A suggestion is made that we hold a party at the office and invite models; soon thereafter, an email arrives that wonders if we "have the juice to make things happen." Lost in a reverie involving a BAFTA for a series set in an advertising agency in 1981, I stir only to read an email from the client who continues to think I am one hundred per cent wrong.
Exhausted, I drag myself onto Glorie the bicyle and take off home down the canals. I am cycling too fast, imagining that my pedals are the heads of my detractors; it makes me feel better for while.
As I am cyling past a bar, someone shouts my name. "Fuck off", I bellow, recognising the voice; I do not turn round. Minutes later I am drinking beer and asking a designer of jeans if my outfit has a hint of Dutch bull dyke about it.
There is a lull in the conversation; the voice of one of my companions rings out! He is telling a story about his date the night before. She was arrogant, he tells us, but he told her so. And then the conversation takes a strange turn.
Man in hat:: If you stick your finger out, they will grasp on onto it.
N: Who?
Man in hat: Women. Seriously, man, if I stick my finger out like this (sticks is finger out, pointing down at the floor as if to hint at a crowd of women beneath him), the women just grab it.
We are all still, staring at him with our astonished eyes.
J: Seriously. What are you talking about?
Man in hat: Women, man! They take your finger, then they're, like, trying to take your hand, and before you know it they are hanging off your hand, trying to steal your arm!
Me: What, so you're there, and there are millions of women clasping on to your finger with their tiny grasping little monkey hands?
Man in hat: Yes!
We are not looking at each other. I am thinking to myself that this is splendid work, considering we have only had one beer and it is not yet 9 o'clock.
Man in hat: I don't get it. Why are you all laughing? I'm not shitting you, man. Women. They'll take your finger if they can.
Time passes. We drink more beer. People come and go. It is 11.30, and the sky reminds me of my once-twisted ankle.
More time passes. People leave; I am sitting on the edge of high bench kicking my legs. "One more and then home?", says my companion. "OK", I say. "What do you want?" "A small beer please", says my companion.
Me: Two small beers please.
Barman: What's that?
Me: Two small beers please.
Barman: Two small beers. Yes.
He appears fifteen minutes later. "Here you are!", he says. In his hands he has two Caipirinhas. "We ordered two small beers!", we exclaim. The barman looks like he will cry, so we drink them.
Time passes. The sky goes dark. It is 1am and we have not eaten. "Another Special Beer?", says my companion. "Whyever not!", I squeak.
The next morning I find my shoes in the hall outside my front door. It takes me half an hour to find my bicycle. I cycle to the Westerpark and eat bacon and eggs in the nearly-rain with two friends from last night. "Special beer?", says one of them.
Exhausted, I drag myself onto Glorie the bicyle and take off home down the canals. I am cycling too fast, imagining that my pedals are the heads of my detractors; it makes me feel better for while.
As I am cyling past a bar, someone shouts my name. "Fuck off", I bellow, recognising the voice; I do not turn round. Minutes later I am drinking beer and asking a designer of jeans if my outfit has a hint of Dutch bull dyke about it.
There is a lull in the conversation; the voice of one of my companions rings out! He is telling a story about his date the night before. She was arrogant, he tells us, but he told her so. And then the conversation takes a strange turn.
Man in hat:: If you stick your finger out, they will grasp on onto it.
N: Who?
Man in hat: Women. Seriously, man, if I stick my finger out like this (sticks is finger out, pointing down at the floor as if to hint at a crowd of women beneath him), the women just grab it.
We are all still, staring at him with our astonished eyes.
J: Seriously. What are you talking about?
Man in hat: Women, man! They take your finger, then they're, like, trying to take your hand, and before you know it they are hanging off your hand, trying to steal your arm!
Me: What, so you're there, and there are millions of women clasping on to your finger with their tiny grasping little monkey hands?
Man in hat: Yes!
We are not looking at each other. I am thinking to myself that this is splendid work, considering we have only had one beer and it is not yet 9 o'clock.
Man in hat: I don't get it. Why are you all laughing? I'm not shitting you, man. Women. They'll take your finger if they can.
Time passes. We drink more beer. People come and go. It is 11.30, and the sky reminds me of my once-twisted ankle.
More time passes. People leave; I am sitting on the edge of high bench kicking my legs. "One more and then home?", says my companion. "OK", I say. "What do you want?" "A small beer please", says my companion.
Me: Two small beers please.
Barman: What's that?
Me: Two small beers please.
Barman: Two small beers. Yes.
He appears fifteen minutes later. "Here you are!", he says. In his hands he has two Caipirinhas. "We ordered two small beers!", we exclaim. The barman looks like he will cry, so we drink them.
Time passes. The sky goes dark. It is 1am and we have not eaten. "Another Special Beer?", says my companion. "Whyever not!", I squeak.
The next morning I find my shoes in the hall outside my front door. It takes me half an hour to find my bicycle. I cycle to the Westerpark and eat bacon and eggs in the nearly-rain with two friends from last night. "Special beer?", says one of them.
1 comment:
Is the first pic a close-up of the second?
If that's what special beer does to you I'll pass. And is special beer relates to special brew and super lager - the hostel beer of choice?
Life in that fast bike lane indeed NWM.
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