More, please.

Here's a true story from me memoir.....

I had just finished three years at Lancaster as a 'mature' student and we were in the limbo between exams and results. Post degree depression was the order of the day, With me it took the form of idleness, I had earned a rest and by God I was going to have it. Predictably, this induced a certain amount of boredom and a willingness to try new things. Not everyone reacted to it in the same way, my friend Jane had lapsed into depression, convinced she had failed miserably. Actually she had triumphantly seized a first class degree and was poised to sail majestically into a distinguished academic career but at the time this was far from clear. It was in an effort to divert her and give a treat another friend of mine that I finished up at the Lancaster Literary Festival with Jane and Joyce listening to readings by a then comparatively unknown Glasgow poetess, Liz Lochead.

It was a very good choice. Jane and Joyce took an instant liking to each other and loved the poetry, I was fascinated by Miss Lochead's verse and the fact that beneath her slacks she seemed to be wearing fish net tights. I should explain that in addition to the degree I was under other pressures like a divorce and unaccustomed celibacy and conjectures like these were pleasant, if not disturbing. After an hour in the theatre we adjourned to the café for a spot of lunch.

The food, like the furniture, was low budget and Joyce and I eventually settled down on one side of a large old-fashioned kitchen table with Jane on the adjacent side to Joyce’s right and we ate our baked potatoes with 'various fillings'. Shortly after we sat down, two other people joined our table. The first was a sharp looking elderly woman with a plastic carrier bag who sat opposite me and the second was a large and very striking man who sat next to Jane. His most striking feature was his face. If ever a person could be described as 'Neanderthal', this was he. He had an enormous craggy brow and my first impression was that I wouldn't like to meet him in a dark alley. Joyce and Jane were oblivious to all this as they had launched into a. deep conversation which it seemed superfluous to interrupt, so I observed our companions.

It wasn't long before a conversation started, initiated by a few polite comments and questions which indicated that this was a chance meeting of two strangers. At first, there was nothing striking about the conversation, the sharp-looking woman had an abrupt manner of speech which fitted my first impression well but the shock came when the man spoke. he had the most distressing stammer I have ever heard, I wouldn't attempt to reproduce it on the page but it was a severe handicap.

Normally, one would expect this to be a barrier to communication but my elderly lady was made of sterner stuff. Where most people would have tactfully ignored the problem and abandoned the attempt to converse, she took the direct approach and asked him how long he had had his stammer. Eventually, painfully, the reply came. "Ever since 1 had my frontal lobotomy".

At this point 1 had the sense to realise that one of life's little bonuses was presenting itself and concentrated totally on what they were saying. I ceased to be aware of the two J's conversation, the background chatter of the cafe faded out and I became totally absorbed in the drama unfolding on the other side of the table.

The questioning continued and my elderly lady displayed an impressive knack of getting to the heart of the matter. "Why did you have to have it done?". "Because I wasn't nice to people". "Where were you working at the time?” "In the men’s outfitting department at Lewis's store in Manchester." "Did you go back to work there afterwards?" "Yes, but they put me in the stockroom." My mind was racing, as I ran through the possible scenarios behind this economical and direct exchange. What was it that this man did in the men's outfitting department that was so terrible that he had to have a frontal lobotomy and then be banished to the stockroom? Vague thoughts of inside leg measurements and unspeakable mutilations milled round in my head but the interrogator was not to be diverted by what she evidently regarded as
paltry detail. "Are you better now?"--- “Oh yes, certainly, I haven't done anything like that since but I do think it has affected my poetry."

This revelation produced an entirely new line of questioning and any chance 1 might have had of learning more about mutilations in the fitting room vanished with the statement "Oh, you write. So do 1, I've brought my poems with me, have you any of yours?" "No, I don't need to, 1 know them by heart." My elderly lady was evidently impressed. "That's very clever of you, I can never remember mine." "Not really, I've only written two poems." With this, unbidden, he started a recitation of two short poems which were absolutely terrible. I am no psychologist but they were so laden with thinly veiled, and to my ear, violently sexual metaphors that it seemed to me that whatever good the operation had done for him, he was still a very dangerous individual. My elderly lady seemed to have no such qualms, congratulated him on the verses and proceeded to read a. couple of her own which, though not as violent, were equally bad and sexually oriented.

The conversation continued and, after ascertaining that they were both attending the festival the following day they made an appointment to meet and go to the performances together. With this, the elderly lady took up her carrier bag and left. The Neanderthal man swivelled slowly round in his seat reminding me of a six inch gun and speaking directly to me said, “Are you interested in poetry?"

At this point 1 knew that the last thing I wanted in the world was a conversation with this man or a reading of his poetry. I gabbled some excuse about having a bus to catch and, breaking into their conversation, bustled Jane and Joyce out of the café. I didn't allow them to stop until we reached the relative safety of the pavement outside the hall. They both thought I had fallen victim to some sort of post-examination brainstorm even though I retailed the conversation to them and tried to convince them that the man was dangerous. To this day I doubt whether they fully believe me. Jane returned to her post-examination angst, Joyce went back to her cleaning job and 1 drifted out of the safe harbour of Further Education into the stormy waters of Life.

I just love to people watch, but I think I would have done a runner as well.

Fascinating isn't it!  Some of my best meetings have been in situations where conversation was the only possible activity, either sitting on planes or hitch-hiking when I was a student.

Ben...I loved your story, but felt sorry for the lady.  I hope she found her way 'Home'. 

Stanley...that would have been an eerie experience.  I would have high tailed it too, quick smart.  It's a worry how some people can be so different, to normal /average society,  yet they still find each other.