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Wednesday, 19 December 2012

#52: The Englishman and the Gymnast

Eight days before the 2007 Royal Victoria Marathon, my parents (visiting Canada from England) took myself and some friends out for a meal at an Italian restaurant in Suurrrrrey (the British Columbian version), called Anducci's.

Our waitress for the night was very amiable and more than a little cute (in the North American sense, not like the Andrex Puppy).

After my buddy Perry and Old Man became engrossed in a conversation about cars or transport or a riveting blend of the two (the rest of the table now soundly sleep), I slipped away unnoticed to try my luck with Christy, who was busily shining freshly dishwashed cutlery just outside the restaurant kitchen.

I learned Christy was a former gymnast-turned junior gymnastics coach. Which figured, as she was extremely lithe and in impressive shape. I also found out she was only 20! Man alive... I'd thought she was in her mid-20's at least. She certainly came across as older, though I guess developing a certain maturity is a by-product of coaching.

Anyhow, I coolly asked her if there was a fellow on the scene (apart from me at that particular moment in time). “Kind of,” she said, while simultaneously dropping a knife on the floor. After retrieving it, she started shining it from scratch.

“Kind of?” I said. “Could you expand on that?”

“Well, I've just started something with someone.”

“Is it serious?” I pushed.

“I'm not sure?” she said.

Blimey, talk about playing hard to get.

“Well, if I happened to be passing in a few weeks and popped in to say ‘hi!’ and see how things had developed with Mr. Kind-of, would you be agreeable?”

She was. So I thought there could be something there. Perhaps. Despite the fact there was a 14-year age gap. And my gymnastics was a little rusty.

To read the rest of this column, check out BC Johnny's upcoming book: Chilled Almonds.

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