This morning, as I returned from visiting the shops, I was accosted by a chap, reclining upon the Queen’s bench, reading a book. “Are you Spanish?” He unexpectedly asked. I said no, so he then proceeded to explain to me that the Moors were responsible for the Renaissance.
He then asked if I was Australian and, after I said I was, he asked if the Sydney Opera House was as beautiful in real life as it looks in photographs. I thought about it, having never been asked this before. Generally, the first thing people ask is why on earth I moved to the UK. My pause caused him to assume I didn’t think it was beautiful.
I explained that it’s been a part of the Sydney landscape for so long that it’s difficult to separate it from the rest of the harbour. But, yes, I said it is every bit as beautiful. Inside, I added, the accoustics are amazing.
After explaining what a nearby Tudor drainpipe attachment was for, he asked how long I’d lived in Farnham and if I’d been accepted by the locals yet. He said, when he started living in Farnham, it took a while to break through the cliques. I said I’d had no problems because I volunteered for things; he said he just started drinking regularly at the same pub.
His drinking (at the William Cobbett) was not excessive, he claimed, though the landlord at the time said that he would pass out in the corner and have a nap most days. The man assured me he wasn’t always drunk. I replied that if he was, he was obviously the best kind of drunk. He found this incredibly funny.
During our conversation he explained that women liked to mother him and, if she could also cook, he didn’t mind that at all even though he was 62. While nice enough and delightfully chatty, he looked like Catweasel and I’d had him aged at around 80. It made me unfairly proud that I was five years older but looked a lot younger.
It put a very slight spring in my step as I continued walking home. It had to be slight in order for me not to fall over.
