Rainbeau Peep has heaved and hoed and is now a rung higher on the ladder of intellectual snobbery. She, dear reader, is on first-name basis with a certain very prolific Duck, a sound bird, who, as it appears, can tell good theatre from bad - having suffered childhood trauma at the hands of a Coloured Girl* who screamed suicide into his ears, much to his inappropriately timed delight.
This would be as good a moment as any to announce that one of Rainbeau Peep's optional courses this year is "Drama in Practice", and all ye who wish to make digs and derisions may go and flush yourselves down the nearest public toilet. [This means YOU, Rimi.]
The Duck, then, is soft-spoken, amiable and has just the sort of goatee that would make you think, if you didn't know any better, that on a placid morning you would find him, palette and canvas in hand, outside a Buddhist monastery in Tibet. At least, you would think that if your brain cells were swimming in dope like Rainbeau's were, when you met him. The celebrity encounter went thus:-
Rainbeau Peep, enjoying a post-joint ritual - The Inane Conversation About Trips to the Zoo & Other Sundries That No1 Will Care About When Sober - suddenly spots the Duck and Bab'ly coming her way. Drowsy brain cells whimper,"Famous person within proximity!" several times in her head. The six fresh piercings in her ears throb in anticipation. Rainbeau gropes about for some darkness to crash her head into.
Introductions are made. Rainbeau finds to her relief that Bab'ly doesn't mention blogs, so she can go on pretending she doesn't know who the hell the Duck is. Evil sociopathic voices in her head keep chanting,"Man write books. Man have picture in papers. You read zilch. Stoopid stooopid Rainbeau. Run Rainbeau Run!" Rainbeau leans against the ledge and talks a lot of rot, assiduously keeping away from looking at the famous Duck. Rainbeau as a rule maintains safe distance from, [a] People who read, [b] People who write, [c] People who drop names like "Jung" and "Lacan" like they were next-door neighbours, [d] Gossips (really), [e] Air-kissers, [f] Famous people, ... never mind the rest.
So far so good. And then, the Duck says something like, "Oh, by the way, I'm a fan." Rainbeau thinks,"!!!!!!!" She proceeds to look more prominently like a super-sized tomato. She says, with incisive eloquence,"Uh, hNeh hNeh hNeh," and grins and bares it for good measure. Finding the Bab'ly and the Squee gaping bemusedly, she decides something intelligent MUST be said forthwith. But a man in bellbottoms and an afro wig gets jiggy wid it in her subconscious and yells gleefully in her head a tune that goes,"Marayyyyyy-juanaaaaa! Maray-hayyy wannaaaaa!!" Under such urgent circumstances the Peep is accustomed to resort to blunt honesty. Honesty, to the Peep, is good stuff. So she says drolly, "I'm afraid I haven't read any of your books. You know ... Penguin ... expensive ... er." She could have told him that she reads his column in The Telegraph every Sunday, she could have said that lots of pictures and few words is her idea of good literature. That such are the very things that help her digest the cook's Sunday morning inedible baked beans. But she doesn't. Wicked man in afro wig does a celebratory prance in her head, which now hurts. The Duck is kind to Rainbeau- he will never make a particularly good famous person, he hasn't mastered the art of condescension. He says he wasn't trying to reverse sales. Peep decides against giggling - she fears if she starts she might not stop. Glances worriedly at Archie, busy rolling another fortifying joint, wondering what's taking him so long. The Duck makes a graceful exit. Rainbeau expends 23 free-talktime minutes in calling up various people and informing them about her celeb encounter. [Only 1 of them goes,"Samit? Who yaa? That bartender in Roxy, kya?" ahem.]
Bottomline: Rainbeau Peep is no good around celebrities. She has ever since abandoned all optimism hitherto laid on the conviction that one day she will meet Abhishek Bachchan and convince him to plant the seed of his loins in her welcoming womb. Nope. Won't happen. RP has reconciled herself to the fact that she would, on seeing Baby AB, do a clumsy sprint and disappear.
Aah well, c'est la vie.
But the Peep shall scout for Prophecies and Secrets and keep her fingers crossed that there's no science fiction leaping out at her from them.
* "For Coloured Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Is Enough" - Pulitzer Prize-winning choreopoem by Ntozake Shange. Performed by JUDE-ans years ago. Should any of the performers be lurking around the blogosphere with murder on their minds - I didn't watch it, I'm only going by hearsay. I come in peace. No, seriously.