Being a regular

As opposed to being regular, (which I guess is also a blessing, and one I've always been able to take for granted).

And I'm not talking about the local pub here - it would just be nice for the woman in the newsagents to remember me. I used to be served by Pam who was lovely, but she's gone to Weymouth and the replacement has served me at last 30 times now, and each time treats me as though it's the first time we've met.

Obviously when you are a swirling vortex of lynx-like sexuality this comes as something of a shock. But, my smouldering good looks aside, you'd think she'd remember Bobby - he knocks down the Pringles stand most days, if he hasn't knocked over a young schoolgirl first. Plus I take the Guardian. The urbanites amongst you should know that the only paper sold in rural areas is the Daily Mail. The one copy of the Guardian is hidden away behind Fisting and Orgasm.

I not only remember most of my regulars from the Grove 1984, but can actually remember their drinks, and the cost.

"Large vodka tonic, ice and slice" (£1.52). - grey haired bloke in dirty raincoat we called 'Mac'.
"Half of Courage Best, not in a straight glass, I don't drink out of fucking jam jars" (44p) - Ronnie - or maybe Reggie - who owned the amusement palaces in most of South London.
And so on.

With every extra stone I seem to be becoming more invisible. Early on I treated this as a relief. It gets wearing having women throw themselves at your feet in the street. But now I appear to be The Man Who Wasn't There....


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