Yesterday evening, in spite of being dog-tired and a bit under the weather, I decided to take up the local writers’ group open invitation to attend one of their meetings. The invite stated (and still does, I understand) that they meet in a town centre pub and would be easily recognisable; “…we’re the ones with the books…” Fair enough.
I turned up at eight – the appointed hour – to find that the pub was really a bar. Anice distinction, some might say but, by "bar" I mean a single room, brightly lit and very noisy. I won’t say the place was small, but if anyone was thinking of organising a cat-swinging competition, it wouldn’t have been first on the list of possible venues.
Having driven there, (some twenty miles, which at £1.31 a litre, works out at about £3:00) I couldn’t really have a proper drink so I bought a half of some fairly passable bitter, as it happens and looked around to see if there was a party that might be described as a writers’ group. Strangely, I drew a blank.
Thinking I might be early, I decided to sit down and read the paper for a while and keep an eye on the door at the same time. I should have realised that the evening was doomed at the point when I discovered that the newspapers on the bar comprised a sports supplement from something or other that likes to use exclamation marks a lot and two copies of The Sun. Mercifully, and abandoned owing to the fact that it was sitting in a puddle of beer, there was a Guardian arts section. It was behind this that I pretended to be Holly Martins, waiting for Harry Lime in a Viennese coffee shop.
As I scoured the faces in the bar, I began to realise what a pillock I’d been. What the boiling hell had I been thinking? Did I really believe that I could spot a writer by the simple cut of his jib? Well, obviously, I did: but not for long. I’m fairly quick on the uptake and in the absence of big floppy hats, cravats and cigarette holders I soon realised there was absolutely nothing to go on at all.
The group of four women were perusing menus. If they were the writers, then I might as well leave. My mind went over the contents of my pocket when I had dipped in to pay for my beer: four pounds sixty, a penknife and a guitar pick. I guessed the lobster was out of the question. Then there were the two men at the bar: animated and loud - too loud? Writers aren’t loud. Hemingway was loud but he didn’t, to my knowledge, stand unsteadily beside his bar-stool, demonstrating how best to deal with a full-toss from Monty Panesar (take it in the middle of the bat at sixty degrees from horizontal, if you must know) nor did he have a man-bag.
The couple laughing to each other in the window seemed far too content. Where was the angst, the, pain and the disillusionment? They were all at my table, as it happens but I remained, steadfastly and increasing obviously it seemed to me, alone. I went to the lavatory.
It was down a very steep and unnecessarily long set of stairs and was, of course, a tiny, tiled space, one wall of which sported two urinals. I chose one and stood. Within a nanosecond, a man was standing beside me.
‘I’ve never used this one before,’ he said, accusingly.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘No. I usually use that one.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said, I usually use that one.’
‘No, I mean, I’m sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced. Ha Ha.’
‘Variety is important,’ he said. Could he be a writer?
‘Not too bad, this pub,’ he went on ‘except on Friday when all the students come in.’
I finished, shook, zipped, washed and fled wet-handed.
Back in my seat, I kept my head buried in Deborah Orr until I was certain my fellow ablutionist must have returned to his own.
At about 8:45, having exhausted the soggy arts section, I decided to leave. Such is the human spirit that I continued to glance around as I made for the door still with absolutely no idea what I was looking for. Would anyone else, similarly seeking out the writers’ group have looked in my direction and thought,
‘He might be one of them?’
Sadly not. I discovered that, somewhere in the tiny pub, I had indeed missed the three members of the group who had turned up that evening and, possibly more distressingly, they had missed me.
I turned up at eight – the appointed hour – to find that the pub was really a bar. Anice distinction, some might say but, by "bar" I mean a single room, brightly lit and very noisy. I won’t say the place was small, but if anyone was thinking of organising a cat-swinging competition, it wouldn’t have been first on the list of possible venues.
Having driven there, (some twenty miles, which at £1.31 a litre, works out at about £3:00) I couldn’t really have a proper drink so I bought a half of some fairly passable bitter, as it happens and looked around to see if there was a party that might be described as a writers’ group. Strangely, I drew a blank.
Thinking I might be early, I decided to sit down and read the paper for a while and keep an eye on the door at the same time. I should have realised that the evening was doomed at the point when I discovered that the newspapers on the bar comprised a sports supplement from something or other that likes to use exclamation marks a lot and two copies of The Sun. Mercifully, and abandoned owing to the fact that it was sitting in a puddle of beer, there was a Guardian arts section. It was behind this that I pretended to be Holly Martins, waiting for Harry Lime in a Viennese coffee shop.
As I scoured the faces in the bar, I began to realise what a pillock I’d been. What the boiling hell had I been thinking? Did I really believe that I could spot a writer by the simple cut of his jib? Well, obviously, I did: but not for long. I’m fairly quick on the uptake and in the absence of big floppy hats, cravats and cigarette holders I soon realised there was absolutely nothing to go on at all.
The group of four women were perusing menus. If they were the writers, then I might as well leave. My mind went over the contents of my pocket when I had dipped in to pay for my beer: four pounds sixty, a penknife and a guitar pick. I guessed the lobster was out of the question. Then there were the two men at the bar: animated and loud - too loud? Writers aren’t loud. Hemingway was loud but he didn’t, to my knowledge, stand unsteadily beside his bar-stool, demonstrating how best to deal with a full-toss from Monty Panesar (take it in the middle of the bat at sixty degrees from horizontal, if you must know) nor did he have a man-bag.
The couple laughing to each other in the window seemed far too content. Where was the angst, the, pain and the disillusionment? They were all at my table, as it happens but I remained, steadfastly and increasing obviously it seemed to me, alone. I went to the lavatory.
It was down a very steep and unnecessarily long set of stairs and was, of course, a tiny, tiled space, one wall of which sported two urinals. I chose one and stood. Within a nanosecond, a man was standing beside me.
‘I’ve never used this one before,’ he said, accusingly.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘No. I usually use that one.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I said, I usually use that one.’
‘No, I mean, I’m sorry that you’ve been inconvenienced. Ha Ha.’
‘Variety is important,’ he said. Could he be a writer?
‘Not too bad, this pub,’ he went on ‘except on Friday when all the students come in.’
I finished, shook, zipped, washed and fled wet-handed.
Back in my seat, I kept my head buried in Deborah Orr until I was certain my fellow ablutionist must have returned to his own.
At about 8:45, having exhausted the soggy arts section, I decided to leave. Such is the human spirit that I continued to glance around as I made for the door still with absolutely no idea what I was looking for. Would anyone else, similarly seeking out the writers’ group have looked in my direction and thought,
‘He might be one of them?’
Sadly not. I discovered that, somewhere in the tiny pub, I had indeed missed the three members of the group who had turned up that evening and, possibly more distressingly, they had missed me.
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