Wednesday, June 09, 2004
Outside my office last week I was smoking a cigarette (yes... I know...) when a portly gentleman of a certain age approached me, pushing an empty wheelchair.
"Smoking really doesn't become you, you know..." he said, in a voice both refined and, ahem, theatrical. "Of course I could never smoke because I wanted to be an Olympic runner. I never made it in the end, but I can't blame that on the smoking. That was because of the cello."
"Oh... Right."
"Yes, I had a marvellous cello teacher and I suppose I continued with it so as not to hurt her feelings. I was raised by nuns, you see. I never wanted to have a relationship like my mother and father had. And being a first generation jew didn't make it any easier. Or my brother, who married outside the race and ended up being divorced. We've just come from the Royal Academy. What's your name?"
"Alistair."
"Ahh... where are you from?"
"Oxford."
"Oh really? With a name like that I thought you might have a kilt..."
"Well, my father's Scottish," I lied.
"What is your clan?"
"...Johnston"
"Ah! Excellent. Well, there's Scottish dancing on at St Clarence's church, you know it? Sundays 8:30 until October. We go often. You should come."
"Yes. Yes, I should come. To Scottish country dancing... Get in touch with my roots."
"Ah, here she is..."
A confused old lady approaches.
"This is my mother. Say hello to Alistair, Mother. She can't read and write you know. Oh Mother, stop being so rude. She is impossible... Give Alistair a kiss. That's right, three. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Father, Son and Holy Ghost."
"Well... Nicholas... " I say, spotting his name badge, "nice to have met you but I really must be getting back."
"Ok, Alistair. Delightful to have met you. Remember, St Clarence's church, Sundays at 8:30. Every week until October!"
This really did happen, although the conversation was longer and odder than I've been able to convey here.
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"Smoking really doesn't become you, you know..." he said, in a voice both refined and, ahem, theatrical. "Of course I could never smoke because I wanted to be an Olympic runner. I never made it in the end, but I can't blame that on the smoking. That was because of the cello."
"Oh... Right."
"Yes, I had a marvellous cello teacher and I suppose I continued with it so as not to hurt her feelings. I was raised by nuns, you see. I never wanted to have a relationship like my mother and father had. And being a first generation jew didn't make it any easier. Or my brother, who married outside the race and ended up being divorced. We've just come from the Royal Academy. What's your name?"
"Alistair."
"Ahh... where are you from?"
"Oxford."
"Oh really? With a name like that I thought you might have a kilt..."
"Well, my father's Scottish," I lied.
"What is your clan?"
"...Johnston"
"Ah! Excellent. Well, there's Scottish dancing on at St Clarence's church, you know it? Sundays 8:30 until October. We go often. You should come."
"Yes. Yes, I should come. To Scottish country dancing... Get in touch with my roots."
"Ah, here she is..."
A confused old lady approaches.
"This is my mother. Say hello to Alistair, Mother. She can't read and write you know. Oh Mother, stop being so rude. She is impossible... Give Alistair a kiss. That's right, three. Father, Son and Holy Ghost. Father, Son and Holy Ghost."
"Well... Nicholas... " I say, spotting his name badge, "nice to have met you but I really must be getting back."
"Ok, Alistair. Delightful to have met you. Remember, St Clarence's church, Sundays at 8:30. Every week until October!"
This really did happen, although the conversation was longer and odder than I've been able to convey here.
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