As the chimes of doom rang out on Dec 31st, I found myself sitting at a bar with a bearded Australian man rudely pushing against my left arm as he tried hard to get served. Happy New Year.
As you might imagine, I am not the most tactile of creatures. My noted ambivalence towards intimacy aside, I never know quite what the appropriate physical greeting is in any encounter with an acquaintance. Whom should one kiss on the cheek? Which cheek? Whom on the mouth? Who would prefer a handshake? A hug? Who would rather not have any contact with me at all right at this particular moment? Should I keep a database? I am a jack of all my friendships, master of none. New Year's Eve makes things even worse.
I am often accused of being stand-offish and unapproachable at clubs, but this is purely due to embracing my own personal solution to this dilemma of second-guessing what every one of my acquaintances expect of me: I choose complete, unbiased, default passivity. So people can come and greet me as they choose. Or avoid me as they choose. It's up to them. Parking myself in a corner or on a bar stool helps this stance, but the problem with the latter is strangers rubbing up against me as they try to get to the bar. An occupational hazard, I admit, but this particular man was pressing against my left side continuously for the best part of fifteen minutes. And I can't stand people pushing against me. I know no one particularly ENJOYS the sensation, kinky frotteurs aside, but my problem with tactility and the fact that I feel enough at odds with my own body, let alone other people's, makes it even worse.
The chimes of midnight had absolutely no effect on the man whatsoever: he still stood there, seemingly still trying to get served amid all the party-poppers and going off. All that was going through my mind was "This is nice, I enter 2003 with the sensation of discomfort and unease, physical as well as mental this time. I have always depended on the unkindness of strangers."
I quickly became annoyed at myself for thinking this, for being annoyed at him, not to mention annoyed at myself for not simply getting up off the bar stool and moving away from the man. He was still there five minutes later still trying to get served, and still pushing against my left arm. So I faintly tried to be friendly to him, and ventured a few words along the lines of "typical London bar staff, eh". But he then decided to push empty glasses over the edge of the bar in order to attract service, watching them smash and shatter on the floor. Including one of my glasses. Any sympathy I might have had for the man evaporated and I disassociated myself from him at once. As a rule, I will always speak to any stranger at all, but if they're displaying any possibilities of violence, I have to draw the line. He was clearly either a little drunk, or a little mad, or both. And perhaps the beard and Antipodean accent had catalytic properties: I've wondered about that ever since Russell Crowe at the Oscars.
Still, I've never quite enjoyed myself on New Year's Eve regardless, particularly not at the stroke of midnight. I find enforced jollity deeply joyless. After midnight, however, relief, or more likely resignation, tends to settle in a little. By the time I left the club I'd felt I'd had a pleasant enough time. It helped that several different people I'd not met before introduced themselves to me and said immensely flattering things about my songs and diaries. The kindness of strangers won, after all.
<lj user=seymour_> was kind enough to take a photo of me circa 2am:
<img src="http://darlingx.net/lacquer/sbnewyear/dickon.jpg"></img>
The Very Best For 2003 To All My Readers.
