A WICKED, WICKED MAN

As she approached, it was her black full-length coat that first alerted me, but it was her doleful countenance that confirmed my suspicions - the beautiful Anna must have just been to her grandmother's funeral. Opening my arms in welcome, we embraced. Pressing my cheek against hers, I was surprised to find her face was quite hot, for it was a cold winter's day. That's when the words initially popped into my head.

In my defence, before I reveal, or rather confess, what I said to her, I should stress I was only trying to be supportive. I am not, by instinct, a vindictive person. Admittedly, my friends and loved ones might disagree, but I sincerely believe I reserve my venom for those whom it is fully deserved.

Take the owner of Charcoal Charlie's chicken shop, for example. I'd delivered an order of fresh juice to him. Instead of dumping the crate of bottles on the shop floor and skedaddling like most delivery drivers, I stayed and restocked his shelves and then swapped all his old stock over completely free of charge. As I hurried to leave and called out to bid him farewell, he cut me short.

"Can't you see I am very, very busy, you goat?!" he barked. "Wait there 'til I'm finished. Then you can speak!"

Oh, I waited alright. This goat was more than happy to wait a full ten minutes whilst he was very, very busy - even though I was chasing the clock. He wasn't to know but I'd waited twenty years for this precise moment. For twenty years earlier a line from a Somerset Maugham novel, The Explorer, had jumped out from the page and stuck indelibly in my memory. And when the owner of Charcoal Charlie's chicken shop called me a goat and told me to wait, I knew that at long last, after twenty years (and ten minutes) I was finally going to have the opportunity to repeat that indelible line to an unsuspecting, but fully deserving victim.

"OK, what is it?" he finally blurted. "But hurry, I'm a busy man!"

I looked him directly in the eye and smiled. After waiting two decades and ten minutes, I wanted to savour the moment and make it last; it was such sweet bliss.

"I can see," I began, "that since my last visit, you have not managed to add good manners to your accomplishments."

There, I'd said it, with only a slight deviation from Maugham's original words. And believe me, after waiting so many years for the perfect moment, it felt good. It felt very good!

Silence followed, during which his expression changed from surly to one of confusion. The cogwheels turned in his head. Whilst aware he was being admonished by a lowly delivery driver, the rebuke sounded oddly positive to him, perhaps even complimentary. Silence is oft the companion of confusion. He remained wordless. More importantly, whenever I restocked his shelves, he afforded me gentlemanly politeness.

Before we return to Anna and what I said to her after she'd returned from her grandmother's funeral and we'd touched cheeks, I have one further submission to offer in my defence.

I'm funny. I've always been funny. I was the one at home, not my siblings, that could make my earnest mother laugh - even when she was chasing me around the house waving a wooden spoon. Alas, if she caught me it didn't stop her whacking me, for she shared an ability possessed by mothers the world over - she could multitask. Mum could shout, scream, laugh, smack me with a flailing wooden spoon, and ask me what I wanted for dinner, all at the same time!

I was the class clown, the outspoken buffoon in school that sparked the wrath of teachers with my acerbic comments, risking punishment from the faculty but, importantly, triggering laughter from my peers. And it took true courage back then, for I went to an all-boys school when caning was de rigueur for almost every misdemeanour. I recall a science master exclaiming at the top of his voice,

"That's six of the best for you, boy! Off to the Headmaster's study this instant - he'll teach you to be rude!"

I was bursting to respond with, "He'll teach me to be rude, sir? I thought I'd mastered that skill set already!" But I thought six of the best was sufficient for one day.

When I was accused of rudeness, which was not uncommon, it left me feeling quite conflicted. For there was another line from Maugham that had also stuck in my head.

'Rudeness is the only shortcut to a reputation for wit.'

I must confess the first time I came across this line I gasped with an audible, "YES!" For it was confirmation by the great man himself, no less, that I was not so much rude as truly witty and with a reputation too boot!

I used to believe that my contemporaries thought of the same wisecracks but simply lacked the courage to say them out loud. But I realised, over time, this was wrong. I wasn't funny because I was braver (or foolhardier). I was funny because my mind and thoughts went to places that normal, decent people shouldn't go. In short, a little voice in my head would suggest something perfectly inappropriate at precisely the wrong time and before I knew it, I'd repeated it out loud and had to deal with the consequences.

Of course, as I aged, I learnt to self-censor; the little voice didn't always win. However, it didn't stop the silent conversations between us. And that brings us neatly back to my dear friend Anna after her grandmother's funeral and in particular, Anna's hot facial cheeks on what was a rather chilly day.

The little voice sensed a dilemma. 'Hot cheeks on a cold day?' I heard in my head. 'How odd,' the voice continued. I ignored it and instead chose to speak to Anna with appropriate empathy and genuine concern.

"Just come from your grandmother's funeral?" I asked.

She nodded slowly, the effort to speak too great to bear. Then the little voice in my head piped up again. 'But why the hot cheeks on such a cold day? Ask her why she's got hot cheeks!' I remained silent, knowing my supportive embrace would convey my deepest sympathy and support; for her grandmother had raised her and they were very close.

But the little voice could not be quelled. 'Listen! She has hot cheeks on a cold day and she's just been to a funeral. Think about it. The logical explanation is simple. It must have been a cremation!' I knew instinctively that if there was ever a perfectly inappropriate thing to say at precisely the wrong time, it was that.

Of course I said nothing - even I was startled by the little voice's rational summation. The problem was, I also thought it so terrible it became unbearably amusing. 'Terrible to the point of genius!' the little voice screamed. At this point, remember, I had not verbalised the little voice's thoughts. Self-censorship had saved the day...or rather would have if I hadn't had the misfortune to recall Somerset Maugham's second quote about rudeness leading to a reputation for wit. That was my undoing. 

"Anna," I asked, "it is a very cold day, and you have only just returned from your grandmother's funeral, and yet your cheeks are exceedingly hot. Was it a cremation?"

Perhaps my words created some confusion, for silence followed. In spite of the twinkle in my eye, she showed no sign of appreciating the humour. Eventually, her outraged senses regained authority. With calm dignity, she responded in measured tones.

"You are a wicked, wicked man."

"I promise you, Anna," I blurted, desperately trying to retrieve a lost cause, "one day you will look back on this moment and find what I said really funny!"

Once a week for the next five years, Anna would drop by to see me when she was in the area. Each time I saw her approach, before any of the usual salutations were exchanged, I'd shout, "DO YOU THINK IT'S FUNNY YET?!"

And every week, for the full five years, her response was the same. A shake of her head followed by a clear and resounding, "NO!" Although, in the later years, her replies were furnished with the faintest hint of a smile.

You will be pleased to learn that after five years I stopped asking Anna if she now found what I said, all those years ago, to be funny. Consequently, she had no further need to answer me with her inevitable response of "NO!" After five long years, I eventually found the courage to pose a different question.

"Anna, would you marry a wicked, wicked man?"

I am delighted to say she replied with a resounding, "YES!"