Pimlico Social Scene

Much as we worry that Pimlico is the new Clapham, Belligerently Optimistic Flatmate and I are still overexcited each time we learn of a new local university chum. Boris-Biking back from Tesco the other day (we're branching out from Sains), I nearly ran over an old friend crossing the road. 

'Whoopsy!' I cried (too jovially) - 'Gosh good to see you, old chap! It's like Cambridge all over again isn't it?' Passing youths eyed me pityingly until I, embarrassed, veered into the path of an oncoming zimmerframe. Not an edifying sight.

Another burger? Anyone?

One great thing about the influx of old university friends is that the Pimlico Social Scene is expanding into an (almost) real scene. When sunshine broke through the other day, we were summoned to an optimistic barbecue down the road. It wasn't long until the barbecue plans were canned - occasional bursts of smoke have no impact on raw burgers - but happily the meat feast continued in the kitchen. There, the quantities consumed would have made Henry VIII feel a bit awkward.

Yum

One of the girls (a hottie from Netball Crew no less) had brought 'Banana Ketchup' back from her hols. She enthused about it until people dared try it. Some were kind ('just the sort of thing I bet would taste perfect on a sunny beach'); some less so ('It looks like snot').


Holiday ketchup soon came in useful later however. Then, rendered incapacitated by meat we could only slob about flicking it at one another. 

'Let's play charades!' suggested one inexplicably lively [perhaps vegetarian?] member of the group.


I wasn't too enthused by this plan - I hate games I never win - but it soon fell out of favour. The table was held hostage to something else...

'I have a fact,' Bilbo (one of our hosts) proclaimed. 'I shall tell it. Ahem. More than ten people a year are killed by vending machines.'

There was a silence, which Bilbo took for approval.

'Also - wait for it - the world's oldest piece of chewing gum is over 9000 years old!'


Few could have guessed that the dissemination of choice facts would prove so contentious. Suddenly others were fighting for the floor. Avid Tweeting Medic (ATM) spoke first: 'I've got one! I've got one it's: Seven lions are ... no wait - that's wrong. Seven tigers are... Hang on.'

ATM's girlfriend tried helpfully to cover the hiatus: 'I've got one!'
ATM: 'No you don't.'
'Yes I do.'
'No you don't.' By this point he had discreetly found randomfactgenerator.net on his iPhone under the table. 'HA! Right - I've got one: The average female IQ is marginally higher than the male IQ.' 


Pause. 


'That's not a very good fact!' observed Bilbo delightedly. 'An American urologist once bought Napoleon's penis for $40,000.'


'I've got a fact about Banana Ketchup!' ventured another. And the evening descended into chaos.

College Mascot

Not Mine.

In an awesome act of boho chic, one of my University friends SAM (Surprisingly A Mother) has produced a Sprog. This was slightly surprising. Even more amazing (to me only) is that I'm not his GODPARENT. I've got so much to offer surely? Training in punctuality, advice on aggressive entertaining and, most useful of all, a mild fear of children. A couple of our friends did make the cut: their triumphal cufflink-shining as they prepare for the big Christening bash in December grates daily.

In an unrelated event, my University English group learned that our Director of Studies - the gentleman that interviewed us and then nurtured us through the shock of it all - is retiring.

At our college, an arcane law requiring fellows to leave in the year of their 67th birthday means that one of the best teachers I came across at Cambridge will be arbitrarily ousted months from now. True, the statute did prove a convenient way of getting rid of that insane Nazi bloke who used to pose naked in the windows of his rooms when male freshers walked past. But in Mr Goodling's case, it seems a total waste.

Anyway, the connection between these two facts is this. Sam and I decided to make a day trip to Cambridge to see Mr G and lament that he's leaving. Ever portable, Sprog came too.

Ambling into your university town months after leaving with your friend and her baby prompts a certain crisis of nostalgia. You know that it's not your town any more - Sam's baby proves we're not about to pop into a supervision - but it doesn't stop you spending half an hour at the Porter's Lodge making the Porters agree that the college isn't as much fun these days. Something they ultimately do, only because you've distracted them with a tiny baby.

Happily Sam had explained to Mr G about the new addition to our English group before we arrived. He had apparently asked so sternly on the phone 'And what is your news?' that she'd blurted out 'I've had a baby!' before hanging up, barely waiting for a response.

I felt fairly limited when my response to the same 'What is your news?' question ended with me gabbling nonsensically about Kate in the Countryside and my fledgling writing ambitions. I was back in first year again, hoping not to let him down.

 

I exaggerate.



Elegant as ever, he knew all the right baby questions to ask and pretended not to notice as Sprog mewled and puked with increasing regularity throughout the afternoon. And he enquired so delicately about our careers that I almost told him what I do for a job, despite how out-of-place it felt in the oak-panelled book-lined haven.

And as we caught the train back to London, clutching gifts of books (including The Lustful Turk - which Mr G owned in duplicate), soothed Sprog fell asleep straight away. I could see Sam thinking the same thing as I was: is it too late to ask Mr Goodling to be Godfather?