I couldn’t suck the vodka down fast enough. So fast, that shortly after this confrontation I found myself in line for another drink and again in front of the aristocratic Zack Morris-wannabe bartender. He approached me with a poker-faced ignorance as I ever-so-politely ordered the vodka-waters once again. As I was out of cash due to the earlier vodka fiasco, I presented him with my credit card and he rolled his eyes when he realised that it required a signature upon purchase. He dug around the back of the bar until he eventually found a pen. He presented the receipt in front of me.
Fucking dickhead.
Me, FURIOUS: “What did you just say to me?!â€
Eton Boy, sheepish, but snottier than a schoolgirl: “Whatever, I need your signature. For your American credit card.â€
Me, still pissed but pleased I found another reason to call him out: “Actually, I’m Canadian.â€
What followed was perhaps the biggest 180 shift I’ve ever seen. Immediately after learning I was Canadian, he became incredibly friendly and interested in what I had to say. This should have made me patriotic. But this perhaps irritated me even more as although I understand the occasional distaste for the ignorance carried by some Americans, I don’t think it’s acceptable to be rude to someone just because you think they’re from the US. That’s just straight-up racism in my head.
Fast-forward to the end of the evening. We somehow got ourselves invited to the after-hours party at the club by some random guys who were supposedly big-shot Hollywood directors. They didn’t tell us this – the troll-ish Tattler girls revealed this when they started kissing our asses after noticing us with them.
I was busy chatting to some sort of 65-year-old British publishing mogul about my career. Mostly, I was amused by his attire – a double-breasted, pinstriped suit complete with a large, chained pocket-watch. The whole thing was capped off with eye-ware I can only refer to as ‘spectacles’ to give them justice. Picture a fatter Sherlock Holmes, sans hat or magnifying glass. He knew where Nova Scotia was and thought I was charming. Also, he kept calling me ‘Dear Girl!’, which delighted me to no end. I was basically smitten with him. You know, in a surrogate-grandfather kind of way.
After listening to him list all of the great things about the Eton Boy, I for some reason decided I owed him apology. You see, coming from a small town where everybody knows everyone, I have internalized a level of answerability to perfect strangers that is unheard of in London. In Halifax if you pissed off the bartenders at a bar, you and your friends weren’t allowed back there. It’s as simple as that. I’ve since learned that you rarely see the same person twice in London, but at this time I was a little wet behind the ears on the whole anonymity thing the city has going on, so I felt I needed to reconcile with this fellow…
{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }
Nice!
My raging ego demanded that I get my name as a url pretty much as soon as I started my first big boy blog.
Congrats, my love! This is most exciting! (And now I won't accidentally type in “noordinaryrollercoaster” instead of “bensprblog” once a week. (Yes, I do subscribe but sometimes I feel a little old school.)
Big kids have domains these days.
And I think I'm not ready until at least another year playing in the league lol
you're welcome!! glad you're finally using it.
slacker.
oh man …I hope it doesn't affect your stats …but congrats
huh? i'm so slow.
Well shoot. The best friends of all are the ones that buy you stuff and let you take your own sweet time getting around to using whatever it is they got you.
Lynda, I'm totally going to use that glass teapot thing. Someday.
I'm glad I could help you get everything set up.
I've owned my own domain since forever and I have yet to figure out any useful function for them.
But I do love ownership