His name was Albert, I eventually found out. An old fella, sitting with a pint at the next table in a Camden pub. I was killing time, waiting to go to a party across the road. Albert was killing time before he had to return to his fourth-floor flat around the corner, where his immediate neighbours are a Greek fella and a "big, white" fella who always slams his front door at 5.30am.You know when you can tell someone's trying to find an excuse to start an unwelcome conversation? Albert showed all the signs. For a start, he wandered off to get a pint, then came back and sat a little closer than before. After that, it was just a matter of time. Then he hit the jackpot - a newspaper headline about Jose Mourinho getting paid £4m for something, which he made me aware of, by simply pointing at it until I glanced over. Bingo, instant matey conversation starter. Except I wasn't interested in football. Or Albert. Or in conversation with anyone, seeing as my mind was trying to focus on a story idea.
Not that any of this stopped Albert. Not even the fact that I was clearly sitting on his deaf side. He was an old-school Londoner, in a Londoner's hat, from a time when Londoners thought nothing of chatting with other Londoners, in London pubs. He was 74 year old, claiming, "I don't look it", when in fact he so did. Bless him and his rheumy old eyes.
For a while, the stop-start-but-persistent conversation cast a shadow over my sausage 'n' mash. I felt like a caged animal, being talked at by a cruel scientist who was testing the effects of inanity on the mind. Then yet another advantage of being a writer suddenly occured to me: we can turn the babblings of random strangers into valuable fictional tender. Perhaps Albert might inadvertently bestowe me with an entire storyline - perhaps a story about a greyhound who escaped, or something. Why, this stranger could make my very fortune by planting a plot-seed in my brain.
He didn't, as it turned out. But maybe, next time I need an old London bloke to plonk into a script, Albert will volunteer his services without even realising. Or have him yourself some time, for a mere 2.5% of the net. Bargain. Just give him back when you're done, yeah? Cheers.
4 comments:
Net profits, you say? In Hollywood?
Deal!
Jeez, sorry mate. My gramps is such a pain in the *ss. ;)
I fucking do NOT look 74, you punkass kid.
And I was just making polite conversation. Sure, I'd wet myself again, but you, as a gentleman, should have pretended not to notice. Young people today, honestly.
First time I went to the States, people kept talking to me. Naturally, being British (and having lived in the South of England for too long), I assumed there was something wrong with them ... then it hit me, they were just being polite and friendly.
I can't help thinking it's a sad state of affairs when we consider someone being friendly to be fucking mental and a nuisance.
I had a point when I started this post, but I've forgotten it now.
In future, just tell him to be quiet, you can't hear the voices in your head and they're trying to give you your next assignment.
That normally does the trick.
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