3) The Spanish lady

Sit down and let me tell you a sad, funny, and - almost - romantic story.  It’s called “The Spanish Lady”.

I met her in the Vodafone shop in Oxford’s Cornmarket.  Vodafone, in their infinite customer-service wisdom, had suspended my phone because I had used it too much (mostly listening to recorded messages from Personal Columns on premium line numbers) and I needed it switched back on now – I can’t operate without my phone/e-mail/little grey box.

So I was cross, and crotchety and full of confrontational indignation when I walked into the showroom.  And could I get served, no.  I had to wait, and wait, while the woman in front of me whittered on and on about her phone, which she had obviously lost for the tenth time that year.

She was attractive, certainly.  Blonde and well dressed.  Wasn’t sure about the lap dog she was carrying which kept eyeing me suspiciously.  But in any case, it’s too early In the morning, I’m here to get cross, it’s neither the time nor the place.

But, as we waited for the shop assistant to sort something out, she apologised charmingly, with a light Latin accent, for keeping me waiting.  And she had a lovely smile.  I asked where was good for lunch in Oxford these days and she said she always went to the brasserie in Jericho.

Then somehow the subject got onto Spain and I mentioned I was going to 'Viva Espanya' at Olympia the following weekend.  Her eyes lit up when I described it.  I don’t think she was full Spanish but she had enough to want to go.  I said it was on for three days but that I was going on the Friday. 

Then her phone was fixed and she was gone.

Only she wasn’t.  I go to Olympia with Christine and there she is, watching the flamenco singers: beautiful, friendly, and alone.  Almost as if she was looking for me.  And I’m with someone else.  Not my fault, we’d never arranged or even suggested meeting.  But still, in the circumstances, irritating.

Anyway, while in Oxford I’d revisited my old college for the first time in 28 years.  I’d been back to Oxford since, of course, with friends and family, but never into my college – that was part of the past and I’d left and moved on.

But now I felt I could revisit my past.  I’d been back into Hall and swung onto the bench where I’d had breakfast every morning.  I’d been back on the staircase where I’d lived for two of the three years.  And I’d spoken to my English tutor and had lunch 28 years after I last saw him.

Then I saw the notice:  “Valentines Day dinner in the college chapel”.  Perfect; a romantic dinner in my old College, how good is that? I bought two tickets.  This was going to work out well.  I had plenty of time, weeks in fact, to find someone to take. Who'd say no to that offer?

Of course it wasn’t that easy.  It was out of town.  It meant an overnight stay.  It was a bit heavy once you thought about it.  Nice, but heavy. Everyone thought it would be a great idea, for somebody else.

So I was careful who I asked.  I invited Jenna and she said ‘happily’ (thanks Jenna) she already had plans for that evening.  I invited Alex, who lived near Oxford, and she said ‘sadly’ (thank you Alex) she was out of the country.  And that was all.

So the day before I had no guest.  And Heidi invited me to dinner with some of her friends, each from a different European country, which would have been perfect.  But I’d bought tickets, and I don’t give up easily.

I got to Oxford around 12.00 and had some lunch.  Seven and a half hours to go.  This was do-able - but how?

Then I thought of The Spanish Lady.  She was here, she seemed single, she seemed to like me.  All I had to do was find her, but how?

Then I had an idea, as I do.

Delegate, I'll get somebody else to find her.

I asked the manager of Porters if he could find me the number of the local radio station and he knew it off the top of his head – a good sign.

I called the producers of the day time programme and got the name of the  DJ.  Dan. Hmm. They said email him.  And I got a Shiraz, a cappuccino and a glass of water and started to jab, on my now fully operative phone.

An email to ‘Dan’.

I wrote that I was in my forties, single, and had two tickets for a Valentine’s Day dinner at my old college that evening.

I wrote that I’d met a lovely lady in Oxford and wanted to invite her.  I described her, and her dog, and said she liked eating in a brasserie in Jericho.  I even gave them the number of Porters so they could check me out with the manager.

And I sat back.  They’d love it.

Capital would have run with it if it were them.  A romantic woman hunt on St Valentines Day?  How could they resist?

They resisted.  They didn’t call back. Not a word.  Not even thanks, but no thanks.

And I thought, I shouldn’t have put my age.  Not in their demographic.  To a 20 something DJ a 40 something guy trying to get a date might seem sad, not romantic, odd not interesting.

But, as I said before, I don’t give up easily. 

If they wouldn’t find her for me I’d do it myself.  It was only 3.00 on a Saturday afternoon.  I had four and a half hours to go.  3.00, she’d probably be at a late lunch with friends at her brasserie in Jericho.  A long shot, but worth a punt.  Anyway, how many brasseries can there be in Jericho?

Seven.

Or, depending on the tightness of your definition, eight.  I went to each, looked in each, and described her to the staff of each.  A beautiful, blonde, foreign accented regular with a lap dog.  Surely someone must recognise her, know her, give me something to go on. 

Something to go on, that's all I ever need.

They didn’t.  They couldn’t.  It was 5.00.  Too late now anyway.  She’d have plans.  I tore up the tickets, the moment had passed. 

And she had gone.