Wait, Rose.

I am not quick-witted.

Do I get to say I’m deadpan, considered, dry? I might just be slow. The cogs turning. The one good joke landing, rather than crashing, just before the moment’s completely gone. Being a writer’s one of the ways to compensate, I suppose. I have the freedom to edit and refine. (Not that this blog ever shows much evidence of that.) But real life? It’s not so much ‘staircase wit’ as stuck in the lift during a power-cut.

There’s no punchline to this.

I’m in Waitrose, the John Barnes one, North Finchley. A rapping footballer; honoured by a supermarket. The layout’s strange. There’s no natural start point. There’s alcoves. Like a Cluedo board, with Cava and Halloumi instead of lead pipes and daggers. I’m doubling back on myself trying to determine which aisle will have dried figs (Cut a camembert in half, like a burger bun. Press the figs into the lower half and then restore the top.) – I’d thought Nuts and Snacks, then tried Fresh Fruit and Veg and...well, it’s not important. I don’t want to spoil the adventure for you. So, figs found, I make my way towards bread. Professor Plum is there with the scones. As I pass the aisle with the hummus, a girl – arms full of party snacks – loses a bag of crisps. They topple off the tower she’s struggling with. It takes her a moment while she thinks what to do about it. The staff are doing some sort of stock-take so when she looks around for help, everyone’s facing the shelves, little scanners accounting for all the crème fraiche. While she’s had this little awkward process (what’s happened – what to do about it – who can help?) I’ve had the time to think about what to do. I pick up the crisps and cautiously, waiting for some kind of permission, deliver them back to their cradle.


‘Listen, do you want me to grab you a basket?’


She looks at mine, like the concept is new to her. To be fair, I’m swinging it just to make sure she matches ‘basket’ the word, to ‘basket’ the object. Rose, I’ll call her Rose. Rose gives it a thought and then declines. She can make it. I don’t press the issue. I’m conscious this could all be quite patronising. It’s meant as good will. So I bid her good luck and I go and look at cordials. Eventually I head to the check out. Pay. Go.


Outside I see Rose again. I have my iPod on now, but I saw her in good time so I’ve managed to get a smile going. Smiles take a while. With no exaggerating, I can tell you a vending machine will dispense your selection before I’ve managed to tug the sides of my mouth up. The can of Sprite, the Biscuit and Raisin Yorkie that is my smile is present. Rose is goofy, blushing. I can tell she’s saying thank you, despite John Williams and Ewoks and the Battle of Endor going off in my ear. I’m saying ‘You’re welcome,’ – though without turning off my music, I can’t really hear it. I’ve probably said it with that yoghurt-thick pronunciation you get from the deaf. Unexpectedly she says something back. Synapses firing, signal’s sent. I hadn’t anticipated this. What do I do? I tug one half of the London Symphony Orchestra out the side of my head.


“I’m sorry?”


“I got a basket in the end.”


She’s almost as bashful as I am. I want to say “Clever girl,” to this, but she might not know I’m quoting Jurassic Park. She might think that’s just me being facetious. Or she might think I’m quoting Jurassic Park and wonder what the fuck it’s got to do with baskets and crisps. So I quickly change it to -


“Clever thinking.”


- which probably still sounds patronising, but without the Spielberg.


I just wasn’t ready. I was thinking about other stuff. Thinking about high concept movies. What’s my Jaws? My Die Hard? My story so simple but effective it becomes the sales pitch for other stories. Turns out it’s derivative shit; Duel meets Assault on Precinct 13. Judgement Night with a Range Rover. No subtext or sophistication. I’m sending it to the Recycle Bin in my brain while Rose tells me she got the basket.

In not being prepared, I haven’t changed the program: Walk to the bus-stop. So as I say “Clever thinking,” my feet keep carrying me. I turn, civil enough to face her as I speak and smile. But I’m walking sideways. This crab-like jerk who can’t stop and say hello. Mister Importantpants off to his next meeting. Eventually I pirouette to stop myself walking backwards, but I don’t know how this is any less idiotic. ‘Sorry, lady. Can’t talk to you, but I will give you a twirl.’ Demented catwalk-turn over, I steer myself down a side-street to the C11 stop and eventually I’m home and I watch that Largo Winch movie and eat French cheese.

What should I have done? ‘My name’s Ed, by the way,’ works in a script because the next line is ‘Rose,’ or ‘Pleased to meet you,’ or a dozen variations. It’s not ‘So?’ or silence. It’s not ‘Let’s not get carried away. You didn’t catch me and the helicopter as we fell from the roof of the Daily Planet. You picked up my pan-fried Bacon and Cheddar.’


I could have asked her a question, it was on my mind anyway – do I buy Tiptree Orange Marmalade, because it’s the brand my Dad buys? Or do I buy Frank Cooper’s Vintage Oxford, because it’s the brand James Bond takes with his toast? It could well have resulted in awkward, goofy Rose just as unprepared. Fumbling, bungling, falling off the ground, roles reversed. Or she could have wondered what kind of idiot lets Ian Fleming choose his breakfast. Perhaps the best outcome was just ‘Nice man picked up my crisps,’ without any Sliding Doors analysis.

Quick-witted. Clearly I don’t live in the moment. I live in the past – hence the thousand words on someone dropping their shopping. Should it be something I work at overcoming? I don’t play Indie Guitar and I can’t drain a radiator, so I can’t just rely on the chicks to flock to me. I must make the most of the moment. The spontaneity and awareness so when opportunity knocks, I’m there to offer it a basket, an introduction.

“So...ummm...”