Saturday evening I met up with a long lost friend from high school, Jen, who last I saw her had just met a charming English guy on a flight from Prague to London while she was studying abroad. Fast forward four years, they're married and she's living (ahem, my dream) in Bicester, just north of the city. So she took the train down to have dinner with me, and afterward we headed to Monkey Chews (where else?) for a pint.
We hung out until the bar closed down and they headed off to a house party in Shoreditch (all you need to know is that Shoreditch is not anywhere NEAR where we were at the time) and wanted me to go with them. At least one of the girls was rational enough to explain to the other three why I declined the invitation to get into a cab with strangers and go to a place I've never been with more strangers in a place where I don't live with a phone that has one bar of battery life. If EVER there were the beginnings of a Lifetime movie.
Sarah was working behind the bar, so after Jen had to leave to head back home I stayed and chatted with her and had another drink. Things were pretty quiet. That is, of course, until these two couples came in. Young-ish, mid to late 20s. They were sitting down the other side of the bar from me, ordering their drinks, when I started opining loudly to Sarah about Percy Sledge. ("When A Man Loves a Woman" had just come on -- this bar had the absolute best music mixes.)
I was going on and on, probably something about it being a love-making song (because HELLO it's Percy) and they just thought I was hysterical. One of the girls commented on it being slow and depressing, and I said, Ex-SQUEEZE me? This is a love-making song. If you want slow and depressing, listen to "If You Don't Know Me By Now" by Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, and frankly? That is STILL a love-making song!
They loved this even more, and next thing you know we were BFFs. They insisted that I come down to their end of the bar and sit with them, and we just got to chatting about anything and everything. Next thing I knew, Sarah had produced from behind the bar a package of fake stick-on mustaches. And what ensued after that can only really be described photographically.
The other factor making the invitation all the more awkward was that shortly before it was extended I received an unsettling piece of information from one of the guys, who I'd been in rapt conversation with for the last hour and a half or so. He informed me that he had a list of five people he was allowed (by his girlfriend) to be obsessed with. Now for most of us this list is our 'Celebrity Five,' the five famous people we could sleep with, no strings attached, and not get in trouble with our significant other. And it's okay to have these lists because, honestly? It's NEVER going to happen. You being in the same ROOM as one of the people on your list is about as likely as you sleeping with them, because the odds on both are something like Nada and Not-gonna-happen.
But this guy? (Whose name was Jamie, I believe.) He tells me that I am on his list. I AM ON HIS LIST OF FIVE. Does anyone else see the HUGE problem with this statement? Sir, your girlfriend is right over there! In that booth! And I think she's lovely! WHAT IS GOING ON!?
While my initial reaction was to be quite creeped out -- and I did remain creeped out by it to some degree, even now -- I actually was quite flattered by it. I couldn't really figure out why he felt so sincerely and passionately about this situation that he needed to bump some other worthy obsession off his list just to add me on after only meeting me the one time, but apparently there was good reason and so I took it as a compliment. Somewhere, right now, I am on someone's Five. How many non-celebrities can say that, really? I may get it engraved on something. A bronzed baby shoe, maybe? Something just a little creepy. That'd do.
Anywho, I had a blast hanging out with them. One of the girls was a doctor for the NHS, and her boyfriend is a photographer who actually lives and works in New York and was just home for the holiday. So we talked NYC a bit, and then the other girl in the group (the lady friend of Jamie, Mr. Obsession) told me that her mom is American. From Oregon! Who knew there were actually people there, huh? And Jamie himself is a working actor, and actually went to drama school with Jimmy, the guy working behind the bar with Sarah. Jimmy, who apparently was a drama school god the way Jamie talked about him. Oh, and when he wasn't busy being obsessed with me Jamie was trying to get me laid. By Jimmy. Repeatedly.
Sarah and I trekked home in the freezing cold when she got off at close to 3 a.m. -- grabbing some chips along the way and getting hit on by a CREEPERTOWN in the chip shop -- and I set my alarm so I'd be up in the morning in time to head to Uxbridge to meet Ed (formerly the AEB, if you're a long-time reader) at noon.
Up next will be the final installment of adventures from the motherland, and trust me, you won't want to miss this one. After that, I'll return you to your regularly scheduled programming -- I know you're dying to hear the dramatic conclusion of the Mr. Barely Legal saga and I have so much more to catch you up on. Mostly? New boys. I aim to please!
cheers,
elizabeth
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