in and out next door and Rosie grew more like an export reject zeppelin every day. As for Sid, the dark shadows under his eyes might have been caused by reading the London Telephone Directory by candlelight, but I doubted it.
All in all, it was a strange time for me to get involved with a bird, but I did. I think maybe it was a reaction to Sandy. I really fancied her but I knew it would never come to anything so I looked around for a substitute to whom I could say all the things I felt but could never seriously express. I think also that I was influenced by all the bints I was making on the job. They could well have put me off the whole idea of marriage but instead, I felt a great desire to prove that there was some bird, somewhere, who could just love me and stay like that. Basically, you see, I was a hypocrite and a puritan and all the things Sandy used to call me. What I did was quite different from what I was prepared to permit my bird to do. Fascinating isn’t it? No? – oh well, you’re probably right.
I met Elizabeth down at the Palais, which, I read somewhere, is where 99.9 percent of British Men meet their future wives. You’d think that armed with a statistic like that no poor bastard would ever go near the place, but I’m one of those berks who get born every minute and takes a 6¾” hat size to prove it.
I used to go with a mate of mine called George who was the perfect side kick because he was good looking and a good dancer but so stupid he couldn’t arrange the words “do fuck you?” into a common phrase or saying, if you put them on a blackboard for him. I used to let him whip them round the floor a few times and then, when they were bored out of their minds with telling him what they did, I’d move in with a bit of chat and – hey presto! their drawers were practically in my jacket pocket.
But Elizabeth – there’s a solid, reliable name for you, nothing flighty about Elizabeth – she was different. When I came bouncing up she looked at me as if I was a run in a new pair of tights. I was really impressed by that, you can’t beat the old cold shoulder for making an impression.
“Fancy you working there,” George is saying.
“My sister works in the haberdashery department. I don’t suppose you know her?”
“I don’t think so,” says the bird. “I haven’t been there long enough to meet many people yet.”
“Her name is Wanda,” goes on George, “tall girl, fair hair. She plays the piano very well.”
“You can’t miss her,” I say, “Just look out for a tall, fair haired girl pushing a piano.” I give her my understanding George-is-a-prat-but-now-I-am-here-everything-is-going-to-be-alright smile. The girl glances at me as if I’d dropped out of the woodwork and turns back to George.
“I don’t think I’ve met her,” she says, “now I really must go and find my friend, she’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. Thanks for the drink.”
She starts to stand up but I’m leaning over the back of her chair so it’s difficult.
“Come on George,” I say, “surely you’re going to introduce me to your friend.”
“Elizabeth – Timmy Lea” says George wearily. “Elizabeth works in the beauty department at Haddons.”
“She must be their best advertisement.” I say.
“Yuk,” says Elizabeth and I fall in love with her on the spot. She scrapes back her chair nods to George and is gone.
“Bitch,” he says, “she had a large gin and tonic off me.”
“You’re a bloody fool then, aren’t you.”
“We can’t all be freeloaders like you.”
“That’s not very nice, I was going to buy you a light ale but now I’ve thought better of it.”
I wander off into the balcony and look down through the coloured light onto the dance floor. Ricci Volare – Alfred Boggis to his Mum and Dad – is conducting his Music Men as if he had a fire cracker stuffed up his arse, and about forty birds are dancing with each other whilst a crowd of blokes hang about
All in all, it was a strange time for me to get involved with a bird, but I did. I think maybe it was a reaction to Sandy. I really fancied her but I knew it would never come to anything so I looked around for a substitute to whom I could say all the things I felt but could never seriously express. I think also that I was influenced by all the bints I was making on the job. They could well have put me off the whole idea of marriage but instead, I felt a great desire to prove that there was some bird, somewhere, who could just love me and stay like that. Basically, you see, I was a hypocrite and a puritan and all the things Sandy used to call me. What I did was quite different from what I was prepared to permit my bird to do. Fascinating isn’t it? No? – oh well, you’re probably right.
I met Elizabeth down at the Palais, which, I read somewhere, is where 99.9 percent of British Men meet their future wives. You’d think that armed with a statistic like that no poor bastard would ever go near the place, but I’m one of those berks who get born every minute and takes a 6¾” hat size to prove it.
I used to go with a mate of mine called George who was the perfect side kick because he was good looking and a good dancer but so stupid he couldn’t arrange the words “do fuck you?” into a common phrase or saying, if you put them on a blackboard for him. I used to let him whip them round the floor a few times and then, when they were bored out of their minds with telling him what they did, I’d move in with a bit of chat and – hey presto! their drawers were practically in my jacket pocket.
But Elizabeth – there’s a solid, reliable name for you, nothing flighty about Elizabeth – she was different. When I came bouncing up she looked at me as if I was a run in a new pair of tights. I was really impressed by that, you can’t beat the old cold shoulder for making an impression.
“Fancy you working there,” George is saying.
“My sister works in the haberdashery department. I don’t suppose you know her?”
“I don’t think so,” says the bird. “I haven’t been there long enough to meet many people yet.”
“Her name is Wanda,” goes on George, “tall girl, fair hair. She plays the piano very well.”
“You can’t miss her,” I say, “Just look out for a tall, fair haired girl pushing a piano.” I give her my understanding George-is-a-prat-but-now-I-am-here-everything-is-going-to-be-alright smile. The girl glances at me as if I’d dropped out of the woodwork and turns back to George.
“I don’t think I’ve met her,” she says, “now I really must go and find my friend, she’ll be wondering what’s happened to me. Thanks for the drink.”
She starts to stand up but I’m leaning over the back of her chair so it’s difficult.
“Come on George,” I say, “surely you’re going to introduce me to your friend.”
“Elizabeth – Timmy Lea” says George wearily. “Elizabeth works in the beauty department at Haddons.”
“She must be their best advertisement.” I say.
“Yuk,” says Elizabeth and I fall in love with her on the spot. She scrapes back her chair nods to George and is gone.
“Bitch,” he says, “she had a large gin and tonic off me.”
“You’re a bloody fool then, aren’t you.”
“We can’t all be freeloaders like you.”
“That’s not very nice, I was going to buy you a light ale but now I’ve thought better of it.”
I wander off into the balcony and look down through the coloured light onto the dance floor. Ricci Volare – Alfred Boggis to his Mum and Dad – is conducting his Music Men as if he had a fire cracker stuffed up his arse, and about forty birds are dancing with each other whilst a crowd of blokes hang about
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