Intimicity Too

So, here's the odd thing: while a seemingly innocuous shared moment with someone logically connected to me causes panic and fear (see previous post), a chance encounter with the familiar face of an almost-stranger imbues me with a false sense of comfort -- that I belong; that I'm known; that a filament of me dangles across various blocks of this vast metropolis.

This is intimacy in The Smoke:

I'm walking up the local London high street in a rush to get home to sit on the sofa. I pass the local Italian, wood fired-oven pizza place run by a bunch of Brazilians. I happen to glance through the plate glass wall that separates me from the Brazilian pizzaristas. I catch the eye of the Brazilian at the till. We know each other. I bought a pizza from him (in person!) Once. He smiles and waves. I nod. My insides do a little heal-tapping Gene Kelly action. Hurray!

Or:

I'm on the bus. It stops at a red light in front of the local Thai restaurant -- again, on the local high street. I stand at the exit doors, ready to leap off at the next stop and dash home to spend the rest of my very important evening sitting on the sofa. Inside the local Thai, a resident Thai sees me, puts her hands together and gives me a little Namas Day* -- particularly impressive as the gesture is made across not just 1 plate glass barrier (the Thai restaurant window), but two: the bus doors! Thai waitress recognises me from the occasions that My Man and I have treated ourselves to a little Thai. She bows down to me. I give an imaginary high-five to London for knowing me, for absorbing me.

Or:

At the Waterloo train station, a line has formed at the ticket machine. I join the queue; credit card in my pocket. I know the exact sequence of buttons to push to get my standard day return. But, it's the job of the Asian** man who has been hired by some company associated with train travel (the train station? the train line? the ticket booth manufacturer?) to ask me where I'm going and ensure that I push the buttons as efficiently as possible - and, if I fail to do so, then he will actually push the buttons for me. The participation of the Asian man in my frequent train travel to my customer site was, at first, unwelcome and annoying.

I know where I'm going. I do this all the time. I can do it myself!!!!!

But then, one day, the ticket helper man looked me in the eye, smiled, and guessed my destination without prompting. BINGO! I fell in love.

All this makes me reflect:

Why is it that I get a high from superficial demonstrations of intimacy? Why do I dread moments alone with those acquaintances that could become more, while the safe, cold distance of restricted human interactions makes me feel so .... human? Is this a symptom of large city living? Is there some fulfillment that only strangers can give us? Am I a freak?

*I have no friggin' idea how to spell this - to me arcane - greeting.

**Asian per UK terminology: Indian, Pakistani, Bangladeshi as opposed to Chinese, Korean, or Japanese.

Intimicity

An acquaintance offers to help me carry the next round from the bar back to the table. It might be a work colleague or a friend of a friend. It doesn't matter who it is; I should be glad for the help: the thought of carrying more than 3 drinks at a time causes me internal panic.

10 minutes before I even offer to get the next round, I've begun the calculations involved in transporting 6 beverages from the bar to the table.

OK. 6 drinks. No, her wine is still full. 5 beers - no, 4 pints and a Coke. So order the coke first then the beers; It'll be 2 trips: the coke and a pint, then 3 pints. On the 2nd trip go around to the left where there's more space in the crowd ...

"It's my turn, what can I get you guys?"

"A Stella."

"Make that two." The guy with the Coke is moving on.

"Paulener."

"Lefe."

"I'll have another glass of white."

Fuck! So 6 drinks; and a glass of wine is harder to balance against a couple of pints. Fuck!

The clutz in me begins forecasting the number of ways I might spill the next round when the offer to help is extended.

The clutz in me is relieved while the social misfit in me begins to panic.

Fuck! What am I going to talk to him/her about while we're waiting for the drinks to be served. Please, dear bartender or tendress, serve us fast with no fuss. Please send me back as expediently as possible to the safety of numbers. Save me from this one-o-one obligation.

"Oh, thanks. That'd be great."

My dread proves unfounded. I skillfully display individual social grace with said work colleague (or friend of a friend) as we wait for the drinks to be served. My questions get him / her talking about the project he's working on / boy she's dating. Before I know it, we're back at the table with the others. And not a drop has been spilled.

Missing

It happens upon occassion that bloggers get stuck in time.

It happened to Betty, late February - early March 2007.

A boy had a premonition that it would happen to him. That was on 23 Jan 2007. A couple of days later he baked some bread, then *POOF* --It happened: he disappeared until February was good and started.

Katy seemed to have a sticky autumn 2006 during which time, time seemed to flow through Electricland like molasses through a brick. Where, oh where, did she go. I pined.

Some monkey has been suspended, hopefully without a hangover, in the early new year.

While I myself have not been the most nimble of bloggers, I've generally managed to stay active and alert in Blogland - if not in posts then in comment boxes. When my cohorts and colleagues have gone quiet, I've wondered .... what power behind the villenous stopping of time in Blogland. Can a monkey live in the 3rd of January forever?

I've recently had my own brush with that villenous power. It's called life. I didn't think I had one, but when it hits hard and fast, there's no escaping it.

Vagina

I noticed her because I was looking for Going Underground’s next fashion victim.

I was bored, on the tube, and entertaining myself, as one does, by casting a critical eye on fellow commuters. The pink polka dots caught my eye.

Oh, no.

I think I actually grimaced.*

Pink polka dots**. No, no, no. Or were they white polka dots on pink? I don’t remember. But my reaction is the same: No, no, no.

Then I noticed the run in her tights which caused my heart to leap from my chest, run over and give her a big ‘there, there’ hug. There is almost nothing as heart-wrenching as a run in tights. Sheer stockings are one thing: they are flimsy, showy stuff, which I expect to run. A conspiracy against the pocketbooks of women.

Thick, warm, functional winter tights are another matter. I have countless pairs where a season of rubbing, against what I can only imagine is an abnormally sharp big toe, erodes the seam, leaving a gaping hole through which the very same sharp big toe will uncomfortable poke. On occasion I sew up those holes and use the tights for another season. No one knows but me (and the Internet).

An exposed run in thick, warm, functional winter tights is a tragedy.

Polka dots make me grimace; exposed runs in tights make me bite my bottom lip.

When my heart was done consoling the erstwhile fashion victim, it turned to chastise me.

You’re a right bitch. So what if she’s wearing pink polka dots?! Maybe they make her feel good.

It was only when I was giving myself this scolding that it struck me: this woman didn’t need my sympathy and wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about my polka-dot related scorn. This woman was brave and strong and self-possessed. This woman, afterall, was publicly not afraid of “vagina”.




* As if I had remembered a bad drunken moment from the night before or smelled something noxious or had some kind of belly pain.

**Polka dots on a scarf, which is sadly not visible in my photos.

Hospitality

Then, as now*, we received scads** of advice.

Firstly, we were warned, "If you've seen 1 mouse, you have more than 1 mouse. Where there's one, there's more."

We didn't like those politic words.

Do-gooders suggested various means by which to apprehend our uninvited guest.

Traps. Peanut butter. Chocolate.

A Norwegian who had lived in a mice-infested flat on Bakerloo had a tried-and-true-and-entertaining method of entrapment, which entailed a shoe box and a rolled up newspaper and a quick flick of the wrist. If done correctly, a temporarily stunned mouse would receive a death-inducing wallop with The Times. My Man and I had already laid down the standard spring-mounted trap, but rushed home eagerly with a fresh newspaper in the hopes of some carnival style fun.

The little critter, however, was a clever little thing. A big brain in that tiny, hardly mammalian head.

Maybe he was tipped off. Or maybe, just maybe, we (My Man) had unwittingly outwitted our visitor.

The first and best defense, as implemented flawlessly by My Man, is cleanliness.

Initially attracted by the warm, convivial atmosphere of our reception***, the mouse shortly learned that if he didn't want to starve to death he'd have to search for nourishment and a meaningful existence in someone else's house.

He left of his own accord. Without even saying good-bye.

*In the comments box of my recent posts.

**Scads is a word that I don't think I've ever used. It popped up at www.thesaurus.com, and I thought, 'Hmmm. 'Scads!' That's a word to use! But, the more I think of it, the more I wonder if I'd 'get it' if it were used in conversation. I will now begin using scads not just in my blog but in real life conversation too. I'll probably lose friends - cyber and flesh-and-blood alike.

***Living room.

Entrapment

I used to think I was pretty smart. Not a first rate thinker with original, BIG ideas, but suitably clever. Clever enough to catch a mouse. Or so I thought.

Turns out neither My Man nor I are that clever.

It took a mouse 2 evenings to teach us that lesson in humility. The cheeky little bastard waited until My Man and I were well entrenched in our ritual TV viewing, at which point he darted out.

"Did you see him! Shit! What should we do?"

Before our butts had left the sofa, the clever little thing darted back to the safety of the radiator.

"Quick! Get the extra duvet. We'll throw it on him!"

That was our master plan: to use the guest room duvet like a net.* We didn't think about what we would do once we caught him. Sometimes it's better not to plan too far ahead.

We pretended to watch tv, but kept the duvet close at hand. When he crept out, we pounced.

I didn't realise I could pounce and freak out at the same time.

I can. My Man was quick to point it out. Just like the pair of woman's feet that sometimes makes a guest appearance atop a chair on Tom & Jerry.**

Unfortunately, I cannot pounce and freak out AND throw a duvet upon a scurrying mouse all at the same time. I had multiple opportunities to give it a go and failed on each occassion. My Man, while foregoing on the 'freaking out' fared no better. London mice aren't just clever; they're impressively fit as well.

The indignity of the situation reached its peak when we let down our guard for just the briefest of moments. We sat watching both the radiator and television when suddenly we felt the presence of our little guest. The little bastard had somehow made it across the room to join us on the sofa.

Unmatched freaking out ensued.

*Guests, you will be glad to know that the mouse was far too quick (or we were far to slow) and, so, the duvet remains suitable for your visits.
**How I surprise myself living up to stereotypes. Egad.

Cat and Mouse

“What’s that?” My Man asked?

I looked in the direction he indicated, but didn’t see anything. 8 girls who were fighting it out to be America’s next top model commanded more of my attention than My Man and his mystery phantom.

“What? I don’t see anything.”

My attention returned to the fierce beauties on the small screen.

“There! There! Did you see it?”

I turned my head from the TV and stared fixedly in the direction he had previously indicated.

I’ll give him 10 seconds. If nothing, it’s back to American’s Next Top Model.

From underneath the radiator a shadow flickered. Then it scampered.

So, it’s not a phantom after all.

“That’s a mouse!”

A mouse! A mouse! In our house!

My Man's phantom was a true and veritable mouse. I lost all interest in models and fashion and clothes and entertaining cattiness. The radiator and its environs captured my complete attention.

“Where did it go?” I whispered.

“Under the radiator, I think.”

And that is how we embarked on a 2 hour game of cat and mouse.