worse than me? I’d have said we were evenly matched. There were times when I managed to have her gazing at me in naked admiration; but no doubt about it, she set the bar very high. Like, take the very first time we met.
It was a summer’s day, it must have been six years ago, and I was fighting my way up Grafton Street, weaving through the crowds, highly irritated by every single person who wasn’t moving at exactly the same speed as me. ‘For the love of God,’ I was muttering, ‘would you just fucking
walk
? Like, how hard can it
be
?’ Legitimately expending all that crankiness was very enjoyable, in fact
so
enjoyable that I made a fundamental mistake: out of nowhere someone had glommed on to me. And not just anyone – it was a man with long, blond, white-guy dreadlocks, carrying a clipboard and wearing a red plastic tabard advertising some charity.
He walked backwards, in front of me, his arms outstretched. ‘Talk to me. Hey, talk to me. Ten seconds?’
I dipped my head; it was fatal to make eye contact. I was furious with myself for being sucked into this charity orbit. I should have seen it coming and taken appropriate avoidance action. In fact I saw it as a mark of personal failure that the bloke even thought I was a possibility.
I dodged to the right and he came with me, as if we were umbilically joined. I lurched to the left and he lurched too, as graceful as if we were dancing. I started to feel panicky.
‘Okay, here’s a deal,’ the guy said. ‘Talk to me for five seconds? You’ve got great shoes, you know that? You hear me? Those trainers are
sick
. Why won’t you talk to me?’
With monumental effort I wrenched myself from hisforce field and skipped away sideways, to wish him ill from a safe distance, and he called after me, for half of Dublin to hear, ‘So you can buy yourself
yet another
pair of trainers you don’t even need but you can’t give, like, two euro a week to help paralysed donkeys? I feel waaaay sorry for you.’
I bitterly regretted that I didn’t know how to make the noises that people make when they’re putting the evil eye on you. I really should have paid more attention that time it had happened to me. (My refusal to buy the lucky heather from the scary-smiling lady in a patterned headscarf had brought forth a stream of nasty enchantment in a hypnotic, gutteral voice.)
Even as I was wondering if I should give it a go anyway, if I should just try to make some chanty, spell-like sounds and throw a scare into him, the charity bloke had turned his attention to someone else. From her short hair and neat little body, I thought at first it was a teenage boy, then I realized it was a woman, around the same age as me, and there was something about her that made me keep looking.
‘Hey,’ the guy crooned at her. ‘Your trainers are great!’
‘Really?’ the girl asked. ‘You think?’
‘I do think! Could we have a quick gab?’
I crept closer, people bumping into me and giving me a good tsk. But I barely noticed because I was so focused on the unfolding scene. Somehow I knew this girl was going to do something dramatic, perhaps kung-fu-kick the bloke or take his already obscenely low-slung jeans and give them a sharp tug so that they were suddenly down around his knees.
But even I wasn’t prepared for what she did: she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly round him in a great big hug.
‘Your trainers are great too,’ she said.
‘Hey …’ He gave a shocked little laugh. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘And your hair …’ She took a fistful of his dreads and gave it a good hard tug. ‘Is it a wig?’
‘No … all mine.’ He wore an uneasy smile and tried to step back from her.
‘No, no, no.’ She tightened her hold. ‘You need a hug for being so sweet about my trainers.’ Her eyes were sparkling and twinkling with devilment.
‘Yeah, but …’
A small crowd had gathered and was gleaning great pleasure from his
It was a summer’s day, it must have been six years ago, and I was fighting my way up Grafton Street, weaving through the crowds, highly irritated by every single person who wasn’t moving at exactly the same speed as me. ‘For the love of God,’ I was muttering, ‘would you just fucking
walk
? Like, how hard can it
be
?’ Legitimately expending all that crankiness was very enjoyable, in fact
so
enjoyable that I made a fundamental mistake: out of nowhere someone had glommed on to me. And not just anyone – it was a man with long, blond, white-guy dreadlocks, carrying a clipboard and wearing a red plastic tabard advertising some charity.
He walked backwards, in front of me, his arms outstretched. ‘Talk to me. Hey, talk to me. Ten seconds?’
I dipped my head; it was fatal to make eye contact. I was furious with myself for being sucked into this charity orbit. I should have seen it coming and taken appropriate avoidance action. In fact I saw it as a mark of personal failure that the bloke even thought I was a possibility.
I dodged to the right and he came with me, as if we were umbilically joined. I lurched to the left and he lurched too, as graceful as if we were dancing. I started to feel panicky.
‘Okay, here’s a deal,’ the guy said. ‘Talk to me for five seconds? You’ve got great shoes, you know that? You hear me? Those trainers are
sick
. Why won’t you talk to me?’
With monumental effort I wrenched myself from hisforce field and skipped away sideways, to wish him ill from a safe distance, and he called after me, for half of Dublin to hear, ‘So you can buy yourself
yet another
pair of trainers you don’t even need but you can’t give, like, two euro a week to help paralysed donkeys? I feel waaaay sorry for you.’
I bitterly regretted that I didn’t know how to make the noises that people make when they’re putting the evil eye on you. I really should have paid more attention that time it had happened to me. (My refusal to buy the lucky heather from the scary-smiling lady in a patterned headscarf had brought forth a stream of nasty enchantment in a hypnotic, gutteral voice.)
Even as I was wondering if I should give it a go anyway, if I should just try to make some chanty, spell-like sounds and throw a scare into him, the charity bloke had turned his attention to someone else. From her short hair and neat little body, I thought at first it was a teenage boy, then I realized it was a woman, around the same age as me, and there was something about her that made me keep looking.
‘Hey,’ the guy crooned at her. ‘Your trainers are great!’
‘Really?’ the girl asked. ‘You think?’
‘I do think! Could we have a quick gab?’
I crept closer, people bumping into me and giving me a good tsk. But I barely noticed because I was so focused on the unfolding scene. Somehow I knew this girl was going to do something dramatic, perhaps kung-fu-kick the bloke or take his already obscenely low-slung jeans and give them a sharp tug so that they were suddenly down around his knees.
But even I wasn’t prepared for what she did: she flung herself at him and wrapped her arms tightly round him in a great big hug.
‘Your trainers are great too,’ she said.
‘Hey …’ He gave a shocked little laugh. ‘Thanks for that.’
‘And your hair …’ She took a fistful of his dreads and gave it a good hard tug. ‘Is it a wig?’
‘No … all mine.’ He wore an uneasy smile and tried to step back from her.
‘No, no, no.’ She tightened her hold. ‘You need a hug for being so sweet about my trainers.’ Her eyes were sparkling and twinkling with devilment.
‘Yeah, but …’
A small crowd had gathered and was gleaning great pleasure from his
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