![]() ![]() Richard is the one that didn’t get away-a keeper, a sticker, a boy scout badge in going the distance-but I cannot tell you how and why it worked out. I now think of all the men I chased round town-dressed brilliantly (sort of like a male Sugababe, original lineup) so they’d notice me ignoring them-as dickheads, though there’s no concrete evidence of that. I remember my 20s as a series of unrequited lovers, the ones that got away, that slipped through my clumsy, selfish, needy fingers. I did not take to Richard like a duck to water, yet here we are, a decade later, married and sharing a domestic pond, and emotional farmyard. Richard may have been manifested by guardian angels, divined by a James Blunt song, but I was too busy searching out good times to notice. I was ostriched to myself, ear-deep in my own sand. ![]() In retrospect, I can see I was at my most lonely, but I honestly had no idea. There’s a personal safety in keeping a safe distance, a way of never giving your full self to anyone, of never getting hurt. Being a bachelor and cruising other bachelors has a certain panned out quality, in that you meet men in person but never really get close. I was not enlightened, I was not called to God like a nun, Cupid’s arrow didn’t roll my eyes to a heart shape like a Vegas slot machine. There was no premonition, no psychic flash-forward, no foretelling palmistry when we touched. It’s quite a transformation, quite a leap, but I guess that’s the way relationships roll out: you morph from polite stranger to salacious mate to domestic companion, while maintaining some kind of emotional equilibrium.īut in Dalston, on the top deck of the 243, I could not have predicted a family future with this drunk chap, I did not foresee a Royal wedding balcony kiss, followed by a lifetime of Call Me by Your Name summers and Brokeback Mountain winters. It’s odd to think of a time when my husband was just some guy, just tallish (nearly every guy that kissed me before needed the orthopedic assistance of a wedged Croc) and funny-ish (I remember laughing, I think), and certainly not, at that time, a vessel for my personal sense of satisfaction and a mirror for my shortcomings, a constant test for my patience and compassion. But it was just another night in a long list of nights, and Richard, I’m afraid to say, was just another guy. It is incredible how most couples imbue their first meeting with a certain majesty, a beguiling magic, as if the stars aligned and their guardian angel was on a roll. I first spotted my husband Richard (or Dick, or Dickie) on the night bus, on another night of shuttling across London on public transport for a party. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |