JJ moves on down Cottrel Road, face set and pace quite fast. After a while, she fishes out her mobile to check the time and nearly collides with an old man. He’s walking a breed of dog somewhere between a daschund and a Basset hound with a bit of spaniel thrown in for good measure and his extreme reluctance for that activity is matched and then beaten by his distaste for JJ - her clothes, her speed, her gender, mobile technology usage and even her profuse apologies.
She disentangles herself and stares briefly at the third house she passes after this. It has photocopied posters in the window that make her smile slightly, and she moves on.
Everyone remembers their first time. Mine was in that house, around this time of year. I’d dragged my genial floormate along to a party I’d been determined to enjoy, despite knowing about one-and-a-half people there. I’d figured I was also doing Greg a bit of a favour as he’d become a bit of a shut-in during the previous three weeks and needed to be doing something that didn’t involve Final Fantasy. And yes, he’d been the only person left in the floor who hadn’t had somewhere else to be on a Saturday evening near the end of term.
Okay, it probably wasn’t the most altruistic thing I’d ever done, but - as wingmen go - he was pretty easy company. Slightly haphazard walker, but I’d figured that was more to do with gravity-shock and mild malnutrition than actual physical debility. I’d slowed down a bit and prodded him gently when he’d seemed to be heading for walls. After a while he’d woken up and had seemed genuinely - if quietly - enthused about the idea of a party.
See? Walks - fucking fantastic.
Also - bribing people with beer and pizza.
What?
Anyway, we’d got there, and had levered our way into a typical Edwardian narrow hallway of people chatting, laughing, flicking their hair back and quoting things at each other. It had turned out to be a longer house than I’d anticipated, and I’d really needed the loo. I swear I only left him alone for three minutes while I’d weaved my way upstairs and then back down again, but by the time I’d got back, it had turned out he’d tried his hand at asking directions or striking up conversation on his own.
Clearly I’d failed a basic level element of wingmanship myself. Greg had been frowning in concentration and this gangly fella was saying: “Listen to me now, and pay attention, because I am deadly serious when I say that I will deal with you with extreme and Biblical prejudice if you even once more call me ‘dude’ without one shred of irony. Do you understand?”
Greg, reeling somewhat, had said: “Sure thing, d-dah, d-damn it.”
Then the other just had to push it, saying: “Do you even know what irony is?”
“Oh, sure - like steely, only with less carbon?” I’d felt the rage gather behind my words as I’d plopped off the last couple of stairs. “Coppery, only greyer? Bronzey, only more cutting edge. Like silvery, only more magnetic. Like haematite?” And I’d looked him dead in the eyes - a bit of a neck crane to be sure, but hey - and said: “I could go on all evening, it’s up to you but, uh, tell us, you’re an academic snob, arntcha? I can tell them a mile off. In fact, don’t tell us - point us at the kitchen, Ah’m starvin. Greg?”
“Eh?”
“Comin?”
“Sure.”
A few minutes later, we’d found the crisps and opened our drinks, and were doing that bit where you’re not sure how to catch people’s attention without being rude and aren’t sure which small talk ‘in’ is acceptable. We’d probably both been more rattled than we’d showed at the earlier confrontation, and I’d been gripping and bouncing slightly. Poor Greg. Two minutes later, just after he’d taken a breath and said “Um...” a hand had tapped me on the shoulder.
I’d turned like: sorry, am I in your way, and had come face-to- well, chest with a swathe of stippled metallic fabric. I’d looked up some more. Great.
“Okay,” the gangly fella had said, “who’re you, then?”
I’d raised an eyebrow.
“Where I come from,” I’d started, “it’s customary to introduce yourself first.” Looking back, I can see I’d been tensed for the glove - what form would it come in?
“Forgive me,” he’d said, inclining his head slightly, “I’ve been remiss in my archaic salutations. I do apologise.”
“Accepted,” I’d said, while he’d been drawing breath.
I’d got a point for that. Well, maybe half a point.
“Allow me to introduce myself... madam,” as his eyes had crawled over my appearance, derisorily. I’d clenched my jaw and lifted my chin in invitation, unable to stop my nostrils flaring. “My name is P... P Smith.”
My head had dropped and my eyes had widened. “Let me get this straight - you’ve named yourself after a character in a PG Woodhouse story? Because...”
“Well-spotted,” he’d said, “but not quite accurate.”
“Why d’you call yourself ‘P’?”
“Why not?”
“I can think of at least three reasons off the top of my head,” I’d retorted.
Instead of challenging me to name them, he’d said: “Granted, but I find the benefits outweigh the disadvantages posed by the... incontinentally-minded.” He’d got a point for that.
“Well, it’s easier to spell, I’ll give ye that,” I’d said.
“Also, it leads people away from assumptions about my gender...”
“And you what now?!” I’d been incredulous. “If you spend your entire life communicating via faceless correspondence only, but I’m guessing a gregarious fella like...”
“Ah-ah,” he’d admonished. “I’m not.”
“Not what.”
“Not male.”
“Not say the who... what?!” I’d handed Greg my bottle at this point. Stepped forward. “Seriously?”
The most sincere look I’d seen from P all evening so far had come over the face bending towards mine. “Seriously.”
“Fuck me,” I’d remarked after a while of eye contact, “that sounds complicated.”
“Yes.”
Somehow the kitchen had started breathing more freely at this point, and I’d retrieved my beer. By the end of the evening, both Greg and I had exchanged pleasant words with more people than either of us had done all year, and he’d been smiling (vaguely, naturally) as we’d shepherded each other home.
It’s all got to start somewhere, right? Of course, I’d still been Jenny then, and monologues like the one with which I’d initially hooked P were only just starting to manifest themselves.