Like in
Paul Simon’s Still Crazy After All These
Years, "I met my old lover on the street, last night." Actually,
I met my old “someone I’d had a snog with at an Edinburgh Fringe in the late
1990s” on the tube, the other day, but it’s close enough.
The Edinburgh
Fringe being what it is - three weeks of drunken debauchery, masquerading as an
arts festival - this isn't all that
unlikely. Apparently wherever you are in the UK you are never more than
ten feet from a rat. Similarly wherever I am in the UK I am never more than ten
feet from someone that I've snogged during the Edinburgh Fringe. Often this
someone was a rat, which is what helps both the statistics run true.
Unlike Paul Simon's old lover, my old snogger did not seem so pleased to see
me, she just smiled. She seemed so surprised to see me, she just looked
surprised. "Wow, you look amazing," I exclaimed, because she did; I
wasn't trying to hit on her. I am a happily married man.
But just in case I was trying to hit on her she quickly interjected, "This
is my husband!" A man in a homberg hat standing next to her, gave me a
little wave that said, "Hello" and "All right, pal, back
off!" at the same time. I gave him a look, which replied, "Cool, you're
a lucky man" and "It's OK, mate I'm spoken for, don't worry."
And then a little sneer which said, "Lucky for you, cos I could easily
take you in a fight, hat-o!....... Unless your hat has secret concealed weapons
in it, like Inspector Gadget. Let’s leave it. Better to be safe than to be hit
on the head by a mallet on the end of a big spring."
He responded with a glance that said, "I'm not saying whether my hat has
secret concealed weapons in it or not; that is between me and my wife. My
philosophy is "speak softly and give the impression that you might be
wearing an Inspector Gadget style hat.""
It was initially weird to think that she was married. "When did that
happen?" I thought, before realising that it was probably at some point in
the last decade and a half. Even though we move on, it’s weirdly hard to
process that the world does as well.
"Isn't
Stewart Lee doing well?" she said (last time she’d seen me, he and I had
been in a double act), “I sit there watching him thinking, “Is he a
genius?"
"He definitely isn't," I replied, but she didn't seem convinced.
"How about we talk about how great I am for a bit now?" I failed to
ask, ever mindful of the unknown powers of her husband's hat.
But there wasn’t time, they had to get off at the next stop.
"Look
at you all cool… with your hair," she smiled. Her husband seemed to be
pressing a button on his overcoat and then hitting his hat as if something had
gone awry, so I didn’t kiss her goodbye.
So we
didn't talk about some old times, have ourselves some beers or even really
catch up on what either of us were up to
(though at least we were up to date on Stewart Lee). But it was still a
pleasant feeling to get this brief reconnection with someone and something
lost…
I
never found out if she's still crazy after all these years, but if she noticed
the way I was looking at her husband's hat, she’ll definitely think I am.
Gunter Schabowski died last weekend. The BBC website summed up his 86 years
on this planet with the headline “Berlin Wall Blunderer.” Ouch! There must have
been more to him that that. How terrible to be defined by one error. It made me
wonder how my own life might be reduced to the most damning three words possible.
“Pointless Celebrities Failure” maybe. I don’t think there’s a more damning
obituary.
