Ignoring Sandra

Goddamn fuck this, fuck that, yeah? That's what she's all
about.
-
Sorry, I don't normally swear. It's not in my nature. But there are
some people who just bring it out in me - I'm sure you know exactly
what I'm on about. But in case you don't, let me introduce you to
Sandra. She can talk...she can really talk, believe me. She can talk
for hours on end, on all the subjects under the sun, but, when it comes
down to it, you can't remember a word of it. She spouts crap faster
than a dodgy sewer on a rainy day.

And here I am, stuck with her. Stuck in a pub with Sandra. The best
thing to do is to ignore her completely. She never realises, and has
just as much fun as always talking about...whatever it is she talks
about. To avoid experiencing severe trauma, it's generally a good idea
to try and focus on something else. Right now I'm examining the pub
itself. It is mercifully free of Halloween detritus...just a small
hanging skeleton about the length of my hand and a few strigs of
garlic. None of that corporate merchandise crap that everywhere else
feels the need to display, as if Halloween these days is nothing more
than a product to be marketed...which, I suppose, is what it is. Just
as with Christmas and Easter. Maybe I should try and sell Rick's
Birthday merchandise?

She's saying something, asking me a question. This is where it gets
dangerous.

"Rick? Did you know her very well?"

This is definitely a problem, seeing as I have no idea who she is
asking about. Best to play it safe: "Yeah, well...it was
like...yeah..." I respond, hoping for the best. There is a pause as she
stares at me. Time freezes over, the winds stop, the hanging skeleton
stares in anticipation...then she speaks: "I know, but that was, like,
six years ago, when I was fourteen...even when I was fifteen..."

It would appear that I said the right thing. It's given me more time to
pretend that I am living in a Sandra-less world. I notice this pub is
very wooden. And, remarkably, it seems to be real wood - from trees, no
less - rather than the odd plastic amalgam you find in 'chain' pubs.
Chain pubs: another evil of the world. People call it convenience; I
call it cultural rape. Yes, wood everywhere...it's surprising that the
glasses here aren't made of wood.

We saunter over to a nearby table and drop ourselves down into the
seats. Sandra, typically, has picked the only two chairs in the entire
establishment that are not wooden. No, instead I have to position
myself in a bizarrely figure-hugging, green felt monstrosity. A little
alteration and these chairs could quite easily be utilised in torture
experiments.

Holding that thought, I turn back to look at Sandra seated in her
chair. She's certainly attractive, with her short, seductively red
hair, curling around her cute, small face. But then she has to go and
put that ridiculous scarf on. Not to mention that bloody suede jacket,
which looks more like a sheet of plastic covered in peanut butter. Then
there's her irritating tendency to wave her arms about, as if she is
constantly being attacked by a swarm of bees...

"She's alright, she's nice, but...yeah...yeah, she's a bit fucked up.
She doesn't believe...but, like, other than that she's just a bit
much," she drones on, "she, like, doesn't let you take a breath, and
after a coupla hours it's, like, shut up!"

I know the feeling. Funny how often people don't realise they are
describing themselves whilst slagging off somebody else. "But she's
really nice, and I don't wanna be horrible to her." And there we have
it - the inevitable punch-line that seems to accompany every negative
comment that this girl utters; the disclaimer; the small print - the
little get-out loop-hole that she inserts in an attempt to avoid any
potential consequences of her words. I hate people who won't stand by
their own declarations.

At this point I decide it is a good time to deliver one of my 'Sandra
laughs'. It is a high-pitched, nasal, hyena-resembling shriek of a
laugh that screeches through the wood of the building and deep into the
heads of everybody present, causing them to throw confused glances in
our direction. With the exception of that one kid, who seems to be
staring continuously in our direction. Strange kid - glasses,
ridiculously buoyant hair, scribbling frantically into a
notebook.

Certainly, the laugh is an embarrassment. But it is more of an
embarrassment to her, and the fact that she has no idea whatsoever that
I am putting it on makes the moment all that more delicious.

The conversation proceeds at a largely incoherent level for a while,
with me providing neutral comments that require no concentration. I
light a fag, taking far too much time and effort to do so. Suddenly the
hanging skeletons and the wooden pool table with the cardboard cut-outs
playing in their endlessly predictable ways fail to distract me. Time
for a change in conversation.

"We're gonna go sailing, Tommy and me. Gonna to go to Cuba for four
years," I throw carelessly into the vocal arena.

Sandra's eyes light up. Her arms start flailing more, and her hands
begin to vibrate alarmingly. She stammers a variety of random sounds,
confirming my worst fears: I've excited her.

"It's really cheap - the festivals are so good! The people can be so
friendly, like, December to January, it's fucking cool, like, bands
everywhere!" she explodes, sending a hail of oral fireballs into my
ears. This situation needs cooling, immediately. If it isn't, I won't
be held responsible for my actions.

I take the only option left to me: "I've got to go skating."

That does the trick. She stops in mid-flow, perplexed. Not to be
outdone, she struggles to think of an appropriate reply to my entirely
random assertion. In the end, all she can manage is a feeble and
confused "what...?"
Conquered! At last, perhaps, she will shut up. Tommy should be here
soon at any rate. No point in getting complacent, though - it's when
you think it's safe that it is most dangerous. I take extra precautions
and head off towards the loo, muttering something apologetic as I stand
up. She starts to spew some more drivel as I look for the door to the
toilets. I don't hear what she says, I just pick up on the sound of
it.

"Goddamn fuck this, fuck that, yeah?" she seems to say.

Finding the appropriate door, I nod in agreement and depart.