I am a disgrace.
Things happen to me. Strongly constructed articles that even a three-year-old couldn’t break come apart in my hands. Electrical gadgets stop functioning when I come near, intimidated by my magnetic aura. Social gaffes are my speciality. Cups of tea are tipped into laps, glasses of red wine onto cream carpets. I need a responsible adult whenever I go out.
With Added Sound Effect
I can now confess it was me who once ruined an RSC production of Romeo and Juliet , at exactly the critical moment, when Romeo is bending over the body of his bit of totty. The whole theatre was hushed, caught up in the poignancy of the moment — that same moment that I, unable to combat the internal pressures which had been building up since that second lager in the interval, let rip with an added sound effect that echoed and re-echoed through the entire house. (In the theatre, we call this “projection”, the ability to reach the back row, though usually with one’s voice .)
Immediately the carefully built-up atmosphere was destroyed, being replaced by a suppressed snigger, which grew quickly into a belly laugh. Romeo glared at the audience. Juliet was visibly quaking with held-in laughter. My neighbours on either side leaned away from me while I slumped lower and lower in my seat.
As I said, I am a disgrace.
But now I have surpassed myself. On holiday recently in Lindos, I am strolling through the narrow lanes of shops, in relaxed mood, inspecting and admiring the many fine examples of women local merchandise on display. I buy myself a vanilla cornet, pat a passing donkey or two, then amble my way in the gentle heat to the town square, and lean against the railing that looks outward to the sea. I am good at leaning. I have a talent for it. One notices things which otherwise would have passed unseen. And so it is now…
Beneath me is a flight of steps leading downwards, which turns itself into a path. And coming up that path towards me is a young woman of maybe twenty-two. She is wearing breasts, bikini top and shorts, in the order I notice them.
She is magnificent. She is concentrated essence of womanhood. As she walks towards me (but walk is too tame a word) I can hear men’s necks snapping as they turn to check out the back view. She is passing through a Mexican wave of erections.
There comes a moment when this vision is directly beneath me on the steps. I lean forward, merely to see her face the better, you understand. And Fate chooses that exact moment to let slip the ice cream. The whole vanilla cornet lands with a plop on her bare shoulder, and sploshes rapidly down between those breasts. Did I mention that she had breasts? There is a shocked gasp, followed by a wail of outrage as she looks up to discover the source of this free cornet.
No point in asking for it back. I have withdrawn by then, faded into the crowds on the square, to reappear innocently on the other side. I slink off home, filled with chagrin, though not with ice cream. Meanwhile, the vision of loveliness is giving vent to some extremely unfeminine language in a broad Brummy accent.
I have defiled this beauty, this delicate flower. I am a disgrace.
Where’s that responsible adult when you need one?
