I was at my local last night. The local is so important to a London-dweller like me. It is the place I can go for one to many pints (or occasionally none at all) and get out of the flat for a little while.
Last night, I popped in to see my friend working behind the bar and to do my daily writing assignment. Five minutes a day is the charge and sometimes I can’t do that until the day is nearly out.
I was doing writing half-heartedly when a man came up to the bar and stood next to me, waiting to be served.
I looked up from my notebook then back to my notebook and then looked up again.
It couldn’t be. But maybe it was. Anything can happen. Rod Stewart was at the pub up the road twice in the last two weeks.
I looked at the man and said (maybe accused), “You look like Jeremy Irons.”
He shook his head once, subtly, then winked.
I looked away and tried to write more. Clock was ticking. But he had my attention.
“You are him,” I said, almost to him as much as myself. I tried to wipe the smile from my face but I have on of those faces that hides nothing. His eyes shifted to me then to the bartender.
It was him.
He ordered wine.
Once he was served, I said “Have a good night.”
He winked again and returned to the depths of the pub.
And so it happened. I met Scar. I met Humbert Humbert. I met a man who was in so many films and who is a proper legend.
There is no selfie. I didn’t ask. I knew not to ask. My local needs to be a place anyone can drink and relax (even if they won an Oscar!) There is only this story. And I liked that it happened this way.
Impressed you kept it cool. Stay well, my fabulous friend. ✌🏽💕