So have you ever been felt up by a blind man?

So have you ever been felt up by a blind man?
19 March 2013

Well, I do have the rather dubious of distinction, of being able to say, “yes”.  I have indeed been felt up by a blind man.

Though, to be fair, the feeling up was not sexual at all.  It was a more a case of his hands being his eyes.

As mentioned before, I worked at a little local pub called, Ye Olde Bell, many, many years ago.  And I learnt more during my tenure at the Bell than I did during three years at Varsity.  Working in a pub, is like working in life’s big university.  You learn all the time.  And not just the obvious stuff, like pouring weird shooters and the odd cocktail.  Or how to consume vast quantities of weird shooters and the odd cocktail too.  On one particular occasion, I drank something called, “A flaming Lamborghini”.  I have no recollection of this event, and have had to rely on eye witness reports.  Apparently it contained five white spirits, namely Gin, Vodka, Tequila, Cane and Sambuca.  And yes, judging from the flaming part of the name, it actually got lit.  I regard myself lucky, that I still had full possession of my eyelashes and eyebrows after this event.  Who can tell why I even drank this vile concoction.  I’m not actually a drinker at all.  In fact, nowadays, I don’t drink at all.  Not because I’ve got a problem with alcohol.  I just don’t like feeling out of control.  And hence, since falling pregnant with Luke, I haven’t had a drink, apart from the very, very odd champagne toast now and then.  So, my relapse with “The flaming Lamborghini” came before my abstinence.  And therefore is perhaps not a relapse at all.  And if those corroborated eye witness reports are to be believed, I was holding forth to all at the pub, doing impersonations, funny voices, loads of giggling and who knows what else.  Forgive me.  I was young. 

What I did learn at the pub’s “big university”, was all about people.  And perhaps, most importantly of all, I learned to listen to those people.  And to appreciate the fact that all most people wanted in life, was just to be heard.  To know that someone tried to understand them and listened to their tales.

Now, the pub was frequented by many.  It was a friendly and non-threatening place.  A place where people felt at home and completely comfortable.  There were many regular patrons, who looked at the pub as a home away from home.  And in a sense, those that came during roughly the same time every day, and saw one another there, became family to each other.  Especially, the day time guys.  The ones that popped in for a pint round about lunch time.  They weren’t there to get sloshed.  They were there for the social aspect, and to be fair, they liked their beer too.  I suspect many were lonely and enjoyed the company, conversation and camaraderie they found at the pub.

One such gentleman’s name was Reg.  He was an absolute sweetie.  A darling of note.  I would guestimate that he was probably in his fifties at the time.  And he was practically, as blind as a bat.  He had next to no visibility in his one eye.  And probably less, in his other eye.  He popped in every so often, and I always enjoyed his company.  He had a wonderful sense of humour.  We’d have long conversations over the bar counter, the two of us.  Me serving, stocking the fridges, packing glasses, etc.  Him, nursing his pint, rubbing his hands up and down the condensation on the outside of his glass.

He was completely non-threatening and a very interesting guy.  And then, one fine day, when it was just the two of us, Reg asked if he could please try and have a good look at me up close.  He was inquisitive as to how I really looked.  I suppose, my outline (if he even saw that much), must have been a hazy and dark, fuzzy mush.  And so, I came out from behind the counter and stood right in front of him.  Barely centimetres separating our bodies.  He was very much inside my personal bubble and space.  I felt rather uncomfortable and didn’t know quite where to look.  And despite our close proximity, Reg leaned in even closer.  Not even millimetres separating us anymore.  There was nothing untoward in his behaviour at all.  And I didn’t feel uncomfortable, in the sense that he was acting inappropriately.  He was just invading my space.  He brought his head, right up to mine.  Millimetres from my face and scoured my appearance.  Moving his head all around.  Taking in every feature.  I.  NEARLY.  DIED.  I felt a bit like a specimen under a microscope, being surveyed from all corners.  No place to hide.  It was just so very, very weird.

Or at least, I thought it was.  Until it got weirder.  Very much so.  He asked me, if he could use his hands, to “look” at my face.  My shattered nerves.  Naturally, I submitted.  Even though, I hated it.  It would have been churlish and in bad taste for me to refuse.  And so, he had at it.  He ran his fingers, lightly all over my face, and I simply just stood there.  Waiting for time to march on and for him to stop.

Eventually, mercifully, he did.  He dropped his hands down and stood back.  And then he said.

“I once had a girlfriend who looked just like you.  She had a nose job.  I don’t think you should do it.”

I was floored.  It has given me giggles many times over the years.  He didn’t make his comment with malice.  He wasn’t being mean.  He was merely observing.  And stating an obvious fact in his opinion.  Besides, which, little could he know that I had already had many issues with my humongous and rather unflattering looking shnozz.

And clearly, I was right to feel this way?  If even a blind man, could tell with his hands, that my beak was big, it truly was.

I’ve moved on from my nose issue years ago.  Life is too short. 

 

If only my nose was too.