» Seann’s World: Small world
Seann Walsh finds Brighton small. Especially when trying to avoid those you despise
Brighton is a small place, prime for bumping into people. And in Brighton, right now, as I type, as you read, is the worst person I have ever met. His name is Tez. We went to college together. Language, communicative though it may be, is too limited for the represention of the extent of my hatred for this man. It’s a hatred that burns, buzzes and rattles with energy. It is The Hatred: capital ‘t’, capital ‘h’; this hatred is a proper noun. This hatred, sorry, Hatred, is not permissible in Scrabble. When I see him, The Hatred wakes up and commands all my attention, like a caffeine-riddled child with ADHD, demanding the numbing Ritalin of thinly veiled personal insults and deep, deep breaths.
He very much belongs to a type. He went to Steiner School; he carries around a harmonica that he can’t play; he’s into acting, displaying more enthusiasm than actual talent; he flicks his flowing hair and plays with his bead jewellery; he is effortlessly handsome. His parents are the sort of people who think bare feet look good; the sort of people who name their progeny after Aztec gods; the sort of people who say things like, “I feel a bit glum today. I’ve eaten too much wheat.” He hasn’t rebelled against them.
He’s one of those people who make the phrase ‘dress sense’ seem oxymoronic, wearing any combination of ponchos, sandals, headbands, sunglasses, cowboy-style boots, various strange hats, and any form of indeterminate ‘ethnic’ clothing. Sartorially, he is a complex assembly of mutually unsuitable affectations, giving the impression that he is dressed by a group of blindfolded people, who put on one item each, and are banned from telling each other what they’ve chosen.
“His parents are the sort who say, ‘I feel a bit glum today. I’ve eaten too much wheat’”
He stalks the North Laine. And such is the sadism of fate and the cruelty of coincidence that I always bump into him. And I hate him. I hate his guts. I literally hate his guts. I hate his internal organs for the role they play in his respiratory continuity.
Last week I was having a coffee with a friend on Sydney Street. It guarantees stress-free pleasure. Or so I thought. I saw Tez walking in my direction before he saw me. I panicked.
I had to avoid him. As he drew closer, my options shrunk: it was too late to run inside; it was too late to run away. It wasn’t enough to pretend to play with my phone: he is not someone for whom the absence of eye contact justifies walking on by. Sighting someone he knows,
he will bound over to discuss Tibetan monastic practice, or travelling to Australia, with a curious contrast of reverence and ignorance.
Paralysed by dread and indecision, I acted without thought. I can now empathise with the beautiful girl in the horror films who runs up the stairs. What I did, was stand up, turn round and face the café’s window, wherein there was a small but healthy cactus. I suppose the panicked reasoning behind this was that I don’t have a recognisable back. Whatever it was, it was ill-founded.
“If you stare at a cactus for long enough, I appear…” he whispered to my apparently conspicuous back, like some sort of New Age Candy Man.
As he regaled me with tales of his travels, I nodded, smiled and looked at the cactus, wondering how long I’d need to stare at it before it flew at high speed into his pretty face.
