of the jewels within. 'Stretch marks of the Stars'. 'I'd never had an orgasm till I met my optician – he opened my eyes to sex'. 'Condors and condoms – where SA means Sex Appeal as well as South America'.
I looked away hurriedly, and began to study her face. I was vaguely aware how unusual it was for me to find a person more interesting than their reading matter.
She had dark, straight hair, pale blue eyes and high cheekbones. I particularly liked the curl of her nostrils. There was a small, slightly irregular indentation on her chin. It might have been a natural dimple or the result of a fall from a bicycle. I guessed, from my memory of her reaching up to the rack, that she was five foot three. There was a slightly cheeky air about her, an unselfconscious gamine confidence which lent charm to her immaturity.
She looked up, and I looked away, embarrassed to have been caught in such a detailed survey. Then I decided that looking away had emphasised my embarrassment, so I looked back at her just as she looked away because there was no point in looking at me if I wasn't looking at her.
I tried to work on my notes, but they seemed dreadfully dull.
I looked up again. I wanted to talk to her. But how? What about? I had no idea how to talk to young women. Or indeed, for that matter, old women. Or, come to think of it, young men. Or, actually, old men. In fact, to be honest, anybody.
Rachel's voice came to me, sharp and strident across two and a half decades, tart, icy, every other word a hand grenade, giving me advice before a party to which I hadn't wanted to go, when I'd moaned that I wouldn't have anything to say to her radiologist friends. 'Ask them about themselves, the way normal people do. Pretend to be interested.'
I could ask her what she'd been doing in Stoke-on-Trent. She might say that she'd been on the stopping train from Congleton, but in that case it shouldn't be beyond me to ask what she'd been doing in Congleton. Surely I could manage to sound as if I was interested?
And then a minor miracle occurred. I found that I really was interested.
'Er . . . what . . . er . . . were you doing in Stoke-on-Trent?'
'I'd been to the darts, hadn't I?' she replied.
'The . . . er . . . the darts?'
'The Extra Wet Strength Eliminator.'
'The what?!'
'Townsend Tissues sponsor this event, don't they? It's like a regional qualification for the national championships, know what I mean?'
I've noticed that people of a certain background invariably say 'Know what I mean?' when it's blindingly obvious what they mean – 'I find it difficult to get up in the mornings, know what I mean?' – but on this occasion I had to admit to myself that I didn't know what this young lady meant. I hadn't a clue. There were worlds I knew nothing about.
'You . . . er . . . you like darts, do you?'
I don't think I have ever felt that my conversational efforts were quite as lame as they were on that train.
'You could say that,' she replied. 'I'm a darts groupie.'
'Sorry. What?'
'A darts groupie.'
'Ah. A darts what?'
'Groupie.'
'I see. Yes.' I didn't want to admit that I was lost, but I had to. 'Er . . . what is a darts groupie?'
'Well you know what a groupie is.'
'Yes. Yes. In the . . . rather special sense of . . . er . . . no.'
'Well a groupie follows pop groups around, mobs them and that, cuts off bits of their underpants, tries to sleep with them and stuff, know what I mean?'
'Yes. Yes. Yes.'
'Well I follow the top darts players around, don't I? I . . . er . . . I had quite a day yesterday.'
'Ah.' Come on, Alan. You can't leave it there. 'Er . . . in . . . er . . . in what way, quite a day?'
'I slept with Shanghai Sorensen.'
'Who?'
'Shanghai Sorensen. The Dashing Dane.'
'He sounds Chinese to me.'
'Not that Shanghai. Shanghai in darts.'
'Ah!'
I had tried to inject a knowing element into my 'Ah!' I had failed dismally.
'You do know what Shanghai is in darts, don't you?'
'Yes.' Oh come on, Alan. 'Once again in the . . .
I looked away hurriedly, and began to study her face. I was vaguely aware how unusual it was for me to find a person more interesting than their reading matter.
She had dark, straight hair, pale blue eyes and high cheekbones. I particularly liked the curl of her nostrils. There was a small, slightly irregular indentation on her chin. It might have been a natural dimple or the result of a fall from a bicycle. I guessed, from my memory of her reaching up to the rack, that she was five foot three. There was a slightly cheeky air about her, an unselfconscious gamine confidence which lent charm to her immaturity.
She looked up, and I looked away, embarrassed to have been caught in such a detailed survey. Then I decided that looking away had emphasised my embarrassment, so I looked back at her just as she looked away because there was no point in looking at me if I wasn't looking at her.
I tried to work on my notes, but they seemed dreadfully dull.
I looked up again. I wanted to talk to her. But how? What about? I had no idea how to talk to young women. Or indeed, for that matter, old women. Or, come to think of it, young men. Or, actually, old men. In fact, to be honest, anybody.
Rachel's voice came to me, sharp and strident across two and a half decades, tart, icy, every other word a hand grenade, giving me advice before a party to which I hadn't wanted to go, when I'd moaned that I wouldn't have anything to say to her radiologist friends. 'Ask them about themselves, the way normal people do. Pretend to be interested.'
I could ask her what she'd been doing in Stoke-on-Trent. She might say that she'd been on the stopping train from Congleton, but in that case it shouldn't be beyond me to ask what she'd been doing in Congleton. Surely I could manage to sound as if I was interested?
And then a minor miracle occurred. I found that I really was interested.
'Er . . . what . . . er . . . were you doing in Stoke-on-Trent?'
'I'd been to the darts, hadn't I?' she replied.
'The . . . er . . . the darts?'
'The Extra Wet Strength Eliminator.'
'The what?!'
'Townsend Tissues sponsor this event, don't they? It's like a regional qualification for the national championships, know what I mean?'
I've noticed that people of a certain background invariably say 'Know what I mean?' when it's blindingly obvious what they mean – 'I find it difficult to get up in the mornings, know what I mean?' – but on this occasion I had to admit to myself that I didn't know what this young lady meant. I hadn't a clue. There were worlds I knew nothing about.
'You . . . er . . . you like darts, do you?'
I don't think I have ever felt that my conversational efforts were quite as lame as they were on that train.
'You could say that,' she replied. 'I'm a darts groupie.'
'Sorry. What?'
'A darts groupie.'
'Ah. A darts what?'
'Groupie.'
'I see. Yes.' I didn't want to admit that I was lost, but I had to. 'Er . . . what is a darts groupie?'
'Well you know what a groupie is.'
'Yes. Yes. In the . . . rather special sense of . . . er . . . no.'
'Well a groupie follows pop groups around, mobs them and that, cuts off bits of their underpants, tries to sleep with them and stuff, know what I mean?'
'Yes. Yes. Yes.'
'Well I follow the top darts players around, don't I? I . . . er . . . I had quite a day yesterday.'
'Ah.' Come on, Alan. You can't leave it there. 'Er . . . in . . . er . . . in what way, quite a day?'
'I slept with Shanghai Sorensen.'
'Who?'
'Shanghai Sorensen. The Dashing Dane.'
'He sounds Chinese to me.'
'Not that Shanghai. Shanghai in darts.'
'Ah!'
I had tried to inject a knowing element into my 'Ah!' I had failed dismally.
'You do know what Shanghai is in darts, don't you?'
'Yes.' Oh come on, Alan. 'Once again in the . . .
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