Common Part 2 of 3

Right.

This is my second installment of the story wherein I was labelled "common" and slapped in the face. Right up there, in the "Nutmeg". It would not be the last time, oh no.

I had just purchased a hand-tailored suit (see Part 1), and was staring into the mirror with those wily tailors. I knew immediately I made a terrible, terrible mistake. I could never afford it. It was sinful.

You see, the nuns paid me a nominal amount of 2 Pounds a day - barely enough for the occasional pint or case of Altoids. Room and board was provided, but that was it. I had just wiped out all of the tiny savings I had for my stay in the UK. What would I do? I might have to stay at the Convent forever. I was frozen in fear and had to get out of that Suffolkating shop.

I paid them, thanked them, why is my left eye twitching, I left.

I wandered around those Abbey town streets aimlessly for a while, and then, thinking a cup of tea and a smoke might clear my head and rest my shaky hands I went into a small cafe.

I stumbled down into a chair (it isn't easy walking with Wellies, you know), and ordered a cup.

There sitting next to me, was a stunning middle-aged woman who clearly belonged to an upper class I could not and would never comprehend. But I was always attracted to anything in a skirt with an accent (that does not include Scotsmen, reader), and I was confused and lonely. And perhaps this new costume might provide benefits after all. Who knows? Maybe my money problems would be over. I could be her bronzed gardener during the day, and then that debonair guy with a smoking jacket at night. Problems solved. Everything completely normal.

I stood up and walked over. Coughed and said,

"Hey...um...do you know the way to the bank?"

She looked up from her paper and inspected me over her glasses.

"Right through Shambles, just off Butcher Square," she said plainly.

"Oh...ok...gee, thanks."

Well that worked out great, I thought. I was very pleased. After my smoke, I would ask her where Pizza Hut was and invite her to share lunch. I couldn't believe my newly found confidence.

Now smoking is a filthy, filthy habit and I blame that Jesuit Ceasar for introducing me to it. I have long since given it up (model citizen now and all that, reader), but at the time I enjoyed it considerably and there was no social judgement, at least for the fancy brands.

Ah, I even recall a ditty I composed to the tune of "Rule Britannia":

"Rule Tobacco! Tobacco rules the world! My hand-made cigarettes are always rolled!"

I started my smoking career in the UK with Dunhills. These proved to be too expensive, so I switched to Woodbines. I even tried Silk Cut until a friendly shopkeeper quietly informed me, "Those are not for gents, love." Finally, due to my meager resources, I spiraled down to a bag of Old Holborn and rolling papers. My rolling technique became so skilled I could do it one-handed on my tractor (not always a good idea considering that accident I had and toppled a wall, more on that later). The only problem my habit presented before this story was when my parents from the states called, and were informed by a Cockney nun that:

 "Oh, he's outside suckin' on a fag."

That required some explanation.

I took the bag of Old Holborn from my new suit and started packing the paper with some smelly, dark tobacco. I looked over to the woman, she looked at me.

She said:

"Oh. Hmm. I didn't think you were common," sniffed, shook her paper and dismissively returned to reading.

Common? Common? What the hell? Did you getta load of this suit? What does it take?

Despite all of my sartorial efforts, despite my best attempt at politeness and diplomacy, I made one mistake - the mistake of rolling my own - and was labelled common. And I always would be. Later (more on this in time), I would embrace the label, but in that cafe I was crushed and bewildered.

"Common? Hey lady, c'mon, I was gonna to invite you to Pizza Hut. Stuff like that. I thought we could share a slice."

Poorly chosen words. In retrospect, I know now she completely misinterpreted my invitation.

Slamming the paper on the table, she stood up (a lot taller than I expected), angrily walked over to my table, and slapped me firmly on the cheek.

Wow. I had seen men slapped in movies before, but in 3D it really hurts, I assure you.

"Get out! Leave NOW!," she said.

Utterly humiliated, I fumbled for my last remaining Pounds and tossed them on the table, overturning my cup of tea. I ran out the door.

What had just happened? I needed to go back to the Convent and scribble in Galehaut about it - make some sense of that scene. It would be a 5 mile trip on a bike with Wellies and a weird suit.

I was almost killed.

More on this soon.