A Life More Ordinary

It took time to adjust and I think for a while I resented having to leave behind the home that we had made for ourselves. I’d finally found somewhere where I thought I belonged and had built up an environment where I was comfortable. I’d left behind people that I considered to be friends, although some would show their true colours in years to come. Louise settled into her new job much more quickly than I did (I’d met her new employers briefly, namely Bob and Anne Pope, who seemed pleasant enough), although I was hampered by a lack of assistance given that my deputy manager was a young lad who was incredibly inexperienced and was very nervous about being left on his own to run the shop if I wanted to take a day off. Living above the shop also made it very difficult to escape the shackles of work and I would regularly get phone calls when I tried to step away, even on lunch breaks. One such phone call led to a potentially damaging situation.
 
The young lad in question, Luke, would ask the same question every time that he phoned me. ‘Is that Alec?’
 
Yes, Luke, I would think to myself. Of course, it’s me. You know it’s me because you’ve just dialled my number for the umpteenth time today! As you can probably tell, I found this whole situation incredibly wearing on my patience.
 
On this particular day in question, I’d obviously had a stressful morning and had popped upstairs to share lunch with Louise, who had come home from work as she often would during the day. The phone rang and I snatched up the receiver to be greeted with the inevitable question…
 
‘Is that Alec?’
 
‘No,’ I snapped, ‘it’s the fucking Pope!’
 
Silence met my response, mercifully followed by laughter.
 
‘It’s Bob Pope, from the gym club, I was hoping to speak to Louise. I guess you’re not having a good day?’
 
I was mortified and I’m not sure that I’ve ever been more apologetic in my life. Fortunately, Bob saw the funny side, but he could easily have taken umbrage at my mistake and I’m not sure that I would have been easily forgiven by Louise if that had been the case.

A few weeks later, with a pregnant cat about to give birth, a scruffy-looking dog was abandoned outside the shop. He was in a terrible state and was terrified of everything. We took him upstairs to the flat, gave him a bath (which he hated) and fed him. We had hoped that given time, he might overcome whatever trauma had befallen him and become part of our family. Sadly, he couldn’t settle and work commitments dictated that neither of us could be around to give him the attention and support that he needed. After a week or so of trying to help him we made the difficult decision to take him to a rescue centre. To this day, I think about him and I hope that he found a family that loved him as he deserved.
 
Help at work finally arrived in the shape of a new Deputy Manager, Lara, who after a short settling in period, seemed very keen on trying to take over at every opportunity. During my time in Crowthorne, I struck up a friendship with another manager, Stefan, who ran the Sidcup branch who we reported directly to. Under a new area manager, I found it difficult to find my feet and Stefan would regularly become my sounding board. Worse still, we shared a similar sense of humour and the aforementioned area manager had a very high-pitched voice…so Stefan and I would regularly call each other and imitate the area manager to try to catch each other out. Both of us were rather successful in our impersonations, which led to many awkward phone calls. My friendship with Stefan essentially developed into one, big practical joke to the point where, after Molly (the cat who became Mog) had given birth to a litter of kittens, I sent a tiny but perfectly formed kitten poo, gift-wrapped to him in the post, blissfully unaware that it was a criminal offence to do so! Realistically, it should have been pretty obvious! Those conversations and exchanges were a bright spot during an unsettling time for me personally.

My relationship with Louise was ok at this point, although she began to spend more time at work and got involved with competing at Sports Acrobatics. I would occasionally find myself asked to cover other local stores and one Saturday evening I was faced with a situation, the likes of which I would steer well clear of these days. I was running the store in Bracknell and had pretty much just finished cashing up the lottery till, depositing the money in the safe. A young lad, maybe no older than fifteen, walked into the store and went straight to the till area, where he lifted a collection pot for one of the local charities. Bold as brass, he was and strolled straight out of the store as if nothing was amiss. Something snapped inside me and I called after him, at which point he ran.

When I say that I’d steer well clear of this situation these days, it’s partly because I wouldn’t stand the slightest chance of catching him and also because of the increasing likelihood that he might be carrying some sort of weapon. However, in my early twenties I was reasonably fit and healthy, so I set off after him, fuelled by outrage and indignation. He was fast, but I kept up with him, following him through housing estates to the point where I had no idea where I was. Surprisingly, after a mile or so, he began to tire and as we rounded another corner he stumbled slightly. I launched myself at him and wrestled him to the ground, bringing his right arm up behind his back and pushing his face into the dirt. Just as two men walked past.
 
‘Help!’ The thief screamed and begged for mercy, calling out to the two new arrivals that he was being attacked and assaulted for no reason. I suddenly worried that I might be in a whole heap of shit.

Fortune smiled upon me, however. The two passing gentlemen were off-duty police officers, who upon closer inspection, recognised the young lad who I’d apprehended. Apparently he’d been on their radar for weeks. One of them took over from me and together, we made our way back to the shop where the miscreant was arrested and then carted off while I gave a lengthy statement and studied my various cuts and grazes.

Christmas 1997 came and went. Tamagotchis conquered the Christmas market, while Kate Winslet and Leonardo Di Caprio were thrust into the public eye with the release of James Cameron’s Titanic. The Queen randomly dropped some Latin into her Christmas speech and The Spice Girls topped the UK charts as they churned out their sixth consecutive number one, ‘Too Much’. Irony may well have died across the British Isles. Argyle were once more in the doldrums, on a run of five defeats, which included a 4-1 thumping at home to Fulham on Boxing Day. They would end the season suffering relegation to Division Three.

For those who have never experienced Christmas in retail, it was a busy time of year that essentially resulted in one day off and I still couldn’t shrug the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. My insecurities resurfaced and I spent a lot of time worrying about the state of things, to the point where my concerns probably resulted in some sort of self-fulfilling prophecy. If I wasn’t at work I was spending most of my time asking Louise if she was okay or if she was happy. I’m pretty sure that she began to spend even more time at work to avoid the constant questions. Definitely not the most wonderful time of the year!

As 1997 braced itself for the transition to 1998, I found myself ‘celebrating’ at a party back in Horsham at the very same place where Louise and I had met in August 1994. What now felt like a whole lifetime ago.

I’ve never particularly enjoyed New Year. Some people are able to look at it as a new beginning, whereas for me, it’s more a reminder of everything I’ve ever lost, which won’t surprise anyone who knows me or perhaps has reached this point in my story. As the evening wore on and I withdrew more and more into my melancholy self, I began to feel like the butt of a joke that everyone else was in on. I was still grieving for Carole and had never really addressed what I had been through when she had passed away and this would often rear its head around Christmas and New Year. And this night was to be no different.

Midnight rolled around and from somewhere in Horsham, fireworks went off as Jools Holland tickled his ivories and everyone at the party joined arms and did the weird ‘Auld Lang Syne’ song and dance. Apart from me. I knew what was coming, so I had removed myself from the party and saw in the New Year on my own in the garden, a slight chill doing its best to usher me back inside as I let go of my emotions in solitude. Eventually, I felt a presence at my shoulder and turned to see Louise stood next to me. I was raw and hurting and in need of comfort. None was forthcoming as her face screwed up with rage and she declared through tears that she couldn’t do this anymore, turning on her heels and leaving me alone once more.

I was crushed. I knew that things were bad, but she’d never done this to me before, she’d never turned her back on me when I was at my most vulnerable. When I needed her. Ordinarily, I might have followed her inside, chased after an explanation, but I sank to my knees on the cold concrete and cried. I felt abandoned and humiliated. I would never have walked away from her if she had been in the same state as me, but she did so without a second thought, making me feel guilty for grieving for my sister.

At some point, I made my way back inside, once my tears had dried and I had regained a modicum of composure. I felt eyes following me at every turn and I still wasn’t really a drinker at this point, so I couldn’t lose myself in the realms of drunkenness and pretend that it hadn’t really happened. We must have left the party at some point, I couldn’t tell you where we were staying, that level of detail eludes me. Not much was said, but I remember very clearly saying to her that I hoped she never got to experience what it was like to lose a sibling. Someone, somewhere must have been listening…

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.