Tagebücher eines einzelnen Mannes

As I have grown older, I seem to have gotten better at Christmas shopping.  My ability in the department of gift buying is seemingly akin to a fine wine; not that my budget would ever allow me to be that generous with my presents.  It isn’t that the quality of my gifts has improved over the years – just ask my sister, who to this day still regrets the 12-inch traditional crepe maker that I handed over on Christmas Day 2019 and which enjoyed substantial use throughout the subsequent months of lockdown – but more a case that I have become better at getting my shopping out of the way early in the festive period.  Of course, I would still be found on my knees on the floor of my living room on Christmas Eve 2019, surrounded by a jigsaw of discarded wrapping paper, grunting and cursing as I attempted to fold the corners of the red sheet neatly into place around a Peppa Pig sticker book, with scrumpled snowmen smiling smugly up at me, but at least I could say that I had done my shopping.

The main benefit of making sure that I had bought presents for everybody else early in the month was that it meant I could spend more time buying things for myself.  In the weeks before Christmas, I looked to get myself into the spirit of the season by making a couple of visits to the Oban Beer Seller to stock up on some suitably festive drinks for the period ahead.  The shop was a veritable Santa’s grotto of goodies tucked away in the shadow of McCaig’s Tower and opposite the Distillery on Stafford Street, which, when all lit up, could so easily have been a scene fashioned from gingerbread on a decorative carousel.  Christmas-inspired beers had long been one of my favourite things about the month of December.  Nothing quite said Christmas to me like drinking those themed beers whilst watching the Bill Murray film Scrooged by an open fire, or underneath around half a dozen layers as the case was in the years after I moved into my own flat.  The best ones were usually chocolate porters or dark ales, sometimes sweetened with flavours of berries or honey, and often finished with the spice of the season, cinnamon.  It was a different taste to the alcohol we were allowed to drink at the table during the Christmas dinners of our youth, usually a Babycham or a glass of Bucks Fizz, when I would like to try and convince everybody that I was drunk, unlike when I was older and I would insist that I wasn’t drunk and could handle one more drink.  Nobody was for believing it on either occasion.

Those beers always had the most wonderful names, sobriety breaking sobriquets such as Santa Paws, Fairytale of Brew York, Hoppy Christmas, and Winter Mess, which seemed a particularly fitting purchase in 2020 of all years.  I loaded a canvas bag full with beers, eleven of them in total, at which point Karen asked me if I would like to pick up one more, since she was offering a free glass worth £4.99 with every dozen beers bought.  In that moment, nothing made more sense to me than buying another can of beer and obtaining the free glass that it could be enjoyed in.  It always seemed foolish to look a gift horse in the mouth, let alone a gift glass in the rim, and I picked up an oat lager to complete my order.  I had officially finished my Christmas shopping for the year, and in the process was treated to my first gift with it.

There’s almost nothing that brings as much hope as a bag filled with beers does.  It is as though the entire world is within reach, just the cracking of a can away.  With hops the possibilities seem limitless, you can go anywhere and be anyone.  It was on one of those drunken journeys, I came to believe, that I finally got around to ordering The Tender Bar, a book which had been recommended to me by a woman in our album club.  She had suggested to me some months earlier that I would enjoy the memoir by J.R. Moehringer since he writes in the same loving, almost romantic, way about his favourite local bar that I often speak of Aulay’s.  By the middle of December, Aulay’s had become just like any other romance I had enjoyed in my life.  The pub had been closed due to government restrictions since October and the good times spent there had become a distant memory; the former lover who no longer calls or texts, its presence on the street not much more than a spectre.  Does she think of me as much as I think about her?  I would ask myself every time I passed the empty bar, the faint smell of Tennent’s still lingering in the mind.

The book was delivered to my dad’s like all of my packages were, since the mailbox at my flat was seemingly designed for nothing much larger than a Christmas card.  I could tell that something wasn’t right as soon as I tore open the World of Books package and spied the dog-eared red sticker attached near the bottom-right of the book’s cover informing whoever happened to be holding the copy in their hands that the book was a Der Spiegel bestseller.  I knew from my high school language classes that Der Spiegel is a popular German news magazine, and it struck me as being odd that it was considered that the fact The Tender Bar is a bestseller in Germany was something I should know about.  Who buys a book because it sold well in Germany?

When I turned the book over to read the synopsis on the back, I was given my second clue that things had gone awry.  The words were unintelligible and offered me no indication as to the romantic sentimentalities of the memoir.  It was printed entirely in German.  The book I was holding was the Deutsche edition which, according to the price on the barcode, retailed for €9.95.  I could hardly believe that such a thing could happen.  First I bought a pizza that unbeknownst to me had mushrooms amidst the topping, and now this.  It was apparent that I was going to have to pay more attention to product descriptions when I was shopping, though surely the fact that the book was printed in German would have been quite obvious on the website.  

I tried to console myself with the knowledge that, really, it wasn’t my fault that I had bought the wrong book, it could have happened to anyone. In an effort to lighten my mood, I liked to imagine that this particular copy of The Tender Bar had been bought and sold again over and over through the World of Books store, purchased by one bookworm after another, completely unaware that it was a German edition that would be useless to anyone who didn’t understand the language, then hastily sold on again out of embarrassment.  No-one would be willing to own up to the mistake they had made in buying a book that they could never read, and it would just be passed around for eternity without a word spoken about it, sort of like the way someone gifts you a bottle of vodka when you are a whisky drinker and you sneakily change the label on the gift bag and give it to someone else at their next birthday.

I wasn’t in the mood to re-gift my German copy of The Tender Bar, not even as a joke, and in fact, I wasn’t sure how I was feeling about Christmas at all, especially after it was announced that Scotland would effectively be going back into lockdown from the 26th.  Despite feeling pretty pleased with myself for once again doing a good job with my shopping – for other people, at least – December just didn’t seem very Christmassy, even though many places around town looked to be decorated with much more flair than in previous years.  There were some especially striking light displays on the outsides of houses and hotels, although it seemed unusual to me that they would go to such an effort when presumably most of the hotels were empty due to the pandemic.  Lights of all colours would dance exuberantly around the exterior of dark hotels, giving the appearance of a disco that nobody had turned up for.  From my own perspective, things were bleak enough without me adding my own dismal decorations to the mix.  I just couldn’t bring myself to dust off the tiny old Christmas tree I had inherited from the 1990s or to line up along the edge of my mantel place the three-piece set of plush Christmas figurines I had bought a couple of years earlier, knowing that the little Santa, reindeer and snowman ornaments would be my only prospect of company for the foreseeable future.  That had been the case in previous years, of course, but at least then I could tell myself that there was a chance it wouldn’t be.  At times in December I was feeling like a cheap cracker that has just been pulled apart to no fanfare:  the bang just isn’t there, and all that’s left is a stupid joke that nobody finds funny. 

Christmas in the midst of a pandemic was always going to be a strange thing.  Ordinarily, the last working Friday before the big day would have been set aside for our office party, but like everything else, such things weren’t possible under the restrictions of the time.  Instead, I went to the Lorne’s beer garden with the plant doctor, where I met up with a work colleague and her friend.  It was the first time I had shared a drink with the young island woman since the night of the Royal Rumpus music event in February, when it would be more accurate to say that she had shared a drink with my shoes.  Perhaps one of the advantages of social distancing was that our groups were sat at separate tables and we could enjoy our drinks in the conventional way.  At an adjacent table was sitting a man who was shaped like a Christmas pudding, and he struck up a conversation with the plant doctor and myself by asking us how many grapes or potatoes we thought a person with diabetes was allowed to eat in a single day.  The plant doctor approached the question in a typically scientific manner, reasoning that it would depend on the diabetic’s diet and body mass as well as the type and size of the potato, amongst other factors.  All I could think about was how terrible an existence it must be to have to log every item of food you eat in a day, even a single grape.  It would probably be easier now, in the times of Covid, when people don’t have much better to do with their lives.  But any other time?  What a chore.

“And bananas,” the man interjected, as though suddenly remembering.  “How many of those are you allowed to eat if you have diabetes?”  He had initially seemed quite suspicious of me and the plant doctor when we arrived in the beer garden wearing our face coverings, his narrow-eyed glances almost questioning:  what the hell do you think you’re doing wearing that shit out here?  I wondered if all of these questions about grapes and potatoes were what he did when he sensed a weakness about another person, a test of sorts.  We tried our best to answer sensibly, but how could we know what it would be like to be diabetic?  It wouldn’t be much different to trying to read the German edition of a book you’d mistakenly bought online without knowing a word of the language.  “How many of those can you have?”  I finally asked, nodding my head in the direction of his half-empty glass of Tennent’s Lager.  “Ah, I drink pints of the stuff every day and it’s never done me any harm,” he said with a smile, and I presumed that we had passed his test.

The plant doctor and I turned our attention to reminiscing about the night a year or so earlier when I returned to his flat after the pub and he tricked me into eating mushrooms, which were deep within the biggest omelette I had ever seen.  Hearing the phrase “tricked me into eating mushrooms” seemed to draw the attention of the young women who were in our company at the next table.  Maybe they hadn’t been landed with the pair of dweeby dorks they first thought they were with.  “Were they magic?”  One of them asked, almost giddy.  We were quickly forced into confessing that we weren’t the fun guys the girls were suddenly picturing and we had in fact only eaten a mushroom omelette with regular store-bought mushrooms – or half-eaten, in my case, once I’d discovered the grizzly secret ingredient.

From across the garden another man was keen to have his voice heard.  The figure resembled a scarecrow who wasn’t having very much success in its role; a dirty red baseball cap sat atop a mop of hair the same shade as the fur of an invasive species of squirrel.  He was a fascinating fella who had clearly been rehomed in The Lorne from one of the town’s less salubrious establishments, though for all his quirks he seemed harmless enough, even if he did briefly threaten to ignite a Hebridean war with my colleague when he announced that he hails from Coll and anyone who is from Mull is a “fake islander.”  I never really understood his claim, though it did at least result in what at one stage seemed like it could have been an endless supply of “Coll girl” puns.

What struck me most about the man – who called himself George, though I wasn’t sure how much I believed it – was a particular turn of phrase he used at the height of his bombastic blethering.  I wasn’t paying attention closely enough to pick up on the context, but he was talking about a conversation he had apparently had with his mother, who it was to be presumed is dead.  In this discussion, she had told her son that she hoped to see him in heaven soon because, in his words, “I’m due a good few clatterings.”

It was a phrase that was stuck in my thoughts for days, the sort that you only ever hear when you’re drunk in the pub.  One night in the pub with friends and colleagues, listening to strange characters and their unusual ways with words, had given my bleak festive blues a good clattering.  I woke up on my couch early on Saturday morning, still fully clothed in my zebra-coloured tie and my black sweater vest, my trousers and my shoes, and I couldn’t tell if what I was feeling was schadenfreude or a winter mess. 

A tale of two cities (part two)

The first part of this story can be read here.

I had written four Hungarian phrases into the first page of my notebook in order to help me get along in Budapest.  The variants of good morning/afternoon/evening, the word for ‘thank you’, how to ask someone whether they can speak English, and in the event that they couldn’t, “kaphatnék egy sört.”

It took me until eleven o’clock on my first night, and my second drink in Budapest, to find a pint of beer which worked out at the equivalent of £1.51 and was, therefore, better value than the £1.69 I had paid for a bottle of water at the branch of WH Smith in Buchanan Bus Station in Glasgow earlier in the day.  The pub was on the next street from my hotel, and the first thing I could see when I walked in was a popcorn machine sitting on the bar facing the open doors.  Inside, the barman was sweeping the floor with a hard-bristled brush.  He looked as though he had been working there, brushing the same floor, since the Stalin era.  His complexion was cement-like, grey and brooding, while his olive coloured apron was the most colourful item in the place.

The dusty old bartender was the fourth person I had encountered in Hungary, after the woman at the BKK ticket desk in the airport, the man on reception at my hotel when I checked in and the waiter at Gettó Gulyás, where I was served my first – and best – bowl of traditional Hungarian goulash, and he was the first who didn’t speak any English.  I tried out my version of good evening, which by now was already beginning to sound like I was trying to get the attention of a Spanish Steven.  Yaw aeshtayt was how I had, phonetically, written the phrase in my notebook, but even I could hear that it was coming out of my mouth more like a “yo a Stevie.”  A smile cracked across the features of the barman.  I imagined that it was his first experience of smiling since around 1991, and it was warming to see.

Almost all of the local people I encountered in Budapest had a very good knowledge of the English language, and often my trouble was more with understanding them than the Hungarians understanding me.  On the first morning of my trip, I walked across the Széchenyi Chain Bridge to see the Buda side of the city.  Originally Budapest was three different cities – Buda, Óbuda and Pest – until they were unified in 1873.  While linked by several different bridges across the Danube River, the Buda and Pest sides of the city have very distinctive features.  Buda is more residential, quieter and is set upon rolling hills, where Buda Castle and Matthias Church are found.  

The chalk-white towers at Fisherman’s Bastion

The chalk-white Neo-Romanesque towers of Fisherman’s Bastion is where I spent a large part of my first day.  On my way up the winding stairways, my progress was often stopped by the couple ahead of me.  The woman was dressed entirely in black and seemed to be her partner’s photoshoot project, her red hair bleeding against the white stone.  While I could see the attraction, the panoramic views of Budapest from the lookout terrace were much more appealing.

It was when I returned to the area which I had been gazing down on from up high that I experienced my first real difficulty with language.  I had ventured on to Három Holló, a speakeasy bar which had attracted my attention whilst researching my trip online when it was described as being a hub for Budapest’s “socially sensitive, musically-inclined, left-wing intellectuals.”  I had aspirations of being at least one of those and turned up just as the seating was being arranged for what looked to be some kind of performance.  The pint of American Pale Ale I ordered was almost twice the price of the Borsodi I had enjoyed the previous night, but as a socially sensitive intellectual, I couldn’t be seen to be complaining.

Széchenyi Chain Bridge and Szent István Bazilika

I took a seat in the corner of the room with my notebook, and it wasn’t long before the place filled up and a woman was reading to an audience at the front of the bar area.  The performance was entirely in Hungarian, and I couldn’t be sure if it was poetry, drama or spoken word, though the absence of laughter from the group was leading me to think that it might have been a Hungarian female version of one of my Diaries of a single man readings.  The more I was drinking from my beer, and the longer the performance was going on, the more awkward and uncomfortable I was beginning to feel.  There was an attentive silence in the bar, no-one was going to order drinks and nobody was leaving. How sensitive would it look if I got up and waded through the entire audience to leave, or if I was to make one of my efforts to attract the attention of a Spanish Steven at the bar?

It was impossible to even judge from the tone if the performance was anywhere close to being finished.  I was nursing my beer, trying to make it last as long as possible, when two young females entered the bar and sat at the only available seats left, which happened to be at my table in the corner.  I could scarcely believe that such a situation would arise where two beautiful young women would sit at my table in a hipster bar. They were obviously reluctant to potentially interrupt the live reading by ordering drinks for themselves, and then it occurred to me that I couldn’t talk to them, or at least attempt to talk to them, even if I was feeling brave enough to try.  It was a scenario where the only red face I had was from the heat of the sun I had been walking in all day.

After twenty-four hours in the city, I had picked up a habit of trying bad Hungarian on barmaids who ended up having perfectly good English.  This manner made itself most known when I visited Szimpla Kert, which is Budapest’s most iconic ruin pub.  When I first became aware of the term ruin pub, I thought of the condition I have been in when leaving Aulay’s on any given Friday, where I have been ruined by Jameson.  In actuality, a ruin pub is a bar which has been created in an old derelict building, where the furniture is second-hand and everything has utilised as little renovation as possible.  They were popularised in the early 2000s when more and more buildings in Budapest were falling into a state of disrepair after the end of Communism a decade or so earlier.

Szimpla Kert

Szimpla Kert had numerous bars spread out over three or four different floors, many of them having different themes or atmospheres.  It was at one of those bars that I thought I was being smart when I tried to impress the barmaid by asking for “a sört of beer.”  Apart from my phrase literally translating as me asking for “a beer of beer,” the Hungarian word sört is supposed to sound similar to the English word sure.  The barmaid looked at me with incredulity.  “You want a shot of beer?”  She questioned.  I thought it better to offer my apology in my native tongue and accepted a full pint of beer instead.

Although Szimpla Kert was a stunning sight to behold, it felt a lot like being in one of the “Irish” pubs that every city seems to have, where they are crowded with English stag parties and everyone is at an incredibly high volume of drunkenness.  After exploring the multiple layers of the ruin pub, I returned to the area around my hotel, which was less populated with tourists.  Across the square, I found Imperial Pub, which like the place with the dusty barman the previous night, was a quiet watering hole for locals.  Three men were sitting at the bar as I entered, and the woman who was pouring their pints spoke nothing but Hungarian.  I was able to make it clear this time that I was hoping for an entire glass of beer, and upon hearing my voice the youngest of the men spoke to me in English which was almost although not quite as broken as my Hungarian was.  He told me that he had spent the previous summer working in a kitchen in Basingstoke, which was one of those places that I always knew existed, but I was never entirely sure where it was or had met anyone who had ever been there.

To emphasise that his story was true, as if my reaction had somehow suggested to him that I didn’t quite believe that he had once worked in a kitchen in Basingstoke, he extended his right arm across my chest, where he pointed out a gruesome burn which was across the bone of his wrist and was the colour of modestly milky coffee.  I presumed that it was healing.  In an effort to make conversation I asked the Hungarian with the burn scar how he had enjoyed his time in the United Kingdom, but it turned out that his grasp of the English vocabulary extended as far as to literally tell me that he worked in a kitchen in Basingstoke, and our exchange fell flat.

Regardless of there being only one common strand between us, that being that the Hungarian had briefly lived in Basingstoke and I had heard of it, he offered to buy me a shot of his liquor of choice, which was Jim Beam apple flavoured whiskey.  I hadn’t learned the phrase for “no thank you, I don’t enjoy apple flavoured alcohol” and so over time I ended up with two of the things.  I bought him a beer in return, by which point I had become a sort of musical carousel, an object which nobody really quite understands, but that they take an interest in any way because it is new and emits a peculiar sound. 

A second member of the party shuffled closer to me.  He had asked the barmaid to play some songs by the rock band Guns N’ Roses through her YouTube screen, which had been linked to the bar’s speaker system.  I found it fascinating that even though he didn’t speak a word of English, this man was delighted to hear Axl Rose’s voice, while I too was thrilled to be able to listen to the music.  He was speaking at me with emphatic Hungarian, and I was talking back to him in English.  We didn’t understand a word that the other was saying, yet when it came to the guitar solos and he was wildly strumming his hand down the imaginary guitar on his torso, we both knew exactly what it meant.

The week I wore a t-shirt and got a haircut (aka James @ Corran Halls, Oban)

I woke up one morning during the week, my eyes bleary from another night of mostly restless tossing and turning in bed and my mind not immediately certain whether it was morning or night or some mad hour in the middle of the two, and I had the thought that on that day I should wear a t-shirt for the first time in a while.

I don’t often wear t-shirts, despite having at least a third of a shelf in the bedroom wardrobe, which was surely built for a 19th century giant, devoted to neatly folded plain black and white and navy variations of the garment.  Although I am not anti t-shirt per se, I have long considered them to be the article of clothing of choice for men who don’t know how to dress properly.  The type of man whose reluctance to make any kind of effort when it comes to fashion leads me to speculate that they probably don’t even have a separate sock drawer.  I sometimes ask myself when I am bored and alone why I have so many t-shirts when I don’t wear them, and I think it’s because I have it in my mind that one day I might need to wear a black t-shirt.  A circumstance might arise where the only way of dealing with it is by throwing a cotton navy t-shirt over my head and arms.  In the same way that when I look right into the back of one of my kitchen cupboards I will find an unopened bottle of Rapeseed oil and the middle shelf will be full of tarragon, turmeric and thyme, because you never know when you might be cooking on a night and need a pinch of bouquet garni.  It is true that there is often too much thyme, yet there is never as much time as you would like.

Most of my better decisions are made in the shower.  There is a certain clarity of mind when all you have to think about is making sure you don’t accidentally put Nivea facial wash into your eyeballs, and it was this ability to think clearly which enabled me to agree with my earlier sleep-deprived realisation that it would be a good idea to change into a black t-shirt if I was intending to go for a haircut after work.  As disagreeable as the notion of being seen in a t-shirt is, it is preferable to the prospect of spoiling a perfectly good dress shirt with the ferociously irritating itch created by dozens upon dozens of stray hairs which gather under the collar in the way sun seeking drinkers loiter around the tables in a crowded beer garden.

I finished work early on Wednesday afternoon in preparation for that evening’s James concert and I went home and changed into a black t-shirt before walking along to the barber’s.  Ahead of me in the queue was a young mother and her two boys, only one of whom was getting his hair cut, and the wait was less arduous than when I normally visit on a Saturday morning.  The family seemed quite unremarkable, though after the child had his hair styled and they all left the barber was adamant that he doesn’t want to become “the darling of the tinkers.”  I found this to be a colourful turn of phrase and it featured often in my thoughts for the rest of the day.

As the hairs began to tumble from my head with an urgency I usually only ever see when I try to make a joke in front of a girl, the barber continued his tirade against the tinks and restated his desire to not become their darling.  I had been silent for what was probably close to two or three minutes and there came a point where I felt captive to respond due to the fact that I was held in a chair with a live blade to my scalp and with my arms imprisoned under the tightly wrapped cloak which was tucked under the collar of my t-shirt, despite it never doing very much to prevent the pesky little hairs from reaching my neck.  I threw out the occasional “aye” to compensate for my head’s inability to nod and to create the impression that I was interested in the views which were cascading in greater numbers than the hairs littering the floor around me.  I could imagine the headlines in the following weeks Oban Times if didn’t make some effort to sympathise with the trials of a barber:  Fringe killer; Cut off in his prime; A parting of the ways; A lot more than a little off the top; Short back and inside; Comb-OVER; Brutal barber can’t brush off dispute; Hell razor; Balding man murdered by the darling of the tinks.

Later in the afternoon, having changed into a proper shirt after deciding that rather than having a hair cut I would get them all trimmed, I indulged in some pre-gig libations in the May sunshine.  The town was a heaving mass of middle-aged men and women who were wearing mildly unflattering daisy t-shirts and the bars were throbbing.  After some time I wandered to Wetherspoons for what some might overly kindly describe as food, where I observed the fury of a man who claimed to have been waiting for twenty minutes for his wife’s order of a cup of tea only to be served with an empty cup and the advice that he should go inside and pour the tea himself.  The scene was amusing from a distance and the customer’s ire portrayed a man who was a couple of leaves short of a full box of loose leaf tea.

In the Corran Halls James played some good rock and roll music which was enjoyed by a capacity crowd, despite the bar being closed shortly after nine o’clock.  The band have been playing smaller venues in towns which are rarely visited by large or even any kind of musical acts in preparation for the summer festivals and the release of their forthcoming album Living In Extraordinary Times.  While much of the audience were probably waiting for the big hits like Sometimes and Laid that came in the encore, the entire set was engaging and met with great enthusiasm, and Tim Booth’s dancing was inspiring for my own moves.

The remainder of the week burned increasingly brightly and by Thursday evening I decided that I would pour myself into a seat at a beer garden.  On these sunny days there is little more joy in life than unwinding outside a bar by the sea with a refreshing cold Innis & Gunn, looking out towards the bay as the sun explodes off the sea like a thousand shooting stars and you feel the cool caress of an evening breeze against your face, quickly followed by the waft of a nearby cloud of Golden Virginia.

I knew that one pint of beer would not sate and so before leaving the flat I took what seemed at the time to be a sensible decision and I chopped the vegetables for the green bean, ginger and garlic stir fry I was intending on cooking for dinner, because cutting the ends off green beans is an arduous enough task without drunkenly cutting the end off my finger.  I left the prepared vegetables on a plate next to the wok on the cooker so that drunk me would be reminded of my intended method of cooking and I looked forward to the cuisine all night.  I returned home quite a bit later than anticipated at 11pm, and while the actual act of stir frying my meal went flawlessly I would quickly discover that intoxication has a detrimental effect on soy sauce control and my plate of green beans was swimming in the stuff.  This had the unfortunate consequence of ruining my navy blue tie and I reached the conclusion that in the future I would be better off cooking whilst sober.

The balmy conditions on Friday night led to me dispensing of the usual suit jacket and I instead dressed down in favour of a waistcoat, which was replete with a burgundy pocket square.  Most of the people I talked to refused to accept this as “dressing down” and instead were asking what the occasion was for me being so dressed up, but I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was being casual.  One man noticed the scent of Joop clinging to the skin of my neck and it seemed to evoke a memory of the first time he smelled the aftershave on the 13th of July 1998.  I was happy for his fond recollection but felt sad for myself that the ladies do not pay me such attention.  I later tried to engage a dogsitter in conversation, but when she revealed that the small dog – who was perched upon a bar stool next to her – is eleven years old my ability to talk seized up and I became paralysed by the fear of remarking that she would probably be hopeful that this elderly canine would not die on her watch,  I couldn’t trust myself and left the bar soon thereafter with my forehead pink from the sun and my face red with the shame I had narrowly avoided.  And even after all of that, not one person had commented on my neat hair cut.