Ex damaged my confidence and I was left feeling completely rejected; now, a lovely man is interested in me, looking at me with complete adoration and holding my hand. It raises such a mixture of emotion: I feel half happy, half sad.

Fast Mover

"Stay the night, stay the night, stay the night," The Library Officer says. At first I say no and then doubt my decision as he kisses me again. It's all happening quicker than I expected: only a few hours earlier I had texted him asking about his day and then he called to ask if I wanted to come 'round to his place. He picked me up and we went to the pub and then back to his house where we sat on his sofa, chatting awkwardly, until he kissed me. "I should have done that hours ago," he said. He stares at me, twinkly-eyed and smiling. "Please stay the fucking night!" I'm surprised by how attracted I am to him. I straddle his lap and take my top off. "Stay the night! I promise we can just cuddle." I laugh and say that's not very likely. "Whatever you want, honey." He kisses my neck, finalising my decision.

"I will have to call my parents," I say, feeling embarrassed. I'm thirty-five years old and living at home but he doesn't seem to care. I call home, dreading the conversation, but it goes straight to the answer machine and I have to leave a message. "I'm staying at a friend's house," I mumble, conscious of him listening.

Upstairs, in his bedroom, we get undressed and tumble into bed. And we don't just cuddle.

Unexpected

The Library Officer offers me a lift home. In his car, I chat more normally than yesterday as I'm no longer hungover and tired. He asks if I would like to stop for a drink on the way and I say "yes" and he looks surprised. I, too, am slightly stunned. He parks and we walk past my old workplace on the way to the pub. I wonder what my ex-colleagues would think seeing us together. He is twenty-four years older than me and wearing his prison officer's uniform. He looks a bit self-conscious.

We order drinks and sit by the window and after a hesitant start, I start to feel more comfortable. He actually asks questions: What kind of food do I like? What music do I listen to? Would I live abroad again? Do I like flying? Nothing groundbreaking, nor too personal, but I like that he's interested. I've always found it bizarre that some men will talk to you as if you're a sponge on legs, willing to soak up their interests/experiences but not interesting enough to be listened to or be asked about your own. There is no flirting - I think we are both too conscious of having suddenly moved from a 'work' relationship into something undefined - but we chat and laugh and it's nice. We move to another pub nearer his car and he asks if I would like to do something on Friday as we both have the day off. I say that I'd like that and he looks pleased. He drops me near my house and I ask for his mobile number so I can text him my number. (I really must memorise my number or carry my phone with me at all times.) "Don't lose it," he says, handing me the slip of paper which I stuff in my purse.

At home, I leave it an hour before texting him. I have some vague idea of not seeming too eager. He replies immediately and we arrange to meet on Friday morning at 10.30am, which seems awfully early for a date. Perhaps it's not a date? My head is buzzing with all kinds of competing thoughts and I can't stop grinning. I confirm our meeting and don't hear back from him and start convincing myself that he has changed his mind. But I still go to bed grinning like a fool.

Attraction

I must stop turning up to work on Monday with a hangover. It is a truly shit way to start the week. The day drags as I spend my time yawning and occasionally shuffling books. The Library Officer gives me a lift home and it is obvious that he is being friendly rather than interested in me. I sneak glances at him, trying to work out why I find him attractive, when he is my parents' age, has a wonky nose and a bit of a belly. But he also has a smile that transforms his face and gives him a certain rascally charm. Also, I've never had the most conventional taste in men.

Hungover and tired, I struggle to make conversation and stare out of the window at the world zooming by. When I arrive home, I'm disappointed that I didn't try harder to talk. I'm enjoying having a crush on him and don't want reality to get in the way of my fantasies.

Talking On The Telephone

I am at The Bohemian's flat, drinking wine and smoking a joint, when he mentions that his partner will be phoning to speak to me. I never talk on the 'phone and rely on email, texts and Facebook for keeping in touch with people so the thought of an actual telephone conversation fills me with dread. Everything is a bit hazy so I nod as if it's fine and hope she forgets to call.

But she does call and he passes me the big old fashioned phone, which looks like a prop from a 1970s sit-com. She begins telling me that a lot of interesting things have happened recently "and they are all because of dolphins!" The subsequent monologue leaves me confused. I say "hmm" and "right" and wonder where the conversation is going. We have met a couple of times before but I don't know her very well.

Then she mentions how The Bohemian said I'm interested in interviewing her, which is something he had suggested and I had half-heartedly agreed to, thinking it would never happen. She asks about my reasons for wanting to interview her and I feel put on the spot. I say that I'm interested in social history and helping people document their own experiences. She starts telling me about her life: teenage bride, beaten wife, losing custody of her children, joining the hippy trail in the 60s, getting into spirituality and hanging out in America with gurus and cults. It is fascinating and she has powerful reasons for wanting to leave a record for her children, who know nothing about their mother. But I find it difficult to follow her spiritual musings or interrupt her stream of consciousness conversational style. We have been talking for nearly an hour while The Bohemian rolls joints and pours wine for me, occasionally changing the music. I keep waiting for her to stop talking but it does not happen; finally, I have to interrupt her mid-flow and ask for her contact details so we can talk more at another time.

My left ear throbbing, I put the 'phone down. It's been one of the weirdest telephone conversations I've ever had.

Crush

I think I have developed a crush on The Library Officer. It is possible that I want to have a crush and he is the first man I have met since the ex and I split who I have found attractive and is single. I enjoy the tummy tingling sensation of walking towards his office to get to my own, wondering if he will be there and if we will get to chat. It's a nice distraction after the heartbreak and misery of the last few months.

We were talking and I mentioned that I was struggling to find things to do in my lunch break. "There's the gym," he suggested. "I'm not very active," I replied. It wasn't quite what I meant to say but he laughed. "I used to go to the gym years ago," I continued. "Back in my twenties..." "That can't be too long ago." "Well, I'm thirty-five now," I mumbled.

I felt like I was trying to make the point that I'm older than I look. Why would I do that? Unless I was conscious of him being significantly older than me.

"You can always bring your lunch in here and talk to me while I work," he said.

Which is what I did the next day. And he didn't talk to me! I did have a book with me so perhaps he thought he would be disturbing my reading. He did sudoku while I read the same page of my book over and over again. I sat there for about ten minutes, silent with embarrassment, until finally fleeing to have a cigarette.

For the last six months I've felt abandoned and have been grieving the relationship I had. Now, I feel single; properly single for the first time in nine years. But engaging in the world as a single woman, talking to men, flirting (yuck) and revealing your interest without looking a fool is a complete mystery. It's like an old-fashioned dance and I don't know the steps.

Group Fun

After work, I meet my single friends - Miss P, Dora, Prince and The Actor - for drinks. I am usually quiet in a group - never the centre of attention - but they all want to know about my new job so I end up talking a lot. I show them my belt and whistle and they agree that they make me look "very butch." Groups of friends can be difficult to navigate. How do you not favour some people over others? I worry that most people do not think about this as much as I do. Our group is effected by The Actor being in love with Dora, who does not return his feelings. He singles her out, directs the conversation towards her and makes her the centre of attention. At one point I start a conversation with him, only for him to completely ignore me and turn away to ask Dora a question. (I only sulk about it for a few minutes). He is completely smitten and I wish there was a way of making her feel the same way about him. They are close, she likes him as a friend but that is all. Occasionally, he refers to his unrequited feelings and it makes the rest of us embarrassed.

This group is the polar opposite of The Intellectuals. We gossip about work colleagues, talk about the new series of Big Brother and everyone fiddles with their iphones, showing off their new apps, taking photos and posting them to Facebook. It's light, silly fun, good for every now and again but I wish there was a bit more substance to our conversations.

Prince is leaving to go travelling for a few months and we toast him with overpriced cocktails and then enormous glasses of German beer.

I sway through the city centre towards my bus stop. Taxis are pulling up outside all the bars and clubs, spewing out girls in tiny dresses and boys dressed like spiffy little thugs. I arrive home still wondering how to meet people like me and whether they would get on my nerves as much as I get on my own nerves.

Training Course

I am back at my old workplace for a training course on Visual Displays. My manager has given me the wrong start time and I arrive late, flustered and feeling like everyone is staring at me, which they are. Everyone is asked to introduce themselves, say where they work and "tell us an interesting fact about yourself!" I want the ground to open up and swallow me. I hate addressing a group of strangers: my hands sweat and pulse races. A woman tells us that she has recently bought a caravan, another that she has an allotment, another woman tells us that she was once in Emmerdale. There are no men on the course. My interesting fact is that I when I moved to Australia, I also moved my cat with me, at great expense. I fear my fact is more crazy than interesting.

After a powerpoint presentation, we are put in pairs to create our own displays using an array of tat that libraries are now forced to sell in their desperation for revenue. The woman I am paired with runs off and grabs a stack of notebooks, a magnifying glass and packets of sweets and begins arranging them on a table. I hover near her and ask if we should "decide on a theme." When she ignores me I rummage in a box of children's toys and begin arranging them on the same table but separate to her display. She gives up on her own display and disappears. After she has gone, the course leader compliments my display. "It's simple but it works!" When my 'partner' returns she dumps a toy lobster, pencils and various animal shaped pencil sharpeners over 'our' display and I actually tell that I liked it how it was and she gets a bit huffy and turns away to resurrect her own display. Yeah, back off bitch!

I meet a couple of librarians from the other prisons and we go out for a cigarette and assess the relevance of the course considering we don't sell anything in the prison libraries.

It feels like the longest morning of my life and I am so glad when it ends. Afterwards, I chat to a couple of my former colleagues, or rather they whinge about how much they hate their jobs and mention how lucky I am to have left.  I do feel happy to no longer work there, especially when Close Breathing Colleague tries to corner me as I'm leaving but I have to get back to the prison and can't spend an hour listening to her talk about feng shui like I used to do. I'm free!

Physical Proximity

I wear a prison issue belt to work that holds a pouch for my keys which are attached to a very long chain, with a whistle attached to another chain. The whistle slightly confuses me: I worry that faced with a difficult situation I will play a jaunty tune and lead the prisoners away like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. It feels strange to be wearing all this stuff at my waist. I have already managed to get the chain of my whistle caught on a shelf as I was talking to someone and nearly pulled the shelf off the wall as I started walking away.

Today, I got part of the chain wedged onto the end of one of my important keys and was unable to pull it off. The Library Officer had to lock the door and then asked about the problem with my keys, staring at the knotty bundle of chains at my waist.

"I don't know what's happened," I admitted. "It's all a big mess and I can't work out what's supposed to go where."

He unwedged the chain from my key and then began unntangling the rest of the chains. He was standing over me, closer than someone would normally stand, his fingers on the belt at my waist. I held my breath, unnerved by our physical proximity and conscious of a frisson of attraction on my part.

"This reminds me of getting my daughters ready for school when they were little," he said, slightly ruining the moment.

Blushing, I felt like a child.

Appearances

When I arrived at work this morning, The Library Officer asked if I'd had a good weekend. "It was okay," I replied cautiously. I dread being asked about my weekends, convinced that everyone else has had much more fun doing whatever they've been doing. As I spent the weekend sleeping and recovering from the first week at my new job, this was probably true.

"Do any partying?" he asked.

Partying? Either he thinks I'm younger than I am or I'm unintentionally giving out some kind of party girl vibe. I just shook my head and laughed.

Later, as I was being shown around the prison, an inmate shouted, "Miss, do you want to party?"

WTF?

I was wearing trousers, a shirt and Dr Marten boots, hardly clubbing gear. I'm a quiet, bookish librarian who has never been confused for a party girl.

I'm starting to feel paranoid about my appearance: the men looking me up and down, the smirks, the second glances, the blatant staring and suggestive comments. I knew this would be an issue when working in a men's prison but actually experiencing it is so confronting. I've always been physically awkward and never liked being stared at so this is probably the worst place for someone like me.

Drunk Emailing

After a stressful day at work, raging hormones, an argument with my mum, and several glasses of wine, I sent an email to my ex that ended with "I miss you, I miss you, I miss you..."

I regretted it immediately and thought about sending another email asking him to ignore the earlier email but I was also quite intrigued as to what his response might be. It took him a few days to reply and then his email did mention my "intensity" and whether being back in touch was a good thing, before pretty much ignoring what I had written and talking about something else. I felt kind of slapped down, like I'd overstepped a boundary and been put in my place. It made me cringe.

I do miss him, though. At times the pain has been so acute it has felt like someone taking a mallet to my heart and Schnitzelising it, leaving a bruised piece of meat where my heart used to be.

I don't miss how our relationship used to be, but I do miss him.

I miss him, I miss him, I miss him...

Starting A New Job

I will never start a new job with a hangover again. My hands are trembling, my mouth is dry and my stomach lurches like the ocean. There is a lot of information to process and people to meet and I had hoped to make a good impression. The impression I am probably making is of a shy, pale-faced, baggy-eyed weirdie. My new manager is full of energy: chatty and bouncy like a three-year old and I want her to calm down and talk in a quieter voice. My face is frozen into a painful smile. Later on, she apologises for having to leave me on my own because she has an emergency to deal with. Relieved, I stand around wondering what to do with the afternoon. The Library Officer is leaving at 3pm and I think I am supposed to work until 4. He convinces me that I should also leave and I don't have the energy to refuse, especially when he offers me a lift home.

"Are you married?" he asks as I'm getting my bag out of my new locker.

"No."

I wonder if I'm supposed to say more.

"No, I'm not," I add.

There is a long silence. I've always hated being asked personal questions, preferring to very slowly volunteer information over a period of years. Admittedly, this can take a bit too long for most people.

We walk to his car. I feel guilty leaving early on my first day and try working out how my manager could find out. The Library Officer would have to tell her. He apologises for his messy car as all car drivers seem to do. It's hot and stuffy. I wipe away my sweat moustache and stare out of the window.

"Where are you from?" he asks. "I can't work out your accent."

No one ever can. It's a weird hybrid that I hate and feel terribly self-conscious about. I don't sound like any of my family or friends.

"I grew up here," I tell him. "But moved away to university, and then lived near London before moving to Australia."

He asks about Australia, whereabouts I lived and why I returned home. I tell him that I missed my parents and my father's poor health made me want to live closer to them. I mention that I'm living with them at the moment but don't explain why. It's too personal to be talking about with someone I've only just met and I already feel embarrassed by admitting to living with my parents. He asks where I want to be dropped off, I tell him and then he drives past the place. I finally say, "You can drop me anywhere here," because if I leave it any longer I might end up at his house miles away. He stops the car and apologises, while probably wondering why I didn't mention that I wanted to get out earlier. Red-faced, I thank him and hurry away.

As first days go, it was not the worst I've ever had. My hangover was brutal but at least I didn't find out that the person I was replacing had been fired and her best friend was now my boss, which did once happen to me. Being able to compare your current situation to much worse experiences in your past is one of the great things about getting older. Yay!

An Evening With Intellectuals

I arrive at Herr Doktor's flat clutching two bottles of wine and a cheesecake, a tad late after spending too long choosing the wine. He looks anxious as if he was expecting me not to turn up, kisses me on the cheek and puts my white wine in the fridge. His friend, Mike, is sitting on the sofa. We acknowledge each other awkwardly. "Let's fire this baby up," Herr Doktor shouts over the music, waving a joint. I ask if I can have a glass of wine. Alcohol is my social crutch and I feel better once I have a glass in my hand. We talk about books. Mike mentions a number of books that I've never read, then he and Herr Doktor talk about Cormac McCarthy's Border Trilogy, which I have not read. Then they talk about Henry James, who I have tried and failed to read. I mention that I have been reading a lot of Philip Roth, but neither have read his books.

We smoke and drink and my head begins to spin. Our friend, The Bohemian, finally arrives. I apologise about not replying to his text messages and he says it's fine but then keeps mentioning his texts and I realise he doesn't think it's fine. I apologise again and vaguely refer to the difficult time I've been having recently. He wants details and I don't want to provide them. I drink more wine. The conversation turns to French cinema which I know precisely nothing about. Herr Doktor cooks, Mike and The Bohemian talk about the films of Jean-Luc Godard while I wonder how I have ended up spending my evening with three bearded men in their fifties.

I stand at the window, looking out over the city and blow my cigarette smoke into the night. The Bohemian, Herr Doktor and I used to work together and I have slightly uneasy relationships with them both. Herr Doktor recently confessed to having "feelings" for me, forcing me to have the kind of conversation with him that I had hoped to avoid. The Bohemian and I get on better but we have totally different cultural references and he doesn't like it when I interrupt his monologues. I focus my attention back on the conversation between Mike and The Bohemian. Mike is talking about The Passion of Joan of Arc, which sounds interesting, then he begins talking about the Marquis de Sade. I stare at his pointy shoes and avoid looking at the gap where his Versace shirt cannot contain his belly.

"I'm one of the few people to have actually read the complete works of the Marquis de Sade in their original French," he says. 

"Why?" asks The Bohemian.

I feel like sniggering. My mouth twitches and I drink more wine. I rack my brain for something to talk about but my mind is blank and I'm conscious that I must seem like an uncultured numpty. What do I like talking about? Makeup, clothes, books, documentaries, my weird family, politics, random interactions with strange people, cats, libraries and feelings. Usually, I can find something to talk to people about, especially when lubricated by alcohol. But I remain silent. This evening is like a window into another world: populated by French cinema, obscure bands and beards.

The Bohemian walks me home; actually, he walks and I stagger. I collapse into bed, grinning. It's been fascinating.