The Enigma

A woman, probably the underside of 30, has become a bit of a regular in the past few months.

Always alone, rather plain to look at, and very quiet. She always asks if we have magazines (we don't), but never brings anything to read with her. She comes in every Sunday, fairly late in the day.

She begins, without fail, with a litre carafe of Sangria. The first time she came in, I remember I gave her two glasses, figuring she'd be sharing with at least one other person. She wasn't, and doesn't.

She always sits in the window staring out at the street, and always finishes the sangria. Right to the last drop. She will then sit for a bit, having a little party rest.

She will, sometime thereafter, ask for a menu. Looking for food to soak up a litre of Sangria? Err, no. She's just after cocktails. She orders 3 or 4 in quick succession. She always tells the bartender how wonderful everything is here.

When's she's done with cocktails, she'll have a couple of glasses of red.

By this stage, she might be getting rather pissed. Occassionally I tell her no more. Once, I tried to take some water to her. She looked at me like I was completely moronic, and told me she didn't order it. No, water is never a priority.

Working in a bar, you get a feel for most people. But this woman remains an enigma. I don't think she's nursing a broken heart, she's too happy. She's content to sit for hours alone in a bar and doesn't seek conversation with anyone. She appears to be doing okay financially, though I know looks can be deceiving. I suspect she has more than a slight problem with alcohol, although she keeps herself tidy. I can't get a handle on it.

The woman is a mystery!

Roly Poly Little Men Need Love Too

One of the funnier episodes tonight!

A short, balding, chubby man, early 40s, wearing a pair of horn rimmed glasses, came into the bar and ordered a scotch, neat. He downed it in one, then asked for a table for two. He nervously told me he was on a blind date. I seated him in the dining room.

Within minutes, another small, portly man about the same age, also balding and bespectacled, arrived. This guy, however, was blessed with the most magnificently groomed eyebrows since George Michael. They were splendid! But I digress...

It soon became apparent that he was looking for someone. On a hunch, I pointed out his physical twin, and I don't think I'm overstating it to say a look of complete horror passed across his face. Obviously pained, he walked up to where the other bloke sat. They were, of course, each other's blind dates.

Now, I can see why their well intentioned mutual friend set them up. I can actually imagine the friend (probably female, definitely straight) saying "I know the perfect guy for you! You have sooo much in common!" But the poor girl missed an important part of gay boy dating. You never, and I mean NEVER, suggest someone who is 'nice' to your friends. You only suggest guys who are completely wrong for them, and super hot. That's just common knowledge.

Anyway, not long after ordering a round of drinks it became pretty clear that Mr Scotch Drinker was boring the shit out of Mr Fabulous Eyebrows. Mr Scotch was talking and talking, oblivious to the glazed eyes and lolling tongue of his date. Mr Eyebrows was surreptitiously sending someone a text message under the table, probably along the lines of "HELP ME!"

Mr Eyebrows escaped to the toilet, and on the way out bailed up the bartender.

"This is the date from hell! Can you poison him?" I had a brief panic attack thinking he said "YOU'VE poisoned him", a mistake soon corrected when they saw my ashen face. In fantastically smooth gay boy style, he then asked the bartender what he was doing later, and whether he wanted to meet for a drink. It was Bartender's turn to look ashen. He's young, gorgeous and fit. He doesn't see himself with 40, bald and paunchy. "Fuck me that dude rates himself!" he whispered later. I rolled my eyes, "You lot are all the same!"

Mr Eyebrows went back to the table. He was well past pretending to be interested, instead blatantly texting everyone in his contacts list, checking his Grindr account and clearly not listening to Mr Scotch's conversation.

Well, he must have received a response from someone, because he suddenly jumped up, pulled a handful of cash out of his pocket, threw it on the table, and ran out the door. He didn't even say goodbye! It all happened so quickly, Mr Scotch was still talking while Mr Eyebrows was loping up the main road.

Mr Scotch sat there a little while, befuddled, and probably trying to work out how many other people had seen this mortifying moment. He eventually came up to the counter to pay, as the waitress (a lovely girl, but not entirely switched on) came around the corner.
"Ready to go?" she asked.

"Yes" he said quietly.

"Did you and your brother have a nice night?" she inquired with a big smile.

The final insult!