I was out on Friday night. Properly out, in town. It was the first time since I got a ring on it and the first time since my historic appearance on Doctors: I was going to be getting a lot of attention and I was going to have to turn it all down. This was going to be great. I got my fringe trimmed and everything and – for the first time, ever – my hairdresser told me he really liked my hair! Before he did anything to it! I was in Central London, the sun was shining; throw a wide-brimmed hat on me and call me Julie Christie, this was my town. I was that girl. For all of about 5 minutes.

I went into the bar where I’d arranged to meet the husband. Knowing he was about 3 minutes away, I ordered him the Guinness he’d been craving all week. It would be perfectly settled and ready to drink by the time he arrived. Was I a good wife, or what? The little pub was full of Fridayers and, me being short, I apologised to the gents at the bar who’d had to part so I could be seen by the barman. I was giddy with my good hair ‘n all, so I chatted briefly with them. One of them offered me his seat and said he liked my boots. I said I was waiting for someone, but thanked him for the kind offer. I then apologised for being the rude Irish woman, ordering across them. “We like rude Irish women,” said one. “I don’t,” said the sandy-haired one on my left. Still thinking we were joking, I said “Dead right too. That’s why I got out.” I laughed. So did everyone else. Except him. He kind of sneered. I could tell he thought I wasn’t funny but that he, himself, was absolutely hilarious.

I removed myself to the end of the bar to pay. I didn’t want to be rude – even in a sneery person’s perception – for a second longer. Husband arrived, Guinness was perfect, we got the last seat before the bulk of the officey gang poured in.

And what a jolly time we had, until it was time for the next round. Husband went to the bar. He was immediately pounced on by sandy-hair sneer-boy (according to his politer friends, his name began with L, so let’s call him “Langer”) and told him that he sounded like Levi Stubbs. He obviously took a bit of a shine to the husband and proceeded to ask him lots and lots of questions: where was he from? What was he doing in London? Who was this new wife of whom he spoke? (Husband gestured to me, I smiled, Langer sneered.) Why hadn’t I met his parents before we got married? Blimey – if he answers them all, does he get a prize? No. Unless you count more sneering for me as such.

When hubby came back, Langer was alone at the bar, as either all his friends were out smoking or they had just suddenly figured out that he was a langer and deserted him. I didn’t know quite how big of a langer he was yet, but the evidence was mounting. He kept chirping witty comments over at my husband, who is nice, so kept responding. Eventually, we took pity and asked if Langer wanted to join us until his friends came back (if ever). He leapt across the room. My gut screaming otherwise at me, but not wanting my man to think I was an asshole so soon into our marriage (plenty of time for that), I would have to make an effort. So, I asked what he did. He asked what it was to me.

Given that he’d been asking some pretty personal stuff at the bar, I hadn’t realised what a prying bitch I would seem, probing into his occupation here, in this post-work environment. After a pause, he snapped – smiling, because he obviously still thought his frostiness to me was hilarious – that he worked in advertising. I’ve worked with loads and loads of ad folk down through the years. I’ve never met anyone quite like Langer: he either hates his job so much that it makes him cagey, or he thinks it’s so dazzling and impressive that it can only be mentioned to those most worthy. I wasn’t worthy but nor was I impressed. I was starting to get pissed off.

His friends came back (he must be rich) and he fled our company again. I was thrilled not to have his bristling presence near mine. But he wasn’t done. Just before our own pals were due to arrive, he dived past us again. “Hey!” he screamed, grabbing my husband’s arm, pulling him aside and buddy-buddily spluttering something very interesting into his ear. Husband indicated me and that he didn’t want a private conversation – there was someone else here. Langer wheeled around and spluttered at me: “What’s your name again?” (He’d used husband’s about 30 times in one sentence. In some countries, that makes them married.) “Tara,” I said. “Tamara?” “No, Tara. Fewer letters. Even easier than you think.” “Ha ha! I’ll remember it now.”

Maybe he wasn’t an asshole? Maybe he was just not great with women and my husband’s presence was making him thaw? You have to leave room for these possiblilities with new people, despite my new plan to expect the worst. But nope. Not a bit of it.

With such a welcoming “in” as “I’ll remember” with regard to my name, I stupidly started to chit chat. After all, he’d interrupted our conversation more than once, verbally and physically, so forgive me for believing it was cool to talk to the guy. I opened with the fact that I wouldn’t have a problem remembering his name, as I’d known someone with that name when I was a kid. His face fell into its familiar disgusted smile. “What?” he sneered. I’d only said one sentence. Surely I hadn’t fucked up our beautiful, nascent friendship already? I repeated myself. The sneer turned into a full-on grin and he was laughing when he said (into my ear, so my husband couldn’t hear it), “Wow, we could talk about this amazing stuff all night, but WE WON’T!” The sarcasm would have dripped from his chin had he not turned on his heel and marched away. I sat, silenced, in shock.

When I told my fella what he’d said and how he’d said it, he decreed that Langer would not be welcome to lean and splutter into his ear anymore, no matter which of the Four Tops he said he was like. That made me happier. Then our lovely friends arrived and it was as if there were absolutely no langers in the pub at all. There was one, though. It was still at the bar. By now it looked drunk and miserable. Good.

If you’d like to interrupt and sneer at me, come to London Comedy Improv on Wedn 31.

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