It happens - someone contacts you from a time way back - when half your present size, you shook your tail feather and tickled your fancy.
We hadn't seen each other in over 20 years. On a recent holiday I meet a couple that X, an Irish woman like myself, turned out to be a best friend of. Contact was made and...
'Well isn't it a small world.'
'Do you remember the gig?'
'Dancing behind the screen.'
There was a band performing out front whilst I, danced behind a screen. Recall if you can the intro to Roald Dahl's, Tales of the Unexpected. This was our visual intention but the reality was rather different especially when the lights fused.
Why is it we are condemned to remember only the most embarrassing moments of life?
X is a mother of three children. She, like most of her friends, having survived the trenches of baby-dom, has reached the point when her days are beginning to open up. She can raise her head above the parapet of 'dumb-esticity', years of sleep deprivation and see once more this thing called Life - or independent life. Careers can be resurrected, interests resumed and fun had. In short she brings stories from the suburbs of impending mid life crises' of 'so & so' and 'yer one', 'wait till I tell you' and 'oh my god...'
The words of Victor Mildrew echoed in my ear, 'I don't believe it!'
As a single mother I long held the privileged position of confidante, privy to the misdemeanours of married friends. Men may think they have the upper hand in straying but what's good for the goose is good for the gander and sometimes even better. I'm talking personal trainers, specialist gardeners, handy men, jack-of-all-trades - you get the gist. It is not the doing that surprises me, after years of marriage 'not doing' surprises me. What surprises me is the lack of imagination entailed; the prescribed colour by numbers manner in which so many men and women seem to stray.
So it happens another man buys a fast car and into it he puts the nanny and takes her for a ride... The only part of this story that had my jaw gaping was the husband's fury when his wife sacked the nanny - whom they were suing for unfair dismissal. I made a mental note to employ only 'mannys'. Then again who's to say that would quell the temptation (for either of us!).
The Glam Rocker and I were keeping in touch, doing the long distance Skype thang.
The band was currently deciding upon which semi naked ladies to adorn their album cover. My opinion was sought with a caveat to show the teen, as his would ultimately be of greater value. So there I was on the other side of the world blown up to twice my normal size, i.e. heavy with baby, hormonal, and my darling was emailing pictures of scantily clad drop dead gorgeous, YOUNG, AVAILABLE models a quarter of my current size.
'What do you think?' he asked...
He wanted me, a feminist, to talk about how best to objectify these women. My mind was a mash up of hyper reality. In cartoon terms all I could think about was his eyes bouncing back and forth from their sockets and his tongue uncurling from his mouth, whereas I was literally fuming, steam shooting from my ears, eyes and nostrils.
'Aren't you being a little insensitive?' I seethed. The last time I elicited a wolf whistle was... before the lights fused at a certain gig.
'Sex sells... ' says the Glam Rocker, 'Go figure! So, what do you think of the red head...?'
I told the Glam Rocker I had far more important things to think about, like our baby, like this new life nurturing inside. There were things to be done... things to be purchased...
He told me not to be so insecure which brought a swift end to our Skype conversation.
It occurred his rock and roll life was as Hanks would have it, a huge box of chocolates crammed with real life temptations whereas mine was more a Terry of York chocolate orange shaped bump.