In the Web of the Woman from Estonia (or Wherever.)

I did it again today. You might remember me saying in a post a few weeks ago that I should learn to observe but keep my mouth shut. Well, it seems I haven’t quite got the hang of it yet.

Coincidentally, it was in a charity shop again. The manager there is a young woman of around late twenties or perhaps thirty, and she told me when she started there that she comes from one of the Baltic countries. I don’t remember which one it was, but she has that look that isn’t quite Russian, and isn’t quite West European, and neither is it Scandinavian. It’s Baltic, OK? And quite attractive.

So, there I was perusing the jeans, coats, and sweaters, when I noticed her walking in my direction. And she was staring at me as she walked – not merely glancing, note, but looking pointedly at me. I returned the look for a mere two seconds (without recourse to the seconds hand on my watch) and then returned to perusing the merchandise. She disappeared into the back.

Eventually I found a DVD of a film collection that I thought would be entertaining for a few hours and called her from the back in order to pay for it. I noticed that she looked different somehow, and it intrigued me.

‘£4.99, please,’ she said.

‘What have you done?’ I asked. ‘You look different.’ And then I thought: ‘Oh, my giddy aunt, you’re doing it again.’

I expected a response which would be offended, guarded, or at least cold in one way or another. (That was how she responded the last time I spoke to her several years ago when I asked her where she came from, and she said Estonia, Latvia or Lithuania.) But she smiled instead, rather nicely.

‘Different in what way?’

(Cripes. I think I’m heading for the ropes here.)

‘I don’t know, but there’s something different about your face, as though you’ve applied your make-up differently in some way.’

(I wish I hadn’t started this.)

‘The only thing that’s different is that I’m using pink lipstick instead of my usual red,’ she said, still smiling nicely.

(Phew! Don’t mention the war. I did but I think I got away with it.)

‘Ah, that must be it then’

‘Is it better or worse?’ she asked (still smiling nicely, dammit!)

(Oh dear, now I really am on the ropes. If I say ‘worse’ I’ll be offending the poor woman. If I say ‘better’ I’ll come across as some pathetic ageing Lothario trying to sweet talk an attractive young woman of foreign extraction, which isn’t the most favourable impression to convey when you’re becoming genuinely old and look like a cross between Golum and Quasimodo.)

I bottled it, or at least tried to hide the squirming sensation spreading downwards to the back of my neck. ‘Oh, I really don’t think I should say,’ I replied, hoping to give the impression that an English gentleman has lines beyond which he considers it improper to cross.

She fixed me with her smile. I sensed it had a steel rod running through it.

‘Yes you should,’ she continued in a manner that offered no choice. ‘You may say. Is it better or worse?’

Well, what could a chap do when strapped to the interrogation chair by a woman from Estonia (or Latvia or Lithuania) except be honest?

‘I think it’s better,’ I said, which I did.

The steel crossbow bolt waiting to be fired dissipated and the smile became just a smile again. And then she gave me a £5 note in change for a tenner instead of £5.01. I didn’t argue. I escaped hurriedly and with gratitude instead.

So have I learned my lesson? Apparently not. Will I ever? I doubt it. And it’s life and life only.