waiter approached with comical reluctance.
'I make the ad hoc deduction that you have made a deduction and should add hock.'
When a man tries humour for the first time, he cannot expect every joke to be a success. This one fell horribly flat. Neither Ange nor the waiter understood it.
'You've left the wine off,' I explained.
'Ah!' He scowled. He was seriously embarrassed, less by his mistake and my discovery of his mistake than because he was going to have to thank me.
'Thank you, sir,' he said through gritted teeth.
'What was all that about adding hock?' asked Ange.
'It was a sort of Latin pun. It was a joke.'
'Oh. Oh well.'
We stood up. I had no idea what would happen next or indeed what I wanted to happen next. She saved me, even though it would only be a temporary salvation.
'Come on,' she said. 'Let's find a pub. I know one with a darts board, and I couldn't half sink a pint.'
FIVE
'So why are we all here then?' she asked.
I looked round the bare, Spartan room at the groups of drinkers, mostly sitting and chatting, one couple kissing, almost eating each other. I felt out of place. I doubt if I had been into more than ten pubs in my life. I hated the smell of beer and chips and furniture polish and toilets. This was a pub on its last legs. The carpet bore evidence of accidents of various kinds. The stuffing was peeping out of two of the seats. The ashtrays had not been emptied for hours, maybe days.
'Well,' I said, 'I presume people like the company and the conviviality, and as you say, it's one of the few left in Central London with a darts board.'
'No! Stupid!' She grinned and gave me one of her quick kisses. I had seen her smile and laugh, but this was her first grin. It was a grin of triumph. She had caught me out. 'Why are we all here? Why do we exist? What's the point of it all? Come on. You're the philosopher.'
I took a sip of my beer. Flat, warm, bitter. I had drunk a half of beer occasionally, just to be sociable, but this was a pint. It looked enormous. I would never get through it. If I did get through it, I would be peeing all night. Where should I start with my explanations? Did I have the energy? I wished that I could believe that God existed. I might have been able to ask Him for strength.
It had been quite a long taxi ride. 'You wouldn't believe it,' she had said, 'but these days there aren't hardly any pubs in Central London with a darts board. I mean, it's a capital city, innit, for God's sake. What's our sodding civilisation coming to? It's a national disgrace.'
I had wondered, in the taxi, whether to reach out and hold her hand. God, it was exhausting being so self-conscious. It seemed to me that I was incapable of any physical movement that was spontaneous. It filled me with depression and weariness. What was I doing here? Why had I ever asked her out? I even had a vision of Lawrence and Jane, watching me, laughing at me, despairing of me.
There had been a brief few moments, in the fresh air – 'fresh', that's a laugh, each breath I take in London is a reminder about pollution – and then we had entered the pub and I had faced this dreadful wall of false cheeriness and beery companionship. Oh for a glass of port or Madeira and a civilised discussion of the failings of my fellow dons. I felt wildly over-dressed for these surroundings.
Three young men in grubby T-shirts were playing darts as if their lives depended on it. I wished that I was playing with them, anything rather than the burden of explanation and the inevitability of disappointment.
I took a deep breath and began.
'Ah. Well. You've asked a question to which there is no definite answer.'
'A cop-out, in other words.'
'No. No. A necessity, Ange. Whether we believe that there is a God who created the universe or whether we believe that the universe has evolved through natural and physical processes, we cannot yet conceive, and may well never be able to conceive, let alone know, how anything began in the first place. To
'I make the ad hoc deduction that you have made a deduction and should add hock.'
When a man tries humour for the first time, he cannot expect every joke to be a success. This one fell horribly flat. Neither Ange nor the waiter understood it.
'You've left the wine off,' I explained.
'Ah!' He scowled. He was seriously embarrassed, less by his mistake and my discovery of his mistake than because he was going to have to thank me.
'Thank you, sir,' he said through gritted teeth.
'What was all that about adding hock?' asked Ange.
'It was a sort of Latin pun. It was a joke.'
'Oh. Oh well.'
We stood up. I had no idea what would happen next or indeed what I wanted to happen next. She saved me, even though it would only be a temporary salvation.
'Come on,' she said. 'Let's find a pub. I know one with a darts board, and I couldn't half sink a pint.'
FIVE
'So why are we all here then?' she asked.
I looked round the bare, Spartan room at the groups of drinkers, mostly sitting and chatting, one couple kissing, almost eating each other. I felt out of place. I doubt if I had been into more than ten pubs in my life. I hated the smell of beer and chips and furniture polish and toilets. This was a pub on its last legs. The carpet bore evidence of accidents of various kinds. The stuffing was peeping out of two of the seats. The ashtrays had not been emptied for hours, maybe days.
'Well,' I said, 'I presume people like the company and the conviviality, and as you say, it's one of the few left in Central London with a darts board.'
'No! Stupid!' She grinned and gave me one of her quick kisses. I had seen her smile and laugh, but this was her first grin. It was a grin of triumph. She had caught me out. 'Why are we all here? Why do we exist? What's the point of it all? Come on. You're the philosopher.'
I took a sip of my beer. Flat, warm, bitter. I had drunk a half of beer occasionally, just to be sociable, but this was a pint. It looked enormous. I would never get through it. If I did get through it, I would be peeing all night. Where should I start with my explanations? Did I have the energy? I wished that I could believe that God existed. I might have been able to ask Him for strength.
It had been quite a long taxi ride. 'You wouldn't believe it,' she had said, 'but these days there aren't hardly any pubs in Central London with a darts board. I mean, it's a capital city, innit, for God's sake. What's our sodding civilisation coming to? It's a national disgrace.'
I had wondered, in the taxi, whether to reach out and hold her hand. God, it was exhausting being so self-conscious. It seemed to me that I was incapable of any physical movement that was spontaneous. It filled me with depression and weariness. What was I doing here? Why had I ever asked her out? I even had a vision of Lawrence and Jane, watching me, laughing at me, despairing of me.
There had been a brief few moments, in the fresh air – 'fresh', that's a laugh, each breath I take in London is a reminder about pollution – and then we had entered the pub and I had faced this dreadful wall of false cheeriness and beery companionship. Oh for a glass of port or Madeira and a civilised discussion of the failings of my fellow dons. I felt wildly over-dressed for these surroundings.
Three young men in grubby T-shirts were playing darts as if their lives depended on it. I wished that I was playing with them, anything rather than the burden of explanation and the inevitability of disappointment.
I took a deep breath and began.
'Ah. Well. You've asked a question to which there is no definite answer.'
'A cop-out, in other words.'
'No. No. A necessity, Ange. Whether we believe that there is a God who created the universe or whether we believe that the universe has evolved through natural and physical processes, we cannot yet conceive, and may well never be able to conceive, let alone know, how anything began in the first place. To
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