20. Hugging and Kissing

I am not a good kisser and never have been.  Well, that’s not entirely true because I am a great snogger; ask anyone.   No, better not; that’s silly.  Ask Caroline.   No, don’t bother, because I’ve just asked her if I’m a good snogger and she says that she can’t remember.

When I was 21, I had probably kissed five girls, ever.  Nowadays, if I don’t kiss at least five different women in the course of a week, it means that I had a quiet time and probably not left the house much.

In 1969, I visited David, somewhere near Windsor where he lived.  David was not a pilot (he could only just manage to ride a bicycle) but he shared a house with a couple of blokes who were and a couple of girls who were air hostesses. 

I noticed that whenever my girlfriend and I went to visit them, the kisses upon arrival and departure were showered around like ash particles from Eyjafjalljokull, as I perceptively and prophetically commented to David at the time.  “Never heard of it,” I remember him saying.  “You will, David; you will,” I told him.

At the time, I excused this rather forward, outlandish and bohemian behaviour of theirs as the kind of thing that people did when they ran the risk of disintegrating into a cloud of burning, mangled flesh on a daily basis in order to relieve their stresses.  It was excusable then, with them, just about.

What’s going on in society these days?  I don’t know what’s happening in the rest of the world but here in Cayman, the handshake between a man and a woman has virtually disappeared.   Things came to a head as far as I’m concerned last week when a woman working for an Insurance company, whom I had never met before in my life, put her hands on my shoulders and then hugged me as I left her office. 

Eh?  What the hell was that about?  This is getting ridiculous.   Only a year ago, a smile and maybe a handshake would have been all that was necessary or expected. 

Caroline and I were in a restaurant last week.  The eight people at the table next to us were having a great time.  They were all in their thirties and were clearly couples.   When they stood up to leave, their farewells took forever.  All the men kissed all the women and then all the women kissed all the men.  From my seat ten feet away I wanted to shout out, “Hey!  You’ve done that one,” as I am sure that they had lost track.

That was bad enough but then the women kissed all the other women and then, Lord help us, the men started hugging each other.  Two of them kissed the waitress as they left.  Are kisses acceptable in lieu of a tip these days?

I think that I’ll set that account as a maths problem for 6H, the class I help twice a week. 

1) How many kisses were there in total?  (Two people kissing counts as one kiss.)

2)  How many hugs were there?

3) Extension Work:  The gratuity was added at a rate of 15%.  If the total bill came to $600 and an extra $50 was left in cash, what was the calculated value of each of the two kisses given to the waitress?  (Calculators not allowed)

A couple of months ago Caroline and I were in a group of about twelve people, two of whom were female academics who had come over from the Institute of Education in London to run a course for Caymanian education administrators and leaders.   

Participants and partners met at the Ritz Carlton for end-of-course drinks.   Three of us were men and one of them had come with his fiancée.  I had never met her before but I had heard a lot about her and as I like him very much, I knew that I would like her too.

The two English academics were easy to greet.  Two firm handshakes and a smile did the job.  I know Caroline’s female colleagues very well; they know I don’t do kisses and so a nod and a cheery smile for each of them was no problem.   But, Lydia, Mark’s fiancée, was a different kettle of fish (sorry Lydia – unfortunate idiom).

I don’t know what was going through her mind as I stood in front of her.  She was probably thinking, “Oh no.  This ugly, fat old man is going to kiss me.  Ugh!”

I solved the problem for her.  I held out my hand and said, “Hello Lydia.  I’m Terry, Caroline’s husband.”   We shook hands and exchanged genuine, relieved smiles.  I hope she tells her friends and they start a trend. 

The first girl I ever kissed was Wanda.   She pronounced her name, “Van-da” with a ‘V’ and 35 years later the film concerning that fish was spoilt for me because of the way the name was pronounced.  

Wanda was in my class at infant school.  We were in Mrs M’s class and so we must have been five or six.   One day, for reasons that I can’t remember now, she and I were alone together in the classroom.  She came over to me and said, “Do you dare kiss?”  We exchanged kisses.  No lasting damage was done.

There’s always the possibility, however, that my anxiety about kissing is based upon an experience I had when I was 15 or 16.  A group of us, girls and boys, were at Gedf’s house one Saturday evening.   It wasn’t a party.  We just all happened to be there.  Gedf was christened Graham Edward David Fenn; hence GEDF pronounced "Gedfer" with a hard 'g'.

I’m pretty sure that there was nothing going on between any of us.   I know for certain that there was nothing between any of the girls and me.   We were all friends and nothing more.  That evening there was a girl amongst us whom I’d never seen before.  

Della was seriously, achingly beautiful.  I can’t remember now where she had come from.  She was probably someone’s cousin or maybe she attended the Convent school and was a friend of one of the other girls.

Fairly early in the evening someone suggested that we play Postman’s Knock.  There was a lot of groaning and giggling but play it, we did.

This was the only game of Postman’s knock I have ever played and this is how it was organised:

We all sat in a circle and a bottle was spun.  When the bottle came to rest, the person the neck pointed at was the ‘Postman’.  If the postman was a boy he left the room and all the girls were given a number from one to five.  

The Postman was then called back in and announced, “I’ve a letter for X.”  X then accompanied the Postman out of the room and 30 seconds were allowed in private for whatever took place.  Both of them returned to the main room and the bottle was spun again.  New numbers were given every time so the postman never knew who had what number. 

After a couple of rounds, my number was called by Maggie and I went out of the room with her.  She had pulled what I had thought was an unnecessarily aggrieved and tortured face when she realised who number three was.  

In the hallway we had thirty seconds to do the deed.  She was the first girl I ever kissed on the lips and it was not a particularly memorable experience for either of us but she is one of the five I mentioned in the second paragraph.

Eventually it was my turn to be the postman.  I left the room while the girls were given numbers.  When I was called in I announced that I had a letter for number ….. wait for it …. wait for it …. there were five girls and so I thought it would be funny if I said, … “Six.”

There was lot of laughter at this from everyone except Della.  She, I found out later, had realised the imminent danger she was in and had insisted on giving the numbers.  Despite protests, she had started at two and given herself number six. 

“Come on Della,” they said to her.  “Out you go.”

Della stayed put.  She looked me straight in the eye as she said to everyone in general, but to me in particular,

“I’m not playing any more.”

Maggie tried to help but certainly didn’t.  “Come on Della,” she said.  “Don’t spoil it.  It’s really not that bad.”

I still haven’t got over it.  Scarred for life!