Picking Up Chicks

It was nearing ten and for some inexplicable reason pubs close at eleven in London. It's like watching Top Gun till the point where Goose carks it and then not seeing Mav break down, regroup and kick some serious Commie ass. It's just not right. It's immoral and well, yes, I think immoral will do for now - yes immoral.

The Kid had preemptively dropped a couple of throw away lines at two blondes and a brunette standing in a group next to us. They didn't seem repulsed which was a sign I took to be positive. I'm good with signs. This was no time for the faint hearted. Carpe diem, and all that crap. Pushed on by the lyrics of a crucial Midnight Oil number blaring from the speakers I made my move.

'Did you know that the Indonesian word for crazy is gila?', I asked one of the brunettes. Strange opening to be assured, but one almost guaranteed to solicit a response.
'What?' she replied almost expectedly.
'Gila, it means crazy, in Indonesian', I said casually.
'I did not know that', she replied with a smile then added, 'do you always start conversations like that.' Ah, something to work with. From memory, the second line was where I inevitably stumbled.
'Well no, not really, but its better than spouting something totally cheesy isn't it.' I grinned, panicked then regrouped.
'Cheese versus irrelevance. Hmmm.', she smiled again. Good looks and wit, this could be tough.

Her name was Emma and she was studying Law at University. The next hour flew by in a blur of jokes and good natured banter. But that was all. Again, I had stumbled at the line. Again, all I had was a phone number and yes, again, I had failed to 'close out'. I justifiably blame British Licensing Laws on this occasion. Did I mention that personally, I believe they are immoral.

I was one of those children who could never wait for Christmas. The idea of waiting for something that I wanted now seemed a cruel, bordering sick joke. Inevitably - days before the fat bastard made his way down the chimney - this led to some careful unwrapping followed by re-wrapping that looked as if it had been performed by a seven year old. A seven year old with Parkinson's disease who'd just downed a bottle of Scotch - my parents must have known.

This continued well into adulthood. Not the present thing, the waiting thing. I never bought a lotto ticket because gratification wasn't instantaneous. I'd often take off for far flung places with half a weeks wages in my pocket because the idea of spending time saving funds killed the excitement. The whole concept of lay-buy was all but lost on me. I call it impetuousness, others call it impatience. Whatever way you look it I want it now.

So for me, the idea of waiting three or four days to tee up a night where we could meet for drinks three or four days further down the track sucked the big one. But I was determined to do it this time. That and find a job. Yes, drinks with a pretty girl and employment, how hard could that be?

The trip home was fairly uneventful. I was secretly in awe of The Kid's knowledge of London and in particular, the ease with which he found stations, knew which platforms to go to and the casualness with which he shuffled behind me fare-less through the ticket gates. I'd never tell him though.

I'd become his secret protégé, surreptitiously watching and taking things in. Soon I'd know the name of the brown line, I'd ask for tickets based on zones and I'd know which carriage to board to be close to the exit at the other end. It would take time, but this was an opportunity to work on my patience - better myself as a human being.

Back at Hannen Road after a round of toasted ham and cheese and a cup of coffee I hit the hay. Well, the hairy mattress at any rate. Hay would have been better, at least more hygienic. Natalie was already asleep on the comfy mattress and suddenly I had a huge surge of mattress envy pass over me. I was dog-tired though and to be honest, I could have fallen asleep in a Bangkok Youth Hostel.