Another Oracle

This week I did find a pub in Central Wembley that served ale. There is a big chain pub, but I prefer the more friendly local pubs. The pub is on Wembley High Street not far from the tube station. I think it may become a favorite of mine. It has everything I would expect in a pub.

It is friendly; the people there talk to you. It is cozy; the surroundings are friendly too! In addition, it has ale. It also has character; well it had a character. I walked in and up to the bar to get a pint and there was an animated discussion going on among the patrons at the bar. It was fairly late, so there were not many other people in the bar.

After I had placed my order, one of the people at the bar, who could be referred to as young, beautiful, and a sparkling conversationalist only if one's personal ethos didn't consider such outrageous untruths as a bad thing that would be punishable in the afterlife. Her name was Bea. I know this because she introduced herself to me repeatedly.

"You're an American!" she said as if the revelation was the most startling since the angel had appeared to Elizabeth. The publican admonished Bea to be a bit less boisterous and pointed out that I could be Canadian.
"Pah! He's an American." Bea repeated, "Or a Canadian…" she put in, hedging her bets.

"Yes, I am an American…." I responded and took a sip of my beer. "...or a Canadian."

For reasons that I cannot ascribe to anything but alcohol, Bea then stated that she had been to the states. There were, apparently, fifty-three of them.

Bea now went off on one of the patrons she had been arguing with, threatening to punch one of them for no readily apparent reason. "I'll punch you too!" she said returning her attention to me.

"Better not." I replied, finishing my ale and ordering a second. "I may find that I enjoy it and then where would we be!?"

It took her a moment to realize I was joking, and then she exploded in laughter. "You're alright!"

A moment later, she asked where I was from. "Denver." I replied.

"Nah. You can't be from there. You look more like you're from New York."

I had no answer for this. I was standing there in a pair of blue jeans and a Hawaiian shirt. Just what exactly made her think I was from New York?

"What are you doing here?" was her next query.

"I work for a company here."

"You don't sound English!" (I hadn’t realized that I had claimed to!) "You can't' work here."

"I live in the states. I am over on business. Nevertheless, for your information, I used to live here. I lived in Thames Ditton for a couple years." For reasons that were never clear to me, this seemed to be the funniest thing she had ever heard.

"Thames Ditton! Ha! Thames Ditton, he says! I like you! Come home and meet my mum!"

In the interest of discretion, I let this one pass. "You're definitely a Canadian. Where were you born?"

"Miami."

"Nah! Can't be. You're a Canadian!"
"I'm sorry; I hadn't realized I was talking to the Oracle at Wembley. What will you be revealing next, oh great Oracle? The secret of life? My Shoe size?"

At that, she failed to realize I was joking. "You're prolly a size ten." She guessed. The few people remaining broke up laughing. I left shortly after then. Otherwise, I'd have had to meet Bea's mum. Oh, well… I know if I ever need a British passport, I do have an in in Wembley!

Wherever you are today, I hope that you are having the time of your life!

Don Bergquist - 15 August 2010 - Wembley, Middlesex, UK