Told to me and now to you.
Dear reader, having met Aunty M, then N, it's time to introduce myself: I'm O. Like a mouth open in surprise, as N put it once. We met in Strasbourg at a Xmas do exactly a year ago today on either side of a glory hole framed by festive tinsel. Strasbourg parties hard.
Although introductions are usually brief and to the point in these situations, I couldn't help but have fun with it, and decided to play Santa to the extent one could. "Ho Ho Ho, have you been a good girl or boy?" I asked when it was my turn, up for either as is my nature after three pints.
"Oh, I've been a verrrry naughty girl," said a deep but saucy voice that turned out to be N's. We needn't dwell on what exactly transpired next; suffice it to say there was a surfeit of naughtiness. We then used the hole to share a cigarette until a queue built up, and exchanged phone numbers.
I had a call the very next day. "Help me find a present for my aunt," pleaded N. "As my secret Santa, you're obliged." How could I resist?
We met under the massive Christmas tree (
here's a link to add verisimilitude to my story), both of us having agreed to wear something distinctive so we could recognise each other without reference to genitalia. I chose a bowler; N, a scarf knitted by Aunty M that I was promised would stand out a kilometre.
Unfortunately there were a lot of striking scarves out that day. I was on my fourth approach and apology when there came a tap on my shoulder, whereupon I turned around and immediately earned my nickname.
"It's catastrophic, isn't it?" laughed N as my mouth contemplated closing, then held on for a bit.
I have no experience fabricating knitwear, but would wager that having been handed a pair of needles after another three pints I could manufacture an object roughly scarf-shaped and less an affront to even the colour blind than the monstrosity wrapped around N's neck. It looked to have been started in the
monkey cage of the Zoo de l'Orangerie (
sadly closed that summer), then handed to the wallaby for finishing touches. [Wallabies have short, useless arms. - Ed.]
N then promptly plucked my bowler from my head, where it remained for the rest of our expedition.
My new friend was completely hopeless at shopping, pointing at everything that might conceivably tickle the fancy of a woman of taste and discernment. With my help we finally purchased a fine antique folio of 'Air on the G String' for Aunty's
piano, tuned to concert pitch; a handsomely presented recording of Joni Mitchell's
Blue for her magnificent hi-fi system; elegant new bar tape for her Emonda; and finally a Calvin and Hobbes collection "because she does so like a chuckle."
We paused outside the Maison Rouge, both of us I think contemplating another unforgettable experience; a matching smile told me we were both content to have a unique origin story of our friendship and leave it at that.
N then suggested we buy each other a gag gift, scarpering with a "Meet you under the tree in an hour!"
I hadn't a clue what would appeal, and window shopped frantically before coming across what I hoped would be the perfect item as the clock ticked the final minutes, hiding it under my coat as there had been no time for the niceties. N had also skipped wrapping, judging by the hand she held behind her back as we met at the Grand sapin.
"On the count of three," said N.
"Un… deux…
Oh how we laughed.
