Sunday 18 July 2010

tears at the party

A quick scan of the party assured me that I knew absolutely no one, except, of course, the lovely Amy Knight, everybody's friend, our honourable hostess. But this was little consolation, for Amy Knight was certain to be preoccupied for the duration, taking up her rightful position of centre of attention.

I, on the other hand, had resigned to a familier role; the detached mass of inconsequentiality to be found lingering in a corner, in an inpenetrable circle reaching a metre in all directions. But, experienced as I have become in this regard, the role greeted me with a strange comfort. With a beer in my hand, my reliable friend, I gauged how long it would be before I could realistically leave.


But I was not alone, as I had thought. There were two of us. Another member of my species hoverred above the buffet, unreacheable to all apart from one reliable friend, a can of beer. As the party continued, Amy Knight at its epicentre, we two stood alone, clinging to separate corners of the room, listening to the music.


As he prodded a pork pie, the Sinead O'Connor version of the song Nothing Compares 2 U came on the stereo. The man's head rose slightly in appreciation, as if acknowledging the god of music, and standing there by the buffet, he hesitated to eat his pork pie, and simply closed his eyes.


He was a squashed accordian of a man, a stomach disproportional to his height, and I struggled between states of bewilderment, awkwardness and sheer laughter as he stood there, eyes closed, head raised, holding a pork pie out in front of him. After a short while, before the song had finished, he roused himself from this trance and approached the dizzy circle of friends as they attentively listened to the humorous tales of Amy Knight.


'—and the irony was that he was a doctor too! ' she exclaimed, and roared with laughter. The ensemble around her roared in equal measure, and showed no signs of stopping. In the chaos of uncontrollable laughter, a gap in the circle provided a way in and was casually occupied by the approaching man.

'Nothing compares to you,' he said matter-of-factly towards Amy Knight, in a northern accent which I was too ignorant to place. The laughter was cut, and promptly spluttered out.


'Oh, erm, this is Lenny Carmichael,' said Amy Knight, attempting to regain her composure.


'Call me Darwin,' replied Lenny Carmichael, addressing the perplexed audience.


'Oh, yes, ...Darwin,' said Amy Knight. And then with some effort, 'Darwin is from the office.'


Darwin seemed to enjoy the attention, but unbeknownst to him a serious lull had replaced the jovial atmosphere. An awkward silence of inconceivable magnitude ensued, and Sinead O'Connor shone though with newfound clarity, crooning to her incomparable Other. A cross-fire of glances darted across the circle as Darwin stood there rocking on his heels.


With professional aptitude, Amy Knight flung into action, hoping to reclaim the party and get it under control. The reactions of the onlookers seemed to encourage this.


'So the doctor—'


'Those tears,' Darwin intercepted. He was not done yet.


'Those tears?' inquired one of the women, unaware of what she could be getting herself into.


'Those tears were real,' Darwin said.


'Sinead O'Connor's tears?' asked another woman.


'Oh yes,' he said, closing his eyes and biting his lip. 'Those tears were real.'


Another set of glances were exchanged, and Amy Knight's attempt had failed. From the comfort of my refuge I saw Darwin socially free-falling. I had a desire to run away on his behalf.


But Amy Knight was right on the button, soaring back into action from what looked to be a sorry defeat.


'The doctor had no idea, so...'


And she continued as the circle closed and slowly pushed Darwin out. He calmly pivoted on the spot, and headed back to the buffet, his beer firmly in his grasp.


You and me, we're the same, I said to Darwin Carmichael in silence, except that I am aware of the condition. We are the party no-hopers, forever cast to the sidelines, unable to penetrate the collective. Our purpose, to set the bench mark for the in-crowd, to remind them of their luxuries. I could have been the man attempting to integrate as Darwin had done, I realised with a shudder. I made a mental note to never utter a word to a person at a party.


And I knew, somewhere in the vast world of music television, Sinead O'Connor was weeping for the both of us.

as i make my way

This belt isn't quite right, coming undone like this all the time. It's ok when I'm still, it's the walking movement that does it; makes it flick out of place and come loose. But I don't know exactly how, and I'll never know, will I? I can't walk down the street studying my crotch in an attempt to work out exactly how this belt works it's way undone, can I Imagine if we all wore braces. Well, not the women obviously. Although, I bet some women would, if they were cool, and it was cool.

No, if braces were the norm, I would simply find some way of struggling with braces instead of belts.

Maybe I should have bought some wine. Can't go back to the shop now, or can I? If I am going to get some, let's turn back now before getting to far away from the shop, or I'm just wasting steps.

Argh, why didn't I think about it before passing the shop? I could have considered the problem far more rationally; an informed desicion based on money, self-worth, and consideration, not how far past the shop I have gone. They're not going to be happy, I'm always late. Extra late as a result of this wine situation. Maybe I should get two bottles by way of apology. No, one will be enough. It's a gesture, not an apology, let's not get off on the wrong foot — these dinner party things are, after all, with nice, kind, best intentions. I needn't convince myself I will be tutted at.

Hmm, £3.99 a bottle. Will they know it's a cheap wine? Will they assume it's cheap because I bought it? Now come on, I don't give that impression, do I? £5.99? Why not. Chewing gum? Sure. Longer queue than usual, Tuesdays must be becoming more fashionable a-night for drinking. Probably the students.

You don't get many shops with a bell on the door these days, it seems. It has a niceness to it, like, 'we know you're here, our attention will be appropriately directed at the soonest posible moment.' That ring establishes a brief relationship to be shared between shopper and shopkeeper, and signifies its end as you leave. Ding.

It's getting dark. If I only had a bike I could do this journey in seconds. Granted, many seconds it would be, but fewer seconds than my current performance. Ah, but I'd probably smash the bottle of wine. They have the thinnest bags in the world. One should not have to hold the bottle when surrounded by the bag, for the handles should suffice. These handles are not up to the task.

I wonder where the cracks in the pavement myth comes from. If everyone was always conscious of it, avoiding cracks on all journeys, then city centres would surely be a comical place — everyone staring down at the floor, dodging cracks at all cost. Would make for some well placed irony too, I'd say — concentrating too hard on cracks to escape the perils of an approaching bus, par example.


But people don't usually focus on cracks when they're walking do they? Only on lesuirely strolls. No, other things occupy the mind, leaving unsuspecting cracks in pavements the world over being ruthlessly trodden on. Maybe thats where all the evil in the world comes from; our failing to remember to dodge cracks, and the ensueing bad luck.


A tricky road to cross, this one. As soon as those lights change, these ones change, and when they change back, those ones change, leaving the road constantly packed full of cars - big, metal, crushing, cars. Why aren't cars big and fluffy? Surely a car's exterior could be soft, like a teddy bear, and deaths on the road would siese. Ah, a gap in the traffic always appears, sooner or later. Patience, young pedestrian, Yoda would say. Use the zebra crossing, Obe Wan would add.


Pavement, though. That's a good word. One would have to admit, however, that 'sidewalk' makes more sense - it's at the 'side' of the road, and you 'walk' on it. Say what you see, America. It couldn't be simpler. Edgepath? It's not brilliant, I admit. What we need is rotary pavements, or conveyor belt pavements (a la airport terminal), then maybe I wouldn't be running late. Well, 'pavement' is better than 'sidewalk'. If nothing else, we have that.


Blasted belt! I must look like such an idiot casually doing up my belt as I walk down the road, It comes undone! Should I explain this to onlookers? Or make a sign? BELT MAY COME UNDONE - DO NOT BE ALARMED - IT IS A SIMPLE MALFUNCTION. No, too long, needs to be catchy, so a simple glance will convey the message. BELT BROKEN: - NO OFFENCE. How seriously am I considering this? Maybe a new belt would be a better idea.


Was it number 32 or 34? I've been here at least 3 times, I really should know. Well, if all the houses didn't look so similar . . . Shall I phone one of them? No, surely I can't admit to not knowing which house it is after all those visits, it's just not normal. Let's try 32, what's the worst that can happen? Everyone will survive, it's no big deal.


"Hello!"

"Hi, sorry I'm late."

"Not at all, not at all! Come in."

"Great, here's some wine."