THE OLD ONE TWO

Shrewsbury town, centered on a hill in a horseshoe bend of the River Severn, is a spick-and-span beauty of medieval origin, with narrow alleyways and winding steps, and black-and-white timber-frame houses dating back to the sixteenth century. There are public houses there that have been supporting drunkenness for more than five hundred years. You can hardly find a better place in the whole country for enjoying an ale or two in the atmosphere of bygone times. There are narrow winding cobbled streets connected by dark passageways to usher you with aesthetic felicity between each refuge of drunken sensibility, hopefully bringing one by the calling of “Time, ladies and gentlemen,” to a spirit of unrivaled audacity capable of courting the elements into submission, what to speak of the fairer sex. At least that was my criterion for a good booze up, but things did not always work out as hoped.

One night, for instance, a group of young men loitering beside a telephone kiosk made known their mischievous presence with a few laconic remarks clearly meant as a challenge to the dignified inebriate passing with determination on the way to his next smoke-filled, jam-packed venue of ale swilling, intense, hyperactive, concupiscent, salacious pisspots. The crew cut, wide eyes, and confident, aggressive manner of the young men suggested army or skinhead, and their sniggering provocations might have caused any reasonable man to turn a blind eye and carry on his way with all haste, but emboldened with the indiscretion and the invincibility of drunkenness, I was hooked.

Turning back, I fixed my gaze upon the recalcitrant group. I firmed my resolve to administer the conciliatory qualities of forgiveness and magnanimity. Well, that noble deed may have been actuated if I had paused and thought for a moment. Instead, I slowly walked back toward them, strong and willing, like a bull lining up for its first charge in the bullring, snorting vaporous clouds of indignation, but then, as quick as a wink, snorting streams of blood. The first yob with panache kicked me in the stomach, and a second yob generously offered his knee to rest the rapid downward movement of my head. My nose was the exact point of contact and lay now somewhat out of its previous alignment.

There were, however, three aspects of good fortune to this foolhardy incident, which, in hindsight, perfectly accord with my current belief that in all adversity, we may see the good hand of fate providing that our heart is in the correct place.

Firstly, before I had even had time to respond to the situation, a police minivan was approaching from the dimly lit end of the street I had just come from. I was made aware of this by my exuberant attackers, who, distracted for the moment by its approach, abruptly ceased their amusement and scarpered. Clutching my streaming nose, I turned and walked unhesitatingly straight past the van. It passed slowly within feet of me and then continued on in the direction fate had disappeared. Thus, although confirmed in arrogance and stupidity, I was well acquitted of having a vengeful attitude and of being a coward and a crybaby. Secondly, the central hospital was only two hundred feet and a few steps away, and a trail of blood marked my immediate progress to the emergency room, an unsympathetic nurse, an X-ray, and the venting of protestations concerning loutish behavior. Thirdly, I never went back to the hospital to have my nose reset, and I swear I have been able to breathe better ever since.