I was in my room the other day,
wondering what people will say about me if I ever die. I was so moved by the immense affection even my nameless greengrocer has for me, I worried I would begin to cry. I find that once I start crying, I just can’t stop. It’s so funny! So, I decided instead to imagine the ideal meeting point.
I don’t mean a place to have meetings. I’ve already got that, having long ago converted my wine cellar to a windowless boardroom. I roar obscenities at my interns across my marble boardroom table, before spinning around in my executive chair to face the wall. That’s their signal to tiptoe out and not return to the Tiger Lady until they’ve got some damn solutions and a Tom Collins, extra sour.
Depending on how secure you are in yourself, you may not need a meeting point. Self-confident grandfathers, hearts hopeful for a deal on herbaceous perennials, skip the niceties and go straight to the garden centre.
An “I’ll be wandering around inside so come in when you’re ready” is sufficient for those cool guys.
Teenagers always require a meeting point (I’m only just out of my teens myself, that’s how I know). The sunnier ones meet outside shopping centres and the morose ones meet in graveyards, at the saddest headstone. All of them hug in that strange, long way.
The airport arrivals gate is a classic for a reason – a truly satisfying meeting spot. Both parties have made an effort to get there and will be on their best behaviour because there’s an audience; a crowd of other hopefuls willing each other on to more romance, more jollity. Long-held grievances are gift-wrapped and put aside in the filmic scenes of Christmas kisses and “have you lost weight?” squealing. Families tramp to the car, happy-seeming.
And what about courtin’? shouts Offaly, before falling back to sleep.
As that oaf dozes, I’ll tell the rest of you. Agree on a romantic meeting point, perhaps your favourite Burger King or the gates of a prison. If it’s a blind date, try to stand out. Personally, I wear a baggy white tuxedo and a thin goatee. I have a friend who knows all about the delicate dating etiquette of meeting points. You can wait on your own inside a pub for up to seven minutes, but never in a restaurant, etc. She’s been so busy learning these little rules, she hasn’t had time to work on her personality. So, sadly, she never gets to put them into practice.
My dream meeting point has no rude arrows or gormless crowds. It’s in the gap between the train and the platform. It’s between the air pocket in a brand new avalanche and the silence after a too-true thing. I’ll wait for you along the strand, at that impossible part where the tide stops coming in and starts going out. Just keep an eye out for me, smirking in a tuxedo, okay?