Gordon’s Wine Bar in Embankment (Tuesday 12th November 2002)
Had an odd thing last night. A friend of mine and myself met outside in Gordon’s Wine Bar. If you haven’t been there (and you can somehow secure a seat; note that this was far from a balmy summer night and we sat under the stars) it’s well worth a visit. The cellar bar is an old creepy affair rife with sentiment and age. The cheese on offer; both youthful and crumbling beneath its age kept Billy happy and content. It’s arched ceilings force visitors to bow down close together to avoid colliding with the dust and moss. The walls are adorned with aging photographs and rotting newspapers of times long past. It was only here in this place that I could have met Mr.Theodore Bromley.
We sat down outside and ordered a bottle of red and, having not had the opportunity to meet in some months, shared a fine time in one anothers’ company. Both of us wrapped warm against the encroaching winter; me in faux moody hoody and overcoat and her in dainty bright scarves and hats.
We had thought that we were alone in the narrow laneway when a large figure abruptly dropped down on the seat beside us. I acted fast to save our table from capsizing at his sheer presence.
He was a large gentleman; in both stature and charisma. He was also evidently quite drunk; apparent from both his slurred voice and powerful aroma. His words dribbled out from beneath his proud thick ‘tache in a wonderfully rolling bassy English accent:
My name is Theodore Bromley.
Oh, hello. My name’s Waxy.
(A long stare; he didn’t like that, not one bit).
I am from… Australia…
Really?
I *AM* from Australia.
We’re from Ireland.
My name is Theodore Bromley. Whooooo are yooooo?
This continued for some time, his voice rising with indignation, until finally he lent in close (slyly pilfering a bottle of white from a neighbouring table). I leaned forward to hear his words, quiet as they were.
You have done my country wrong, sir, you have done my country wrong!!!!
A tear crept down his face.
I think you might have mistaken me; what wrong was done to you?
You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country wrong. You have done my country -
Mr. Bromley collapsed forward in a tide of grief and flatulence. Our table capsized; our drinks safe.
He swirled to his feet and faded off into the night; vanishing a moment as the shadows overwhelmed him.
A ghost?
Seemed like a pleasant fellow.
