Bollard infancy

Zosia and I still haven't spoken since the party at Mitzi's. I chose to ignore the answer machine message she left on Friday. I know it was left as bait. She wants me to call her, to grovel on my hands and knees and apologise for whatever it is that I've done to upset her. But I don't feel like apologsing. I told her I wanted out of Mitzi's party the other night. The fact that she didn't want to come too is her fault, not mine. I just can't be bothered to get into yet another conflict, you know?

I tell you, this relationship is too much like hard fucking work.

I think I'm going to finish it.

Which is why I went down The Fox last night to watch local all-girl band The Cheerful Lenas with a roving eye.

And it was there that I bumped into Spanish Andy.

Spanish Andy is a soundman. He was manning the mixing desk. He's worked for my band on a couple of tours. He's originally from Bilbao, or somewhere like that.

Anyway, I was happy to see him 'cos he's an all round nice person. Wears a permanent baffled expression on his face.

Oddly, he wasn’t sporting his customary fashionably dishevelled appearance last night. He’d had a shave, combed his hair and wore smart black clothes. And he was with a girl. Quite pretty, in a non-specific kind of way. Andy introduced us.

Man, he was so excited, talking ten to the dozen, but the music was loud and his English is so poor I had no idea what the miggins he was going on about.

I just sort of nodded along.

At the end, he just stared blankly back at me, waiting for a response.

“Sorry, Andy. What was that?”

Spanish Andy's face broke into a big grin.

He punched me hard on the shoulder, knocking me back a step, wink-winked and punched me hard on the other shoulder.

Then he gave me a bear hug, followed by a kiss on both cheeks.

He stepped back, holding me firmly by my hurting shoulders, beaming like a mad man, staring intensely into my eyes.

“I happy.”

“Good, good.”

Spanish Andy held his right hand up for me to high five. I held mine up too, but he feinted to the left and punched me in my unguarded guts.

After The Lenas finished their set, I was invited to a beer and joined Andy, his girl and a couple of the Lenas at a table in the corner.

Apart from Andy's bird, there weren't any nice ladies down the pub for me to cast my roving eye upon. Well, one of The Lenas was okay, the one I sat next to at the table, but conversation was tough going.

"That was a great gig," I lied. "You've got some cool tunes."

“I’ve been thinking," she replied. "About the phrase a ‘hang-dog expression’.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think it refers to the expression a dog makes when it’s about to be hung? Or the expression the dog makes during the process of being hung?"

"...Um"

"Perhaps it means the expression on the face of the person trying to hang the dog?"

"Maybe."

"Must be quite tricky to hang a dog I should think, especially if it’s a big one. Just getting the noose round its neck would be a minefield for a full range of facial contortions, both dog and person…but what I don’t get is why would anyone be trying to hang a dog in the first place?

“Perhaps it wouldn’t stop shitting everywhere?”

“Yeah, and that’s another thing, what causes white dog shit..?”

I thought about that for a bit. “I knew a man once with a dog that had a bark like a little girl’s sneeze.”

“Did it have a cold?”

“A cold what?”

“The dog, did it have a cold?”

“No.”