Saturday: another party, and therefore another set of steaming social faux-pas for my already-bloated shame-gland to digest on Sunday. It was organised by an old school friend at a bar in Brixton, with a fairly late continental-style start time (9.30). You may not be surprised to discover that I’d been drinking since about 5.30, so was already fairly exuberant when company arrived.
However, I’m not sure that “exuberance” excuses introducing myself to the assembled throng of (mostly) yoga professionals with a falsetto rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” - followed by one of “Wuthering Heights” - although, in my defence, the girl who’d organised the party did mention that we’d once done a karaoke together. So what else was I going to do?
Later I was introduced to a girl called Salome. Having served up the obvious John the Baptist reference on a silver platter, I went one step further - something along the lines of “I’m half-Italian, so by rights I should know all about Salami; it’s a shame I’m vegetarian”. “D’you know, Michael”, she countered, “I’ve never heard that pun before in my life. Oh wait - yes I have! Every day when I was at primary school. But not since I stopped hanging around with people aged nine.” (Or words to that effect…)
Still, she forgave me and the subject turned to music - it turned out that she worked for a music exam board. We were getting on OK and I was quite keen to emphasise my chops, but sadly the conversation panned out something like this:
- “So I hear you’re quite musical; what do you play?”
- “A bit of piano and guitar”
- “Have you ever done anything with it?”
- “Erm… grade 3 piano when I was 12, and I often sit at home playing the guitar. By myself. Erm… ahem… I’m really good though; I can play pretty much anything… (uhhh… as long as it’s transposed into the key of “C” on the piano or “E” on the guitar)”
- “Really, Michael. How prodigious.”
Time prevents me elaborating on a later, very interesting conversation with a Scottish journalist which I felt the need to ruin at the end with an impromptu rendition of “Donald, where’s your Troosers”, but add to these blunderings a slightly over-enthusiastic goodbye kiss for the hostess, and a fairly vitriolic argument with my sister on the train back (about… well… absolutely nothing, if I’m honest), and you have the whole lengthy car-crash in a nutshell.
Just another perfectly normal Tafkass night out, in other words…