Two strange conversations I have had recently. Both involving nice young ladies working in (different) coffee shops.
The first one started when nice lady #1 read my t-shirt (it reads, "All the coffee in Colombia will not make me a morning person") and said, "how about South American coffee?". After a heartbeat I replied to the effect that she suited her hair colour (she is blonde). She gave that a moments thought and the penny dropped on both points; she had meant to say "South Africa" and she also said she was actually 'a ginger', just dyed blonde. Me being me happily informed her I liked red-heads. To prove it I also answered another of her questions that she had asked (which was what am I up to on my little net book) I showed her one of the more 'poltically correct' renders of a red-head that I have done.
She was mildly impressed. A few minutes later I beckoned her over and showed her the page I had open in my web browser (a search results page of the DAZ site, with a search term of 'Victoria' - I'll let you guess what the nice young lady is called ...) and told her that 'she' was one of the most popular 3D figures out there. She looked a little more impressed and just a little 'freaked'. Of course I could not then resist and said that that was not the worst of it.
A few minutes later I beckoned her over and showed her the current web page I had open - a 'blank' Google page, where I typed in NVIATWAS and paused to let her read. She read and asked, "what the heck is NVIA..." So I pressed enter and let her read the synopsis of the first couple of entries in the list ...
Amazingly she still speaks to me!
The second conversation involved the lack of a phone in the small coffee shop. Nice young lady #2 and I weer chatting away when the lack of a 'phone cropped up. We both were of the opinion that things would be better with a phone than without. I am sure you can imagine most of the points covered. One you might not guess was when she said that since I had been, and still was, the sole customer in the past couple of hours it would be nice to have a phone so she could call the emergency services when I turned into deranged 'coffee girl' (her expression!) killer. Naturally I expressed agreeement that being an axe-wielding murderer it would benefit me in there not being a handy telephone. She mentioned that it was an unlikely event as there was no connection between us. Being of a puckish frame of mind I told her that was 'perfect', as with no link there was no obvious motive and much less chance of apprehension. Strangely this was not as reassuring to her as I thought it might be ...
Then, strangely, she called me 'John'. That made me smile s the first thing to spring to mind was the "Heeeeeeere's Johnny!" bit from "The Shining". Whilst telling her that she explained that she had a relative called John and whilst I did not look like him she had had a thought of him so the name was on the tip of her tongue.
Heritage and 'being English' was next up for discussion (mainly, I think, as a continuation of something that had cropped up a few days previously). Despite being born in England, her parents combined Scots, Irish and Italian, she deems herself to be not English, but more a sort of European. Despite not knowing my actual heritage (I am adopted) I do think of myself as English and also mentioned that I was put up for adoption due to mixed parentage (beyond the obvious one male, one female!) with, if i recall correctly from when I was told many years back, one parent being Protestant and one Catholic. It was likely then, I told her, that one parent could well have been Irish. She idly wondered if we could then be related. So I then had to say that'd be wonderful as most murders happened within the family ...
Amazingly, she still speaks to me!
But better than that ... I popped in the next day and after a short while the owner came in and we three had a bit of a natter for a few minutes before the nice young lady said, completely deadpan, to the owner, "you have to get a phone for the place, he's going to murder me with an axe". The owner took on a classic "startled deer in the headlights" look and, I think for the first and only time, I have seen someone who could not actually get beyond the first couple of syllables of a sentence for a good 10 or 20 seconds, before managing to declare, "I cant cope with this," and leaving the shop