Quite a good one, if I do say so myself

Often there are things that wake me in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Terrible, shameful things that I have said or done, or not said or not done. Friendships lost, relationships ruined, and all for a lack of bravery or humility.

Then there are some moments that flash back into my mind in a good way - good times or great lines. This is one such chronicle.

I was to dine with some friends and friends of friends. Josef, a friend of mine from such intertwining circles, had invited me out with a group of friends on the occasion of an old university friend’s visit to town from London.

It’s worth noting at this early stage that many of the details of the story I’m about to tell remain foggy to me, including where we were, the friend’s name, and most of the things they or I said. I’ve done my best to fill in from memory and, where memory fails, I have embellished generously.

We were upstairs at the Coconut Tree - a Sri Lankan restaurant on the canal. A small out-of-the-way place we’d been to once before, that serves tapas-style dishes. And like all tapas, the dishes are either overpriced or undersized. Or both.

The guest was talking about their partner who a few of the party had met on a previous occasion. They were uttering a sentence that I hadn’t tuned into, when at the end they finished with what wasn’t intended to be innuendo, but certainly had the rhythm of it, and set the room alight with laughter:

“…So now he isn’t allowed in at the back”

Eyebrows were raised, tongues placed in cheeks, missuses ooh-erred.

Later, they went on to reveal that one of the couple (I forget which) was a trained concert pianist, and very talented too. We talked about genres, about jazz and punk and eventually the subject came to their boyfriend partaking in classical music.

I started laughing immediately, to the confusion of everybody at the table, as I’d only actually formed the words in my head at that time. I managed to contain myself and wipe the tears from my eyes, when I eventually uttered

“I bet he’s not allowed near the Bach or DeBussy.”

As I recall at the time nobody found it quite so side-splittingly uproarious as I did, but to this day the mix of innuendo and call-back tickles me. I think of a young Black Country boy who wouldn’t have been able to throw a rock at a classical composer, much less name one, and feel a pang of pride at my cultural literacy. It is of course terribly self-indulgent, as is this whole enterprise, but I take a humble solace in the fact that nobody else at the table - nor anybody I’ve ever told it to since - found it all that funny.