It was too good to last – this recent spate of good luck and fluffiness. I’m clinically incapable of accepting my good fortune without question. No, I couldn’t just go with the flow; I had to induce a state of paranoia that drove Sausage Fingers to brand me a ‘mentalist’. And he could be right. Secretly I know I have a depressive personality though I do draw the line at labelling myself a ‘manic’ even though my falls from grace are vertical and usually with little warning.
So I had a little PMT-induced panic over the stalled state of my yoga career. Who doesn’t occasionally have moments of boredom and despair? and I found every external element in my life to blame this on. I laid into The Lish – my darling child who really had been so good about all this upheaval but who has become quite the mummy’s girl of late – for basically always being there. She’s 4! What am I like? Well, that is where the mental bit comes in I suppose.
With so much real tragedy in the world I have to focus on stupid little things like not feeling (of late) like I’ve had enough ‘me’ time. I’m a selfish clot is what I am. Anyway, I’m over it now and I only hope him indoors and the nipper can forgive the Mr. Hyde in me.
And tonight the old man pushed me out the door to ‘go do YOU things (for fuck’s sake) – and don’t come back until you feel like you’ve spent time with yourself.’ This I did, gently clicking the door closed behind me to the shrill peeling of The Lish screaming: MUMMY!!! – you know like I was being taken away by the police and I feel much better for it.
It was a balmy night (not in the mad but humid sense) as I walked to the nearest Hotspot for another stolen online rendez-vous with ‘t’internet’. I walked past the local pub showing the first signs of the start of what I truly hope is a proper summer. Rugby-types and office girls spilling onto the pavement into the warm embrace of an unusually clement April night. I thought about how much I love temperate weather and then I saw a rat. Ahem.
And that’s not the only thing warm weather brings out. Apparently the British libido loves it too. I watched (glanced at really because it was gross) a tall streak of piss snogging the face off a fat bird outside a rather less fancy pub and found myself eventually thinking (when the nausea subsided): good for them – there’s hope for me yet.
On the way back the rugby types that were but an hour ago sipping Vouvray with more finesse than a gay man choosing a shirt were much worse for wear and I noticed that city boys are a very different class of drunk than your usual yob (which are of course in a class of their own). The city boy goes all quiet and boggle eyed, like he’s trying to hide it but he gives it away by the way he smokes – using his peace fingers and thumb to form a claw around the butt whilst shielding the burning end in the palm of his hand and taking the kind of toke you only see the chronically baked take. I’ve got your number mate. You can tell he’s also thinking, I’m so smooth, I’m definitely going to get laid tonight. Meanwhile it’s obvious the girl is thinking: You look ridiculous and you’re an idiot. I love it.
Not 200 metres from home, I walk past a dodgy looking bloke (I’m on the home straight now - how ironic that I should be assaulted at this time) and since I've willed the end of my good fortune, I'm convinved he's going to slash my face. Afterall he looks like something out of A Clockwork Orange, bowler hat, drain pipe jeans and menacing glare and I thought...jesus’ bollocks – this doesn’t taste right? But it was fine – he was just another pissed up Londoner on his way home and I'm just another paranoid schizoid. Serves me right.
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