He sat at the other end of the bar and I hated him from the second I saw him. Oozing arrogance and smarm, he came in with a group of kowtowing friends - laughing at every joke and hanging on every word. Wearing a black blazer over a charcoal sweater, he was perfectly assembled.
Tanqueray 10 & tonics for the whole bunch of them - not just Bombay or Beefeater, but Tanqueray 10 . The compulsory cheesy toast followed and they laughed some more. I half-heard two or three of his pathetic little anecdotes before I had him figured out. He wasn't the confident renaissance man he portrayed himself to be. It was all a mask, a charade.
He knew it was a sham. Inside he was just a scared little boy afraid of being exposed for what he really was. The smooth and suave wasn't fooling me.
And I was going to let him know it. I was going to dress him down in front of all his little toadies and show them how small he really was. Both barrels.
I strode across the bar cocksure in my righteousness. Standing before him I prepared for attack.
"Nice shoes" he said.
I didn't know what to say. "What?"
"Nice shoes" he repeated this time gesturing down to my shoes then to his.
His friends chuckled as we all realized what he first noticed - we were both wearing identical pairs of black low-top Dr Martens.
I walked away without saying another word.
