Ex and I and a friend of his walked into a pub one night. It was not our usual pub but one of those twee, twinkling, village high street pubs – lots of brass, lots of shiny beer glasses on shiny glass shelves with wrought-iron edges – and an impressive array of spirits bottles hanging upside down in what I think they used to call “optics”. Nowadays optics seems to mean something else – the way a political move or action will look to the public – usually bad.
Anyway, it was a middle class pub full of middle class people making a lot of noise – that kind of hearty, communal chortling noise middle class people make in pubs – and as we looked around we realised from the brightly-coloured and slightly outré form of dress that we had in fact walked in on a group of amateur actors from the Little Theatre over the road, who were enjoying a post-performance snifter. They were all pretty full of themselves, and suddenly they were all turning round to look at us.
Now, Ex had many admirable qualities, including a deeply resonant, “dark brown” sort of voice. A very loud and carrying sort of voice. One of the qualities he didn’t have, unfortunately, was the kind of cringing self-consciousness that stops you from saying exactly what comes into your head.
The other unfortunate thing was that, being an almost entirely visual person, he might occasionally misinterpret something he read. I remember him requesting an Orange Gasping in a shop at the very top of a steep, cobbled hill in Clovelly when what he meant was an orange ice lolly. The tin advertising board outside had said something like: “Gasping? Come inside and buy one of our luscious orange ice lollies!”
Clovelly, Devon, West of England
Or occasionally he might misremember a word.
“Oh look!” he boomed, as the three of us walked into that crowded bar that night: “Look at that man in the hat with the feather, and that woman in the long purple cloak! It’s a room full of PLESBIANS!”