Taking it back to the old school
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I'm making a habit of acquiring watresses' phone numbers of late and I must say, it's a lot easier than I thought. I've taken it back to the old school as well. I don't save their numbers into my cellphone - I insist that they write it on a piece of paper or a napkin. You just get so much more out of it. You can tell a lot about someone from their handwriting - a bit of insight never hurt. It's certainly more interactive than just another number in your cellphone. Sometimes I forget what a girl's name was and don't know where to find it the next day in my cellphone. At one stage I had an abundance of Kates. I had Kate Wednesday, Kate Billys, Kate Wijnhuis, Kate BlueTop and even Kate Angry (I'd pay money to find out how that came about). I can hardly remember who some of them were and now they sit, motionless in my cellphone - gathering dust - some of them never to be used again.

Go and grab a napkin and a pen, angel

In a surprising turn of events last night, one of the waitresses at Saints gave me her number WITH her home address on it. "Good heavens", I thought to myself, "people are real friendly around here". The note was complete with a smiley face. The combination of the home address and the smiley face gave me an increased level of confidence.

Against all the rules I wrote her a text message immediately. I would normally apply the two day waiting rule but thought of something that I found particularly amusing. I wrote:

"Hi Sam, how about two double Jamesan's, a vodka tonic and three tequila's. Thanks angel - Seth"

I winked at my wingman who smiled at me, with an expression that says "Jesus Christ, you are a brilliant man and I am so goddamn blessed to know you and witness your genius first hand". I know. How do I come up with this shit? I was giving her a max of ten minutes. Fifteen minutes went past.

Obviously she didn't have her cellphone on her and she didn't get the message. So I went off to find her. There is a little curtain at Saints which is hiding a little standing area with a little till for the staff to play with. I pulled aside the black curtain and found, right in front of me, four waitrons (the uni-sex term "waitrons" must be one of the most revolting food-and-catering industry pieces of jargon to be thrown around in recent memory) who all turned and looked at me. I looked at my waitress who looked at me like I had bird flu. I asked her if she had received my order I sent via text message. She maintained the bird flu stare.

"The bar is closed" is all she said. The other three had now joined in the bird flu stare. I tried to speak but the confusing situation had rendered me temporarily useless. Like a war victim crawling back to the trench after losing a leg, I returned to my post. Dazed, and so confused.

So what the fuck did I do wrong? Was it a bit much to write that text message with the booze order? Is that really bad? Jesus! I'm SORRY!

And so will you be when you find out about the girl who didn't make the same silly mistake and down the line suddenly finds herself at the Monaco grand Prix getting fucked on Dom whilst she signals me to 'rescue' her because Joaquin Phoenix is boring her to tears. But I won't see her because the glare from the rock on her finger will be too much to bear. We'll leave early and return to the cottage in Provence where we will continue drinking the red wine we left on the coffee table next to the roaring fire and golden labrador puppy. I'll have to turn my phone off to avoid Michael Schumacher who will be pissed off that I wasn't there at the end of the race. I'll make her laugh all night and will seal the 'fun' day off with mind blowing sex on the deep pile carpet. In the morning we will laugh and cry with the village locals as we toast ourselves and thank God that she replied to my text message.

God, I'm glad I opened these cases of DeGrendal red that the Dutch billionaire gave me.

Seth Rotherham
Editor
2oceansvibe.com
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