Twice is Coincidence?
A newly recovered Uncle Pete came into the bar last night and asked about N. I mentioned to Pete that I was about to text N when the mobile phone vibrated, and I got a text message. Ah, from N, in fact. I texted him back.
I vaguely said I'd ring him today to try and get some paint (Albany 6570, if you're interested), but after a restless night I decided that it could wait until next week. But, avoiding the revising of a pointless yet essential document I should be doing, another interior design conundrum raises its head (beech or medium brown?), and so I decide to text him. Trying to spell the first word, and the phone rings. It's N, with paint prices.
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.
I don't often get angry, not really angry, but a month ago I had one of those weekends where I was spending about half of it working, and half of it in the pub, playing chess with M or G. I'd got there at 12.15, and OC was still there. OC had begun as a mate, someone who was in the pub three or four times a week and who had a very dry sense of humour which by passed some people. He drinks more than me, and mixes his drinks - Stella, Strongbow, Vodka, Bitter, Strongbow, XXXX, Vodka... - so that of an end of an evening he would be legless. He would literally fall over. This was inconvenient in a pub, a recipe for being thrown out of a club. On one occasion he even hit![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
the_bottles, after which he was sort-of barred. When I got down to the pub for the second time, about nine, he was still there, well oiled.
After last orders we walk down to the Bell&, and it's generally understood, by Superchef and G, that I'm going to lose him. This I fail to do, but I decide on a tactic of ignoring him once I get to the pub. It's one of those times I really just want to stare into my pint, be alone in a crowd, and not talk to nobody.
Do you want another drink? he asks.
I'm fine, I'm just having this and going, I say.
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How about a top shelf?
Whisky? Vodka?
Nos avail me nothing; he buys M, himself and me a glass of Schnapps.
No, thanks.
He then complains I'm being insufficiently cheerful and I tell him to fuck the fucking fuck off.
Jaws drop.
It shocked me almost as much, and I suspect by the end of the evening I was apologising. Triffic.
And then last night Curly was in the pub. He's not been dealt a great hand of cards - his mother's an alcohol and he was probably weened on larger. His first meal would have been a pack of crisps. He's been abused left right and centre and has grown up distinctly unadjusted. But, still.
I'll played him a couple of times at chess, and he hasn't come close to winning more than once, and he sits and watches M and me playing. I used to thrash M every time, but his game's improved no end, and he's more likely to beat me. I claim my brain is full.
From the sidelines Curley starts offering advice. I cough, meaningfully. He continues. I tell him it's bad enough his mum asking me questions about what Pink Floyd were called before they were called Pink Floyd when I played her girlfriend, without a piece by piece commentary. He tells me he can see what I'm doing. This is news to me, I'm searching for a tactic here. I tell him to hush. He keeps talking, suggesting a move to M. I point that M and I are playing and he can play the winner. Five minutes later, he moves one of M's pieces. I move it back. He moves it again. I start fuming at him, but part of me just won't quite let go.
Eventually he gets the message and leaves, just before I make a move that finally gets M in check mate after five games.
Curley? Curley, it's your game now...
Ah, he's gone.
Third time is enemy action.
I vaguely said I'd ring him today to try and get some paint (Albany 6570, if you're interested), but after a restless night I decided that it could wait until next week. But, avoiding the revising of a pointless yet essential document I should be doing, another interior design conundrum raises its head (beech or medium brown?), and so I decide to text him. Trying to spell the first word, and the phone rings. It's N, with paint prices.
Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence.
I don't often get angry, not really angry, but a month ago I had one of those weekends where I was spending about half of it working, and half of it in the pub, playing chess with M or G. I'd got there at 12.15, and OC was still there. OC had begun as a mate, someone who was in the pub three or four times a week and who had a very dry sense of humour which by passed some people. He drinks more than me, and mixes his drinks - Stella, Strongbow, Vodka, Bitter, Strongbow, XXXX, Vodka... - so that of an end of an evening he would be legless. He would literally fall over. This was inconvenient in a pub, a recipe for being thrown out of a club. On one occasion he even hit
the_bottles, after which he was sort-of barred. When I got down to the pub for the second time, about nine, he was still there, well oiled.After last orders we walk down to the Bell&, and it's generally understood, by Superchef and G, that I'm going to lose him. This I fail to do, but I decide on a tactic of ignoring him once I get to the pub. It's one of those times I really just want to stare into my pint, be alone in a crowd, and not talk to nobody.
Do you want another drink? he asks.
I'm fine, I'm just having this and going, I say.
Are you sure?
Are you really sure?
How about a top shelf?
Whisky? Vodka?
Nos avail me nothing; he buys M, himself and me a glass of Schnapps.
No, thanks.
He then complains I'm being insufficiently cheerful and I tell him to fuck the fucking fuck off.
Jaws drop.
It shocked me almost as much, and I suspect by the end of the evening I was apologising. Triffic.
And then last night Curly was in the pub. He's not been dealt a great hand of cards - his mother's an alcohol and he was probably weened on larger. His first meal would have been a pack of crisps. He's been abused left right and centre and has grown up distinctly unadjusted. But, still.
I'll played him a couple of times at chess, and he hasn't come close to winning more than once, and he sits and watches M and me playing. I used to thrash M every time, but his game's improved no end, and he's more likely to beat me. I claim my brain is full.
From the sidelines Curley starts offering advice. I cough, meaningfully. He continues. I tell him it's bad enough his mum asking me questions about what Pink Floyd were called before they were called Pink Floyd when I played her girlfriend, without a piece by piece commentary. He tells me he can see what I'm doing. This is news to me, I'm searching for a tactic here. I tell him to hush. He keeps talking, suggesting a move to M. I point that M and I are playing and he can play the winner. Five minutes later, he moves one of M's pieces. I move it back. He moves it again. I start fuming at him, but part of me just won't quite let go.
Eventually he gets the message and leaves, just before I make a move that finally gets M in check mate after five games.
Curley? Curley, it's your game now...
Ah, he's gone.
Third time is enemy action.