November 11, 2010
Am I The Only One Who Has This Problem?
Now let me make something pretty clear from the outset – I am shockingly bad when it comes to remembering people’s names. When meeting someone for the first time, I usually pull aside a friend or The Girlfriend afterward and ask them to jog my memory.
“The guy with the unibrow…. was his name… Michael?” I will ask gingerly.
“No Shaun, his name was not Michael. His name was Carl. No where near Michael. Christ, it’s as if you weren’t even trying,” they will reply in an irritable tone.
So yes, I am bad with names and faces – but not as bad as EVERYONE else seems to be, especially when it comes to me?
Now, at the risk of sounding arrogant, I would like to think I am a fairly striking fellow. I am tall, I have dark hair, I’m blessed with a lovely pair of thighs, I should be fairly memorable to all and sundry. Yet for some bizare reason, people cannot seem to remember me. Granted, this mostly seems to apply to other men – I’m always a hit with the ladies – but it still hurts my feelings when I bump into another guy who I met at a braai and had a beer with merely weeks ago, and he sticks his hand out and says “Hi, I’m Trevor”.
F**k you, Trevor. I know exactly who you are. I gave you my last Amstel two Saturdays ago, because you seemed like a decent bloke, and The Girlfriend keeps telling me to stop being such an unlikeable c**k and start sharing things, and there you go and forget you even met me. How do you think that makes me feel, Trevor?
The Girlfriend says it’s because in person I’m quite a boring guy with no redeeming or standout qualities, but she is just being bitter because I have refused to give her foot rubs this past week, so her opinion is decidely unobjective.
However, it’s definitely something I need to work on, as it reared it’s ugly head again this evening.
I was in Darling Street in Cape Town – which is decidely dodgy at night let me tell you – as I needed to go to the late night pharmacy to buy some hair removal cream (don’t ask). As I was approaching my car, I was accosted by a young couple, who gave me a story about how they needed money to get on a train to go home to Simon’s Town. I instantly recognised them as the homeless addicts who used to live in the street outside my flat. Our paths had crossed numerous times and I was sure they knew who I was. Yet there stood the guy-who-looks-remarkably-like-a-weasel, giving me the completely fabricated story about train fare, and not remembering who I was.
“It’s me! It’s me!” I blurted out. “Don’t you remember me? You threatened to pee on my car. I’m pretty sure you did. Come on, you MUST remember me,” I implored desperately.
He looked at me blankly, then proceeded to swear at me in pidgin English, before moving on, leaving me wallowing in self pity
I am completely insulted by this, and am pretty sure this is all some sort of elaborate joke, albeit one being played by people from all walks of life, who are unlikely to know of one another. Yes, it sounds implausible, but this can be the only reason for the continued snubs being thrown my way.
So the next time I greet someone who I recognise and I KNOW should recognise me as well, they had better remember who I am. If not, I shall be leaving them with a heavy reminder for future.
Namely, my foot up their arse. (yes, spelt the South African way too)
Oakes signing off.
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