Waiting for a girl like you

It’s the start of many a beautiful friendship. A chance meeting at a bus stop. But for Paul Carter fate gave it that extra twist

Do you believe in fairytales? I don’t. Or at least I didn’t until just the other night.

It’s 3am at a bus stop on a busy London high street. I’m there after a bout of extreme karaoke, slightly worse for wear and trying to find my way home without either falling asleep or falling over.

The difference is that this time I’m not alone at said bus stop. I was joined in my late wait by a girl who had no arms like me.

I’ve heard of seeing double before, but seeing double amputees is quite a new one on me. Maybe I should avoid the tequila in future.

I’m a bit crap at talking to strangers. So, confronted with this unprecedented social situation, I must admit to being a little confused about my course of action. Firstly, I wasn’t comfortable with an opening gambit about having no hands. Show some class, man.

What would I open with then? I was drunk, never a good start. Hello? You can’t go wrong with a hello, can you? Simple. Polite.

Non-threatening. Yes, hello. Good old hello.

But there is a flaw with the “hello”­ plan I hadn’t fully considered. “Hello” as a standalone greeting doesn’t necessarily invite a return without a supplementary “how are you?”. How could I forget “how are you?”. This was getting serious.

I had no choice now, I’d been backed into a corner. The “we both have no hands” card was going to have to be played, and played big.

What I think I said at this point was something along the lines of “it’s not very often I meet someone who’s a lot like me.”

All I remember next is some ridiculous charade in which I attempted to give her my number. I think I even said to “Facebook me” at one point. Who says that? Idiot. Anyways, rather than just open my mouth and speak the individual digits, I clearly decided a business card would be a far better option. Pretentious idiot. Anyway, the irony is that my lack of hands had counted against me, as while I was rummaging around in my bag trying to find my cards, her bus arrived, and she left, long into the late, dark north London night.

Meanwhile, I was left forlorn, stinking of alcohol and chips. Her loss readers, I’m sure you’ll agree. However, on the offchance your name is Catherine and you remember meeting a slightly addled looking no-arms no-legs man at a bus stop in Islington in the small hours of the morning, write to us at the usual address. It could be the start of a beautiful friendship.