There is something transcendentally evocative about dreamy barmaids. I call them dreamy barmaids because they make me feel dreamy. It works better if the bar is empty, and it’s just the two of you. If they ever ask you out on a date, reply with the phrase, “Sounds dreamy…” You may suggest going to the local carnival together and sharing candy floss while perusing which riveting, adrenaline-pumping rides to go on. If I were you, accompanied by a beautiful barmaid, who has fallen for your chat-up lines with a one-of-a-kind warm-hearted and loving reciprocal energy transferral, I suggest the Ghost Train.
Then, once admittance is granted, you can try and spook each other for laughs and giggles. Again, this works better if it’s just solely the pair of you. At the end of the experience, you may want to share a picnic on a comfortable grassy knoll, watching the theatrical bulbs of the funfair shine up to full intensity against the darkening wild Sailor’s Delight yonder above, watching the gypsies and their streetwise whippersnappers phasing out their hissing hydraulics, taking notice of other couples and families traipsing towards the exit, homeward bound for nourishing suppers of stock-infused broth from tin bowls and wooden spoons in front of flickering open hearth fireplaces.
You may want to kiss your partner on the lips. Or peck her on the cheek. You may also wish to document this eventful exchange in a journal when you split paths and return inland to your boring, lonely abode, where the memory of her might make you feel light-headed and giddy inside, as if she has left a coronet of exceptionality adorning your napper; indeed, as if she, of the higher and more joyfully-enhanced realms, has breathed a sample of her gladdened aura into your belly, which now, after having encountered someone who is worth a kingdom more than your equal, flows with divinely radiant rivers of life.
I derived this fondness of barmaids from an ice cream cart, in my hazy, fuzzy, smog-filled (I lived next to a power plant) youthful heyday. It started with a haircut in a Chinese hairdresser’s. I’d just taxed a drug dealer to the tune of £180, before I went in for my short back and sides, for 2 grams of Charlie. Instead of cash pound notes, I handed him toilet paper. This was a symbolic declaration of what I thought about him. The cheeky, daring scallywag pulled a switchblade on me, taking a dangerous swipe at my face. If my instincts weren’t tiptop like a fighter pilot’s, when I pulled back out of the way and skilfully dodged his maddened attempt at opening my cheek, he’d have landed me in A&E overnight.
Being a hopelessly addicted teenybopper at that time, I think it was the Indian Summer of 1992, I was bang-into getting high at every available opportunity, although, being perilously perched at such a young age in life, I could ill afford the workable waging funds to properly afford enough gear in ‘da hood to sustain this hedonistic penchant.
The woman in the hairdressers was vaping constantly as she buzz-cutted my ketwig. I was convinced the vapour was handing me out a nice little popcorn lung by the minute as I sat there a complete and totalled bag of nerves but I wouldn’t have changed anything about her for the world. I remember how deft and responsive her fingers were to the barbering instrument and its relational synergy with my head; they left me wondering about heady topics such as physical properties and interacting matter principles and scientific experiments about how flesh could be so beguiling and mesmerising, all when she was performing such a simple and commonly familiar ritual, which she most like performed to the same ability each and every day, and had done so for umpteen years to boot.
The woman told me a story of an ice cream cart which bonded two hardcore cultish dissident Rebellions-Aflame™ sweethearts into one exemplary amorous unison predisposed to both anarchy and generosity in equivalent measurement, when they both shared frozen Feasts and Twisters from its icy shelves of chilled confections which resulted in ecstatic jubilations on the taste buds. There was sweets, there was candy, there was sugar and sweetener, but then there was ICE CREAM.
Ice cream bonded the sweethearts in the story. The story bonds me to the hairdresser. The hairdresser bonds my out-of-control drug addiction to pretty ladies working behind bars. ENDS OF.
* STAY DREAMY *
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