A funny thing happened on the way to the Forum

[Serial_Apologist]

Hi everyone!

My object in starting this thread is to try and raise the spirits in these anxiety-provoking times we are living through, by encouraging people to share their experiences and any anecdotes they think will bring a little cheer amid the general gloom.

I have been thinking along these lines for some time, given that, almost invariably, whenever venturing out into the big wide world from the safety of my sanctuary, I do manage to find at least one event, occurrence, call it what you will, or maybe just an overheard remark, that occasions a laugh, or at least a smile from this direction.

Take earlier on this afternoon as a starter - and I hope others will join in.

Every June an international market is hosted here, on a Saturday, along one of the three shopping streets that make up "upper Norwood", just off the great park that once housed the famous Crystal Palace. Some people may know the district; others struggle to find it via the criss-crossings of roads that help give South London its ill-deserved reputation of being an impenetrable maze. One of the stalls at this market, presided over by a blonde lady in her mid-50s I would say, was selling French cheeses of all kinds, and the French tricolor was displayed everywhere. Potential buyers were being addressed in rapid-fire French, even when many quickly gave up and turned away, protesting their lack of knowledge of the language. For me it was a golden opportunity to brush up on my rusty conversational French; what I had not realised was that the abovementioned stall holding lady happens to work on the tills at the nearby Sainsbury's; this was all clearly an obtuse attempt to gain sales by appealing to the presumed erudition of the local populace, which, gentrifyingly multi-ethnic and multi-cultural though it certainly is in make-up, I have not noticed to be particularly Francophile!

Be that as may, Marie-Annick - for by such does her uniform name-badge announce her - always presents a friendly and helpful demeanour to the customers passing through her checkout, and a charming accent to match - "Do you 'ave a Nectar card? Do you want school voucheurs?" - and one cannot help feeling that she must provide a considerable draw, and profitable "footfall" to match. One often feels impelled to give such people a hug, representing as they do a genuine approachability, as opposed to the clenched teeth-delivered smile compliant with the official etiquette demanded of staff by such establishments. Such a gesture on the part of a customer would of course be out of the question. But today, there Marie-Annick was, waiting for the journey home by the nearby bus stop, and I could not resist administering a coy peck on her right cheek. "Oh, but only the one cheek?" she responded. "Well, this is England - we do things by halves here!" I pointed out: a move as transgressive as a kiss to one side of a comparative stranger's visage amounts to takes a lot of courage and effort, after all. "But we in France say, if you don't kiss both cheeks, the one left out will feel jalouse, non?"

I hadn't heard that said before!

[Lat-Literal]

Hi everyone!

My object in starting this thread is to try and raise the spirits in these anxiety-provoking times we are living through, by encouraging people to share their experiences and any anecdotes they think will bring a little cheer amid the general gloom.

I have been thinking along these lines for some time, given that, almost invariably, whenever venturing out into the big wide world from the safety of my sanctuary, I do manage to find at least one event, occurrence, call it what you will, or maybe just an overheard remark, that occasions a laugh, or at least a smile from this direction.

Take earlier on this afternoon as a starter - and I hope others will join in.

Every June an international market is hosted here, on a Saturday, along one of the three shopping streets that make up "upper Norwood", just off the great park that once housed the famous Crystal Palace. Some people may know the district; others struggle to find it via the criss-crossings of roads that help give South London its ill-deserved reputation of being an impenetrable maze. One of the stalls at this market, presided over by a blonde lady in her mid-50s I would say, was selling French cheeses of all kinds, and the French tricolor was displayed everywhere. Potential buyers were being addressed in rapid-fire French, even when many quickly gave up and turned away, protesting their lack of knowledge of the language. For me it was a golden opportunity to brush up on my rusty conversational French; what I had not realised was that the abovementioned stall holding lady happens to work on the tills at the nearby Sainsbury's; this was all clearly an obtuse attempt to gain sales by appealing to the presumed erudition of the local populace, which, gentrifyingly multi-ethnic and multi-cultural though it certainly is in make-up, I have not noticed to be particularly Francophile!

Be that as may, Marie-Annick - for by such does her uniform name-badge announce her - always presents a friendly and helpful demeanour to the customers passing through her checkout, and a charming accent to match - "Do you 'ave a Nectar card? Do you want school voucheurs?" - and one cannot help feeling that she must provide a considerable draw, and profitable "footfall" to match. One often feels impelled to give such people a hug, representing as they do a genuine approachability, as opposed to the clenched teeth-delivered smile compliant with the official etiquette demanded of staff by such establishments. Such a gesture on the part of a customer would of course be out of the question. But today, there Marie-Annick was, waiting for the journey home by the nearby bus stop, and I could not resist administering a coy peck on her right cheek. "Oh, but only the one cheek?" she responded. "Well, this is England - we do things by halves here!" I pointed out: a move as transgressive as a kiss to one side of a comparative stranger's visage amounts to takes a lot of courage and effort, after all. "But we in France say, if you don't kiss both cheeks, the one left out will feel jalouse, non?"

I hadn't heard that said before!

Very nice - thank you!

[Lat-Literal]

Decided to walk into a local pub today that from the outside had never appealed. What drew me in was the attractive sign saying "terraced garden" along with the phrase "Mexican Tuesdays" on the list of surprisingly cheap meals. I didn't think the pub had a garden and wanted to discover more. Perhaps it would be one of the town's hidden gems. But once inside this cavernous monstrosity, both wide and very, very long, I had to walk around a large pool that was beer or floor fluid or something else. Having done so, I realized that my presence there had led to an increase in the numbers by 50%. The other two people were at the far end of the bar, mending something and muttering roughly. Instinct told me this was the landlord and the landlady. After 40 steps, I was on a level with them. They glared in a way that suggested I was required to explain precisely where I was heading.

"I have come to see the garden" I said. "We 'aven't got one" came the reply from her, a woman of 40 with grey and orange hair and whose hands looked glued to her hips. Her husband lowered himself below the bar so that he could attend fully to whatever it was that was broken. "But the terrace", I said, "the terraced garden on your sign - where you will be serving Mexican meals on Tuesday". She stormed towards a door in the far wall and threw it open. "That's the smoking area", she said, "it's all we got". And there squeezed into a space no bigger than my living room were four tables and some plastic stools under what looked to be a tarpaulin ceiling. It was and pardon my English here bloody awful.

An uneasy silence followed. For once in a blue moon and only for a short while, I wasn't sure what to say. Eventually I found "But would you serve meals there?" although I could tell from my voice that my heart was no longer in it. "What, now?" she said. "No, not now, but on Mexican Tuesdays". A longer silence this time. I nearly got her to speak first but couldn't wait a full five minutes. "I suppose you could" I said "I suppose I could, you know, have a meal there, not that it is a garden, it would be ok wouldn't it, if you would serve meals there, would you serve meals there, on Tuesdays?". She said nothing more, slammed the door, and went back to what her husband was mending. I quietly slipped away, not even stopping to notice the pool. After the steps 41-80 that led me back to the high street I couldn't be bothered to look at their sign. For all I know, their Tuesdays are Italian.

[Old Grumpy]

Decided to walk into a local pub today that from the outside had never appealed. What drew me in was the attractive sign saying "terraced garden" along with the phrase "Mexican Tuesdays" on the list of surprisingly cheap meals. I didn't think the pub had a garden and wanted to discover more. Perhaps it would be one of the town's hidden gems. But once inside this cavernous monstrosity, both wide and very, very long, I had to walk around a large pool that was beer or floor fluid or something else. Having done so, I realized that my presence there had led to an increase in the numbers by 50%. The other two people were at the far end of the bar, mending something and muttering roughly. Instinct told me this was the landlord and the landlady. After 40 steps, I was on a level with them. They glared in a way that suggested I was required to explain precisely where I was heading.

"I have come to see the garden" I said. "We 'aven't got one" came the reply from her, a woman of 40 with grey and orange hair and whose hands looked glued to her hips. Her husband lowered himself below the bar so that he could attend fully to whatever it was that was broken. "But the terrace", I said, "the terraced garden on your sign - where you will be serving Mexican meals on Tuesday". She stormed towards a door in the far wall and threw it open. "That's the smoking area", she said, "it's all we got". And there squeezed into a space no bigger than my living room were four tables and some plastic stools under what looked to be a tarpaulin ceiling. It was and pardon my English here bloody awful.

An uneasy silence followed. For once in a blue moon and only for a short while, I wasn't sure what to say. Eventually I found "But would you serve meals there?" although I could tell from my voice that my heart was no longer in it. "What, now?" she said. "No, not now, but on Mexican Tuesdays". A longer silence this time. I nearly got her to speak first but couldn't wait a full five minutes. "I suppose you could" I said "I suppose I could, you know, have a meal there, not that it is a garden, it would be ok wouldn't it, if you would serve meals there, would you serve meals there, on Tuesdays?". She said nothing more, slammed the door, and went back to what her husband was mending. I quietly slipped away, not even stopping to notice the pool. After the steps 41-80 that led me back to the high street I couldn't be bothered to look at their sign. For all I know, their Tuesdays are Italian.

Dreadful!

Was this in London, Surrey, York or "The World"?

OG

[Lat-Literal]

Dreadful!

Was this in London, Surrey, York or "The World"?

OG

Officially London but we are able to say Surrey as we were officially Surrey before 1965.

[Old Grumpy]

Thought it might be London, Surrey is London, but posh, innit? Should've stayed in York!

OG

Conflict of interest: "Northerner" since 1984, onetime resident of Surrey (Age 3) and county just to the west of Middlesex thereafter.

[Lat-Literal]

Thought it might be London, Surrey is London, but posh, innit? Should've stayed in York!

OG

Conflict of interest: "Northerner" since 1984, onetime resident of Surrey (Age 3) and county just to the west of Middlesex thereafter.

I didn't have a compass with me but was travelling north from the entrance to the so-called garden. At one point, I thought there was a useful service station stop off point. Sadly, it was merely a Sky Sports screen and a bank of fruit machines producing sleazy light in the dark. "Mexico" was my preferred definition but what I got was the end of the world.

[Nick Armstrong]

Decided to walk into a local pub today that from the outside had never appealed. What drew me in was the attractive sign saying "terraced garden" along with the phrase "Mexican Tuesdays" on the list of surprisingly cheap meals. I didn't think the pub had a garden and wanted to discover more. Perhaps it would be one of the town's hidden gems. But once inside this cavernous monstrosity, both wide and very, very long, I had to walk around a large pool that was beer or floor fluid or something else. Having done so, I realized that my presence there had led to an increase in the numbers by 50%. The other two people were at the far end of the bar, mending something and muttering roughly. Instinct told me this was the landlord and the landlady. After 40 steps, I was on a level with them. They glared in a way that suggested I was required to explain precisely where I was heading.

"I have come to see the garden" I said. "We 'aven't got one" came the reply from her, a woman of 40 with grey and orange hair and whose hands looked glued to her hips. Her husband lowered himself below the bar so that he could attend fully to whatever it was that was broken. "But the terrace", I said, "the terraced garden on your sign - where you will be serving Mexican meals on Tuesday". She stormed towards a door in the far wall and threw it open. "That's the smoking area", she said, "it's all we got". And there squeezed into a space no bigger than my living room were four tables and some plastic stools under what looked to be a tarpaulin ceiling. It was and pardon my English here bloody awful.

An uneasy silence followed. For once in a blue moon and only for a short while, I wasn't sure what to say. Eventually I found "But would you serve meals there?" although I could tell from my voice that my heart was no longer in it. "What, now?" she said. "No, not now, but on Mexican Tuesdays". A longer silence this time. I nearly got her to speak first but couldn't wait a full five minutes. "I suppose you could" I said "I suppose I could, you know, have a meal there, not that it is a garden, it would be ok wouldn't it, if you would serve meals there, would you serve meals there, on Tuesdays?". She said nothing more, slammed the door, and went back to what her husband was mending. I quietly slipped away, not even stopping to notice the pool. After the steps 41-80 that led me back to the high street I couldn't be bothered to look at their sign. For all I know, their Tuesdays are Italian.

[johncorrigan]

Decided to walk into a local pub today that from the outside had never appealed. What drew me in was the attractive sign saying "terraced garden" along with the phrase "Mexican Tuesdays" on the list of surprisingly cheap meals. I didn't think the pub had a garden and wanted to discover more. Perhaps it would be one of the town's hidden gems. But once inside this cavernous monstrosity, both wide and very, very long, I had to walk around a large pool that was beer or floor fluid or something else. Having done so, I realized that my presence there had led to an increase in the numbers by 50%. The other two people were at the far end of the bar, mending something and muttering roughly. Instinct told me this was the landlord and the landlady. After 40 steps, I was on a level with them. They glared in a way that suggested I was required to explain precisely where I was heading.

"I have come to see the garden" I said. "We 'aven't got one" came the reply from her, a woman of 40 with grey and orange hair and whose hands looked glued to her hips. Her husband lowered himself below the bar so that he could attend fully to whatever it was that was broken. "But the terrace", I said, "the terraced garden on your sign - where you will be serving Mexican meals on Tuesday". She stormed towards a door in the far wall and threw it open. "That's the smoking area", she said, "it's all we got". And there squeezed into a space no bigger than my living room were four tables and some plastic stools under what looked to be a tarpaulin ceiling. It was and pardon my English here bloody awful.

An uneasy silence followed. For once in a blue moon and only for a short while, I wasn't sure what to say. Eventually I found "But would you serve meals there?" although I could tell from my voice that my heart was no longer in it. "What, now?" she said. "No, not now, but on Mexican Tuesdays". A longer silence this time. I nearly got her to speak first but couldn't wait a full five minutes. "I suppose you could" I said "I suppose I could, you know, have a meal there, not that it is a garden, it would be ok wouldn't it, if you would serve meals there, would you serve meals there, on Tuesdays?". She said nothing more, slammed the door, and went back to what her husband was mending. I quietly slipped away, not even stopping to notice the pool. After the steps 41-80 that led me back to the high street I couldn't be bothered to look at their sign. For all I know, their Tuesdays are Italian.

Great tale, Lat. Let's have the forum AGM on that terrace...

[cloughie]

Great tale, Lat. Let's have the forum AGM on that terrace...

Lat, your story would make a great song and Mexican Tuesdays, a great album title, perhaps in the style of Randy Newman or Loudon Wainwright.

[Nick Armstrong]

Lat, your story would make a great song and Mexican Tuesdays, a great album title, perhaps in the style of Randy Newman or Loudon Wainwright.

It struck me that the story and Mrs Tuesdays in particular are also like something out of Dickens... "Iss all we got"

[Bryn]

Officially London but we are able to say Surrey as we were officially Surrey before 1965.

Ah yes, just as Penge used to be in the Parish of Battersea.

[Lat-Literal]

It struck me that the story and Mrs Tuesdays in particular are also like something out of Dickens... "Iss all we got"

Ah yes, just as Penge used to be in the Parish of Battersea.

Here is an unnerving one that would be Track 2 on the album suggested by Cloughie. It happened about 18 months ago between two stints in the early hours on this forum. Those who have known me for many years immediately placed it in the category "the sort of thing that happens to you". Unexpectedly, I received a telephone call from someone who lives a couple of miles away. I need not go into the detail but it was something of an emergency. Not owning a car, I called for a taxi - and location is significant here. I cannot claim to live off the beaten track but this is a cul-de-sac of just 15 small bungalows. It is a ten minute walk from a B road and several miles from an A road. It is exceedingly quiet, especially at 2.30am. While a taxi on this road is not entirely unknown, I had probably only seen one in the vicinity half a dozen times. That is between 1969 and 1992 and in the years since 2005 when I have lived here. In fact, it is rare to see any sort of moving vehicle after 2am and before 6am. While I gave the taxi firm my address, I asked them to tell the driver that I would walk up to the junction and get the taxi there. In that way, neighbours whose bedrooms are at the front of their homes would not be awoken by headlights.

Having stood on the corner for a quarter of an hour, I was beginning to wonder if the taxi firm had forgotten me. I would give them five more minutes before going home and ringing them again. During that five minutes, a vehicle appeared on the hill. Not having any reason to think it would be anything other than my taxi, I waved my arm only to see it flying past me. Rather than travelling down the hill there was a sharp swerve to the left. This meant that it had been driven into my road. Then it stopped abruptly opposite my house. "Silly fools", I thought, "they haven't told the driver to meet me at the corner". Except that the lights of the taxi went off and with it so did the engine. Perhaps it was not my taxi after all. It was not a familiar vehicle. I couldn't rule out that someone was unexpectedly visiting a neighbour so it made sense to stay on the corner to see who was getting out. Well, I waited and I waited. No one got out of the vehicle. This seemed very strange. Ultimately, I decided that it could be or even must be my taxi and I walked slowly towards it not without some apprehension. Just as I reached the back of the vehicle, the driver's door swung open. A British African woman emerged very rapidly, looked around, saw me and let out a very loud scream. She then glared and suddenly started to stoop, placing her hand on her heart, and bending over in that way bellowed "you scared me".

"I am terribly, terribly sorry" I said. "I didn't mean to scare you. I thought you were a taxi". "I am" she said, still looking furious, and then "you scared me" again. "Look", I said, "this is really difficult, I am so sorry, I genuinely didn't mean to frighten you, are you ok, can I help you back into the car?". "You scared me, you scared me, you scared me" she said. By this point, I was scared because the situation felt like it was getting entirely out of hand. "I think the best thing", I said, "would be for you to forget that I called for a taxi. I will go home and call for another taxi. You get in yours and try to relax - is there anything else I can do to help?". "Get in" she said. I repeated the point about possibly being able to help her, explaining her distress if necessary to the company. "Just get in, just get in" she barked. "In the taxi?" I said". "Yes, just get in". This was all most unfortunate.

Not knowing what on earth to do, I opened the passenger door and got in as she had ordered, shifting uneasily in the seat. The emergency I was supposed to be attending to was still uppermost in my mind. However, there was, fleetingly, the thought that if my intention had been not to wake the neighbours, all of them must be awake by now although no house light was on and no one was in sight. Feeling very confused, I looked at the inside of the vehicle and there were various signs there that it was a taxi. The main problem now was that while I was in the taxi she wasn't and she didn't look like she would be getting into it any time soon. I could see her through the open door on the driver's side pacing the pavement. "Hello" I called in the softest, cheery sort of voice I could find. "Hello". No response. I opened the passenger door and said "no, it's ok, this won't work, I am getting out and I do wish you well". "Don't!" she yelled and threw herself into the car with a thud. Her door slammed. "Now, tell me where you want to go, just tell me where you want to go".

With the greatest reluctance, I closed my door. "Thank you", I said, "that is so kind. It is....." and here I gave the address to which I was heading adding it was the address I had given to the firm on the telephone. "Where?" she snarled. I repeated the address. Nearly five minutes passed while she tried to operate the settings on a satnav. Failing in any sort of attempt to find the location on it, she went back to "you scared me". By now, I was thoroughly fed up and opened my door. "No" she said. "No...I make a call". Some telephone contraption was found. It seemed to be on a wire which wouldn't unravel and then there were three attempts at actually making the call. Finally there was some kind of connection. The call was lengthy and only partly in English. She and the man at the other end went into a god almighty row, loud, aggressive, but with the location mentioned a couple of times so as to suggest it wasn't "domestic". For a while, she tried to negotiate both telephone and satnav. It was only then that I started to wonder if this taxi was not actually my taxi but rather a very bizarre coincidence that for some reason had decided to occur. As that thought was developing, I felt I might just be able to hear the sound of a vehicle in the distance that could be the taxi I had ordered but I knew it was wishful thinking. Time had moved on. It wouldn't be that late. Two taxis had never ever been in the close at the same time.

Well, oddly, that vehicle appeared first as light and then as a moving entity. It was being driven at speed, it hadn't stopped at the corner, and it went past the vehicle we were in and my home. It screeched to a halt at the end of the cul-de-sac, its headlights pouring directly into the bedrooms of the houses at the end. I didn't really need to think of it as my taxi. It was an excuse to get out of an impossible and frightening situation."I think there has been a terrible mistake", I said. "that must be my taxi". On getting out of her vehicle at speed I walked in a very obvious way towards the other vehicle. Not knowing that vehicle either, I assumed it would be that of a neighbour or a visitor to a neighbour. I thought quickly of what I would say on reaching it. I would say as the British African woman looked on "I am terribly sorry, I thought you were a taxi for me". On approaching the second vehicle, what struck me was that it appeared from the outside to be more taxi looking than the taxi I had been in but I put that idea out of my mind. The driver wound down the window as I approached. "It's been a strange night" I said "I am terribly sorry, I thought you were my taxi". He mentioned my surname with a questioning sound. "Yes" I replied. "Sorry, mate, he said, we've been running late, it's such and such location isn't it". "Yes" I said and hence got in to the vehicle which on turning at the end of the road took its driver and me past the woman's taxi. To this day, I have no idea whatsoever who she was or what she was doing in the road but she had vanished into thin air by the time I returned.

[Daniel]

A gently coruscating vignette, delightfully told, Lat. Full of a quiet, disconsolate despair that seems so British, I felt I was in the pages of a Kazuo Ishiguro novel.

I nearly got her to speak first but couldn't wait a full five minutes.

[cloughie]

Ah yes, just as Penge used to be in the Parish of Battersea.

...and Rock, over the estuary from Padstow is known as Surrey-on-Sea!