The Top Floor Flat

Londoners on the whole aren’t generally a very chatty bunch when it comes to public interaction. Avoiding eye contact on the Tube, hiding behind brollys on the streets, blocking the next seat on the bus with bags are just a few of the litany of avoidance tactics one might discover in this fine city. So when someone joins in an overheard conversation one can be sure that it’s related to something very good or very bad.

Unfortunately, Saturday night seemed to be a list of the highly amusing but very bad. I left the flat shortly before 22.00 to meet my friend for a drink pre-Lord of the Rings all-night marathon. As I stood alone on the train platform, a rather nervous-looking young man approached me. With some trepidation I stuck my nose further into my book (as I mentioned I was unused to being spoken to while on public transport) but to no avail.

“Excuse me, I need to ask you a question.”

I eyed the stranger non-committally. He continued.

“Imagine you’ve just signed the agreement for a new flat. You’re moving into a place where a group of other people already live.”

Nod from me.

“Then, one evening, you show up unannounced to move some things in. You find them all sitting around a table that is covered in while lines of powder and discover you’ve moved into a drug den.”

I burst out laughing and the man looks a little hurt but also seriously confused. The train arrives.

I make a slightly useless comment about having no idea what I would do in that situation and hastily board the train wondering if I had just imagined that exchange.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve nearly recovered from the unexpected interaction and have found my friend Basheera at Feng Sushi on the gorgeous, neon-back lit London Southbank. A significantly disappointing tuna maki roll later I, hyperbolelessly point out that it was in fact the worst sushi I had ever tasted. A moment later:

“Excuse me,” says the man sitting next to us. His female partner is staring dejectedly at the plate before them. “Did I just hear you say this was the worst sushi you’ve ever tasted?”

Nod from me. Two random conversations in one day – this must be some sort of London record.

“Our sushi is unedible. It tastes completely off. I thought it was just us.” He leans towards me conspiratorially. “Will you have the nerve to refuse to pay?”

“Probably not,” I admit although at the same time I am wondering what sort of damages I might get from the restaurant if I get food poisoning.

“No,” he sighs. “Me neither.” This seems a rather shame given that it looks like he’s already spent about ten times more than I have on the inedible sushi.

A tense exchange with the hostess (who does not take kindly to our constructive criticisms) and the rather wise decision on the part of Bash and myself to bail on the Lord of the Rings marathon (yes, you heard it right, I didn’t end up going after all of that) later, the two of us say goodbye on the busy walkway outside the restaurant.

“Do you like cider?” she asks. Of course.

“Well the event I was at earlier today was sponsored by a cider manufacture and I have a bunch of bottles in my bag. Would you like one?” Of course.

A rather surreptitious transfer of bottles takes place and only after the exchange do we realise how dodgy we must have looked.

“It’s ok, no one was watching,” insisted Bash. We look around at the people seated at the outdoor tables across from us who are staring intently at us.

“Oh well,” I sigh. “At least we’ll give them something to talk to each other about.”