“I was wondering if you would go shopping with me?” ventures my boyfriend addressing the itch I couldn’t scratch that is his wardrobe.
By wardrobe, I don’t mean furniture but the disparate collection of unlikely clothing he seems to have acquired over his adult years. I ponder on how many of them just showed up on his doorstep, a little worn, looking for a warm box to sleep in and some love. On the plus side (a) they all fit (b) they often have some obvious previous function, like being waterproof, or warm or both and (c) they stop him from getting arrested for indecent exposure, so that’s something.
Interestingly, his attire’s general appallingness is directly proportional to how wonderful he is. He might be one of the world’s worst dressed men but he is also one of the world's best men. Yes, he wears his Blackberry in a holster ALL THE TIME but he has the heart of a lion (and is easy to get hold of); he is as sharp as a Hawkins; as emotionally astute as a Phil Collins power ballad and as sincere and fresh as a breath of sea air. He is the rose to my thorn and the sun to my mooning about, so what if he looks like he’s got dressed in a dark room for the last twenty years? A dark room somewhere in rural Russia?
“Of course I will go shopping with you” I reply evenly, still eyeing up the holster, my nemesis.
“Good. I’d like to get some new clothes. Tops and stuff” he concludes. Dear reader, he didn’t have to ask twice! Holster, schmolster! I have stonewash jeans and ancient fleeces to flush out. I’m mentally totting up the amount of bags I might be taking to Oxfam…
I grab my coat and he grabs his “And whilst we’re at it”, I nod to his jacket enthusiastically, “We can update that” It’s out of my mouth before I can stop myself. I was going to be gentle, go slow, catch a monkey but…
“What’s wrong with my coat?” he asks genuinely surprised.
It’s hard to be tactful here. The coat in question is a light ski jacket in purple and turquoise. Turquoise? Even the name of the colour is dated, like saying oblong or Marathon bar or going to keep fit. It looks like a shell-suit in search of its trousers. There’s a hint of bat sleeve and a touch of mid-80s Iron Curtain about it. It’s so wrong, it was never right.
“I took it to the Czech Republic twenty years ago!” he protests.
I’m actually surprised he didn’t buy it there.
He looks a little crestfallen and I feel bad “Wow, its taken 20 years for anyone to tell me it’s a bit shit.”
“Darling, you’ve been wearing it for twenty years. Time to move on. Let it go…” I touch his smiling face, his Blackberry holster sticks into my hip. I decide to heed my own advice: the holster can wait.
And he is really easy to get hold of…
And with that we walk out the door in search of a new horizon and jeans. Definitely jeans.
Wednesday, 2 November 2011
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
you're not wise
"So the cat can't get in"
Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.
This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.
“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.
‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”
He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)
“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"
Was my response to larger-than-life, landlord-stroke-friend's "Whatsis?" as he pointed to the heavy media tome resting atop my fish-tank.
This reference book, the size of two Rogets, an LOTR compendium and the entire back catalogue of Freemans catalogue pressed together, is an unnecessarily chunky, inevitably out-of-date...brick built by people clearly too Amish to Wiki. I don't know why I have it but right now, its full weight is helpfully bearing down on the lid of my tank. A talisman against marauding recently-adopted rescue cats. Ungainly, yes, but helpful I thought. Nicky (larger-than-life/landlord/friend) doesn't miss a thing - including the leftover blueberry scone I'd squirreled away in the fridge for later, which he is now eating. He's prodding the book disapprovingly.
“The cat? What Tigger/Tiger/The Bear? Watsisface?” he says, referring to my recently acquired feline. Nicky does't quite get domestic pets. To be fair, he is a farmer who rears cows destined for dinner plates. Animals are for outside “For fucks sake, Ness, wise yer head!” He shares the last bit of scone and contemplates Stan and Ollie, the two oddly inquisitive fish in question, as they mouth unspoken ooohs at the glass, not knowing that a weight of information separates them from having food and, possibly, being it.
‘I’ll tellya what” he says in his best ‘I’m just a country boy from County Down accent’ - which sounds A LOT like a Cornish pirate - “If that there wee fella" pointing a crumb-laden finger to the cat, "...manages to JUMP up here, then OPEN the lid on that tank, then PULL OUT that there feeding tray with his tiny, wee claws AND THEN catch those wee fish? You know what? You’ll be wanting to put him on the telly.”
He thinks more on the unlikely scenario. (Nicky's secretly fond of the fish.)
“Hell, if he manages to get those fish, after THAT? I’d cook him some chips myself to go with it but"
Monday, 12 September 2011
cauld call
My phone rings. It’s an 0800 number so I know this is not going to be a solicited phone call but, for once, I have the time and, for once (and more unusually) the patience.
Cue a bored Scotsman in my ear.
“Hello this is Diamond Car Insurance, my name’s XXXX” I’ll interrupt this minor tale here to point out that his name isn’t really XXXX. It’s Dave. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, Dave:
“I’m just phoning to thank you for taking out your car insurance with us. Do you happen to have a couple of minutes for me now…?”
I don’t really but I’m in the middle of something a bit dull and therefore I’m easily open to opportunities of a distracting nature.
“Will it be just two minutes?” I ask. He ignores the implicit question within my question and launches into faux concern instead:
“Was everything okay? Hmm? Did you get your policy documents?”
In my head, I’m making that collective noise football crowds make when a goal is, against all probability, missed. In other words, this is actually a bit of a sore point.
“Well, yes. It took an email, two phone-calls and some really, really sarcastic remarks but we got there. Eventually.”
A shallow laugh rattles down the line. Clearly this is not why he’s calling. I’m waiting for the gear change.
“Well you have it now so that’s good. Good. Now, do you have two minutes of your time to spare for a quick chat?”
I pause unsure and wonder if this is a two minute top-up on top of my original two minute window. It’s clunky, asking again, a conversational grind of gears but he recovers quickly, slipping down to second as he glides into full sales patter.
“Looking at your policy, I’m sorry to say there’s been an oversight. You don’t appear to have our courtesy car cover right now”
And there it is. A sales pitch that manages to be almost untraceable. He is both apologetic for THEIR sloppiness and, in the process, carefully re(under)writing MY original choice as nothing more than an administrative error. Clearly, I would be INSANE not to want it. The onus is on me, a clever tactic of the confidence trickster.
“Yup, your records are correct. I don’t want it” I reply. The line has been drawn but Dave isn’t having any of it. He reaches into his boot for the big guns, a verbal sledgehammer made of fear and, I dunno, yet more fear.
“Well, you really should! What happens if your car gets damaged? Lost or stolen or written-off?” He says this like he knows this is definitely going to happen. “We will give you a complimentary car rental for a full 21 days…”
“That’s okay, thanks. I don’t need a replacement car”
This turns out to be the red rag to the car insurance bull. Dave is genuinely outraged. I can hear it in his breathing.
“If you don’t need a car, WHY have you got one in the first place?” he blurts out.
Now, I don’t know much about car insurance salespeople, I admit, but I’m logging this question under “Cheeky” rather than “Necessary”
Then, just for a second, I imagine him sitting there, cooped up like a battery hen. A headset stuck to his face, an unhealthy pallor bleached under strip lighting, stuffed behind a desk, next to a desk, between more desks that concertina across an open plan hanger where targets are stated on boards and barely reached and calls are recorded and monitored by middle-managing secondary school leavers who silently pray that they’re not working the weekend, spotty and wincing at the static charge sparking from cheap shoes on industrial carpet…
But time is a marching on and I have my own dull things to do:
“The car's for social use. I work mostly from home”
Realising he’s pushed his theoretical two minutes to the limit Dave switches tack again. He’s like a really crap mentalist. I can feel his targets slipping away from him. And I feel a tiny pang of sad.
“But what if your car is written off and you need to buy a new one? You’ll need a car then!”
“Okaaay. In that case, I would go around the corner – TO THE BACK OF MY HOUSE - and visit the numerous car showrooms situated there. At the back of my house.”
“But are you sure you’d want to buy one from them?" You've really got to admire his stamina.
“Yes. I can honestly say I would definitely be able to buy a car I don’t need without the use of a replacement car I don’t need”
Defeated, Dave gives up. For a sweeping moment I feel sorry for him again. But it doesn’t last.
“Right, well, thanks for talking to me (BEAT) What about your breakdown cover… ?
His name's not really Dave. It's Stuart.
Cue a bored Scotsman in my ear.
“Hello this is Diamond Car Insurance, my name’s XXXX” I’ll interrupt this minor tale here to point out that his name isn’t really XXXX. It’s Dave. Anyway, where were we? Oh yes, Dave:
“I’m just phoning to thank you for taking out your car insurance with us. Do you happen to have a couple of minutes for me now…?”
I don’t really but I’m in the middle of something a bit dull and therefore I’m easily open to opportunities of a distracting nature.
“Will it be just two minutes?” I ask. He ignores the implicit question within my question and launches into faux concern instead:
“Was everything okay? Hmm? Did you get your policy documents?”
In my head, I’m making that collective noise football crowds make when a goal is, against all probability, missed. In other words, this is actually a bit of a sore point.
“Well, yes. It took an email, two phone-calls and some really, really sarcastic remarks but we got there. Eventually.”
A shallow laugh rattles down the line. Clearly this is not why he’s calling. I’m waiting for the gear change.
“Well you have it now so that’s good. Good. Now, do you have two minutes of your time to spare for a quick chat?”
I pause unsure and wonder if this is a two minute top-up on top of my original two minute window. It’s clunky, asking again, a conversational grind of gears but he recovers quickly, slipping down to second as he glides into full sales patter.
“Looking at your policy, I’m sorry to say there’s been an oversight. You don’t appear to have our courtesy car cover right now”
And there it is. A sales pitch that manages to be almost untraceable. He is both apologetic for THEIR sloppiness and, in the process, carefully re(under)writing MY original choice as nothing more than an administrative error. Clearly, I would be INSANE not to want it. The onus is on me, a clever tactic of the confidence trickster.
“Yup, your records are correct. I don’t want it” I reply. The line has been drawn but Dave isn’t having any of it. He reaches into his boot for the big guns, a verbal sledgehammer made of fear and, I dunno, yet more fear.
“Well, you really should! What happens if your car gets damaged? Lost or stolen or written-off?” He says this like he knows this is definitely going to happen. “We will give you a complimentary car rental for a full 21 days…”
“That’s okay, thanks. I don’t need a replacement car”
This turns out to be the red rag to the car insurance bull. Dave is genuinely outraged. I can hear it in his breathing.
“If you don’t need a car, WHY have you got one in the first place?” he blurts out.
Now, I don’t know much about car insurance salespeople, I admit, but I’m logging this question under “Cheeky” rather than “Necessary”
Then, just for a second, I imagine him sitting there, cooped up like a battery hen. A headset stuck to his face, an unhealthy pallor bleached under strip lighting, stuffed behind a desk, next to a desk, between more desks that concertina across an open plan hanger where targets are stated on boards and barely reached and calls are recorded and monitored by middle-managing secondary school leavers who silently pray that they’re not working the weekend, spotty and wincing at the static charge sparking from cheap shoes on industrial carpet…
But time is a marching on and I have my own dull things to do:
“The car's for social use. I work mostly from home”
Realising he’s pushed his theoretical two minutes to the limit Dave switches tack again. He’s like a really crap mentalist. I can feel his targets slipping away from him. And I feel a tiny pang of sad.
“But what if your car is written off and you need to buy a new one? You’ll need a car then!”
“Okaaay. In that case, I would go around the corner – TO THE BACK OF MY HOUSE - and visit the numerous car showrooms situated there. At the back of my house.”
“But are you sure you’d want to buy one from them?" You've really got to admire his stamina.
“Yes. I can honestly say I would definitely be able to buy a car I don’t need without the use of a replacement car I don’t need”
Defeated, Dave gives up. For a sweeping moment I feel sorry for him again. But it doesn’t last.
“Right, well, thanks for talking to me (BEAT) What about your breakdown cover… ?
His name's not really Dave. It's Stuart.
Wednesday, 7 April 2010
an education
There must have been forty of us that day, seated in the Ian McKellen Hall, in the dusty, afternoon sun. It's a Saturday and we're volunteers on a training day at one of London’s most prominent HIV and AIDS charities. The day seminar is on the likelihood of HIV transmission across a broad range of sexual activities and the talk leaves nothing to the imagination – it can’t afford to. Many people shift uncomfortably in their seats but mostly because they are rubbernecking at the two seemingly ancient Irish nuns also gamely in attendance.
The volunteers’ trainer – who has probably seen it all - continues to spout, in some courageous detail, the ins and outs (sic) of various off-menu, mostly behind-closed-doors, activities. Every possible variation is noted and discussed. The nuns should play poker – they are completely inscrutable.
As the trainer finally winds up the session, a hand tentatively goes up. He looks over and sure enough, it’s a hand belonging to one of the two nuns sat, stooped and still, at the back. It is, in other words, A Hand of God. A palpable sense of expectation shoots across the room. The odd stifled giggle.
The trainer takes a moment to collect himself, a hint of a blush forming beneath his skin. The whole room legitimately swivels around and holds its breath
“Yes?”
Nun Number One, defiantly oblivious to the stir of excitement she is causing, looks to the trainer and in her soft Dublin accent asks in a surprisingly enthusiastic manner “Can you tell us more about the felching, please?”
The volunteers’ trainer – who has probably seen it all - continues to spout, in some courageous detail, the ins and outs (sic) of various off-menu, mostly behind-closed-doors, activities. Every possible variation is noted and discussed. The nuns should play poker – they are completely inscrutable.
As the trainer finally winds up the session, a hand tentatively goes up. He looks over and sure enough, it’s a hand belonging to one of the two nuns sat, stooped and still, at the back. It is, in other words, A Hand of God. A palpable sense of expectation shoots across the room. The odd stifled giggle.
The trainer takes a moment to collect himself, a hint of a blush forming beneath his skin. The whole room legitimately swivels around and holds its breath
“Yes?”
Nun Number One, defiantly oblivious to the stir of excitement she is causing, looks to the trainer and in her soft Dublin accent asks in a surprisingly enthusiastic manner “Can you tell us more about the felching, please?”
Friday, 8 May 2009
the first time
I lick salt spray from my lips and cold water rushes across my feet. I shiver. Do I really want to get in there? The waves loom menacingly on the horizon.
(So big, I’m so small.)
The board, wedged under my armpit, feels heavy. I curse my arms for being too short, the board too wide to hold comfortably. Having navigated this far down jagged shells and stony beach, fighting against this unseasonal wind which knocks me comically sideways, I wonder, is this really August? And more importantly, what am I doing here?
Another breaking swell smashes into my shins and knees. There’s nothing for it. I place the board on the surface. It floats giddily away, gently tugging on my ankle. I’m frightened but walk purposefully forward. Creeping deeper into the seeping cold. The snugness of my wetsuit is oddly reassuring as the board bobs alarmingly beside me. Beneath my numb feet, the velvet sand feels warm. Soft and still. Unlike here on the surface where water and air whip and spin wildly.
(What if I get disorientated?)
Suddenly, I’m waist high, chest deep. I’m not confidant enough to paddle out so I push myself forward, my six foot floating device effortlessly guiding me over the waves, lifting my feet as they pass beneath me. The top of a breaker slaps me full in the face. It’s exhilarating because I don’t drown. Each rise and fall creates an involuntary but victorious gasp.
As the ocean tilts and collects itself, I turn the board around and hoist myself on top. It’s not graceful. It takes several goes. I go right over the top and under a couple of times. Any ego (left on the beach along with dry clothes) is forgotten. Eventually, I position myself on top of the board. It rocks side to side as I struggle to gain my balance. And then I look back and wait…
The first wave rolls beneath me uneventfully. Passed through like a ghost. Disappointed, I watch someone closer to shore catch it on the turn. Hmm. I paddle. It's hard to get motion in the constantly undulating surface. I paddle harder still. Damn these short arms. Another wave slides beneath me. And then. And then. And then a wave captures my board unexpectedly. It throws me forward. I’m gliding! I’m flying! The sheer speed! The board rises above the water, stable, solid, rocketing towards the beach. I’m so overwhelmed I forget to try and stand. I'm on my knees. It seems to last forever. I belly laugh as I roll off, splattering onto sodden sand. The tide pulling at my toes and board.
“Did you see that? Did you see that?”
Water (I hope it’s just water) streams from my nose and face. I pick up the board and pad right back in. Fear and cold forgotten just to experience it all again.
(So big, I’m so small.)
The board, wedged under my armpit, feels heavy. I curse my arms for being too short, the board too wide to hold comfortably. Having navigated this far down jagged shells and stony beach, fighting against this unseasonal wind which knocks me comically sideways, I wonder, is this really August? And more importantly, what am I doing here?
Another breaking swell smashes into my shins and knees. There’s nothing for it. I place the board on the surface. It floats giddily away, gently tugging on my ankle. I’m frightened but walk purposefully forward. Creeping deeper into the seeping cold. The snugness of my wetsuit is oddly reassuring as the board bobs alarmingly beside me. Beneath my numb feet, the velvet sand feels warm. Soft and still. Unlike here on the surface where water and air whip and spin wildly.
(What if I get disorientated?)
Suddenly, I’m waist high, chest deep. I’m not confidant enough to paddle out so I push myself forward, my six foot floating device effortlessly guiding me over the waves, lifting my feet as they pass beneath me. The top of a breaker slaps me full in the face. It’s exhilarating because I don’t drown. Each rise and fall creates an involuntary but victorious gasp.
As the ocean tilts and collects itself, I turn the board around and hoist myself on top. It’s not graceful. It takes several goes. I go right over the top and under a couple of times. Any ego (left on the beach along with dry clothes) is forgotten. Eventually, I position myself on top of the board. It rocks side to side as I struggle to gain my balance. And then I look back and wait…
The first wave rolls beneath me uneventfully. Passed through like a ghost. Disappointed, I watch someone closer to shore catch it on the turn. Hmm. I paddle. It's hard to get motion in the constantly undulating surface. I paddle harder still. Damn these short arms. Another wave slides beneath me. And then. And then. And then a wave captures my board unexpectedly. It throws me forward. I’m gliding! I’m flying! The sheer speed! The board rises above the water, stable, solid, rocketing towards the beach. I’m so overwhelmed I forget to try and stand. I'm on my knees. It seems to last forever. I belly laugh as I roll off, splattering onto sodden sand. The tide pulling at my toes and board.
“Did you see that? Did you see that?”
Water (I hope it’s just water) streams from my nose and face. I pick up the board and pad right back in. Fear and cold forgotten just to experience it all again.
Monday, 30 March 2009
bold as
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises. Not always good ones, true, but thems the breaks.
This past week has been particularly rubbish on the surprises front as various things I’d subconsciously pinned a few hopes on, unexpectedly slipped through the net. Or, to put it another way, the great bar-stool of life, the one reserved only for me, has suddenly acquired three wobbly legs. And a questionable spot near the toilets.
I was contemplating this clumsy metaphor on the bus home the other day. There I sat, right at the front (because that just doesn’t get old), feeling sorry for myself as the wind and rain rocked the top deck. Fittingly, winter had decided to make an unwelcome comeback further indulging the general melancholy when I noticed a boardroom, directly across from me, hovering above the snarling traffic, with its lights still on.
A late meeting was in full flow. I was glad not to be in their shoes (though my situation was hardly inspiring, stuck at the T-junction opposite, wondering if we’d ever get to join the stagnant flow of traffic creeping towards the Elephant and Castle) but I enjoyed my vantage point and studied the room in all its fluorescent detail.
A man in a pink shirt, washed out beneath the strip lighting, stood in front of a whiteboard. Twenty or so suited men, sat around the table, even from this angle, they were upright and attentive to the speaker's every word. Pink-shirted man waved his arms about, animated and Evita-like. I wondered what he was talking about with such enthusiasm: theglobaleconomicmeltdown? a management buy-out or worse, the dos and don'ts at a healthy & safety seminar? And then, just as the bus began to shudder slowly forwards, all the attendees, in that small boardroom, a stone’s throw from the Elephant, produced a variety of brass instruments which, up until now, had been completely hidden from view. I smiled as they began to play. Pink shirt man happily conducting at the front. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises.
This past week has been particularly rubbish on the surprises front as various things I’d subconsciously pinned a few hopes on, unexpectedly slipped through the net. Or, to put it another way, the great bar-stool of life, the one reserved only for me, has suddenly acquired three wobbly legs. And a questionable spot near the toilets.
I was contemplating this clumsy metaphor on the bus home the other day. There I sat, right at the front (because that just doesn’t get old), feeling sorry for myself as the wind and rain rocked the top deck. Fittingly, winter had decided to make an unwelcome comeback further indulging the general melancholy when I noticed a boardroom, directly across from me, hovering above the snarling traffic, with its lights still on.
A late meeting was in full flow. I was glad not to be in their shoes (though my situation was hardly inspiring, stuck at the T-junction opposite, wondering if we’d ever get to join the stagnant flow of traffic creeping towards the Elephant and Castle) but I enjoyed my vantage point and studied the room in all its fluorescent detail.
A man in a pink shirt, washed out beneath the strip lighting, stood in front of a whiteboard. Twenty or so suited men, sat around the table, even from this angle, they were upright and attentive to the speaker's every word. Pink-shirted man waved his arms about, animated and Evita-like. I wondered what he was talking about with such enthusiasm: theglobaleconomicmeltdown? a management buy-out or worse, the dos and don'ts at a healthy & safety seminar? And then, just as the bus began to shudder slowly forwards, all the attendees, in that small boardroom, a stone’s throw from the Elephant, produced a variety of brass instruments which, up until now, had been completely hidden from view. I smiled as they began to play. Pink shirt man happily conducting at the front. I wasn’t expecting that at all.
One of the things it would do me well to remember is that life is full of surprises.
Wednesday, 11 February 2009
crowded house
It’s been a lovely champagne-y kind of breakfast do for a crowd of actors, directors, producers and writers all represented by the same agency. A smattering of producers, not actually under my agent’s wing, have also attended - their production houses conspicuously emblazoned across the sticky labels we’re all wearing.
I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.
The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.
My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.
A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.
The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.
“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.
I’ve been at the agency long enough not to get heart palpitations at the thought of these annual get-togethers: shyness is a clichéd affliction for many in my world - and yes, some do have a very funny way of showing it - but networking is a necessity and, as such, brings on the mildly autistic inner children in many of us.
The room is vibrating with chatter. The venue is always the same, a lovely Italian restaurant on one of Soho’s more notable streets. I am trying hard to keep eye contact with the person I’m talking to whilst juggling a plate of toast and fresh salmon and a drink. I am distracted by my need for cutlery and realise all too quickly the design fault behind only having two hands and one clumsy body.
My colleague, not one for this standing around lark, has cleverly positioned herself at one of the deserted tables. Joining her involves navigating through lots of shoulders and elbows and plates and champagne flutes. My toast is getting cold, the salmon, warm. I make a quick assessment of my position and try to ascertain if it’s possible to squeeze through this forest of bodies with my manners intact. I may want jobs from some of these bodies in the future. I try not to spill anything.
A couple of near-misses later, I safely place my breakfast down. Still on my feet and, euphoric from the non-eventful plate-to-table odyssey, I volunteer to go back and get the coffees. My colleague is pregnant and therefore quite happy to sit this one out.
The coffee bar, in the centre of the room, is packed, utterly packed. A scrum of people peer over the tall counter as the restaurant manager, who seems as familiar with the complicated workings of the coffee machine as I am, presses buttons and pulls levers randomly. He’s being very particular about the cups, and the saucers that go with the cups, which all match, according to size and purpose, and appear to live in different places. After an excessive wait and an awkward conversation with a writer whose project I didn’t pick up, it is finally my turn. I’m on tiptoes and lean over the counter to be heard above the din.
“Two black coffees, please. One, decaf”
“Two white coffees and one decaf?” he blinks, already looking for those titchy saucers.
“Sorry, no. Two black coffees, one of them decaffeinated.”
“Three coffees, one white decaf?”
“No” Somebody’s elbow makes sharp contact with my shoulder, “Two coffees? Both of them black. I would like one of them to be decaf, please.”
He’s confused. The milk’s burnt on the pipe and needs cleaning. “So how many coffees s'at? And which one of them’s the decaf?” he now yells over his shoulder.
I take a deep breath. “Look,” something in my tone has made him turn around, “One black coffee” I raise my forefinger in representation, “and then another black coffee – call it number two – but this one, decaffeinated.” a second forefinger rises up to join the other, "Please." This is the coffee ordering equivalent of Peter and Paul. He takes a moment to look at my fingers still saluting upwards over the counter.
“So you want two black coffees, one decaf?”
I smile and step back. I eventually remember to put my fingers down. And then I wonder how I am going to navigate these tiny little coffee cups, on their tiny little saucers, across this huge sea of people. Some of whom might, one day, employ me. I accidentally step on someone’s toe and, in the process, create an instant black moat around both drinks. I’d grab a napkin but I just don’t have enough hands.
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