‘Now, what can I do for you?'
– An Eastern European Love Affair
The door creaks open and the oh so familiar yet haunting sound of the chime rings out. A line-up of restless, belly hugging, beady eyed men swiftly turn and stare. I eyeball them intensely, dawning a nervous frown as a plea for sympathy and compassion pours from my retinas. The well-worn faux-leather black couch greets my 90kg+ frame as I take my seat amongst the mediocrity. We wait to be called – still and silent.
‘Who’s next?’ – rings out in broken English.
A tall blonde (who you’d pour over your spuds if you could) appears and gestures.
Gingerly I peel myself off the faux leather upholstery. She directs me and I obey, shuffling with my head bowed as she whisks my jacket away. There is nothing here but mirrors as I stare face to face under a cloak of invisibility with what now is an ever-reddening face dotted with beads of sweat. A time of forced self-reflection unlike any other (well, bar the ceramic Villeroy & Boch throne of a Monday morning after a skip of Guinness the night before). My thumbs twitch nervously as she approaches from behind, my mind races as my inner monologue provides inspirational solace ‘some days you’re the windscreen, some days you’re the fly - my boy’.
A reassuring hand is put on my shoulder as the tension of the moment mounts and the blood flows south. She whispers quietly in her Slavic tone those words so familiar to us bang average/more or less below par men:
‘Now, what can I do for you?’
My upper lip quivers as I mutter: ‘The same again please love’ - adopting a tough Inner-City Dublin twang to cover up the vulnerability of my socio-economically sound South Dublin suburban upbringing (public-school educated mind you). A gentle brush off a left breast on the back of the head is my last fading memory as she commences proceedings.
‘Is that alright for you?’
Wakes me abruptly from my bewildered and confused daze. Praise the lord and pass the soup my bimonthly rollercoaster of emotion screeches to an end. She cleans me up and I confirm my pleasure at the service. I rustle a few crisp notes from my Ted Baker relaxed fit chinos and signal to tip the change - swallowing your pride occasionally will never give you indigestion.
A short back and sides with a scissors trim on top shouldn’t be a love story - but it is.
My pension’s maturing but I ain’t.
Bertie, we’re back.