him when he doesn’t want to be touched. Hand on the arm plus emotional confession. They can’t bear that, the Anglos, they’ll cringe and shiver and swallow whatever you tell them. ‘Like trying to ease an oyster into a parking meter.’ Did you see Stuart’s face when I left him? What a cameo of tender concern.
I’m not really gloating, well only a soupçon , I’m more relieved: that’s the way it comes out with me. And I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this if I want to keep your sympathy. (Have I got it in the first place? Hard to tell, I’d say. And do I want it? I do, I do!) It’s just that I’m too involved in what’s happening to play games – at least, to play games with you. I’m fated to carry on with what I have to do and hope not to incur your terminal disapproval in the process. Promise not to turn your face away: if you decline to perceive me, then I really shall cease to exist. Don’t kill me off! Spare poor Ollie and he may yet amuse you!
Sorry, getting a bit hyper again. So . So there I am in some terra incognita by the name of Stoke Newington, whichStuart assures me is the next district where house prices are due to display tumescence, but where for the moment there dwelleth men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. And why am I there? Because I have to do something very simple. I have to go round to the wife of a man – a man! my best friend! – whom I have just left trogging off to the tube station; I have to go round to his wife of six weeks and tell her I love her. Hence the shrubbery of blue-and-white under my left arm, whose ineptly-wrapped stems have bedewed my pantalon in a manner suggesting the splatter of micturition. How not inappropriate: for when the shop-bell heralded the earnest banker I really thought I was going to pee myself.
I walked around a bit to let my trousers dry and practised what I was going to say when Gillian opened the door. Should I hide the flowers behind my back and produce them like a conjuror? Should I lay them on the doorstep and vamoose before she responded to the bell? Perhaps an aria would be appropriate – Deh vient alla finestra …
So I strolled amid the base huts sheltering those far-flung operatives of commerce, waiting for the heat of the day to draw the moisture from my 60/40 silk/viscose trouser mix. That’s what I feel like myself, and rather too often, if you must know: 60 per cent silk and 40 per cent viscose. Sleek but inclined to rumple. Whereas Stuart is 100 per cent man-made fibre: hard to crush, easy to wash, simple to drip-dry, stains merely lift out. We are cut from a different cloth, Stu and I. And on my cloth, if I didn’t hurry, the water-stains would soon be replaced by sweat-marks. God I was nervous. I needed some valerian tea; either that or a monster Manhattan. A febrifuge or a mega-snort, one or the other. No, what I really neededwas a handful of beta-blockers. Do you know about them? Propranolol is one of their various soubriquets. Developed for concert pianists suffering from nerves. Controls the flutters without interfering with the performance. Do you think they work for sex? Perhaps Stuart will get me some after hearing about my nuit blanche with Rosa. It would be just like him to salve the fractured heart with chemicals. But what I needed them for was to deliver the heart, rubescent and entire, to the woman about to answer the bell at number 68. Is there a dusky dealer lounging in a doorway with slick grin and open palm? 40 mg of propranolol, my man, and sharp about it, here’s my wallet, here’s my Rolex Oyster, take everything … no, those are my flowers. Take everything except my flowers.
But now they’re hers. And when le moment suprême glowed (let me translate that briefly into Stuartese: when push came to shove), there was no difficulty. You may find Ollie rather baroque, but that’s only the facade. Penetrate inside – stay awhile with guidebook raised – and you will find something
I’m not really gloating, well only a soupçon , I’m more relieved: that’s the way it comes out with me. And I probably shouldn’t be telling you all this if I want to keep your sympathy. (Have I got it in the first place? Hard to tell, I’d say. And do I want it? I do, I do!) It’s just that I’m too involved in what’s happening to play games – at least, to play games with you. I’m fated to carry on with what I have to do and hope not to incur your terminal disapproval in the process. Promise not to turn your face away: if you decline to perceive me, then I really shall cease to exist. Don’t kill me off! Spare poor Ollie and he may yet amuse you!
Sorry, getting a bit hyper again. So . So there I am in some terra incognita by the name of Stoke Newington, whichStuart assures me is the next district where house prices are due to display tumescence, but where for the moment there dwelleth men whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders. And why am I there? Because I have to do something very simple. I have to go round to the wife of a man – a man! my best friend! – whom I have just left trogging off to the tube station; I have to go round to his wife of six weeks and tell her I love her. Hence the shrubbery of blue-and-white under my left arm, whose ineptly-wrapped stems have bedewed my pantalon in a manner suggesting the splatter of micturition. How not inappropriate: for when the shop-bell heralded the earnest banker I really thought I was going to pee myself.
I walked around a bit to let my trousers dry and practised what I was going to say when Gillian opened the door. Should I hide the flowers behind my back and produce them like a conjuror? Should I lay them on the doorstep and vamoose before she responded to the bell? Perhaps an aria would be appropriate – Deh vient alla finestra …
So I strolled amid the base huts sheltering those far-flung operatives of commerce, waiting for the heat of the day to draw the moisture from my 60/40 silk/viscose trouser mix. That’s what I feel like myself, and rather too often, if you must know: 60 per cent silk and 40 per cent viscose. Sleek but inclined to rumple. Whereas Stuart is 100 per cent man-made fibre: hard to crush, easy to wash, simple to drip-dry, stains merely lift out. We are cut from a different cloth, Stu and I. And on my cloth, if I didn’t hurry, the water-stains would soon be replaced by sweat-marks. God I was nervous. I needed some valerian tea; either that or a monster Manhattan. A febrifuge or a mega-snort, one or the other. No, what I really neededwas a handful of beta-blockers. Do you know about them? Propranolol is one of their various soubriquets. Developed for concert pianists suffering from nerves. Controls the flutters without interfering with the performance. Do you think they work for sex? Perhaps Stuart will get me some after hearing about my nuit blanche with Rosa. It would be just like him to salve the fractured heart with chemicals. But what I needed them for was to deliver the heart, rubescent and entire, to the woman about to answer the bell at number 68. Is there a dusky dealer lounging in a doorway with slick grin and open palm? 40 mg of propranolol, my man, and sharp about it, here’s my wallet, here’s my Rolex Oyster, take everything … no, those are my flowers. Take everything except my flowers.
But now they’re hers. And when le moment suprême glowed (let me translate that briefly into Stuartese: when push came to shove), there was no difficulty. You may find Ollie rather baroque, but that’s only the facade. Penetrate inside – stay awhile with guidebook raised – and you will find something
Similar Books
