Over the last couple of years and as I’ve crept comfortably into my mid-twenties, the same thought continues to invade my mind. It’s a concept that taunts me and attempts to brand the word ‘unremarkable’ across my forehead. As I inch further and further away from the safety of my late teens and early twenties, I’ve come to realise that I can no longer be somebody’s protégé, nor will I overhear and beam at the phrase “she’s so impressive for her age”. When you’re entering the job world or beginning to find your artist voice, surrounding adults are often mesmerised by the quality of work or ambition being displayed by a young person. Successful musicians and authors in my periphery seem to be getting younger and younger, despite physically resembling thirty-year-olds and singing about themes beyond their experiences. My twenty-sixth year is approaching, and my writing career is yet to take off. I have friends with similar artistic ambitions and to relieve ourselves from self-inflicted pressures, we’ll bring up bi-weekly the fact that Leonard Cohen was in his forties when he released his first album. Of course, Cohen was actually in his early thirties, but as this epoch looms, the age that we’ll achieve success increases.
A year ago, I moved back to the UK from Paris. Whilst in France, I engulfed almost the entirety of David Sedaris’ oeuvre. I was drawn to his witticisms and continued excitement over life’s obscurities. Sedaris had also been an aspiring writing trying to navigate the French capital with a minimal grasp of the language, so I could relate to him. A month after my return, I was able to meet David Sedaris. He was on a book tour of his latest collection of essays Happy-Go-Lucky and, after his shows, he dedicatedly sits and chats to every single person queuing to meet him. With each fan, David has a couple of minutes rapport, draws something playful in their book, and waves them off on their way. He’ll then use any comedic encounters with the oddballs at these show as material for his next essays; with this in mind and after finding images of cheeky and outrageous engravings he’d left fans at previous shows, I began imagining the type of exchange we were due to have. I made my boyfriend and friend go before me as I was convinced my time with David would be longer and more meaningful. My boyfriend went up and had a brief chat about ice cream before David wrote “To my well-dressed friend” in his copy of Naked. The dessert-based conversation left my boyfriend a tad frustrated – which was, of course, short-lived due to the complimentary inscription left by a man who also takes pride in his appearance. My friend was up next and managed to quickly wheedle into the conversation that her and I had also lived in Paris. At this moment, she turned and pointed to me. David and I exchanged a brief smile and wave, which nicely prepared me for my upcoming turn.
As the two of them continued their chat, the waiting area became noisy, so I heard little of their remaining conversation. What I did hear startled me and slightly threw me off as I anticipatedly waited to take her place. David asked her to write her email down in his little notebook, to which she obliged. How was I going to get my contact details in David Sedaris’ personal diary? Had she simply charmed him into wanting to continue their conversation through the forum of email? I had no clue, but this was the conclusion I’d drawn, and I knew I had to make a similarly stirring impression. As I approached his table, David had just been handed the ice cream he had ordered during my boyfriend’s encounter. “Sadie,” he said, after learning my name from a post-it note I'd been instructed to put inside my book to ‘save time’; “Do you like ice cream.”
“I prefer ice-lollies.” I remarked.
“Ice-lollies,” he puzzled. “What’s an ice lolly?”
“You know, those frozen fruity things on a stick.”
“Oh, like a popsicle!”
“Sure...” I hesitated, as I disappointedly noticed him drawing an ice-cream below my name in my book.
After he’d finished his doodle, I saw him begin to close my copy of Happy-Go-Lucky and conclude our chat. Was that it? Surely our conversation’s crescendo wasn’t going to be the discovery that ice-lollies and popsicle are, in fact, the same thing?! The reason for sharing this story, is that I’d planned this spiel in which I’d tell David about the selection of essays I’d been writing and how I was unsure of what my next steps should be. I figured he’d spot the hunger in my eyes, reach out his hand, and take me under his wing as his protégé. Determined to make this scene I’d played out a dozen times a reality, I began blurting out my hopes and aspirations to Mr. Sedaris. After waffling on for a couple of minutes about my conflictions, David alluded to me that, like Leonard, he only achieved success in his mid-thirties. Though this comment settled me slightly, it failed to relieve me from my burning impatience and indicated in no way that David had deemed me his chosen one.
Once again, David began to wrap things up between us, and all I could think was: “I need to get my email address in that book.” So, I swallowed my pride, and forced him to take my contact details as my best attempts at charming the presumably exhausted man had clearly failed. He politely obliged and I added myself to the list of eight or nine others. I rejoined my peers, beaming about a conversation I presumed would one day show up in one of his essays. After asking my friend how she’d won over David, she revealed that he owns a house in Paris that he rents out to visitors, which she showed an interest in. So, the list that I’d thrust myself onto was some sort of mailing list – which since our meeting has failed to come into fruition. As of now, all I can do is wait for the release of David’s next book; if he fails to mention my name and fails to pop up in my inbox, I’ll have to accept that my protégé days are behind me, and I’ll wait for the inevitable success in my thirties.
Following this meeting of a hero, my dad reminded me of the time he met Alan Bennett. Though I jest that my words were impactful enough to make their way onto a Sedaris Word document, my dad’s trip down memory lane reminded me that these run-ins with our heroes are of minor importance to the men in question. My dad met Alan Bennet on his forty-eighth birthday. This day, and birthdays in general, are of little significance to my dad, so if it falls on a weekday, he’ll work a normal shift. As he embarked on his familiar daily grind, his first house call was in Camden Town. The building he approached was attractive and familiar, which led to suspicions about the house’s owner. His inkling was indeed correct, he had arrived at the home of esteemed writer Alan Bennett. According to my dad’s relaying of the tale, he kept his composure and completed the job at hand before acknowledging his admiration for Bennett and his work. With nothing pressing for either of the men, the pair sat and chatted over a brew, before dad was given an exclusive tour of the writer’s house. When their time shared came to a natural end, Mr. Bennett gifted my dad a copy of one of his books with a personalised message in the front. Wanting to commemorate this day further, dad did something very out-of-character and proposed the two of them take a selfie – which is resent on the family group chat annually.
My dad and I recently sorted through some books prior to the family’s big move to Manchester. As the Alan Bennett books entered the box, the pair's chance encounter came up...again. My dad realised he’d never checked the author's book that was released following their meeting, and we’d found ourselves in the perfect moment to check for a mentioning of the pot of tea that they’d shared. This publication was a series of diary entries, spanning the recent decade of the author’s life. As we searched and searched for an entry from the 15/08/2014, nothing was found. What sandwiched the missing date, were descriptions of customary mundane times spent in that same Camden home; moments one might assume were less noteworthy than the afternoon he’s shared with my dad. But that’s how it goes...
Ideas of being swooped up as somebody’s mentee have invaded my thoughts ever since I was a child. When I was eight and charmingly naïve, I’d walk around the streets of North London belting out a tune – often dad rock or something of that nature. The cause for this brazen behaviour, was that I believed I’d saunter passed a scouting agent on the lookout for prepubescent voices. Unfortunately for me, Simon Cowell’s people clearly didn’t operate in the N11 region, and this dream scenario never materialised. Similarly, I’d record myself singing along to the instrumental versions of songs I loved, so I could both track my improvement and have them in the bank in case success called. It’s unclear where these desires to be deemed impressive and leave some sort of an artistic legacy stem from. Of late, it feels like time is running out. Like if I don’t achieve something soon, odds are, it might never happen. These odds have been set by the likes of Cohen and Sedaris. Though I’ve done my research, and if success hasn’t been achieved at the age of thirty-three, I’ll start comparing my career to the likes of Raymond Chandler, who became a novelist at age fifty-one. I’ve always thought I was more like him anyway.
That friend of yours sounds really cool and interesting
An accurate account of a memorable morning-Alan also failed to remember the first time we met 31 years earlier 🙄