There’s a chap who’s about my age gazing at a notice board at Jewish Book Week just outside the talk I’m queuing for. It’s 12.30pm. Mum’s at the bar so am free to stare at him for a bit. He’s about 6 foot 2, has shaggy dirty blond hair and blue eyes. He’s wearing taupe cords and a slate blue cashmere v-neck sweater. Gazing at him, my jaw drops. A hot, tall, young male person. I run through my possible icebreakers:
1. Do you come here often?
2. Which talk are you going to?
3. Which talk have you come from. How was it?
4. Which other talks are you going to today?
5. Have you attended any on other days?
6. What are you doing for lunch?
7. You don’t look Jewish – actually this could come across as rude. Won’t use this one.
Then I spot his wedding ring – well done me for looking – and the moment is gone. Ah well. It’s not until afterwards that I think: maybe it’s not a wedding ring. Maybe it’s on the other hand. Can never remember which hand it’s meant to be worn on anyway. Or maybe he wears a wedding ring to deter all the undesirable ladies who crack on to him, but he won’t mind chatting to me.
Now I’ll never know…
Anyway. He’s the only chap who is:
1. Under sixty
2. Taller than me
Who encounter all day.
Not grumbling on purpose, had a great day with the parentals, bumping in to parental chums and so on. And four out of five of the talks were excellent. Am just mentioning the dearth of romantic opportunities….
*by Stefan Zweig. One of today’s talks was about his exile in Brazil…