Ramblings: A Day in the UK

Hello.  Sorry I’ve been out of touch.  Nothing terribly exciting has happened since we returned from London.  The Husband has gone to Japan on business — I’m sure I’ll have good photos from that later.  I ventured down to the canals today and took a pint at my favorite pub.   I love that they have Staropramen everywhere here.  It is a Czech beer and in D.C. it was only available at one bar I knew of for $8 a glass with a one-pint limit per customer.  Here I have found in on tap at at least two pubs.  I probably don’t need more than one anyway, but I like knowing I can have another one if I want.

I have been here several times in the past two months.  I have come to think of it as My Pub.  I take a menu but do not order food yet.  I sit outside with my pint and a view of the canal.  It’s not sunny, but with a jacket it’s quite lovely.  I slowly sip the beer and concentrate on writing in my notebook.   I am interrupted by a Really Hot African Guy.  He is carrying empties and asks if I would like to order food.  I say, “Well, now that you mention I’d like some fish and chips.  Thanks.”  He corrects me:  “At this pub, you must go to the bar to order food and I will bring it to you.”

Here’s the thing I’m going to rant about.  This is not the first time I have become irritated after an interaction of this type with a strange man.  I have been annoyed in many situations by many kinds of men.  As is often the case it doesn’t sound that bad and it is difficult to explain exactly what is so maddening.  One pattern that has emerged goes something like this:

 A. Man interrupts me while I am alone and engrossed in something.

B. Man asks me a leading question.

C. Man corrects me about how my answer is wrong.

It pisses me off every time.  He makes a point of interrupting me while I am quietly going about my business, then tries to engage me in conversation and within three sentences finds something to correct or chastise me about.  I don’t get it.  I feel like I’m being hit on yet insulted at the same time.  What is that about?

Back at the pub — I’m irritated but still trying to be polite (I am in a foreign country). Really Hot African Guy instructs me that if I want food I should make sure to order from the section at the end of the bar because that area is for food orders (did I ask about ordering food?)  I continue writing for awhile.  Eventually rain starts sprinkling and it’s getting cold so I decide to move inside.  This proves to be excellent timing on my part since 15 minutes later the bar is swarming with conventioners.  I see the special food-ordering bar section but choose not to use it for the following reasons:

1. If the bar were crowded and I were with a party of 6 and already had drinks and wanted a bunch of appetisers it would be polite to order from that section.   However, I am a Female Alone.  There are a lot of things that suck about being a Female Alone but one of the advantages is being able to order whatever I want, whenever I want from whomever I want because my very presence is an Asset to the Establishment.

2. The only person at the food section is Really Hot African Guy and I really don’t want to talk to him because he has really annoyed me.

I navigate to the taps and try to catch the attention of Goatied Brit.  This is the young man who has been here almost every time other I have been here.  He is not babelicious but he is polite and funny.  Also, he seems to recognize me but not hold against me having brought in another loud American who yelled at him that the happy hour menu is prejudiced towards vegetarians.  I’m not saying it’s not prejudiced against vegetarians, I’m just saying DON’T SCREW UP MY PUB FOR ME SKOOPY. 

Before Goatied Brit can ask my order Really Hot African Guy appears out of nowhere.  He starts going on about how I have to order food from him at the end of the bar, but I am not going down there now on principle.   I ask for a Staropramen, which he utterly destroys while pouring.  He then tries to ring me up for 3 quid.  I say, “Can’t you just ring up my food too?  I just want the sausages and mash.”  Goatied Brit jumps in and rings up the whole order.  I take my pint to the couch in the corner.  This is the last I see of RHAG.

I continue writing.  My sausages and mash arrive.  They are really really good.  I can’t believe how great the sausages are here.   Business-attired people are eyeing my comfy window seat, but I ignore them and finish my pint.  Goatied Brit delivers another meal nearby and checks to see if I need anything.  I ask him to explain the last item on the Manager’s Special chalk board. 

Now pay attention class.  This is your English Language Lesson for the day.

PORK FAGGOT:  Pork Faggot is a main dish, like meatballs or meatloaf made up of ground meat.  All different kinds of ground up meat served with gravy.  Goatied Brit says he does not particularly care for this dish.  He doesn’t like all the different meats together.  Also, he says that everyone knows it “means gay in American” so they like to make funny jokes like “That’ll be 10 Pounds for 2 faggots” or “They need a faggot at table 9.”  I wonder to myself if faggots can only be ordered from Really Hot African Guy at the special section of the bar.

I stick around for awhile more but the noise is getting to me.  A Suit comes by and drags away the chair across from me.  It was odd, he completely avoided eye contact with me.  It’s not like I would have said no.  Maybe he was afraid of my ponytails.

Well, that’s my day.  I have possibly offended many people.  My work here is done.