Lovers in strange places
The Lady has a take on the Ex-files which goes something like this-
"However far you travel, you will inevitably bump into an ex at some point in your life and this will happen regardless of any attempt to avoid such encounters. The likelihood of said encounters are, of course, directly proportional to the number of exes you possess "(strange way of putting it, I know, 'possessing' an ex. 'I possess my ex, I have possessed my ex, my ex possesses me, my ex has possessed me, my exes possess me, I am possessed by my exes....', okay okay, very sad, I know, I'll stop). Stop.
Some exes are, of course, people you care for a lot and are very much part of your life, and I am not talking about them. Okay?
Right. Now, there is this ex who used to 'possess' yours truly. I will not explain this beyond the fact that the said ex's favourite song was 'Every move you make' by the Police. Even if one were to ignore the decidedly questionable taste in music, not to mention the particular song, the sentiment behind the bloody song itself should be sufficient explanation as to why the Ex is an an Ex. This experience, however, has left me with deep psychological scars, hidden even to myself, until I went to a Police concert. Look, I can explain this.
The Lady has a rich relative. Rich relative has a rich wife. They are our only normal relatives in town (well, at least the only ones who like sex). Both get loads of corporate freebies. Thus, we get free tickets to a Police concert. The Lady has the hots for Sting. I am indifferent to them (the Police, I mean). I like Sting (no, I don't have the hots for him). We go to the concert. Everything goes fine until the end, when they start singing, well..... . I suddenly have this horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach; the Lady casts an eye at me, understands, and says, "Let's go". Bless her, she loves me, y'know. I start hurrying down the stairs, trip on nothing, and falls, then sort of shoot, face forward, down the entire bloody length of Twickenham Stadium, thud, thud, thudthudthud etc etc. I take a petite blonde with me, on the way. Positively embarassing. At the bottom, there's much shouting of 'He's alive, he's moving etc.' The resultant 2 very large knees mean that I have a lot of explaining to do over the next 2 weeks. The Lady gallantly tells everyone, "It was sooooo funny, I wished I'd filmed it". Okay, maybe she doesn't love me all that much.
Back to the Ex. Understandably, I avoid her like the plague. She, erm..., pursued contact with customary persistence when I arrived in London. On the last such occasion, I actually left my office by the backdoor and got into the first available train, when she was in the building attempting such, erm.. contact. I think this sort of subtly drove home the message. By then, Ex had already fallen in love with and married a 'best friend' of mine (his term), who then promptly severed all contact with me, thus rendering himself an 'ex-best friend'. Very adult. And complicated, I know, this unlikely addition to the Ex files. But such is life.
4 happy years later, I go to 'a world famous centre of learning' (a phrase borrowed partly from Nikita) for an interview. Guess who's on one of the panels?
I see her name on the panel list, but like any self-respecting male who copes largely by denial, tell myself with immediate finality, " She can't be here, it's someone else". What I suspect I was actually thinking was, "I don't want to deal with this shit during an interview; I don't want to study here anyway since I'd rather stay in London; I didn't even want to come to this interview; this is a tier 2 Department, they don't share any of my interests; I'd rather stay in London; this is too complicated to deal with right now, she doesn't exist; go away; I'd rather stay in London, why did I come here? It IS somebody else. It's NOT her. That's that."
The first 2 panels go like a dream. I am doing so well I've actually forgotten about her. Completely.
I walk into the 3rd room. A youngish Black man sits by a window, smiling. There's a woman in the corner next to the window, sitting on a chair that's been drawn right back into the shadows. I am so pleased with myself that I don't even notice this person. I smile superficially at the shadowy face and look at the youngish chap expectantly. The interview continues to go well. After about 5 mins, I am a bit puzzled; there's not been a peep out of the second interviewer. I am a conversational interviewee i.e. I try to make myself comfortable in interviews and attempt to convert it into a 'conversation', usually cracking a self-deprecating joke to get them to laugh a bit. But an alarm bell has gone off inside my brain. I peer into the shadows and look right at the silent woman............, "Ohh fuck me, it's her! It actually is. This is so fucking weird. The Lady was right, the woman is always right, but here of all the bloody places! Okay, okay, talk to her, get her to talk, she being silent like this is damned awkward..... wait, maybe she's told the Black guy she knows me, that's why he hasn't smiled though I'm laying on the charm; oh fuck". I now shift my gaze firmly to her face while answering his questions.
After about a minute, she starts talking, normally. I notice that she's wearing glasses...., "That's new, but gold rimmed glasses, at her age... Is she deliberately trying to look older? That's pathetic, must tell the Lady and A about this, they'll be thoroughly amused. And she's wearing a pinstriped suit and is heavily made up, what a hoot! She's gone native, hahaha".
I was, of course, wearing a suit myself (with a pink shirt and cufflinks, the horror), so this line of thinking was hardly justified. But let's face it, I was a wee bit uncomfortable being interviewed by her, what with the erm.... , slight power imbalance. So internally rubbishing the Ex you never thought would do anything remotely intellectual and had now apparated on your interview panel (Wow! No shit. I can't fucking believe this!) is possibly an instinctive (male?) response. But then, a pleasant thought strikes me. She must have seen my CV! What fun! Hurrah! A moment of petty, unwholesome, irrational glee possesses me, and confidence restored and (defensive, latently insecure?) grossly unwarranted arrogance surfacing, I cross my legs and carry on. A minute later, I am aware that I have jettisoned the charm altogether and am dangerously veering into 'patronize the interviewer' territory. I have become defensive. Not good. Guaranteed to lose me the job. But I don't want the bloody job. Really? Well, not unless I am left with absolutely no other option. So I might need the job, then. Uncross legs, now, you twit. Smile. Bring chin down. Be nice to them. They've seen your CV and have probably labelled you as a 'typical (insert name of frighteningly arrogant institution) person' anyway. And you look faintly thuggish. Make them like you. Now.
I smile sweetly at her. Then, him. See, you can do a fake smile once every ten years or so. Okay, now do it again. I sort of grimace. Not good. Obviously, I have to wait for another ten years, now. I give up; calmly answer their (actually his, because she's clammed up again) queries. I say something, she goes, "Oh, verry good!" I don't like this. Don't 'verry good' me woman, okay? But then I was patronizing them hardly 2 minutes ago. You don't have a copyright on this, y'know. Oh, shut the fuck up, nevermind.
Actually, the interview went great. I came out, called the Lady, "Hey, do you know who was on the ......?"
She hooted with laughter.
There's no sympathy in this world, I tell you.
"However far you travel, you will inevitably bump into an ex at some point in your life and this will happen regardless of any attempt to avoid such encounters. The likelihood of said encounters are, of course, directly proportional to the number of exes you possess "(strange way of putting it, I know, 'possessing' an ex. 'I possess my ex, I have possessed my ex, my ex possesses me, my ex has possessed me, my exes possess me, I am possessed by my exes....', okay okay, very sad, I know, I'll stop). Stop.
Some exes are, of course, people you care for a lot and are very much part of your life, and I am not talking about them. Okay?
Right. Now, there is this ex who used to 'possess' yours truly. I will not explain this beyond the fact that the said ex's favourite song was 'Every move you make' by the Police. Even if one were to ignore the decidedly questionable taste in music, not to mention the particular song, the sentiment behind the bloody song itself should be sufficient explanation as to why the Ex is an an Ex. This experience, however, has left me with deep psychological scars, hidden even to myself, until I went to a Police concert. Look, I can explain this.
The Lady has a rich relative. Rich relative has a rich wife. They are our only normal relatives in town (well, at least the only ones who like sex). Both get loads of corporate freebies. Thus, we get free tickets to a Police concert. The Lady has the hots for Sting. I am indifferent to them (the Police, I mean). I like Sting (no, I don't have the hots for him). We go to the concert. Everything goes fine until the end, when they start singing, well..... . I suddenly have this horrible sensation in the pit of my stomach; the Lady casts an eye at me, understands, and says, "Let's go". Bless her, she loves me, y'know. I start hurrying down the stairs, trip on nothing, and falls, then sort of shoot, face forward, down the entire bloody length of Twickenham Stadium, thud, thud, thudthudthud etc etc. I take a petite blonde with me, on the way. Positively embarassing. At the bottom, there's much shouting of 'He's alive, he's moving etc.' The resultant 2 very large knees mean that I have a lot of explaining to do over the next 2 weeks. The Lady gallantly tells everyone, "It was sooooo funny, I wished I'd filmed it". Okay, maybe she doesn't love me all that much.
Back to the Ex. Understandably, I avoid her like the plague. She, erm..., pursued contact with customary persistence when I arrived in London. On the last such occasion, I actually left my office by the backdoor and got into the first available train, when she was in the building attempting such, erm.. contact. I think this sort of subtly drove home the message. By then, Ex had already fallen in love with and married a 'best friend' of mine (his term), who then promptly severed all contact with me, thus rendering himself an 'ex-best friend'. Very adult. And complicated, I know, this unlikely addition to the Ex files. But such is life.
4 happy years later, I go to 'a world famous centre of learning' (a phrase borrowed partly from Nikita) for an interview. Guess who's on one of the panels?
I see her name on the panel list, but like any self-respecting male who copes largely by denial, tell myself with immediate finality, " She can't be here, it's someone else". What I suspect I was actually thinking was, "I don't want to deal with this shit during an interview; I don't want to study here anyway since I'd rather stay in London; I didn't even want to come to this interview; this is a tier 2 Department, they don't share any of my interests; I'd rather stay in London; this is too complicated to deal with right now, she doesn't exist; go away; I'd rather stay in London, why did I come here? It IS somebody else. It's NOT her. That's that."
The first 2 panels go like a dream. I am doing so well I've actually forgotten about her. Completely.
I walk into the 3rd room. A youngish Black man sits by a window, smiling. There's a woman in the corner next to the window, sitting on a chair that's been drawn right back into the shadows. I am so pleased with myself that I don't even notice this person. I smile superficially at the shadowy face and look at the youngish chap expectantly. The interview continues to go well. After about 5 mins, I am a bit puzzled; there's not been a peep out of the second interviewer. I am a conversational interviewee i.e. I try to make myself comfortable in interviews and attempt to convert it into a 'conversation', usually cracking a self-deprecating joke to get them to laugh a bit. But an alarm bell has gone off inside my brain. I peer into the shadows and look right at the silent woman............, "Ohh fuck me, it's her! It actually is. This is so fucking weird. The Lady was right, the woman is always right, but here of all the bloody places! Okay, okay, talk to her, get her to talk, she being silent like this is damned awkward..... wait, maybe she's told the Black guy she knows me, that's why he hasn't smiled though I'm laying on the charm; oh fuck". I now shift my gaze firmly to her face while answering his questions.
After about a minute, she starts talking, normally. I notice that she's wearing glasses...., "That's new, but gold rimmed glasses, at her age... Is she deliberately trying to look older? That's pathetic, must tell the Lady and A about this, they'll be thoroughly amused. And she's wearing a pinstriped suit and is heavily made up, what a hoot! She's gone native, hahaha".
I was, of course, wearing a suit myself (with a pink shirt and cufflinks, the horror), so this line of thinking was hardly justified. But let's face it, I was a wee bit uncomfortable being interviewed by her, what with the erm.... , slight power imbalance. So internally rubbishing the Ex you never thought would do anything remotely intellectual and had now apparated on your interview panel (Wow! No shit. I can't fucking believe this!) is possibly an instinctive (male?) response. But then, a pleasant thought strikes me. She must have seen my CV! What fun! Hurrah! A moment of petty, unwholesome, irrational glee possesses me, and confidence restored and (defensive, latently insecure?) grossly unwarranted arrogance surfacing, I cross my legs and carry on. A minute later, I am aware that I have jettisoned the charm altogether and am dangerously veering into 'patronize the interviewer' territory. I have become defensive. Not good. Guaranteed to lose me the job. But I don't want the bloody job. Really? Well, not unless I am left with absolutely no other option. So I might need the job, then. Uncross legs, now, you twit. Smile. Bring chin down. Be nice to them. They've seen your CV and have probably labelled you as a 'typical (insert name of frighteningly arrogant institution) person' anyway. And you look faintly thuggish. Make them like you. Now.
I smile sweetly at her. Then, him. See, you can do a fake smile once every ten years or so. Okay, now do it again. I sort of grimace. Not good. Obviously, I have to wait for another ten years, now. I give up; calmly answer their (actually his, because she's clammed up again) queries. I say something, she goes, "Oh, verry good!" I don't like this. Don't 'verry good' me woman, okay? But then I was patronizing them hardly 2 minutes ago. You don't have a copyright on this, y'know. Oh, shut the fuck up, nevermind.
Actually, the interview went great. I came out, called the Lady, "Hey, do you know who was on the ......?"
She hooted with laughter.
There's no sympathy in this world, I tell you.
posted by nevermind at 6:59 AM
5 Comments:
good lord! that is some story! brave of you to tell it. err..and what if she has followed you around enough to discover this blog?!?
are you back from your travels? if yes, amongst other things, i envy the food you must have eaten. sigh..
Would've been brave if it had happened 5 yrs ago, which, thankfully, it didn't. Time normalizes everything, hence my almost constant underlying amusement throughout the encounter. But yes, I live in interesting times and her finding the blog would be vaguely creepy.
Still travelling, just ate some Indian Chinese takeaway. But I thought food's 'just calories' for you. Huhh?! What?;)
of course it is 'just calories'- but that's only when i'm cooking it. ha!
at home in india or when someone else is slaving over it- it represents warmth and friends and good times and nourishment and taste:):):):)
Cuff links!
*is rendered speechless*
Steel and pine, my only pair, not so bad, y'know. Can't do ties though, for the death of me, though I'm forced to on on such occasions. Apart from the constant sense of being throttled, the very idea of a pointless piece of post-colonial rag round my neck is enough to make me want to hit someone on the panels. Particularly stupid old white men, who incidentally was a geneticist, the last time this happened.
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