The little black book

  

I used to have a pen that had a light in it, a light down by the tip that you turned on by twisting the shaft. It lit up what you were writing and back in 1997 it was an essential part of my Friday night equipment, along with my Friday jumper, my ciggies, my little black book. Armed with those essential tools of the trade, I’d hit the pubs and clubs of Prague, looking good, feeling good and ready to pull. I did a few times too and the light pen came in handy, writing down telephone numbers in my magical black book. Ah the little black book, once such a mainstay of British male culture, now rendered obsolete by the advent of the mobile phone.

But it wasn’t the mobile that made me retire my little black book, no the last entry was the suicide note, the thing that confined it to the annals of history. You see the last entry in my little black book is Lucie, who has been my wife now for the best part of 10 years.

I did indeed meet Lucie in the Lucerna. When I saw her dancing to Temptation by Heaven 17, I knew immediately that she was the girl that could retire my black book. Gorgeous but in a deliciously understated way, among all the preening peacocks she was a tropical bird of paradise. She smiled at me as our bodies brushed during the Eurythmics and soon we were standing at the bar drinking, smiling, and writing her number in my book. I didn't go home with her that night but we arranged to meet for a Sunday afternoon stroll along the river. 

Down the years I’ve been asked by my Czech colleagues and friends how I met Lucie.  I’ve always thought it was a pretty nice story; a bit of humour, a bit of romance and a happy ending; what more could you want? So I was always a bit miffed when my Czech friends pulled faces and changed the subject pretty soon after I’d finished. Two weeks ago I discovered why.

I was at a works do and the new girl in the office had just asked me how I’d met my wife and I’d told her the story, but instead of pulling a face and changing the subject she thought for a while and then asked if it ever bothered me being married to an ex-prostitute.

‘Being married to a what?’ I asked scratching my head both figuratively and literally.

‘A prostitute’ she repeated.

I searched the depths of my mind wondering how Jana had managed to turn a love story into sleazy story. Then it dawned on me.

Horror flooded over me as I thought of all the people I’d told the story to; my boss, my students, everyone.

The problem – in my story I’d been telling people how I went to nightclubs, met women, and first saw Lucie dancing in one. But whereas in my mind that meant a place you go after hours to dance and drink, in Czech it means brothel.