Two hats

On December 14 2008 · 1 Comment · In Diary

You know you’re in for an interesting conversation if you sit down next to a chap who’s drinking while wearing two hats.

I sat next to one on Friday night in Costa when I’d bought myself a tea, because I was early to meet friends at Clapham Junction. There were no other free seats in the place. When I picked up my tea from the counter I started getting knowing looks from the other patrons – “Yep. You could sit here mate, but the only seat that’s truly free is next to the chap who’s drinking while wearing two hats over in the corner, and while you could ask to share my table, there is an unspoken coffee shop etiquette that says you should sit next to two hats because the seat next to him is definitely available whereas sitting next to me would be like walking in to the gents and peeing in the urinal right next to mine even though the rest of the row is clear. So you sit with two hats. This should be fun”.

Well, that’s what was in my head.

So I sat next to him. The first hat was a beanie, the second a baseball cap. It’s not like it was cold in Costa but chaps who wear two hats will do so even if it’s warm because they’re always prepared. Or maybe just always cold.

It took him about two seconds to initiate conversation. He’s white, somewhere past middle-aged, with a well-trimmed grey beard and kind enough eyes with a thousand yard stare. When he belches, it’s a concoction of kebab, cider and twenty years of bad decisions that you could slice and serve on a plate. We got into conversation and while I had planned on staring blankly at my mobile and ignoring everyone, I was happy to chat with him. To be fair, he’s willing to talk when no-one else who is wearing less than two hats will strike up a conversation with a stranger for fear of who knows what, and the closest most people get to any human contact if they bother to dig their stupid head out of London Lite is to raise their eyebrows knowingly and flash their sclera at each other if someone who’s wearing two hats cracks a joke that’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

This is a pretty sad thing. You travel and you can get into a conversation with pretty much anyone at any time about anything. Here in London, conversation is readily available if the other person is wearing two hats and has lighter fluid in their bloodstream. At least that’s how it feels.

He told me the police disturbed him at eleven the other morning and carted him off to the nearest court, for being drunk and disorderly. He remembered to call the judge ‘your honour’ because that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it. The judge told him off for being drunk, and two hats then explained how he pointed out to the judge that at this time of the year, everyone’s drunk. He’s absolutely right. Christmas parties are kicking off left, right and center, hundreds of people drinking enough to forget that they don’t like the people they work with all that much, many offices start drinking on a Friday lunchtime and just carry on through the afternoon. The only difference really is that on Friday night I probably spent five times what he did to end up in the same state. The judge couldn’t argue with him, he said, he was released with a caution. Am I right or am I wrong? he asked, just loud enough for passers by and ferry passengers in the Channel to hear.

He asked what I was doing for Christmas. I’m seeing my mum. That’s it, just your mother? Yes, I said. What about you, your family? Well, my sister tried to get me to move to Manchester. Why, I asked. It might have been because I lost the house. How did you lose the house, I asked. He doesn’t say. He inherited it from his parents, God rest their souls. Why would his sister want him to move to Manchester, he asked, could it be do to with the house? You can choose your friends, you can’t choose your family, I offered, unable to think of anything more helpful. He started ranting again, about how blood is thicker than water, your family is important. Am I right or am I wrong?, he asked the man who was leaving with his wife – the man just said yes, absolutely in that tone of voice that actually says I’ll agree with anything you say if this conversation stops now. I suddenly feel crappy for every time I ever ignored or patronised anyone and feel like cracking open a cider with two hats and scaring the locals.

They serve big sodding cups of tea in Costa, and as much as I got on with him I wanted to finish it before we’d formed too much of an attachment. I told him I was heading off and he offered to buy me another drink. I’ve got money, he said. I said to take care, and he said nothing.

2008 has been an odd year. People confuse me deeply. I am deeply confused.


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  • Iain

    Sometimes the random encounters can be rewarding.

    I was walking home one day, many years ago, back when I lived in Cricklewood and worked shifts.

    The street I lived on, Chichele Road was accidentally more interesting than the usual London residential street. For one thing, it’s one of the places where people working in the grey economy wait very early in the morning to be picked up for casual, cash in hand labouring work. For another it was the street that had two homes owned by my Landlord, Mr Lent (who would always pretend to be his brother and therefore unable to help you any time you had a problem).

    It was also the home of ‘Hector the Famous Inventor’, a title I soon learned was self applied – I learned all this after a conversation with him in his house that started with him asking as I passed by “Are you the man from the newspaper?”

    “Yes!” I replied, a bit like Richard Hannay when asked if he is the liberal candidate in John Buchan’s ‘The 39 steps’. A short but enjoyable conversation followed inside his home.

    He knew I knew he was lying about being a Famous Inventor (and possibly even about being called Hector), he knew I was lying about being from the newspaper but we both none the less had fun while he explained how he had invented virtually all of the modern world (including the Nuclear Reactor; he even showed me the reactor diagrams he had on the back of fag packets). I’ve had a lot worse days.

    The there was the possibly tourettes suffering old gentleman who was walking down the street cursing everything quite loudly until he drew level with me and a friend back on our way home from the pub – the stream of swearing stopped briefly and he offered a gentle “Right lads?” before continuing on his way, cursing all the while.

    (Probably told you all this in the pub recently but like a sad, doorway sleeping drunk I have forgotted)