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Nov. 7th, 2004 08:31 pmIn the garden of the -------------'s I was standing laboriously constructing conversation with their French unit of domestic assistance, her features were simple and almost underdeveloped, a fresh Polaroid of a face. I'd been parked opposite her by the lady of the house who earlier, in the car journey from the station, had said: "I wish someone would see to Sylvie [NHRN], such a glum girl, a good brisk sweep of the chimney would brighten her up no end."
We had talked of The War, and The Congestion Charge, and I was trying to describe the location, without recourse to street names, of a newsagent near Covent Garden that can be relied upon to stock '20ans', when the family hound brought its blue rubber ball to me, dropping it at my feet. A cocker spaniel, it gazed up at me without evident enthusiasm, as if to say: 'It will bring us no pleasure, you or I, but we must'. So I did, relishing Sylvie's revolted grimace at my disregard for the coating of canine slobber, grasping the object and flinging it to the end of the garden.
Behind me someone drunk on the Sunday papers declared that: "Margaret Thatcher had it right, kept a Cabinet full of Jew-boys...", small children scampered about with the strange fair-to-blond(e)ness that the English upper-middle-classes so carefully cultivate in their offspring, I threw the ball again. I felt short of breath, sweat on my forehead, wondered if I might be developing a heart condition, wished briefly for coronary rescue from this garden.
Months later, one of the people I met later at that party missed the 17:35 to Exeter St Davids by the margin of a late mini-cab and e-mailed everyone in his Outlook address book to tell us so. Fair enough in the circumstances. But while I can remember all the details above, I still have no recollection of why I gave him my card.
We had talked of The War, and The Congestion Charge, and I was trying to describe the location, without recourse to street names, of a newsagent near Covent Garden that can be relied upon to stock '20ans', when the family hound brought its blue rubber ball to me, dropping it at my feet. A cocker spaniel, it gazed up at me without evident enthusiasm, as if to say: 'It will bring us no pleasure, you or I, but we must'. So I did, relishing Sylvie's revolted grimace at my disregard for the coating of canine slobber, grasping the object and flinging it to the end of the garden.
Behind me someone drunk on the Sunday papers declared that: "Margaret Thatcher had it right, kept a Cabinet full of Jew-boys...", small children scampered about with the strange fair-to-blond(e)ness that the English upper-middle-classes so carefully cultivate in their offspring, I threw the ball again. I felt short of breath, sweat on my forehead, wondered if I might be developing a heart condition, wished briefly for coronary rescue from this garden.
Months later, one of the people I met later at that party missed the 17:35 to Exeter St Davids by the margin of a late mini-cab and e-mailed everyone in his Outlook address book to tell us so. Fair enough in the circumstances. But while I can remember all the details above, I still have no recollection of why I gave him my card.
