Alright lads, just a light hearted rambling for you to read about a recent encounter with a certain barmaid (yeh, her Wilks
) Enjoy.
It all started with that split second after she’d given me my change. Just before she moved onto the next customer, just for a millisecond there was something else, something that crossed the boundary of normal barmaid and customer etiquette into the realms of personal communication. Just a shy glance, a moments eye contact with a telling half smile, subtle, but just enough for something to spark in my head saying “Hang on...I could be in here”.
A good barmaid is a performer. She knows all eyes are on her and the ramp is her stage. The crowd waved money and shouted at her over the deafening music and she was revelling in it, flicking her blonde hair as she wiggled from one end to the other. Here was my moment - I needed to say something quickly. I could feel my brain cells kick into life, but before they could scribble something witty on a napkin and run it downstairs to my mouth to impress her with I was sat back at the table with my two mates. Fuck it, I thought, I can’t go back up there now without looking like a desperate alcoholic - I’ll just have to make sure she serves me next time.
I rehearsed question/answer sessions to myself, going over possible situations in my head. Most of them ended up with her jumping over the bar into my arms and us walking out to a round of cheers and confetti from everybody in the pub. The angel sitting on my shoulder was telling me to be confident - the attraction was there, all I had to do was capitalise on it. The devil reminded me not to get ahead of myself - she could just have a lazy eye. That second drink had certainly helped matters anyway, I felt confident.
“My round again lads?”
I approached the bar praying that she’d catch my eye by the time I got there. The last thing I wanted was to be served by someone else - not only would all my hard work go to waste but I’d have to fork out for another round for no reason, and then more after that if I wanted to have another go. By the time I’d caught her attention I’d either be too skint to buy a beer or too pissed to talk. Luckily she saw me coming and I put my order in. She stood in front of me pouring the first drink, now was my chance, dive in with an opening line or stand there grinning like a sex pest. Make your choice.
“Is it rude to ask a barmaid for her number?”
She smiled. “Yes it is. Usually”
Her smirk spurred me on. I smiled back, “Well do you make exceptions?”
I hadn’t planned this but it seemed to be going well, go with it, don’t lose your nerve now. I gave her a cheeky smile, I was doing well here, every part of my inner self was gathered round watching events unfold like old boys at the bookies watching the horses come in on the monitor, my horse was striding ahead, surely I couldn’t fuck it up now....
She laughed and turned to the till. I could see her scribble something down. As she gave me my change, without a glance, she shoved the screwed up piece of paper into my hand and moved on to the next customer. This could be it, but I wasn’t celebrating yet.
Without opening it I calmly brought the drinks back and plonked them on the table. I was pleased with how it had gone but I wasn’t going to make the schoolboy error of telling the lads about my James Bond style encounter only to open the paper and see a neatly written ‘FUCK OFF’ across it. I nonchalantly unfolded it, all the while keeping a dead straight poker face, I could have been checking my bar receipt but inside I felt like Charlie opening a Wonka Bar. I looked down and there it was - my golden ticket, 11 digits dancing across the paper with a kiss after the name for good measure. Injury-time-winner style cheers went up inside my head and eventually my Cheshire cat grin gave the game away. My mate chuckled, “You sly bastard!” I laughed and sat back proudly. Keep cool I thought, she can still see me. Once Bond had got the girl he abseiled out the window or sped off on a motorbike, he definitely didn’t do a round of Sambucas while his mates cheered and patted him on the back, Ekland would have been off like a shot. We finished our drinks and I walked out of the bar a happy man. I gave a quick nod in her direction as I left, trying my best to hide the stupid schoolboy grin across my face.
What happened next? Well it didn’t really live up to the heroic foundations of our relationship as such. That fun free-spiritedness that had attracted me to her in the first place just became a frustrating unreliability in the cold light of day. She’d turn up late, if at all, and always with a million and one excuses. We got on well and there were flashes of what I hoped could have been, but as time went on I got the sinking realisation that I wasn’t special, and I probably wasn’t the only bloke she’d swapped numbers with that weekend. As much as I’d have liked the fairytale ending, deep down I knew it just wasn’t meant to be. But I’d had my moment of glory so who was I to moan?
Another vodka and coke please barmaid.
copyright Tom Armstrong
Subject: Barmaids - I shit 'em 
Wed Sep 29, 2010 1:36 am
