“Oi! Taffy, come ‘ere.” Taffy was the nickname I’d been cursed with when I’d first started and the guys at table thirteen were convinced I was really Welsh. Mr B crooked a finger beckoning me over. I rolled my eyes as he jokingly leered at me. Mr B was in his early 70s and my own personal sexaul harraser – although he meant no harm.
I lowered myself onto a stool beside him, “What do you want you dirty old man?”
A chuckle erupted from his lips, “I have a story, you’ll love it.”
“Ok, give it to me.”
“I’d love to.”
“Just get on with the story.”
“Right well, about 20 years ago, I used to live upstairs back when this was a classy establishment. Anyway, one new years eve, me and one of the Kiwi lads decided to get on it, the drink of choice was bloody marys. You know what bloody marys are right, Taff.”
I threw him a murderous look which I felt said it all. “Of course I know what a bloody mary is.”
“Right, right. We were throwing them back with sherry in ‘em like they were going out of fashion. So, by midnight we’re off our faces and I stumble upstairs and I need to use the crapper. Down come the trousers and the pants and then it’s like an explosion, like a volcano’s erupted and my shit’s the lava.”
I clutch my stomach as the giggles bubble forth at the image in my mind. I wave a hand for him to continue.
“There’s shit up the walls, on the curtains, on the carpet, you name it and it was there.”
“How did you manage it?” I gasped between giggles.
“No a clue. J came over with a bucket and shovel and shoveled it up.”
J was Mr B’s lady friend. I didn’t envy her the position.
“Did she manage to get it all out?”
“Nah, the carpet was never the same again, had to be ripped up and replaced. £2000 later.”
“Wow that’s an expensive bowel motion.” I couldn’t stop the laughter. I stood up knowing I’d better get back to work, “Thanks for the storytime.”
“Thought you’d like that one.” I started to walk back to the bar, “Hey, Taffy? Nice arse.”
Showing posts with label pub of characters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pub of characters. Show all posts
Wednesday, 21 July 2010
Wednesday, 7 July 2010
The ladies who lunch
As a little kiwi girl from the New Zealand version of the suburbs and from a working class family, I was a little like fish out of water when I landed smack dab in a quaint little English pub in an equally little English village in the middle of the Surrey countryside – it really was like something out of Heartbeat or off a chocolate box.
“Uh oh, here come the ladies who lunch.” (think of her name later) murmured out of the side of her mouth as the crunch of tyres on the gravel carpark alerted us to the arrival of a customer. I was perplexed by her announcement of the ‘ladies who lunch’, my brow furrowed; “The ladies who lunch?”
She nodded in the direction of the door which was creaking slowly open. If this were a movie this would be the point where they cued up the dramatic music and wind machine, put the film into slow motion to create a dramatic, intriguing entrance for the leading lady. And intriguing it was. These women came in in a waft of Chanel perfume, dripping in pearls and diamonds bigger than my fist, wearing tea dresses and pushing a designer stroller with a kid decked out in Stella McCartney for Gap Baby.
I turned my back to the door, still eyeing the women in the mirrored bar back. “Who or rather what are the ladies who lunch?”
Cassie, guiding me by the elbow, led me closer to the glass washer and further away from the ladies.
“Ladies who lunch are the yummy mummies. You know the women who are stay at home mummies who have never had to work a day in their lives going from Daddy’s house to hubby’s. They have a ton of money both inherited and from hubby. They meet for lunch to talk babies and to down a bottle of wine...or two.” Her tone was laced with bitterness and something else. Perhaps envy. She thought she sounded all-knowing, I thought she sounded ever so slightly judgemental. Which made me wonder why do we judge and critise what we don’t necessarily understand?
A few moments later as I poured one of the yummy mummies a large glass of pinot and explained to her where I was from and how I’d wound up in this part of England, she hiked the kid attached to her hip up, smiled and said; “That’s great! I’m so envious, I love my life but there are moments where I wish I’d taken time out to see the world before I settled down and had babies.” There was a pause as a wistful expression clouded her face, “Make sure you do Rome, it’s supposed to be exquisite.”
As she walked away I realised that perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side and while we covet others lives or pieces of their lives perhaps they’re looking at ours and secretly wishing they had what we had.
“Uh oh, here come the ladies who lunch.” (think of her name later) murmured out of the side of her mouth as the crunch of tyres on the gravel carpark alerted us to the arrival of a customer. I was perplexed by her announcement of the ‘ladies who lunch’, my brow furrowed; “The ladies who lunch?”
She nodded in the direction of the door which was creaking slowly open. If this were a movie this would be the point where they cued up the dramatic music and wind machine, put the film into slow motion to create a dramatic, intriguing entrance for the leading lady. And intriguing it was. These women came in in a waft of Chanel perfume, dripping in pearls and diamonds bigger than my fist, wearing tea dresses and pushing a designer stroller with a kid decked out in Stella McCartney for Gap Baby.
I turned my back to the door, still eyeing the women in the mirrored bar back. “Who or rather what are the ladies who lunch?”
Cassie, guiding me by the elbow, led me closer to the glass washer and further away from the ladies.
“Ladies who lunch are the yummy mummies. You know the women who are stay at home mummies who have never had to work a day in their lives going from Daddy’s house to hubby’s. They have a ton of money both inherited and from hubby. They meet for lunch to talk babies and to down a bottle of wine...or two.” Her tone was laced with bitterness and something else. Perhaps envy. She thought she sounded all-knowing, I thought she sounded ever so slightly judgemental. Which made me wonder why do we judge and critise what we don’t necessarily understand?
A few moments later as I poured one of the yummy mummies a large glass of pinot and explained to her where I was from and how I’d wound up in this part of England, she hiked the kid attached to her hip up, smiled and said; “That’s great! I’m so envious, I love my life but there are moments where I wish I’d taken time out to see the world before I settled down and had babies.” There was a pause as a wistful expression clouded her face, “Make sure you do Rome, it’s supposed to be exquisite.”
As she walked away I realised that perhaps the grass is always greener on the other side and while we covet others lives or pieces of their lives perhaps they’re looking at ours and secretly wishing they had what we had.
Friday, 25 June 2010
Characters in an English Pub: Unexplained absence
“Where’s Mr P today?” Mr Gee asked as she slid onto the bar sool. I placed the large brandy in front of her with a shrug. The regulars exchanged a sideways beady-eyed glance and I wondered if Mr P’s absence was something I needed to worry about.
Mr P was a regular whose daily routine went as follows: Wake up, have a nicely, rounded, cholestoral seeped fry-up breakfast especially designed to clog the arteries, slowly toddle to the pub, settle into a well-worn stool for six to eight hours, wobble back home and climb into bed with the covers pulled up under his chin and falling into a blissful, alcohol induced sleep. Mr P was the embodiment of what I imagined Henry VIII would have looked like in the transition period after he was a strapping handsome prince but before he became the morbidly, obsese, wife killing king.
“Maybe he just has other plans today.” The pitch of my voice went up at the end of the sentence making it sound like a tentative question. The seasoned pub goers looked at me with a mix of distaste and pity; it was a look which said, ‘Don’t be so silly, girly.’
“He hasn’t missed a day in the pub for almost ten years,” Mr Gee told me kindly.
“And it’s not as if he will have gone away anywhere.” One old boy piped up, with a smirk.
“Can’t he drive?” My innocent question was met with a derisive snort and a few sniggers.
“He’s not allowed to drive.”
“He lost his license?”
“Yup”
“What for?” I was intrigued, I leaned forward resting my elbows on the bar.
“Which time?”
I raised my eyebrows; it was hard for me to imagine Mr P, who I likened to a cross between Winnie the Pooh and Eeorye doing anything to break the law, even a teeny traffic infringement.
“This time he got confussed.” Fingers poked at the air as they formed quotations around confused, “And he drove into someone’s hedge – he’d been at the pub for one two many rums.”
“And the time before that?”
“He drove his lotus into the Thames.”
“He drove a car into a river?” I was incredulous.
“Well, he thought he was the real James bond and the wings which would turn it into a speed boat didn’t open.”
Sounded like Mr P had been indulging in more than just a few too many rums. But I couldn’t see it, Mr P was a kindly, sweet, timid man. A gentle giant. I felt the need to defend his honour.
“OK but at least he has some really interesting life stories to tell the grandkids.”
Mr Gee chuckled, “That he does. That he does.”
At that moment, the door creaked and opened and Mr P tottered in, floppy hat pulled down so it was almost covering his eyes. And with his tentative first step onto the carpeted floor, the balance within the pub was restored.
Mr P was a regular whose daily routine went as follows: Wake up, have a nicely, rounded, cholestoral seeped fry-up breakfast especially designed to clog the arteries, slowly toddle to the pub, settle into a well-worn stool for six to eight hours, wobble back home and climb into bed with the covers pulled up under his chin and falling into a blissful, alcohol induced sleep. Mr P was the embodiment of what I imagined Henry VIII would have looked like in the transition period after he was a strapping handsome prince but before he became the morbidly, obsese, wife killing king.
“Maybe he just has other plans today.” The pitch of my voice went up at the end of the sentence making it sound like a tentative question. The seasoned pub goers looked at me with a mix of distaste and pity; it was a look which said, ‘Don’t be so silly, girly.’
“He hasn’t missed a day in the pub for almost ten years,” Mr Gee told me kindly.
“And it’s not as if he will have gone away anywhere.” One old boy piped up, with a smirk.
“Can’t he drive?” My innocent question was met with a derisive snort and a few sniggers.
“He’s not allowed to drive.”
“He lost his license?”
“Yup”
“What for?” I was intrigued, I leaned forward resting my elbows on the bar.
“Which time?”
I raised my eyebrows; it was hard for me to imagine Mr P, who I likened to a cross between Winnie the Pooh and Eeorye doing anything to break the law, even a teeny traffic infringement.
“This time he got confussed.” Fingers poked at the air as they formed quotations around confused, “And he drove into someone’s hedge – he’d been at the pub for one two many rums.”
“And the time before that?”
“He drove his lotus into the Thames.”
“He drove a car into a river?” I was incredulous.
“Well, he thought he was the real James bond and the wings which would turn it into a speed boat didn’t open.”
Sounded like Mr P had been indulging in more than just a few too many rums. But I couldn’t see it, Mr P was a kindly, sweet, timid man. A gentle giant. I felt the need to defend his honour.
“OK but at least he has some really interesting life stories to tell the grandkids.”
Mr Gee chuckled, “That he does. That he does.”
At that moment, the door creaked and opened and Mr P tottered in, floppy hat pulled down so it was almost covering his eyes. And with his tentative first step onto the carpeted floor, the balance within the pub was restored.
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