The Blonde In The Lift

Well, you know me, you know that I'm partial to a blonde. Give me Britney over J Lo, give me Rachel over Monica, the blonde one in Abba over the redhead, as long as he shaved his beard off. But, it can't be easy being a blonde and I sometimes feel sorry for them, no more so than the other night when I got home.

I was unloading my car of drum kit as we drummers so often have to do. RD Towers is one of those apartment blocks in which you only occasionally get to meet the neighbours, everyone keeps themselves to themselves but are also quite friendly and jolly when we meet, even if I am one of those darkies. It's all very British, but pleasant.

And you know what a bass drum looks like right? It's round, it's drum shaped and big. There are few things in life that look like a bass drum, even when it's in a case, a bass drum shaped case.

There I was, dragging the bass out of my car when another car pulled up next to me. We have allocated spaces in the RD Towers underground car park and it seems that the modus operandi is to wave at each other and be friendly, just not too friendly. This car pulled up and a blonde woman, probably a bit younger than me, though most people I see are these days, got out and said hello.

She asked if I'd moved into my flat number, which I of course had, and introduced herself. I reciprocated and put down the drum in order to shake her hand. Who said drummers weren't polite? She seemed nice enough but had one of those squeeky voices, the kind that you get on blondes on reality TV programmes, the kind that suggest that the owner has such a voice because the sound echoes around an empty head before it leaves the mouth.

We got into the lift together. There was me, the blonde, my bass drum and an elderly looking woman who had got out of the blonde's car with her and I assumed to be her mother. She had that motherly look about her and didn't say much. It was a bit cramped but of course these things are relative. If it was a Sri Lankan bus if would have been more or less empty and I would have wondered what the mirrors were doing on the walls, why it had buttons that went from one to four.

As we went up in the lift there was a second or so of silence and then blondie came out with it

"So what's that you got there then?" she squeeked.

I looked at her with a squinty thinking expression. Was she quite smart and having a joke? Was she a few steps ahead of the game? Maybe underneath the bimbo look there lurked a keen and agile mind. But she gave little away.

"Eh?" I replied with all the charm and eloquence of Bertie Wooster being caught stealing something by Aunt Agatha.

"What's that there?" she pointed to my bass drum and it became obvious that she really didn't know.

Fifty three possible witty answers flashed through my mind. Responses like saying it was a huge can of baked beans to a small child that I like to carry around in a circular case were considered and rejected. I was in a lift, there wasn't much space and she was a neighbour of mine. On top of that she clearly wouldn't have understood the sarcastic reply, her mother might have beat me up and, as I say to K so often, it's not a joke if you're the only one laughing. And I would have been.

"Oh it's a bass drum." I said, then explained about being a drummer, gig etc, you know the stuff. I hoped the many mirrors in the lift hadn't revealed the roll of my eyes as I answered.

Some people eh? How on earth can blondes have more fun?

That's my story about the girl in the lift. I'm sure someone else told one once...

Merry weekend all.