As predicted, my hair has now reverted to its usual scruffy mess, which is fortunate, because the whole straight-hair thing turned out to attract Entirely The Wrong Type Of Bloke.
This one came in the form of the owner of my local gastropub, one of those Notting Hill 1960s-throwback types who labour under the misapprehension that they are in fact Keith Richards. And not in a Johnny-Depp-in-Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-type way, because that would be just fine with me. In fact I'd happily get up at 4am every day to clamp my hair in a trouser press if it was going to attract Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean mode, or in any mode at all, really. But I digress.
Anyway, this one actually used the line "Do you come here often?" without any discernible trace of irony, and then proceeded to pose various questions including whether I could sew (I can't), whether my surname was Orr (it isn't), whether I knew the derivation of the surname Orr (I don't), whether I knew the Electric Cinema in Notting Hill (I don't), whether I thought that Fulham was full of foreigners these days (I wasn't sure, but even if it is, I didn't agree that this was A Bad Thing), and whether I thought that Chiswick was the best place in the world because it's "so English" (I don't).
Later, one of the bar staff appeared at my side proffering a mobile phone and saying that the owner wanted to talk to me. "So," says Keith Richards. "I thought you might be bored there. Do you want to come for a drink at the Electric Brasserie?". I decline demurely.
Even later, I have a dream in which this conversation replays itself, only instead of declining demurely, I say "Look here. What makes you think you can just pick out a woman in a pub like you're choosing a lobster from a tank?".
To which I can only say: "Oo, you go, feisty dream-Patroclus!"
There are times when I think I might be taking the whole ice maiden thing a bit too far. But I really don't think last night was one of them.
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23 comments:
I felt that I wanted to comment on this, but apart from wondering if the hairstyle made you look particularly like a lobster, I can't think of anything particularly relevant to say.
It must be Sunday afternoon. Idle hands and all that...
Patro, you should turn your life into one of those quirky-funny-rueful-mickey-taking British sitcoms. I mean, you have a great character right there. He could try it on in different terrible ways as a running gag in the series. I see Bill Nighy in a variation on his raving rocker mode.
"nikqmw" -- what a good name for him. Nik Q Mow, I like it.
Ice Maiden? No, you are clearly waaaay too nice - I'd have run away at the 'Do you sew?'..
(Assuming that is, that strange men ever talked to me in the pub. Which they never do)
Nice Maiden!
*applauds*
I think Bill Nighy would be entirely too likeable for this freak. Really, that's very odd, though it did at least have one good outcome - viz. generating brilliant dream put-down that must surely be tucked away for later use.
Do you sew, though. What a very peculiar question.
Have you noticed how Bill Nighy has that thing with his hands that M Thatcher had - fingers start to claw into palm? Brilliant actor though... saved Love Actually.
And speaking as an aging redhead - all this fuss about hair. What's wrong with a quick comb in the morning?
still laughing about the 'do you sew?' question. I'd be asking, 'why, do you have a shirt that needs mending?' 'would you like me to stitch it up before I fall into your arms, overcome with passion?'
what a loser.
I've nearly finished my mending heap now, but if you fancy a bit of sewing, there's still a seam on a sweathshirt that's come apart...
...that'd be a 'no', then?
'sweath': not as grubby-sounding as 'sweat'.
A "sweathshirt" sounds like something someone might wear in a Thomas Hardy novel, while toiling in the fields, or dying a horrible death in the workhouse.
In Glasgow the question "Can you sew?" is, regardless of reply, often followed by the rejoinder "aye well, stitch THAT!" with acompanying head-butt (or "Glasgow Kiss")! I've not actually experienced this you understand and, generally, find Glaswegians to be lovely people, but I thought you might like to have it in reserve for next time.
Sounds like a good idea Marsha, although that would be pioneering levels of feistiness that even dream-Patroclus can't aspire to.
Sometimes I think it would be great if real life was a lot more like dreams. Although not those dreams where you find yourself naked in public, running away from giant spiders or that teeth falling out one. Especially not if that all happened at the same time.
i don't like bill nighy. he irritates me.
Bill Nighy is too cool to play this guy. I'm thinking more Keith Barron. Actually having had a look at a picture of Keith Barron (not something I choose to do often, I hasten to add), the resemblance is quite striking. Brrrr.
Perhaps it WAS Keith Barron. Euuhh.
Have you ever told someone they look quite like someone famous then it turns out they are, in actual fact, the famous person? No? I just thought that would be quite cool.
I've had a couple of people recently ask me if I'm me. I'm sort of famous. In a way. In this bit of North Norfolk, anyway.
Bill Nighy walked past me outside our local shop the other day. All I had to say, really. Tall chap.
Did you say to him: "Oo, you look just like that chap, whatsisname...off the telly...Keith Barron!"?
He's a bit intimidating, I keep seeing him storm up and down Kentish Tow flipping the finger to traffic, so I didn't want to take the chance. If i ever see Keith Barron, however, I shall give him a leer like the one he used to do in Duty Free.
Maybe he's landed the central role in the movie version of Grand Theft Auto, and he's just getting into character.
I can't stop laughing at the thought of you leering at Keith Barron outside Chattelmania*, while Nighy flicks the Vs at cars in the background. I may have to lie down.
* Only didn't that close down?
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