Lord Rokeby’s Repast – 03

Oscar Wilde once said something good about being drunk. So did Winston Churchill, and Dorothy Parker said lots of good things while drunk, the point being that the majority of great writers are infinitely more interesting, witty and clever once they have had a few. Ophelia knows this because she has a little book on her coffee table featuring quotes from famous people that she likes to dip into once in a while only she can’t quite remember any of them exactly right now, but it is too late because now here comes that loathsome, irksome face again, leering over her, implacable as spongy tofu.

– I think you’ve had quite enough for one evening, don’t you?

Ophelia, never one for an undignified exit, splutters, tries to think of something interesting and/or witty and/or clever to say, and comes up with…

– Bleaauugghhh! Ughfuddles. Where my sma phone?

The phone in question is currently draining beside the pint glass into which it had recently tumbled, yellowy pub light glinting off its well polished QWERTY keyboard and obstinately blank screen. We don’t pay you to sit around in bars writing e-mails to your friends, Ms. Tempanura. You have a column to write. But now, sadly, Ms. Ophelia Tempanura is unwell. Mostly down the landlord’s right trouser leg.

– Urgghh. Splurgle.

– Right, that’s it. You’re out of here. And you’re barred.

– That’s okay. I’ll take it from here.

– That’s good, because you are barred too. Now get out.

Hands wedge under her armpits, lifting her up and away. A few inches further forward and it would count as borderline assault, but it is Lawrence and she is happy to let it go. She doesn’t particularly care for his big red nose and mottled, blotchy complexion, nor the way he smells, but she doesn’t mind. She knows he prefers the stumpy tree trunk legs of schoolgirls who like to play hockey (and she is surely as un-butch as one could imagine) so she is in relatively safe hands for now.

She remembers – it was Lawrence who dropped her phone into one of the many spare abandoned pints that littered their table – but she has already forgiven him. He meant well, and she knows phones can be a distraction.

The notion that they are both barred crosses her consciousness briefly then is gone. Barred? Bad bar. Bleh.

Outside now. She feels the shock of cold air, a brief conversation in which she feels a distant part of herself participating, then suddenly she is warm again and they are moving.

She remembers fragments of a stumbling conversation but someone (probably her) keeps losing the plot. However the seats are firm and comforting and the white and orange lights that flash out of the darkness are quite absorbing.

Then there is the whole business about the fire. More flashing lights only this time they are standing still. She is shivering but cannot shake the horrible suggestion that something bad has happened…

TO BE CONTINUED…