Can feel the street undulating with sleep, and I should be there. Instead I'm lying in bed going: why am I addicted to the X-factor already, when I know better? Will I get a publisher sorted for the next collection? Will it all be OK? Why are absolutely no relationships in life reciprocal or equal really? How come people say dirty old men but hardly ever dirty old women? And am I one of them? You lie there in bed and think all these things. I remember the film of David Beckham sleeping and think they should sell the DVD of it for sad middle aged women like me to play and fall asleep with. Maybe it would help, or maybe I'd end up watching that video feeling envious- look at the sleep on that, jammy bastard. So I lie there in bed: I think about my dream last night of wilderbeast being washed up by the sea with old beer carts attached, and wonder what it means, and think how come they don't say dirty old women much? I then think maybe I am one, because when I think of real good looking men they are all young. The men my age are..? I dunno, I just don't know any, they disappeared into their wives purses. Actually, the truth isn't that they are young, it is that I haven't thought about anyone like that for so many years they are now young, because it is the memory of who was there that is attractive. What I'm thinking about is this particular guy, my friend and I both loved him, he looked like some sort of pixie man, and never said anything that would shatter the illusion of his perfection (wise, that we only actually met him once.) I have no idea what he actually looks like these days, part of me doesn't want to know- because what then? I think about him though, not obsessing, but times when I can't sleep I'll wonder does it make me a dirty old lady to still fancy a guy who was 21 when my friend and I were into him? I haven't seen him since to like the updated version. We were hooked, we carried around photo's of us with him so that when prying relatives asked if we were courting we could say yes, and whip out the picture as evidence. It always kept people off our backs. Seems he is still fulfilling the same function really. The man who looks so right you can just picture a face to close your eyes to, to welcome you home. (It used to be Morrissey until I loved him so much even such mild thoughts seemed sacreligious.)
It's then I want to go to sleep. Before the questions stampede: if I want to lose 2 stone how many weeks will it take?, And will it even make a difference? Will I ever get to America?, What would make me laugh right now? Could anything wow me?,And if I bumped into that particular guy who could floor me with a smile now, would I just walk right past a man who looks like someone's dad, and would he just move his kids aside to let the nice lady pass?
6 comments:
Interesting post. I was addressing similar thoughts myself, recently. Not identical, but similar.
I really liked the phrase about men "disappearing into their wives' purses".
Too bad about Morrisey - I detest him, myself, but de gustibus non est disputandum, as they say.
Come visit us!
Gill- yeah! i am standing up and cheering in agreement! Trying to place myself in one of these categories isn't appealing- where do you fit in?
oh I'm somewhere between fat slag and old slapper I expect. But the wonderful and secret thing about this, (so don't tell ANYONE) is that a lot of men, especially young ones, secretly have a thing for old slappers though they would never admit it openly.
I forgot that sad old slapper comes after slapper and I'm sure that scrubbers have to come in somewhere but no one seems to use this anymore, unless quoting ironically from Withnail.
Yeah I'm a fat slag/old slapper too. Glad to hear your secret, there's hope for me yet!
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