A carpark in Croydon. Speaking to a male acquaintance with growing incredulity, a woman is relaying an urgent phone call that she recently took from a friend.
“She said ‘I was repainting my flat, naked.’” The woman pauses, then poses the obvious rhetorical question. “Who paints naked?”.
This seems a reasonable line of inquiry to me. So I listen as she recounts how her nude decorator friend managed to accidentally knock over a tin of gloss paint while going about her task.
Naturally, it splashed onto her unprotected skin, which lead to the frantic phone call.
“She said, ‘I tried to wash it off… I’m in excruciating pain!’”
They climb into their car. I never learn the fate of the au naturel DIY enthusiast, or what motives drove her. Maybe she’d be safer to work with wallpaper next time.
* * *
A pub in Battersea. At a corner table, two women are sitting, along with their four children.
One of the women, who may have been drinking, has her phone held out at arm’s length, orientated to landscape mode. The screen is visible to everyone at the table and, notionally, to all the other punters in the establishment.
Periodically, she shouts “Gran’ National! Gran’ Nationaaaaal? Anyone bet on the Gran’ National!?”
She continues her unwelcome broadcast of the famous steeplechase, despite being conspicuously ignored by the other patrons, including me and my friend Dave. I had no idea the race was today.
Noble Yeats, an Irish thoroughbred, comes in the 50-1 winner.
Dave says his wife will be annoyed that they didn’t place a bet on him. They only bet on Irish nags and worse still, she loves Yeats.
* * *
A train travelling through Southwest London. It’s late afternoon. Two stubbly men in dark cargo trousers and fleeces sit opposite one another, talking shop.
One of them sighs. He tries wearily and at length to explain what his wife does for a living, with no success. After a while, he shrugs resignedly.
“To me, it’s rubbish. To ‘er, it’s ‘er job,” he summarises.
* * *
The Wallace Collection in Marylebone. I’m wandering the byzantine series of galleries with my mum, trying to decide how I feel about the abundance of rococo stylings and ancien régime portraits.
After half an hour it feels like the visual equivalent of eating too much dessert.
Close by, two of the museum staff make small talk. In the hush of the gallery, one of them stops to survey the finery and furnishings. “That sofa’s been kicked more times than any other item in the collection,” she mutters.
* * *
A restaurant in Greenwich. A woman walks in with her family. She’s cradling a house plant under her arm like it’s a tiny chihuahua, or some other breed of handbag dog.
After an hour or so, the group departs and accidentally leaves the house plant behind.
I’m alerted to this because a panicky young relative soon materialises at the entrance, breathlessly asking the staff if they know of the plant’s whereabouts.
Nonetheless, the episode convinces me that we should have a social convention allowing people to carry beloved house plants around, like family pets or service animals.
Caring for houseplants is supposed to have a therapeutic effect, if I remember correctly.
It might encourage a general softening of attitude in the plant owner, like when you give pre-teen children flour babies to look after.
Plus, with a house plant at your side, the world becomes your hot desk.
You could deposit your pet plant on a train tray table or a pub bar, and feel instantly at ease and at home. You just need to remember to take it with you when you leave.
