sometimes there is no point

First I went to the loo. They call it a restroom – who rests there exactly? I never have; or sometimes a bathroom - and I’ve never had a bath in one either.

I sat there for ages, wondering what to do next. I didn’t have all that many options. I ran through them. I could go back and sit down at the table again. I was facing the big tank from which the diners could pick out the lobster of their choice.

I could carry on as before; sitting, listening politely, while the rest of the world was ripped apart by a very angry person directly opposite me. It seemed to me that what she was doing to the lobster on her plate was pretty much what she would have liked to do to all Europeans, everyone in the Arab world – more or less anyone who didn’t agree with what she was saying.

She was my partner’s best friend. It was the first time we’d met. She was bigger than me. She worked out six days a week. She was very angry. She was a part-time dominatrix, and if that wasn’t enough, I also knew that she was taking a mixture of anti-depressants and Ritalin.

People there shout a lot more than us anyway – they often sound to me like they’re seething with rage when actually they aren’t – they’re just expressing their opinion. In France and Italy, and other countries. it’s louder too, but in a different way. They wave their hands around a lot, and shrug, and shout and make a huge amount of noise, but none of it makes you think they hate you. Even if you have no idea what they are saying you can tell that. When it’s time to go home, they all kiss each other on the cheek, or shake hands.

She’d started only minutes after we’d arrived at her apartment. Drinks had been offered, little things to eat passed around, introductions and greetings made, and then, glass in hand, she’d begun pacing the room, spitting out her feelings.

I can’t be rude to someone when I am their guest. I physically can’t. I think it’s to do with having good manners hammered into me as a child. Normally it’s not a big deal. I smile and count down the minutes until I can leave without it looking rude, but that wasn’t an option that evening. I had nowhere to go, and my partner was thrilled to see his best friend and had been telling me all week what a happy night it would be – how much he was looking forward to it. When he’d said she was slightly mad I hadn’t realised quite how literally he had meant it. I also hadn’t realised quite how right-wing he was until then either.

We arrived at seven and my heart was sinking by five past. At eight we went on to the seafood restaurant. It was very expensive – a foodie haven – even in that city of foodies, it was a treat kind of place – a special evening for us all. It was noisy and smelly and I was wedged between two angry right-wing people breaking lobsters into pieces and hating the rest of the world.

By half past eight I was in the loo.

I knew there wasn’t any point giving my opinion. It wasn’t that kind of discussion. I’d worked that out quickly. Any comments contrary to the spirit of hers were unwanted. All she was looking for was an ear to pour her feelings into. It wasn’t a debating kind of situation at all.

There was another reason too. It was September the eleventh, 2002. One year to the day since she’d been injured in the Twin Towers. As well as the dominatrix thing, she was also a coroner’s assistant. I think that was the title – but what ever it was, it involved her rushing to big incidents whenever they happened.

She must have been close by. Manhattan isn’t very large anyway – and it was still going on when she arrived. She breathed in a lot of the poisonous air; she broke her leg; and she saw the awfulness close-up. It must have been horrible for her. She hadn’t worked since.

After twenty minutes I couldn’t stay in the loo any longer. I thought, “I’ll try. I’ll go back and sit down and I’ll try.”

So I did. But it wasn’t any good. She was waving a claw in the air and shouting “so I say we bomb the fuck out of them and see how they like it”, and he was nodding avidly.

Sometimes there is no point. Really. None at all. Sometimes there is nothing you can say. So I went for option two. I said I wasn’t feeling very well and please not to hurry on my account – I’d be fine outside. I went and sat on the pavement and lit a cigarette and thought about how I wanted my sons to grow up into educated, informed men, with enough manners to get by, but possibly slightly fewer than I had.