Confessions of a Gym Mistress. Rosie Dixon
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town hall I leave it to Geoffrey. I feel such a fool because he has to cock his head to one side to see properly and I notice the other drivers nudging each other at the lights. They must think I have just socked him one for getting fresh. Fat chance of that!
When we get near Goodge Street it is absolutely hopeless. Geoffrey can’t see anything and can’t remember anything and we drive up endless streets full of parked cars and dustbins.
“You call out the names and I’ll see if any of them rings a bell,” says Geoffrey. “What’s that place over there? ‘Felice’? That rings a bell.”
“Is it a vegetarian restaurant?” I ask.
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Well it can’t be that one. That’s a florist.”
We go on for another ten minutes and I decide I can’t stand it any longer. “Let’s stop anywhere,” I plead. “If I don’t get something to eat in a minute I’m going to start chewing your plastic banana.”
“What?” says Geoffrey, hopefully.
“The thing you’ve got hanging from the rear view mirror.” I tell him. “Come on, this place will do: ‘Borrman’s German Restaurant.’ I’ve never had any German food.”
Well, I can tell you right away. This is not one of my best ideas. The minute the waiter overhears Geoffrey saying that he reminds him of Hitler I know we are going to have problems.
“Ze var is over,” he screams. “Whole generations ov nazis have grown up who av never eard ov concentration camps.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You’re absolutely right. Now, what would you recommend?” You can’t fault me on the humble meter, can you?
Unfortunately, the waiter clearly feels he has an axe to grind. I have noticed before how Geoffrey manages to rub people up the wrong way.
“Recommend?” he shouts. “Vott, you zink zere is something wrong with some ov it? Gott in Himmel, that the Führer should be alive today.” He throws down the menu and we don’t see him again for twenty-five minutes.
“The decor is nice,” says Geoffrey.
“How much longer are you prepared to sit there?” I hiss. “Are you a man or a mouse?”
“Which do you prefer?” says Geoffrey. You know, I really think he means it.
“Tell him we want some food or we’re getting out,” I say. “There’s no excuse for the delay. We’re the only people in the place.”
At first I think that Geoffrey has developed a cold in the throat. Then I realise that his nervous cough is attempting to attract the waiter’s attention. Honestly, talk about an evening with Steve McQueen. I am not surprised that Geoffrey once missed the mixed doubles final because he shut his fingers in his racket press. I am just on the point of taking matters into my own hands when two enormous plates of sausage and red cabbage arrive on the table.
“We didn’t order this,” says Geoffrey.
“‘Order’!? You don’t know ze meaning ov ze vord order,” screams our waiter, fingering his duelling scar. “Ze Panzers, ze knew vot an order vos!” Before we can say anything he sweeps the plates onto the floor and dives behind one of the tables.
“This definitely isn’t the place my friend told me about,” says Geoffrey.
“Don’t be so defensive!” I tell him. “We all make mistakes.”
“Ze died vere ze lay!” screams the waiter. He starts pulling the side plates off the tables and hurling them towards the kitchen.
“Boumf! Boumph!”
“Do you want to stay?” says Geoffrey.
“Are you mad?” I say.
“No, but I’m a bit worried about him.” Geoffrey stands up and clears his throat. “We are leaving now,” he says. He might be repeating “How now brown cow”.
The waiter picks up a knife.
“Come on, Geoffrey!”
“Egon Ronay will hear of this.”
“Geoffrey!” I will remember that terrible man standing at the door and shouting “Schweinhunds!” after us till my dying day—in fact, I thought it was going to be my dying day.
“That was a bit thick,” says Geoffrey as we drive away. “Did you hear what that chap said?”
“Yes. He said ‘Schweinhunds!’”
“No. I mean about reporting us to the Race Relations Board.”
Marvellous, isn’t it? Unless you watched television all the time you could be excused for wondering who won the war.
“I need a drink after that,” I say.
As it turns out, this is my second foolish suggestion of the evening. Spirits play havoc with me on an empty stomach and Geoffrey makes me bolt back a second enormous scotch in order to “get it in before closing time” as he puts it.
“Do you fancy a packet of nuts with it?” he says. “They have eighteen times the protein value of steak, you know?” Something tells me that I can say goodbye to my supper.
“You need a bit of steak for that eye, don’t you?” I say.
“It’s much better now,” says my lark-tongued cavalier. “It’s no hardship looking at you through one eye.”
“You mean, it would be even better if you couldn’t see anything?”
“No! Rosie, why do you have to take everything I say the wrong way?”
“Because that’s the way it comes out,” I say. “Ooooh! I felt quite funny then. I think I’d better sit down.” It must be the scotch.
“I felt funny when you touched my arm like that,” breathes Geoffrey, sinking onto the moquette beside me. “Oh Rosie. I fancy you, rotten.”
“Well, that’s the way I feel at the moment,” I tell him. “I think I’d better go outside.”
“If you want to use the toilet, there’s one in the passage. I saw it as we came in.”
“Thank you, Hawkeye,” I say. “But I don’t think that will be necessary. You’d better take me home.”
We get outside to the car and, thank goodness, Geoffrey’s eye does seem to be a lot better. Just as well because the cool air hits me like a slap in the face and I hardly know what I’m doing.
“Comfy?” says Geoffrey as he shuts the door. “You wait till I turn the heater on. Then you’ll be really snug.”
He is not kidding! After about five minutes I feel as if I am sitting in a microwave oven. Geoffrey is talking to me about teaching but I just can’t keep my eyes open—I believe that lots of people have this trouble with Geoffrey. When I wake up it is because the engine has been turned off.
“Are we home?” I ask drowsily.
“Not quite,” says Geoffrey. “I brought you up to the common because it’s such a beautiful night.”
A glance out of the window shows that Geoffrey is not the only nature lover in North West London. Cars are parked all round us and inside them I can see the shadowy outlines of struggling figures—no doubt fighting to get a better view of the pitch darkness.
“It’s raining,” I say.
“I like rain,” says Geoffrey. “I think it’s very romantic. Water turns me on.” He proves it by trying to slide his hands up my skirt.
“Stop, cock!” I say wittily. “What are you trying to do? I thought you were taking me home?”
Geoffrey transfers