Ramifications

The other night, I went to the Ram, a pub near our house. I seem to have interesting interactions with locals when I go to pubs with my housemates.
A woman sat across from my friends and I, and after a few minutes, she asked me if I was Canadian. I said "no, sorry." She asked a few other generic questions, and then motioned to the chair next to her and said "would you mind a chat?"
So I sat with her, and here's her phenomenal conversation starter: "So, how do you get over jealousy?" Little did she know (or did she?) that she was also asking another question at the same time: "how the hell do you respond to that?" Finally, after some stammering, I come up with the brilliant answer that getting over jealousy is very tough indeed, and may not be possible for some people.
Then she explained her reason for asking. Apparently, her boyfriend, or "the bloke I've been with," was looking at some pornography. She caught him and was pissed, and now desperately wanted to know my thoughts.
Needless to say, I was baffled. I don't know you, woman, why are you telling me this? Is this a cultural thing? Are all Brits this comfortable with sharing their personal problems? Maybe it's just a pub-culture thing. Or maybe this woman was just plain crazy.
So, I responded with something like "This is a strange conversation to be having, but I think I should tell you that pretty much most guys look at pornography."
She then she went on a rant about how the media portrays the female body, and she demanded to know why everything was about sex. She wanted to know why she was so insecure, and why our culture forces such a ridiculous image upon women. I had no answers.
"I love your hair, brillaint," she would say between bitter condemnations of the world, as she'd give my head a pat.
"And I don't need this," she finally said, "I've gone through worse. I'm thirty eight, I have a ninteen year old son, I don't need a man like this in my life. He always winds me up."
"He what?"
"Winds me up. You know," and then she growled.
"Ah." I responded.
She then decided now was a good point in the conversation for her to introduce herself properly.
"I'm Zina."
"Tina?"
"No, no, Zina. With a 'Z."
She then clasped my hand.
"David. It's David, right?"
"Yeah."
"David, I'm so so glad we talked. Really, I'm glad we met."
She then told me she'd let me return to my friends, and I thanked her. My friends questioned me, and I wasn't able to clarify if she was flirting, or if she was a lonely woman who needed someone to listen to her sort through some problems.
Later, she walked up to our table, and gave me a gift. It's a key chain, of what looks like two ghosts hugging. One of them has something coming out of his butt. I'm not kidding. At first I thought it was the part you crank for a wind-up toy, but it's not. It's something coming out of that pearly ghost butt.
She thanked me again for listening, and gave me a hug, which ended in several kisses about my cheek and neck. I was uncomfortable. We promptly finished our pints, and decided to go. I couldn't get out the door without another embrance from Zina, but then we departed.
To make matters even more awkward, I've passed this woman on the street twice today, each time pretending I didn't see her. So was I accosted? Was she putting the moves on? Or did I witness a standard pub interaction? Or is she just crazy?
I don't know, but I do know I'll think twice about returning to the Ram. Unless, of course, I have a personal problem I feel like sharing with Zina.