I smile at people I don’t know. I chat with strangers in a shop or park without a moment’s hesitation. So does my Mum so it could be genetic. But my British friends tell me it’s more commonly an Australian characteristic; due to the relaxed feeling sunshine, board-shorts and thongs (aka flip-flops) create. Personally I think they’ve watched too much Neighbours and Home and Away, but I take their point. We all tend to be more approachable and light-hearted when the sun is shining.
There are exceptions of course: good humour doesn’t reign in
New York
Shortly after, I found myself locked out of the apartment I’d
borrowed on W72nd St, wearing a tank top, no bra, high-heeled sneakers (yes, they
were fashionable at the time), and a pair of shorts so skimpy that anywhere outside
Central Park I looked like a hooker.
Indeed if a man in a Homer Simpson t-shirt hadn’t taken pity on me as
night fell (my wallet also locked in the apartment) I might have slept under
one of Manhattan
My point is that I’ve met many kind strangers in my travels.
Sweet people who’ve given me directions, comforted me after a robbery,
or provided somewhere to sleep when I found myself homeless. Once, for example, I missed the last flight
out of Charles de Gaulle on route to
visit my brother in Albi, near Toulouse
At any rate, when the sun came out gloriously in London
I lay in the grass in Marble Hill
Park
Anon a man came and stood beside me. I felt him staring. When
he asked if he could rest his glass on the edge of my table I replied:
“certainly, no problem”. The slightly
drunk and scruffy chap tried to engage me in conversation. We exchanged pleasantries but instinct told
me to keep it short. Then he announced (ask
would be a stretch) “move your bag so I can sit there beside you”. My skin crawled as the seat was only big
enough to share with someone with whom one wanted to be cosy. I suggested: “please feel free to take the chair
from here (on my left) and move it to where you’re standing if you’d like to
sit down.” He grumbled but pulled it
around to my right. A few minutes later,
seated at my table, he interrupted with: “are you a school teacher or something?” (I find it strange but, the world over, if
you take work with you into a pub people always say that… ask any freelancer
who needs to temporarily escape his/her four walls.) When I looked quizzical he added: “don’t
worry, I’m not trying to pick you up. I’ve got plenty of women…”. “Yes and I’m Henry VIII”, I thought to
myself.
Some quiet bliss followed; only to be disturbed by him blowing
smoke in my direction. I hate
smoking. Yet as it’s less common Down
Under than in Europe , Australian’s who smoke
usually have good etiquette. After
several puffs in my face I said: “excuse me, but would you please be kind
enough to exhale in the other direction… as I really don’t like smoking”. In my world of manners I absolutely expected
an apology. He’d joined my table after
all. What I got instead was a scowl and reports
about how many women were desperate to sleep with him. This pock-faced, short man was clearly delusional.
Alarms bells should have started ringing when he subsequently
conducted a conversation on his mobile about a friend who had (only) six weeks
left in gaol. Yet I was well into the
throws of my work and wanted to complete it before indulging in a second pint
and risk losing my coveted position.
Eventually an acquaintance engaged him in conversation. Moving to my left and pulling at the
remaining chair to prepare to sit he said: “can I sit here love, do you
mind?” In the exact moment I looked up the
new guy blew smoke in my face, and the following words tumbled from my mouth:
“actually, as you’ve asked so nicely, I’m afraid I do mind. I really don’t want to be sandwiched between two
smokers… could you perhaps move the chair from there to the other side, so as
to speak to your friend without having to lean over me?” He was stumped for a moment, processing this request,
but then began, to my relief, to do just that. I started to say “thankyou for asking so politely,
I do appreciate it…”, but Mr Pock-face with the mate in goal and an abundance
of lovers, dived into the void and began to exorcise his demons.
In increasing volume he abused me with insults such as “slag”,
“bitch” and “f**king scrubber”. The
other chap tried once to quieten him, then stuttering “sorry, I didn’t mean this
to happen”, pushed through the crowd to make a quick getaway. Ordinarily I’d stand up for myself, but I was
stunned by the bitter surprise and force of the little man’s aggression. And he
simply wouldn’t stop. There was nowhere
to move without coming physically closer to him, so after a failed attempt to
reason I quickly realized further attempts would only make it worse. I sank into the table and feverishly drained my
beer. He stood over me, railing against
me, Australians in general, and all f**ing women until I could no longer
contain an overflow of tears. He mocked
me then, throwing insults over his shoulder even as he pushed his way through
the crowd, down the stairs and out onto the street. People stared. Conversations stopped. No-one offered comfort, assistance or
comment.
Then the uncomfortable moment passed and the happy hordes
went back to their own business. I was
alone. Mortified and shocked that abuse of
this nature could be hurled at a woman without a single person doing anything
to stop it. That is an ugly side of our
world unfortunately; people’s failure to step up. And the weight of that, against the beauty of
the sunset and the sanguine peace of the day, was a heavy load.
I gathered my things, made my way out the opposite side of
the pub, and then burst fulsomely into tears and cried for twenty minutes. I felt horrible for a few hours in fact; all
the time knowing the jerk wasn’t worth it, but struggling to throw off the cruelty.
The White Swan in
St Margarets used to be my local. We’ve
carved fond memories, so the belligerent loser won’t stop me going back. But it certainly put a dint in my enjoyment
of the sunshine.
Perhaps this kind of experience makes one more grateful for
positive encounters?
Perhaps I attract strays and am bound, therefore, to get the
occasional mutant?
Perhaps it was random and I shouldn’t over-analyse?
I am reminded, anyway, of a phrase repeated by so many it’s
hard to correctly attribute authorship: “don’t let the bastards get you
down”.
Not when the splendid summer is finally arriving and there are
more potentially kind strangers around the corner…
