‘I love a good sock’, yes, all these details about a man are important. If you’ve been single as long as I have, you have time to develop irrational hatreds towards the most irrelevant of nitpicks. The long, towelling kind with a large tight elastication simply horrifies me, but a loose, good quality sheer pair are quite the ticket.
My body is no longer a temple – well perhaps a temple of doom. This year’s summer run is completely explosive and incongruous. Trying to take stock now, I’m not sure who’s real and who’s not, what I’ve actually got on my plate, and what’s stuck in a virtual pantry somewhere.
At Lovebox festival I performed my MJ dance, then gave myself permission to drink whatever, and however much, I wanted. Lord knows how I am here to tell the tale, but the fact it’s nearly a week later is an indication of the recovery period.
My memory flashes from jumping up and down on stage, to having a nasty rope burn administered to my arm in the north v south tug of war (binliners, washing up liquid, you get the picture).
An old flame of mine turned up for our yearly festival meet, and the tequilas were flying. A 23 year old collared me and asked me out (off his head, but luscious all the same). By the time the headline act came on (my mate was singing for Groove Armada), pieces of my brain were scattered far and wide not only over the fields of Hackney but possibly the Universe, but my God was I enjoying myself. Well yes, I was, and luckily the audience didn’t have to endure my harmonies for at the river, which three of us were supposed to do on stage.
After a terribly strange, magnificent and inappropriate embrace with the ex, I zig-zagged my way to the front of the crowd, and to my surprise was confronted with none other than The Hairy Angel – no not her, see previous blog! He had a lovely young bird with him, which made me feel quite indecent indeed, and she humoured me by asking me to sing the harmony for at the river (was meant to sing on stage but it was pulled), to her. It was then I realised that the power of speech, or singing in this case, was nowhere near my vocal chords.
The show ended, and my mate came out, got mobbed, and dragged me back stage to an array of vodka, chocolate and chicken sandwiches. Then Shoreditch House (four in a toilet, couldn’t name them), then back to hers, where I proceeded one of my infamous lectures to the younger man on life, love and everything. There were smiles and laughter and I woke up flat on my back in the middle of the floor.
What fun!
When I got home, the ecstatic 23 year old from the festival began a series of unsophisticated but tantalising flirtations via the medium of facebook.
It was decided we would meet under the burnt-out pier for frolicks in a few weeks time. Then he either lost interest, died of a drug overdose, or realised I was old enough to be his godmother, and all went quiet on the northern front.
Out with the young, in with the old. The pleasant but ineffectual internet date was still asking for my acquaintance, so I told him I was busy and arranged a date with a curious South African instead.
Yum.
With a rebel yell I cry MORE MORE MORE!
I am getting so rubbish at morning-after anxiety, last night whilst in his throes I actually dreamed of animosity between us yet to happen. The thing is, I deserve these feelings. The date was good, drunken, and towards the end I decided he didn’t like me but couldn’t figure out why. Then he asked for a snog. Then I gave him a snog. Then he said he’d send me filthy texts till we met later in the week, which should have sounded like a good plan.
I had pre-programmed the brain to go home, but the brain was not happy. The brain sent me staggering home with him. He was beautiful, especially when his mouth was shut, and not bad when it was open, and I loved the way he came. The personality bit we can work on.
So today has been a downhill struggle, accompanied by accumulative booze-blues and paranoid womanoid texting. I asked him if I’d blown it by acting like a slut, and he replied that there was nothing to blow. Not technically true, but what am I like? The thing is, I hate that waiting period. Waiting for someone to possibly not text. So now I know I may see him next week. Or I may not. All’s fair in internet dating and war, especially when one party has the patience of a teenager on speed.
Thursday will see an old friend who I shedaddled with at Christmas arriving for a long weekend. That is going to be a strange story – I have reservations, I mean, we’re not that good mates, and if we screw for that long I shall not only lose the power of my legs, but may drag my fragile heart into another palaver.
Then there’s the man who keeps telling me to go to his for adult fun. And the one who keeps offering me a ‘massage’. I’m telling ya kids, it never rains, but I could do with a proper storm……………
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