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Wynonie Harris · 12-11-2004, 13:27

It's a late weekday afternoon in May 1969 and I'm sitting in the Dahlia. It's packed with the afterschool crowd and Chris, the owner, is working busily behind the counter amid clouds of steam from the noisy expresso machine. The jukebox is blasting out the Temptations' "Get Ready" and I'm in a mood of anticipation, mixed with nervousness.

The reason is, I'm meeting Christine. I've fancied her for a while now and and last Saturday at the Jazz Club I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out for a coffee. I'm not feeling too cool in my Accy Grammar blazer but, never mind, I'll be rid of it forever when I leave in a few weeks.

Suddenly I see Christine coming through the door in her distinctive striped Paddock House blazer. She sees me and comes over, giving me a peck on the cheek as she sits down. Aretha's on the jukebox wailing "I say a little prayer for you..." and I feel like a million dollars. I buy her a coffee and we sit making small talk as kids come and go. Finally, I take the plunge and ask her if I can take her out next Saturday. She looks at me regretfully and says no, she's going out with Bobby. My heart sinks. Bobby is a couple of years older than me and cuts quite a dash around town with his immaculately faded Levis and Ernie McNoe-tailored mohair jacket. He's also a promising local sportsman.

We engage in desultory conversation for a few minutes more and finally Christine takes her leave, uttering those dreaded words, "I'd rather be friends than go out with you." I sit there alone as Smokey sings "The Tracks Of My Tears" oh so sweetly. It seems somehow appropriate.

Finally, I wander across Blackburn Road to catch the Moscow Mill bus for that long ride home, reflecting not for the first - or last - time that I really don't understand women at all.

Ah, it all comes back to me now.

12-11-2004, 13:27	#65
Wynonie Harris Super Moderator Join Date: Apr 2004 Location: On another planet. Posts: 11,865 Liked: 1217 times Rep Power: 144711	Re: The Deck It's a late weekday afternoon in May 1969 and I'm sitting in the Dahlia. It's packed with the afterschool crowd and Chris, the owner, is working busily behind the counter amid clouds of steam from the noisy expresso machine. The jukebox is blasting out the Temptations' "Get Ready" and I'm in a mood of anticipation, mixed with nervousness. The reason is, I'm meeting Christine. I've fancied her for a while now and and last Saturday at the Jazz Club I finally plucked up the courage to ask her out for a coffee. I'm not feeling too cool in my Accy Grammar blazer but, never mind, I'll be rid of it forever when I leave in a few weeks. Suddenly I see Christine coming through the door in her distinctive striped Paddock House blazer. She sees me and comes over, giving me a peck on the cheek as she sits down. Aretha's on the jukebox wailing "I say a little prayer for you..." and I feel like a million dollars. I buy her a coffee and we sit making small talk as kids come and go. Finally, I take the plunge and ask her if I can take her out next Saturday. She looks at me regretfully and says no, she's going out with Bobby. My heart sinks. Bobby is a couple of years older than me and cuts quite a dash around town with his immaculately faded Levis and Ernie McNoe-tailored mohair jacket. He's also a promising local sportsman. We engage in desultory conversation for a few minutes more and finally Christine takes her leave, uttering those dreaded words, "I'd rather be friends than go out with you." I sit there alone as Smokey sings "The Tracks Of My Tears" oh so sweetly. It seems somehow appropriate. Finally, I wander across Blackburn Road to catch the Moscow Mill bus for that long ride home, reflecting not for the first - or last - time that I really don't understand women at all. Ah, it all comes back to me now.