All was going well; my landlady (a high school head teacher) invited me to a small Boxing Day gathering in her main house, where she told me she promised her other guests, of mostly teachers, that the new tenant (me) is an interesting person who is worth chatting with. Naturally, I was elated and somewhat flattered so, I resolved to live up to or exceed such a description.
That evening, I made an extra effort to spruce up. I brought out my only non-student outfit of a brown checkered woolen jacket, cream shirt and rarely worn tailored trousers, instead of the normal everyday jeans. I showered, brushed, powdered, cologne-up and kitted out like it was my wedding night.
I made my grand entrance and all stood up to behold the heavily pre-advertised vision before them. Hands were shook, names pronounced and forgotten, seats volunteered, and with a final flourish, a drink offered and accepted. I was given the biggest and most central seat in the room, which I took as though it was my throne and spread out to make the most of the fleeting fame opportunity.
I hardly took a first sip of my drink before questions were thrown at me; my background, how I came to be studying in Cornwall, what were my plans after graduation, what my thoughts were about the Middle East Palestinian issue. I never had so much positive attention in my life so, instead of behaving like a sensible 19-year old young man (I was 19-year old but not sensible), I grabbed the opportunity and ran with it. I started to lecture on everything, especially the Middle East topic, trying to be balanced whilst making sure their sympathies were firmly on my side. For a few minutes, I had them in the palm of my hand, or so I thought. Gradually however, I started to feel a certain loss of attention and one by one, my audience eyes stopped fixing on me and found other objects to focus on from pictures on walls to pattern of the carpet. Instead of slowing down to read the mood in the room, I ploughed on regardless.
Suddenly, my landlady’s elderly father came up and asked me to accompany him out of the room for a minute. Though a little irritated, I duly obliged. When we got to the corridor outside, he whispered in my ear (it was not necessary since we were the only two in that space) the following words: “I thought you might like to know that your flies are undone.” And walked back in to the room, leaving me to process this complex sentence he had just downloaded. It might have been a minute, it might have been less but, it felt like eternity before my hands finally reached down and verified the facts; he was right! My zip was down and the tail of my shirt was in fact sticking out.
I should have known better than to go back to the party and just returned to my bedroom to prepare my leaving speech to my landlady the following morning. Instead, I zipped up and walked straight back in to the party of overwhelming indifference to my presence, with my large seat now reclaimed by the father.
Although one or two of the guests made polite efforts to rehabilitate me, I was beyond salvage and I came to slowly savour the bitter taste of humiliation. To this day, I check my trouser zip a few times before facing the world.
