Random encounters

I don’t know why it is, but for some reason unusual people have a tendency to approach me in public and launch into unexpected conversations. Maybe they recognise one of their own. I really don’t mind (after all, everything is copy) and the truth is that I quite enjoy it.

A few weeks ago, I was in a ‘leading home furnishings retailer’ idly looking at chairs, when I couldn’t help overhearing a man nearby repeatedly saying “You’re not listening to me.” Before I knew it, a woman, presumably his wife, had appeared at my side and said “Will you come and try this chair?” I’m not sure anyone has ever said that to me before, and definitely not a complete stranger. How could I resist? So I followed her, sat in the chair and pronounced it very comfortable. Then she wanted to know if it would match their oak table. I thought it probably would. “I know it’s not the best quality, but we’re getting on and won’t have it that long,” she confided. I felt that I was somehow helping to ease their declining years.

Then there was the violinist I met in the high street. I was dropping some money into his case and ended up hearing the story of his life. This fascinating man was originally from China and had trained as an engineering draughtsman and technical illustrator. He paints wonderful pictures of vintage planes (he gave me his card and I looked him up online), and has been performing in string quartets for many years. Available to hire for weddings and functions apparently. I think he should add to his many achievements by writing the story of his life.

I do wonder sometimes how these people find me. It happened again a few days ago when I was happily contemplating Holbein’s gorgeous painting The Ambassadors in the National Gallery when someone hissed in my ear “Have you seen the skull?” Holbein painted a very large skull at a very strange angle right at the front of this painting. It’s one of those reminders, so common in art, that we all must die, but I think a discreetly placed hourglass would have done the job just fine. “Yes, I have” I said, but she wasn’t done with me yet and proceeded to explain its precise meaning. “Look at the crucifix!” she commanded, and then told me at length why it was there.

If this had been somewhere in North America, I’d have assumed she was one of those wonderful women known as docents. They’re volunteers, always women, who love art and lurk in galleries, desperate to tell you all about the works on display. Although their approach isn’t usually quite so forceful. This being London where, sadly, we don’t have docents, I decided that she was probably an eccentric woman desperate to share her knowledge of art. And perhaps a cup of coffee, but I do have my limits.