The Girl at Canterbury

I'd first noticed her when she was, like me, queueing to buy a ticket for the walking tour; just, initially, the usual reaction on seeing black hair and a familiar-ish accent. I was, at the time, just chuffed that there would be someone closer to my own age on the tour; I'd seen the rest of the group, and they were all rather older than myself

But I found my heart-rate soaring as I worked up my courage to try and talk to her. She was, perhaps, not exactly pretty; but she carried herself well, and had an attractive style. White jacket, black scarf, dark jeans and brown boots. Long hair, and a habit of thrusting her slim, petite hands into the back pockets of her figure-fitting jeans as she walked.

She turned out to have a clear, high voice; easy on the ears, with none of the crude, thrusting, intrusive manner that sometimes seems de rigeur for the modern woman. And, better yet, none of the heavy, plodding, offensive-to-the-ear accent that comes from home (which would have been surprising, since she doesn't come from home, after all). Better and better; until, of course, I found my ability to estimate a person's age has in no way improved with my own aging*.

Still, there is something about speaking to a pretty, articulate lady – one is reminded of an archaic use of "making love" one sadly long gone out of use – pleasure that can be had out of mere conversation. It is probably too short a time to judge; I had perhaps, over the course of the day, exchanged less than a thousand words with her, which by any standard is an inadequate length of time to measure anyone. I did like what I heard (and what I saw), though. That last 5-minute stroll after the tour – found out a little more – in a near-vacuum of information, everything's good to have. KL native; studying Politics & Economics at A-Levels (among others); finishing her final exams sometime in May; and probably taking a gap year after she's done. And that was it.

The best bit was after – while moving through the motions, I asked her – what're you doing for the rest of the day? – dinner, and the boat tour, she said, and how about you – back to my hotel and dinner with my dad, I said – and she gave - and here was the best part – a little sigh of disappointment, a small, quiet, final-sounding "Oh". Loved that. Even if it is really a matter of interpretation; it could have been an "Oh" that meant anything. But I like my interpretation. 

It is, of course, completely moot. She is merely a memory, now, nothing more; already I forget the details of her face. Sad, perhaps; I wish I'd been able to find an excuse to take her photo. And get her number; she'll get older, after all. In 5 years it'd be fine – going by the "Divide by 2 and add 7" rule. Never mind. It was (assuming she was telling the truth and I heard her correctly) Farah (or some homonym thereof), right? Sadly, I will forget you soon; not that it will matter to either you or I in a month.

Memories seem to be sweeter, in any case; reality has a rude habit of intruding on the perfection of real people, adding inevitable imperfections, highlighting and enlarging the pits and potholes of the human spirit. My memory of her will only improve.

* I have been horribly wrong before, whether in estimating a person to be a decade younger than he actually is, or in mistakenly (possibly cruelly) attributing an additional half-dozen years to a budding adolescent. It is probably in part a reflection of what I want to believe, combined with an honest-to-God inability to accurately take the measure of another person – itself the result of a quarter-century of profound disinterest in most people.