Saturday, August 12, 2006

I see you baby...

I push my way out of the hall onto the balcony, and lean against the rail in the semi-darkness in an attempt to catch some air to cool me down. I'm far too hot, and not in a good way. I knew when I left the house that the white trousers were a mistake, but my bloody-mindedness made me wear them: I am sick of the skirts and heels which summer demands.

I smile and say hi to one of the regular dancers. Last time I saw him we had the first real conversation we've ever had, and the poor sod put his foot in it by asking if one of the younger girls who also dances regularly was my daughter. He was mortified; despite the fact that it's actually an entirely reasonable assumption that I might have an 18 year old daughter. (Dammit.)

His mouth is running away with him again. It does this when he speaks to me, for some bizarre reason. He says things on the noisy dance floor which I mostly hear only partly, and then apologises for whatever it is that he has said. It would seem that over 50% of his conversation is insult for which he must apologise. The weird thing is I don't think he really means to be rude: otherwise why would he talk to me?

Tonight we are standing next to one another. He is waffling like a drowning man whose last chance to talk himself onto a raft has just arrived, and I am still getting only about one phrase in three. This may be because he is 6ft3 and I am 5ft4. The atmosphere may be thinner up there, affecting the passage of sound. I am pondering this possibility when suddenly I hear 'Someone like you, who is Rubenesque'.

Rubenesque? I know I'm not a skinny girl, but...Rubenesque? I decide that probably (hopefully) he doesn't really know what he's just said. He has meant to compliment me. I think.

Obviously my face registers shock, and although I am biting back the urge to scream 'I'm not Rubenesque you fucker: I'm a size 12!'*I attempt to project a picture of serene calm. He on the other hand is projecting babbling wreck. I grin at him, and advise him to stop digging. He tells me that he has left his JCB outside. I smile again.

As he walks away I resolve silently
never to wear the sodding trousers again.

*[a blatant lie. I'm a 14.]

Labels: ,