Someone for Everyone

Familial disapproval and the scratching pens of potential future employers be hanged, I'll admit it: there's nothing I enjoy more than a good piss-up on a sunny Sunday afternoon.  We have friends in town this weekend, so, equipped with a good excuse and my Panama hat, I made my way to the old Walmer Castle in Ledbury Road.

There are a number of differences between British pubs and American bars.  For starters, the pub is a social event, where the bar tends to be primarily focussed on drinking.  But drinking IS a social event, you say.  True, but moreso the way they do it here.  A proper pub is as much about the meeting of new people and the enjoyment of the company of friends as it is about the drink.  The pub is traditionally the centre of social life here.  A good local and a love of talking bollocks all afternoon is as key to the enjoyment of London as is, say, a love of curry and an appreciation of high rates of taxation.

Another key difference between British pubs and American bars is the sense of community ownership of furniture.  I've seen fistfights break out in American watering holes over elbow rights to a table, or possession of a stool.  Here, a table is a shared commodity.  If you don't have enough people in your party to surround the table on which you've staked your claim, you're liable to find yourself sharing it with others.  Occasionally, these others are not people you'd normally choose to associate with.

Today, while half the population of Notting Hill rammed themselves, a stinking, seething, sweating mass, into the Castle, I stood outside with my mates around a convenient table.  We are fairly good-sized blokes, so it was somewhat surprising when a gangly chap in a 'Great Britain' shirt set his jug of Pimms down between the sweaty shoulders of my friend David and me and struck up a conversation.  He was clearly not much of a conversationalist, but I tend to be a nice guy in these situations and engage anyone, mainly because I'm not very good at going out by myself and meeting people, and there but for the grace of God and so forth.  It became clear in the first minute or so, though, that this was not someone we'd really find entertaining, and he had to go.  I'm also not good at ignoring people, so it was a while before he wandered off, and he returned a few times afterwards.

During halftime, we were joined at our table by a girl, also alone and socially awkward, and strangely, dressed very similarly to our new friend.  "Perfect," I thought, "let's get them together!"  And together they got.

We cheered them on from the sidelines as they found a comfy seat in the back of the pub (it had cleared out by this time, England having lost rather badly to Germany), where they spent a fair bit of time getting to know each other.  We thought our man had sealed the deal when the two of them exited together, still engrossed in amiable conversation.  I think his folding bicycle that turned her off, though, and she hastily made her way back into the bar.  Perhaps she'd mistaken his offer to take her for a ride on his bike to mean a spin on his Harley.  He loitered a bit until the bouncers asked him to remove his preposterous little Brompton from the front of the bar, and he rode off into the sunset, alone.  She's still there for all I know.

They might have been perfect for each other, but they'll never know.  I wonder if, in ten years, he will consider how his life might have turned out, or whether she will come to deeply regret her choice to leap from his hook and back into the murky pond.  I wonder if they will remember each other and, with the remembering, smile, just a little.  I wonder if they missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.