The mad hallucinatory lady story

So I found myself in Islington this evening; to be specific, at a party held by the lovely Marsha who is bidding farewell to London and is off to new and exciting things in Toronto (yes, that's CANADIALAND). It was a cracking bash, although events took a bit of a weird turn at one point.

About half an hour or so after arriving, y'see, Yazzle Dazzle decided she wanted to pop outside for a statutory ciggie break. On the way we picked up a couple of drinks, and then we head outside. The pub where Marsha was having her party has some of those lovely big picnic tables outside (my inner Yogi wants me to say pic-a-nic basket, but I shall resist), so I perched myself on one of them while my partner in crime headed off to the loo.

So there I am, minding my own business, when this reasonably well-dressed middle-aged lady with a Pomeranian on a lead in one hand and a glass of wine in the other comes walking up.

"Do you mind if I sit here?" she asks.

"By all means," I reply.

And so, despite the fact that the entire other side of the table is free, she proceeds to plonk herself down RIGHT NEXT TO ME. I have to shuffle up a bit because otherwise she's sitting right in my bubble, and uncomfortably close to my penis (I was sitting sideways on the bench). Unfortunately, after today's heavy downpour, shuffling up leaves me sitting in a damp patch (make your own jokes please). We sit there for a couple of seconds, and then she says:

"I should probably stop after this glass."

Now, I'm actually kind of OK talking to randoms on the street - I'd say a stranger is just a friend you've never met before, but that sounds well wanky - so I reply:

"Ah, it's Friday, enjoy yourself."

And then she says: "I can see my friends."

And I reply: "Is that them over there?" and point to a group of people on the corner.

"No," she says. "They're not really there. They're hallucinations. I'm totally hallucinating. They're so vivid and strong. I can see friends I knew in the Caribbean years ago. And my husband." She turns to look me straight in the eye. "He died 10 years ago, you know."

Funnily enough, I didn't.

I look down at her tiny fluffy dog. His name is Ollie, and he has the same wide-eyed look of terror on his little furry face that I now have descending upon my little beardy face, although unlike Ollie I'm not distracted from my terror and sent into a flurry of little angry barks every time a moped goes past. Which is often, as the pub is opposite a pizza delivery place.

At this point we are joined by the returning Yazzle Dazzle, who gives me the 'oh, yeah - you've pulled' look.

"Yeah, I can see my husband. And my daughter," she continues. "I'm having such strong hallucinations. I've been told I'm psychic. I think someone's slipped something in my drink. You look like David Beckham. Doesn't he look like David Beckham?" She looks me in the eye again. "You can shut up."

I swear: I said NOTHING.

Me and Dave. Apparently I look like him. I don't quite see it myself, but hey, if this publishing lark ever falls through it's good to know I can whore myself out as a David Beckham impersonator, right?

Now fearing every so slightly for my safety, I give Yazzle Dazzle THE EYEBROW thing that says 'we should go inside NOW,' before retreating subconsciously to my happy place. Lady's attention now transfers to Yazzle Dazzle.

"Don't think I'm weird, but I'm proper hallucinating. Do you think I'm weird?"

"I dunno what you're like normally," says Yazzle.

"This is my last drink," says lady, knocking back half a glass of wine in one mouthful. "Can I borrow a lighter?"

I give Yazzle the look that says 'don't give her the lighter, she will try to set fire to me,' but she hands it over anyway. Lady sparks up a ciggie, and for an instant I think she's going to immediately try to stub it out on my face, possibly as some sort of bizarre statement against masculine yet beautiful young chaps like me and Dave, but mostly because she's a complete mentalist.

Eventually we get up to go back inside. I'm confused and my arse is damp, but I'm otherwise remarkably unmolested and glad to be shot of lady.

"This is my last one!" she says as we head back in.

An hour and a half later as we decide it's time to make a move, we find lady still outside, another empty glass in her hand.

"Just one more!" she says to some random group of people as she reaches for the door, poor little Ollie straining against his lead in a futile attempt to drag her away from the pub - that is until he's distracted by another moped, and all we can hear as we wander off to the tube station is a series of angry little barks.