Encountering Sassy Cicely.

As I was approaching the unprepossessing bulk of Sainsbury’s today I saw a woman walking towards me who I thought I recognised. She stared back resolutely and I became gradually more convinced that I did recognise her, only I couldn’t think where from. As the space between us shortened I became uneasy. And then she smiled, and I remembered who she was, and all was well. She was the woman who ingratiated herself into my attention field a couple of years ago by repeatedly turning up behind me in the queue for the coffee shop counter, from which superior position she engaged me in trivial but generally friendly conversation. On one occasion she sat at my table with her drink and child (Or did I sit at theirs? I don’t remember. Does it matter?) Why she chose to ingratiate herself into my attention field I can’t imagine. Maybe it was because I have House’s eyes; I can’t think of any other reason.

‘Hello,’ she said, and came to a halt.

‘Hello,’ I replied confidently, bolstered by the fact that she no longer had me at a disadvantage. ‘I didn’t recognise you at first. Your hair is…erm (oh dear, I need an inoffensive adjective. How did I make the mistake of getting here?) …erm…flat.’

‘I just washed it,’ she replied without interrupting the smile.

‘I think you need a hood,’ was all I could manage by way of meaningful response.

Being relatively quick-witted when the occasion demands it, I realised that I had probably confused her. She was probably thinking: This man is making an inappropriate and somewhat disparaging comment about my hair. He clearly considers flat hair unattractive and is suggesting that I cover it so as not to appear repellent to the good people of Ashbourne. I didn’t, actually. All I meant was that it is generally considered inadvisable to go out into the cold with wet hair. When I was a child my mother left me in no doubt that to do so would probably result in the development of some hideous – though unspecified – condition, and maybe even death. (She needn’t have bothered, as it happens. I never wanted to go out into the cold anyway, whatever the condition of my hair. Still don’t.) I changed the subject by turning my attention to the buggy she was pushing.

‘I thought you had older children,’ I offered, banking on the fact that you can never go wrong with a woman if you take an interest in her children.

‘I do. This is my youngest, Cicely.’

Ah, now I remember. I recall thinking that Cecily was an odd name for a girl until I realised I’d misheard the first phonetic. And she was a bit younger then.

‘Hello, Cicely,’ I said, smiling as nicely as I could manage. Cicely scowled.

‘Little girls are so magical,’ I continued with not so much as a sniff of disingenuous intent. ‘Shame they have to grow up and become ordinary.’

‘She’s actually quite sassy,’ replied the mother.

‘Well there you go,’ I exclaimed triumphantly. ‘You have a budding Hermione Granger.’ Such a quick mind when the occasion demands it…

It was the mother’s turn to change the subject:

‘And how are you these days?

I recalled that I had once bored her with the story of my operation and subsequent misfortunes. I kept it short and simple this time:

‘Oh, fine. Everything’s been clear so far.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. You’re looking better than the last time I saw you. (This is becoming something of a leitmotif.) Your face is fuller and has more colour.

I wanted to reply: ‘beats having flat hair, then’ but desisted out of deference to the fact that she’s quite an attractive woman, probably around twenty five years my junior, and I’m always reluctant to offend such people. I decided instead to move the day on:

‘Well, it was nice talking to you.’

‘You too. Goodbye.’

And then she slipped softly and silently out of the aforementioned day like shit off a greased shovel.

You didn’t expect that simile, did you? I put it in for the shock value, reprobate that I am, and because I quite like it. Maybe I should teach it to Cicely the next time I see her. She’s about three, which is probably old enough.