Ok. So. There have been requests for details. I go off to my date with the Israeli documentary film-maker. I have only seen a photo of the back of her head, passed out on a sofa on New Year's Eve so I have built an image in my head of this tall slender woman with a very nice neck. I am rather in awe of this woman but I fancy the pants off her. I get to the pub in Primrose Hill (I am 30-something, I am civilised). I get myself a glass of wine (not a bottle, I am good and moderate). I start reading a book and am soon so engrossed that I jump when someone taps me on the shoulder and give a little snorty shriek which is not the best way to meet the potential love of your life. Anyway, it's her. She's tiny, with the brightest red hair you ever saw, in this brilliant mad sticking out all overthe place hairstyle – sort of geeky and cool at the same time, with heavyglasses as well, very pale, furrowed brow. She looks like she's a lot of fun. But she doesn't look like she's going to be the swanlike love of mylife. Bugger, I think. Never mind, let's have some wine.I ask her what her latest film project is. It's about an organisation where people volunteer to make friends with people who are dying. She's worried that no-one would watch something like that. I get hugely over-excited and;tell her that I would watch something like that, in fact I would volunteerto do that, and guess what, I've just written a book that's all about waiting to die, and ooh, isn't this a coincidence and how marvellous… I am
onto my second glass of wine now, and we're off. We have a third glass, a fourth, and a fifth until we are the only people left in the pub apart from the barmaid, who seems to have pulled some random bloke. We have forgottento eat, apart from olives. We are rambling and ranting. She tells me she only has one toe, because the others got chopped off in an accident. I say wow, that's so cool! - and she gets out her foot to show me. It's true, she has no toes apart from the big one. This is too much for the barmaid who finally kicks us out. It is at this point that I decide that Sxxx is definitely the love of my life. I have never been so sure about anything before. I decide to play my trump card 'Uh, Sxxx, it's a nice name. Means poetry in Hebrew, doesn't it?' I say. (Go go go D K! Thanks for your input) She looks hugely impressed. 'Hey, how did you know that?' 'Ah, one of those things you pick up, I'm good with languages...' … but I can't sustain the showing off, and I'm trying to stop myself laughing but it doesn't really work so I snort again, then she snorts and we're giggling but then we start doing things that really shouldn't be done in the middle of a Primrose Hill residential street. The next thing I know we are by the canal, under a bridge, behaving like teenagers. Unfortunately said canal is quite a busy thoroughfare around closing time. We are in the middle of making out, as you Americans would say, when I hear loud Italian voices coming closer. 'Ah, it's the community!' I shout! 'They probably want to know how the date went. I love my friends!' 'What?' She is confused, understandably. 'Don't worry,' I say, I'll handle this. However, it is not you lot. It is three slightly tipsy Italian men. They come under the bridge and nearly fall into the canal when they see us. As we know, there is a point in every date when inner poise is required. This is it. I summon as much inner poise as it is possible to muster when surprised at 1.30 in the morning half naked under a bridge in Camden, smile in a friendly way and say 'buona sera. Lovely weather we're having!' They exchange glances and move away quickly. By 2.30am we are walking down Camden High Street. By this point Shira is wearing her sunglasses because we rolled on her other glasses and broke them.. I have lost my earring, half of the only pair that I own, and which were a present. I am trying to decide in my head whether or not I should go to her flat when we bump into the Bookish Bag Lady. I love the Bookish Bag Lady. I often come across her during my late night Camden wanders. She has a shaved head and pushes a trolley that is full to the brim with books. We once shared a half bottle of sherry and talked about Byron. She's very well-read. 'Hello!' I say. 'Hello dear. Would you like to buy a book. I've got some good ones.' 'Hmm, maybe, I say, show me.' She fumbles around for ages and then the first book that she pulled out of the trolley was – and I know this sounds unbelievable but really, it's true - Virginia Woolf's diary, Volume 1, 1915-19. Neither she nor Sxxx can understand when I start leaping about and laughing like a lunatic so they just stand there until I calm down and start trying to explain, but it doesn't make much sense so in the end I just give the lady a tenner and kiss her on the cheek (she smells a bit, but probably no more than I do) and decide that, well, that was a sign, and I should definitely go home with Sxxx. So I do. That's how I come to be drinking wine, smoking joints and eating falafel naked at 4 o'clock this morning. As I said, it's difficult to look seductive when covered in chickpea crumbs, but I seemed to do ok. Still haven't found the love of my life, but she's definitely a new friend to misbehave with…
onto my second glass of wine now, and we're off. We have a third glass, a fourth, and a fifth until we are the only people left in the pub apart from the barmaid, who seems to have pulled some random bloke. We have forgottento eat, apart from olives. We are rambling and ranting. She tells me she only has one toe, because the others got chopped off in an accident. I say wow, that's so cool! - and she gets out her foot to show me. It's true, she has no toes apart from the big one. This is too much for the barmaid who finally kicks us out. It is at this point that I decide that Sxxx is definitely the love of my life. I have never been so sure about anything before. I decide to play my trump card 'Uh, Sxxx, it's a nice name. Means poetry in Hebrew, doesn't it?' I say. (Go go go D K! Thanks for your input) She looks hugely impressed. 'Hey, how did you know that?' 'Ah, one of those things you pick up, I'm good with languages...' … but I can't sustain the showing off, and I'm trying to stop myself laughing but it doesn't really work so I snort again, then she snorts and we're giggling but then we start doing things that really shouldn't be done in the middle of a Primrose Hill residential street. The next thing I know we are by the canal, under a bridge, behaving like teenagers. Unfortunately said canal is quite a busy thoroughfare around closing time. We are in the middle of making out, as you Americans would say, when I hear loud Italian voices coming closer. 'Ah, it's the community!' I shout! 'They probably want to know how the date went. I love my friends!' 'What?' She is confused, understandably. 'Don't worry,' I say, I'll handle this. However, it is not you lot. It is three slightly tipsy Italian men. They come under the bridge and nearly fall into the canal when they see us. As we know, there is a point in every date when inner poise is required. This is it. I summon as much inner poise as it is possible to muster when surprised at 1.30 in the morning half naked under a bridge in Camden, smile in a friendly way and say 'buona sera. Lovely weather we're having!' They exchange glances and move away quickly. By 2.30am we are walking down Camden High Street. By this point Shira is wearing her sunglasses because we rolled on her other glasses and broke them.. I have lost my earring, half of the only pair that I own, and which were a present. I am trying to decide in my head whether or not I should go to her flat when we bump into the Bookish Bag Lady. I love the Bookish Bag Lady. I often come across her during my late night Camden wanders. She has a shaved head and pushes a trolley that is full to the brim with books. We once shared a half bottle of sherry and talked about Byron. She's very well-read. 'Hello!' I say. 'Hello dear. Would you like to buy a book. I've got some good ones.' 'Hmm, maybe, I say, show me.' She fumbles around for ages and then the first book that she pulled out of the trolley was – and I know this sounds unbelievable but really, it's true - Virginia Woolf's diary, Volume 1, 1915-19. Neither she nor Sxxx can understand when I start leaping about and laughing like a lunatic so they just stand there until I calm down and start trying to explain, but it doesn't make much sense so in the end I just give the lady a tenner and kiss her on the cheek (she smells a bit, but probably no more than I do) and decide that, well, that was a sign, and I should definitely go home with Sxxx. So I do. That's how I come to be drinking wine, smoking joints and eating falafel naked at 4 o'clock this morning. As I said, it's difficult to look seductive when covered in chickpea crumbs, but I seemed to do ok. Still haven't found the love of my life, but she's definitely a new friend to misbehave with…
2 comments:
excuse me. wasn't this meant to stay IN HOUSE?
name removed.. reproduction authorised..
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