Among the collection of peculiar people who, like me, pay a small fortune to live inside a slab of East London concrete called Bianca House, is a short, squat, 20-something-chubby-bloke I have named Wayne.
Wayne lives with his mum, directly beneath our cramped compartment, and, when he is not tending to a struggling clump of facial hair, or emptying tubs of gel onto his head, he can be found – come rain, shine or religious holiday – arse crack in the air, tinkering with his car on the pavement outside.
As Bianca House’s self-appointed gate keeper, his stooped and squishy figure is a regular fixture on my journeys in and out of the building – out, being the preferred option – but, rather than offering a simple “hello”, or even going for a more suggestive raise of eyebrows and nod of head combo, Wayne feels the need to mark each and every one of our daily passings with a loud and minute-long variation of “cum ‘ere baby, yeah you, blondie, oi, cum ‘ere, oi, blondie, ooooi ooooooooooooooooiii”.
Puffing out his chest, leaning awkwardly against the boot of his souped-up Peaugot 205 – spotted boxers poking out from his faux-Addidas tracksuit bottoms – it seems highly unlikely that if blondie did succumb to the mating call and indeed came over, Wayne would be capable of anything more than making a sheepish retreat behind his oversized spoiler.
But, nonetheless, it has clearly been programmed into Wayne’s gel-set head that this vocal display is what all real men make when a lone female below the age of 50 crosses their path. Even if she does cross your path five times a day.
He does get full marks for consistency. And, I guess, going on the law of averages, the hundreds of Waynes bellowing provocatively across the streets of Britain must be paving the way for at least one lucky Wayne to receive an impromptu blowjob at 5.15pm on a Wednesday.
Yet while I’m unlikely to sexually respond to streetside “cum ‘ere” tactics, at least without a cup of tea and a couple chocolate biscuits thrown in there first, I do feel less offended by Wayne’s stream-of-consciousness-courting than the deceptive efforts of the suited and well spoken 30-something who tried to pick me up on the dance floor of Brick Lane’s 93 Feet East by professing I had “nice boots” (and yes, he did say boots).
Here was an intelligent man, who, rather than offer to buy me a drink or find out anything about me, was attempting to trick me into believing he possessed some sensitive, boot-appreciating side, with the hope, I imagine, that I would suggest we go back to his so he could have a closer view of my footwear. I definitely feel safer with Wayne.
