There he is, he’s here again. I knew he’d be in, well let’s face it that’s why I’m here. That’s why people drink here; it’s THE pub in St Andrews where the talent hangs out. How else does Herr Flick palm off the most diluted beer at the most exorbitant prices in town? Why else does nobody mind when they can’t get a seat…you can’t check the room when you’re sitting down anyway.
God, he’s gorgeous…blond of course, aren’t they all? Built well, he played rugby at school…there’s a point, wonder which school he went to? I bet it was one of the names, where you mortgage the country cottage for connections, kudos, and an entry to that most elusive of societies, the old boys network. A chance to excel at conforming maybe pick up an A level along the way. Yup, that’s the accent, gilt-edged with poise, the supreme self-confidence that nothing is beyond one because, after all, everything does have a price.
I wonder what he drives. He does drive that’s for sure. I bet it shifts anyway; none of the old tin can on wheels crap that I might just manage to afford one day.
He is sooo cool. OK so his clothes help. He probably spent more on that shirt than I will spend on toothpaste in an entire lifetime. Funny how they all seem reluctant to get out of uniform- lumberjack shirts, Arran jumpers, a mass identity to affirm their superiority. The Establishment has nothing to fear from this lot- give them twenty years and they’ll be rotting within the hallowed halls of Whitehall. There’s no brave new world budding here.
I watch from another world. I too went to one of the schools but Daddy didn’t pay for my accent. There’s no gentrification going on in my part of London, although we did get a 7-11 store and a dual carriageway. When all my mates got cars, I got a bike and beat them all to school.
Do you think he’ll notice me? Can he fail to? I knitted this jumper myself when I was thirteen. I t doubled as my spare tent then, now it just does duty as a scarecrow when the wind’s up. Out on the bike in a stiff breeze I must look as if someone dropped a house on my sister. As for the rest I make up for in colour what my clothes lack in cut. Eccentric chic I call it. One thing I can guarantee is that he will notice me.
Especially when I’m here with my mates. They say Julia Roberts made a fortune out of her laugh; she has nothing on me. The rats in the pub must pray for the return of the Pied Piper as a blessed release. When the lads from SAUSAC are in and we spend hours retelling the best jokes and the tallest stories, I’m sure the architect could quote structural damage. Come to think of it, my laugh would probably register on the Richter scale.
OK so he’ll notice me. The fact that he will probably run a mile is irrelevant; he’ll just never talk to me. I’m just not in the right crowd. Not to mention the aloof expression I have been cultivating for years, a supercilious smirk, a cross between Cleopatra and Buddha’s cat. Let’s face it, would you talk to a girl sitting cross legged on the bar with a full pint, a cigarette and a superiority complex to match even your father’s bank balance? In front of all your rugby mates?
Well then
HE SPOKE TO ME….I ca’t believe it, I want to skip and laugh and dance and go wild, I want to run down the street singing West Side Story. Get me a Tequila, a fag, anything, to celebrate. He spoke to me.
OK so he was pretty damned rude. The attempt at humour may pass in a prep school locker room but really….maybe I spent too much time as an appendage to the bar with the diving crowd. Maybe I’ve forgotten how to flirt?! Maybe he has no sense of humour. Tongue-tied? I couldn’t even light a cigarette for crying out loud, my hands were shaking so much. OK have it your way, maybe humming the tune to Thunderbirds in response to a particularly inane comment was just a tad obscure. OK, so I have no small talk, that’s never bothered me before. No, I’ve never been to a cocktail party. So? I’m going to be a doctor. I don’t need small talk, just an endless supply of platitudes, silly jokes and gruesome stories for endless dinners.
Once he got talking to me? Well he disappeared pretty quickly, to talk to a girl in a matching jumper.
So I’m doomed to watch him across a crowded pub. So we have nothing in common, or if we do it is beautifully disguised. Do not pass go, do not collect £200. We do not have blast off. Crashed and burned.
How do you spot money anyway? Does it have a special smell? No manners, no sense of humour? Or does it just drink anther type of coffee?
One thing though. Why do you talk to me? You’re one of them. Oh thanks, live on the backhanded compliment with sledgehammer attached, delivered with consummate skill. Thanks. Time for the Buddha act again.
Double Tequila please, with the works. To this chip on my shoulder. To a brave new world. To oblivion. Cheers.
Copyright Fran McNicol
published The Chronicle 1999
