However, my most recent visit was an experience of rare pleasure by virtue of the good natured banter on which I was privileged to eavesdrop between Jim, our tonsorial artist, and my fellow patrons.
    The face of one of the other men awaiting a trim seemed familiar to me and so it was, as I was leaving, I enquired of him “don’t I know you?”. It turned out that we did know each other, albeit not well. This prompted our friendly barber to recount how he often finds himself confronted by the same question when away from his usual habitat.
    On my way home I found myself reflecting on two occasions when, by dint of my being out of my normal environment, interesting situations resulted.
    The first was in the early sixties in England. I was invited to take part in a golf competition in Devon, in the south west of England. Whilst I had often visited Devon in my early years, my mother having come from that fair county, I had not been there for many years. So it was with eager anticipation that I journeyed westward complete with clubs and golfing attire.
    In my youth I belonged to Sudbury Golf Club, in the suburbs of London. It was not a great course but had a goodly membership of theatrical folk and other characters. One such member, whom for discretion, the reason for which will become clear, we will call Rodney, became a regular playing companion.
    Rodney was a few years older than me. He carried a similar single figure handicap and we often played together with some success. It therefore came as a surprise to me when, without warning, he was kicked out of the club and to all intents and purposes disappeared off the face of the earth. I was subsequently to learn that he had fallen foul of the law and was a guest of Her Majesty. In other words he was in prison.
    I thought little of Rodney over the next few years being fully engaged in passing my exams to qualify as a Chartered Accountant, getting married and starting a family. He was certainly farthest from my mind when I arrived in Devon and entered the golf club bar. There on the other side of the room was Rodney, or if not him his identical twin.
    I was delighted to see him and confess I had forgotten about his chequered past. I went over and said “don’t I know you? It’s Rodney yes?”  My approach was greeted with a rather curt and angry “my name is Bill.”  I retired somewhat abashed and perplexed.
    I was so certain that it was Rodney that I persisted in staring at him across the room. Indeed, I told my drinking partners that I was certain he was my long lost friend and couldn’t understand why he was refusing to recognise me.
    Some time later I had occasion to answer the call of nature and retired to the little boy’s room.  As I was exiting I bumped into Rodney who had obviously followed me.  Fortified as I was with a couple of gins I commented that I could not understand why he was choosing to ignore me. He responded by inviting me to step outside!
    With some trepidation I followed him fearing that I was about to be assaulted. Fortunately, as I am not much of a fighter, such was not his intent. Rather, he wanted to explain that he was Rodney and was now living under a new name in Devon. He had served his time and was making a fresh start in life. Moreover, he had been dreading the day when someone would recognise him.
I left him with the assurance that his secret was safe with me. I did suggest that the next time he found himself in a similar situation, as certainly he would, that he adopt a somewhat less aggressive demeanour whereby his addressee might be less annoyingly persistent than I had been.  
    The other story which came to mind concerned a friend of mine, Jacques, who owned a restaurant in Manhattan. The year was about 1974 and I was a fairly regular customer at his excellent little French restaurant. Equally he was a very good supporter of the brands of spirituous liqueurs which fell under my care at that time.
    One day at lunch Jacques announced that restaurants such as his were to be struck by the waiters and kitchen staff. He was determined to stay open with a skeleton non union crew consisting mainly of himself as chef, his wife and her brother as the servers. He was however short of a bartender. Without batting an eyelid I volunteered to do the odd shift behind the bar.
So it was, that attired in my stripped apron and trying to look and sound like a Frenchman, I positioned myself behind the bar. My first customer arrived.  It was none other than another regular whom I knew quite well. I adopted a very professional attitude and refrained from calling him by his first name, Jim, using instead the address of sir. He ordered his drink and proceeded to read his evening paper. Obviously he didn’t recognise me on the ‘wrong’ side of the bar. After a second beverage he requested his check, paid it, handed me a dollar tip and left.
    The same thing happened a few nights later when I was again behind the bar. There was no recognition on his part and I was not about to announce to the other patrons at the bar that I was anything other than a professional bartender.
    Some few weeks later the strike had been amicably settled and I was once again a customer on the ‘right’ side of the bar. Who should walk in but Jim, “Haven’t seen you for a while Clive,” he said, “I guess you stayed away during the strike.” When I explained that he had seen me but I was the bartender he was astonished to say the least. He demanded, without success, the return of the tips!!
    I guess that these two episodes go to prove that you can never be too careful no matter where in the world you are, or, as my late, dear, father would say, “always keep your powder dry!!!”










 

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