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It was the coldest day in London for nearly a decade yesterday, with the temperature not rising above 0.1 C (that's 32 F for you quaint Americans with your old-fashioned systems of measurement). In that sense, I probably didn't choose the best evening to head into London for a dinner date which I then missed because of my own social incompetence.
Simon Billenness said in an "E-vite" (ghastly, impersonal things) that he and a few others would be meeting "for drinks and then food" at Kettners in Soho. So, ho ho, I turned up at 6.30, wandered round the rather large establishment in search of Simon and, failing to find him, stood at the bar, nursing a diet coke amidst smoke and the background noise of three Essex-girl types cackling.
After 40 minutes, no-one had appeared, so I took another walk round, saw no-one and, being able to bear it no longer, came home.
Anyway, Simon later e-mailed me to say that "everyone else had asked for the Billenness party and had been shown to our table".
Well, obviously I don't get out enough. I mean, Simon hadn't said "I have reserved a table in the Billenness name" and neither, when I walked in, was there anyone to ask. There were lots of young types rushing around, and it took me five minutes to get served at the bar, but, even if I knew that Simon had reserved a table, why would someone serving me at the bar be aware of this?
Basically, I'm too shy when sober to put myself forward in situations like this and risk being looked at by young bar staff in that all-too-frequent fashion of "why is this old codger bothering me? I don't even want to be here in the first place".
Why do I suffer from this? I really don't know, although I know that it was one of the reasons that I began drinking. This mood swings from manic extrovertism when I am in control of the situation to incontrovertible shyness when I am not. It varies in degree, but it's always there.
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Chris Waddle said on the raduio this morning that the Emperor had no clothes. As I think I commented in passing a few months back, I can't see why Beckham is being picked to play when Gerrard, Cole and Lampard (not to mention Plug from the Beano, aka Rooney) are available.
Will Sven see sense? (You can have that headline for free, The Sun) I doubt it.
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Greatest Hits is finished, but I still have to print it, collate it and staple it. I was idly wondering why no-one had responded to my extensive review of this year's albums, when it struck me that it would be a bit hard for people to respond to something that no-one has yet read. This Blog-life distorts your sense of the reader-writer relationship. McLuhan would have a field day.
Simon Billenness said in an "E-vite" (ghastly, impersonal things) that he and a few others would be meeting "for drinks and then food" at Kettners in Soho. So, ho ho, I turned up at 6.30, wandered round the rather large establishment in search of Simon and, failing to find him, stood at the bar, nursing a diet coke amidst smoke and the background noise of three Essex-girl types cackling.
After 40 minutes, no-one had appeared, so I took another walk round, saw no-one and, being able to bear it no longer, came home.
Anyway, Simon later e-mailed me to say that "everyone else had asked for the Billenness party and had been shown to our table".
Well, obviously I don't get out enough. I mean, Simon hadn't said "I have reserved a table in the Billenness name" and neither, when I walked in, was there anyone to ask. There were lots of young types rushing around, and it took me five minutes to get served at the bar, but, even if I knew that Simon had reserved a table, why would someone serving me at the bar be aware of this?
Basically, I'm too shy when sober to put myself forward in situations like this and risk being looked at by young bar staff in that all-too-frequent fashion of "why is this old codger bothering me? I don't even want to be here in the first place".
Why do I suffer from this? I really don't know, although I know that it was one of the reasons that I began drinking. This mood swings from manic extrovertism when I am in control of the situation to incontrovertible shyness when I am not. It varies in degree, but it's always there.
+++++
Chris Waddle said on the raduio this morning that the Emperor had no clothes. As I think I commented in passing a few months back, I can't see why Beckham is being picked to play when Gerrard, Cole and Lampard (not to mention Plug from the Beano, aka Rooney) are available.
Will Sven see sense? (You can have that headline for free, The Sun) I doubt it.
+++++
Greatest Hits is finished, but I still have to print it, collate it and staple it. I was idly wondering why no-one had responded to my extensive review of this year's albums, when it struck me that it would be a bit hard for people to respond to something that no-one has yet read. This Blog-life distorts your sense of the reader-writer relationship. McLuhan would have a field day.
