Pub near Victoria Park, October 12th

It began raining. I stood a while under my umbrella and weighed up if it was worth continuing my listless afternoon walk at all. Being within dashing distance of the front door, I decided instead to seek shelter in the pub on the corner until it blew over. A good opportunity to finish my book too - and it’s nice when alone to be near a shifting wallpaper of noise and humanity. If nothing else, people do make for good background babble when reading.

I had been weeks hacking away at re-reading Catcher in the Rye* only picking it up on the very occasional bus journey to work or coffee companion in the cafe.

The bar curved into the wall and I pulled out a seat tucked closest to that cosy corner. The barmaid warned that I best take another - somebody who gets upset if anyone else in in that seat would be in at 4 and ‘You know what regulars are like’. She smiled and rolled her eyes.

I read a while with a Diet Coke - turning a corner into the last quarter chunk of the book. I say chunk but the book is only 180 pages or so, with my very scattered readings I’d really made a marathon out of what should have been a light job to a bus-stop.

Two Americans ordered beers beside me - one was a jock in his 30s with a backwards baseball cap and tanned arms, the other was a larger scruffier fella who would be played by Jack Black. The Jock had surprised Scruffy Jack with a beer -

‘Oh a Fosters! They don’t HAVE this in Australia, you know that? It’s not even a THING but the ads say it’s Australian for beer. The Aussies don’t drink this. Isn’t that wild?! Wait you told me that - ‘

‘Yeah I did’.

I return to reading but look up again when they are joined by a third man -

“Oh I’d have said cheers you but you messed up your hand - “ said Scruffy Jack to the stranger. The stranger’s thumb was in a cast, the hand wrapped in a white plastic bag - and in the midst of this plastic cloud was a glass of white wine. He perhaps in his late fifties with a wide-brimmed brown-felt hat, layers of fleeces, red-trousers. A jolly posh professor type.

‘Well I FELL on my HAND you see so it’s out of action for 8 months - no 8 WEEKS. But you can adjust to do almost anything with the other hand - ‘ His voice plummy and robust, built to deliver Shakespeare to someone two fields over.

‘Even jerking off?’ said Jack. The Jock fixed his friend with a warning look. Scruffy Jack sniggered. The prof winced slightly but pretended not to hear.

‘I can type and text with the other now, I’m a WRITER you see…a writer… ’ His speech was foggy and slippery, it wasn’t his first drink of the day - ‘And yes you can do most EVERYTHING… as you so dearly suggested, with the other - ‘ The prof barked with laughter.

I began the paragraph of my book again. The Jock slipped off to the toilet. When he returned The Prof and Scruffy Jack were digging into the meaning of life and existence, or not, of God. Scruffy Jack was in the mood to get tangled in a vivid boozy argument about the Big Issues and the Prof would happily meet him in battle -

“But the stars in the sky are not there for your entertainment my boy! My friend… my friend who has READ a lot of book - a LOT of BOOKS says we’re here merely to feed the worms. WORM feed he says! And he’s read a lot on the subject.

‘Oh I don’t know about THAT’ said Scruffy Jack.

‘Well he’s read a lot of books on the subject’ nodded the Prof, resting the case.

The Jock toyed with his glass and looked to the window. My eyes drifted back to my page and I began to focus again on the paragraph. It was useless trying, instead I could only stare at the top of the page as they continued -

Over the next twenty minutes or so they discussed the meaning of true love (‘It HAS to be UN-conditional. You can’t have judgement creep into the thing. If you DO it’s all over!’ said the Prof), Life (‘‘I’ve had a good life - I’ve had a good education - I’ve seen the WORLD - and… I’ve had a good education…’), South America (the Prof’s father was an Ambassador in Argentina or Chile) and the British Empire - upon which the Prof held forth some views I couldn’t quite catch aside from ‘No brown people there now at all!’. The loose atmosphere tightened, the Americans exchanged looks.

‘Well. What is it they say, never discuss Politics or Religion!’ said the Prof with a booming laugh.

‘You brought it up,’ said Scruffy Jack with steel cloaked in a chuckle.

The Prof put an empty white wine at the bar. It rested there without offer of another.

‘Well I must be off and get this home’, he held the bag with the plant up. The rain had cleared off.

The Americans followed shortly afterwards.

The barmaid wiped down the counter, ‘What WERE they talking about?’

‘The meaning of life, the meaning of love, and South American politics’.

‘Oh Christ. And it’s only three o’clock’.

***

I’m on Twitter @theroryjohn

*A re-read prompted by a book club episode of Adam Buxton’s podcast featuring Sara Pascoe and Richard Ayoade. It’s a great episode, do check it out if you haven’t heard it already.