ENTRY 01: Thoughts of Growing Old

I worked for just over a year in Jermyn Street, St James’, selling hats to some of the most interesting and eccentric of London’s older generation.

My favourite customer, by a long shot, was an older man from Germany; a man who would stroll the area in a mildly dishevelled but always meticulously styled suit. A waft of cigar smoke signalling his imminent arrival. He would drop by most weekends, buy outrageously coloured hats of all description and begin his acts of hilarity.

This man knew how to tell a joke. I found myself in awe every day he arrived. Not once did I ever wait impatiently for the punchline, often taking in excess of half an hour to arrive. He would weave, meander and enact enthralling narratives of times long gone and characters only now imaginable on stage. His delivery was always lyrical; impossible not to love. The soaring theatrics steadily constructed for the penultimate act to form the joke – always just in reach – but savoured until the spellbinding moment of comedy genius.

He arrived one day, sporting a pink suit and lopsided hat, brimming with something I could sense was going to descend into anarchy and stomach wrenching comedic delight. The story began with having just lost a family member. Not quite what I expected. I was enlightened to the entire history of said family member and made aware of a significant, in fact a monumental, collection of vintage sports cars left to the old man to inherit. Mumbles of a few confiscated cars for tax reasons left his mouth before he fell silent.

I started fidgeting. Waves of incapability to console an old man – lost in what I assumed was grief – pinned me to the spot. I decided to ask, ‘So, what will you do with, you know, the other cars?’ A smile of childish cheekiness erupted and he roared, thick German accent coating it all, ‘Well what the fuck am I supposed to do! The bastard left me dozens of cars knowing full well I can’t fucking drive!’ All feelings of distress dissolved instantaneously. He knew I’d be worried, he knew I’d panic.

He constructed that moment of emotionality so I could experience this joke – passed on from beyond the grave – in just the same way he had. Comedy obviously runs in this family. A few more anecdotes later he left the store, new hats acquired, and disappeared, from my life, forever.