London Calling
‘Oh yes. Yes. Yes. Pads. We have pads.’
Thank God! This is the third shop that I have been into along Shepherd’s Bush Green since the pubs have closed, looking for a pen and pad of paper.
‘Follow please sir?’
I don’t even want to be in London any more, but while I’m here I may as well use the experiences to write a bit. Put it all down on paper and use it as a warning to other hopeless romantics. Sometimes, flying across the planet for the girl you love can have horrible consequences.
The attendant leads me down between the aisles to the very back of the shop. The shelves down this end are mostly empty, save the odd jar of marmalade that looks like it has seen better days.
He signals to the grimy shelves ahead of us.
‘We have Kotex!’ he beams proudly.
Give me fucking strength!
‘Pads of paper! Not those pads. Pads for writing on.’
I add a little sign language to my request. Doodling with an imaginary pen on the palm of my hand. He shrugs. He doesn’t fucking understand.
‘Can I talk to someone else?’ I helpfully suggest.
The attendant points to a man seated behind the counter and walk across the shop and put across my proposal that he sell me a pen—or possibly a packet of them—and some paper.
‘No pens. No pens. Sorry. I get pad for you.’
Yes! I’m getting there. As I follow him down to the back of the shop a sense of dread starts boiling in my toes.
‘Pads, pads, pads,’ he mutters to himself, somewhat thoughtfully.
‘We have Kotex!’
Fuck!
‘No. Paper. For writing.’
‘For girlfriend inside, yes?’ I decide not to discuss the fundamental difference between pads and tampons, let the comment slide and concentrate on actually getting what I want.
‘Paper.’ I again use my little doodling action on my hand.
‘Yes. Yes. For girlfriend!’
NO!
‘Just forget it!’
‘Where is girlfriend?’ he asks as he tails along behind me towards the front door.
‘Off sleeping with some dickhead she picked up in a pub.’
He moves behind the counter and points to a packet of Durex on the shelf above him.
‘She is Jiggy-jiggy with other boys?’
I nod.
‘Why not you?’
I decide to take advantage of his lack of English and, with the sting of my recent discovery still quite raw and a few drinks under my belt, it is quite easy for me to slip into faux hatred.
‘Because she’s an evil bitch who’d fuck a wall if she thought it would give her momentary pleasure.’
He nods. This he understands. Yet, my rather immediate need for paper and a pen draws a blank. What does that say about society? I’m not sure but it’s definitely not pleasant.
He thinks.
‘I have pen. I have pen!’ Another World War is averted thanks to our hero, the genius who works in the closest late night convenience store to the Shepherds Bush tube station.
He pulls a rather second-hand looking pen out from next to the cash register. It is a cheap Biro covered in bite marks and, on closer inspection, appears to have been a gift upon donation to Cancer Research UK. I’m desperate.
‘How much?’
‘One pound.’
I nearly fall over in disbelief. I don’t even know if the thing works and he’s trying to sell it to me for a pound. I am not paying a fucking pound.
‘Twenty pee.’
He hands it to me and pockets the twenty pee.
This is an unfortunately true story. I was in London at the time and suddenly had a really great idea for a story, but nothing to write it on.
I lost the story idea completely because of this encounter.