So I’m in a restaurant with a couple of mates. They’re city girls. I live in a city now, and have done before, but I’m not a city girl in my soul. I had just spent a decade living in a small village (well, it’s considered a town, because it has a market charter, long story blah de blah, but population-wise, it’s a village), and my brain slowed down while I was there.
Now, you might think I’m being scathing about country folk. I most certainly am not. Ones brain slowing down is a GOOD thing. I find a lot of city people think too fast… or more accurately they don’t give themselves time to think. It’s moving on from one thing to the next in a heartbeat without a moment to reflect. Not just reflect upon the important things, but upon the minutiae of life as well… just to double check on it’s sometimes absurdity.
No time, no time. I’m late, I’m late for a very important date.
Far too many white rabbits running around cities.
So. Back to the restaurant. We sit down, all very nice. One of my friends is the queen of impatience – don’t get me wrong, I love her like a sister – but she’s very short – not in stature but in manner (well, she’s not tall either). So, she’s already put the waiter slightly offside by implying that he wasn’t too clever in asking her if she wanted table water (bottled, still and free) when she’d already ordered sparkling water (bottled, bubbling and expensive) from another waiter.
We get menus. I start to peruse the menu. It’s shared platter stuff – mezze if you will. I start to read.
They start to order. Hang on, my slow brain (just typed Brian then – perhaps that will be my nickname for my brain from now on, Yo Brian what the fuck were you thinking?). Hang on, my ‘Brian’ is thinking… I haven’t even read this stuff yet.
Now… can I point out – because I cannot bear to disparage myself – I’m a clever person. The brain slowing down thing doesn’t mean less clever, less knowledgeable, or less intelligent. It just means less frantic about everything.
So intellectually…. I’m clever, I’m witty, I’m fast like the fox…
But, this is ordering… in a restaurant… from a menu… in my down time… I can take my time right. Enjoy the process… be in the moment man.
No, clearly not.
So, my mate begins, in rapid-fire question mode, as if I’m some kind of slow-poke, down-home, dueling-banjos type, who is incapable of making decisions.
What are you going to order Rooshkie? What about the meatballs, I fancy meatballs.
My lips part in an attempt to respond.
Oh no that’s right you don’t eat meat.
I’m about to say… “No, I don’t eat meat, therefore balls of meat are probably not going to be my first choice – call me a crazy sonofabitch.”
But I can’t. We’ve moved on.
So, Rooshkie are you drinking wine? Red or white? Red, that’s right. What about this one….
*barely points to one choice in a choice of many so that I simply can’t see which one*
“Yes, fine.”, I say.
So, Rooshkie, have you decided… what about the zucchini fritters… you’d like those.
“Yes. I’d like those.”, I say mechanically.
So, Rooshkie… anything else… I fancy the pizza, what about pizza, do you want pizza?
“Um.” (I didn’t fancy the pizza particularly) but I said… “Yes, pizza… goooood.”, in a fairly convincing impersonation of Homer Simpson.
We eat. It’s pretty good. The wine is fine. We chat… we begin to slow down.
Actually… They…. begin… to… slow… down.
That’s better girls… this… is… more… my… pace.
‘Brian’ is much happier now.
Next week my lovelies, Egg Zackly.