Monday, August 28, 2006

Grazed Knees

Grazed Knees

For the second week in a row it seems that I've managed to miss out going to bed on Sunday night. I'm not sure if I'm going to make crawling into my bed in last night's clothes whilst the world around me springs to life a regular routine. This week was at least better in as much as I didn't have to have a conversation with a stranger whilst sat at a bus stop complete with raging hangover and un-brushed bedhair but it's probably fair to say next week I'm aiming to be home before daylight hits.

As if I'm over compensating for a summer spent wearing rubber gloves and picking people's pants out of a portaloo [yes, people do leave their pants in portaloos, this is so disgusting that it probably merits a blog on its own] I've barely had two minutes to myself since last Sunday. There's been two lunches, a shopping trip, two nights out in York's finest cocktail establishments, a Black Tie dinner and even a night out at Mecca Bingo where I was one number away from winning four hundred pounds. One number. I actually thought I might have a heart attack amongst the ladies with perms and the plates loaded with chips and gravy.

I guess that I've been profoundly grateful for the distractions, missing number 74 and all.

On Saturday night I did touch on the fact that I worried that I was wallowing in all those moments when I was back inside my own head, without something to do, somewhere to go, someone to meet. And not just for wallowing reasons which would be bad and foolish enough but for blogging reasons which is just plain daft. Because - and yes I'm vain but every writer has to believe in their own ability or they'd go off and do something else - I'm aware that my current emotional blip is making for some great blogging. But I'm also aware that I don't want to bore you with what is - in the giant scale of things - a little mole hill. A very little mole hill that just got blown up into a full on soap-opera because of its audience. Undoubtedly when I look back in a year or so I'll wonder what the fuss was about. Maybe it won't even take that long, maybe by October I'll have forgotten all about the twisting turning feeling that lurches when I allow my head to wander, a prolonged bout of motion sickness that doesn't seem to abate. Even now my rational self can look and wonder why I'm feeling what I'm feeling; something which is in no way proportional to the experience.

Last night it was difficult to avoid the 'this time last week I was...'. To pin point that memory, that moment as I stood stage right, hidden from the view of the audience, flowers in my hands, singing along to Abba's 'One Of Us' and I looked up to see the light dancing in those startlingly blue eyes, a smile playing on the mouth at just how damn uncool I was at liking Abba. How can I not want to press the pause button? To capture it and bind it up, forever safe, stashed away, just as I've stashed away other nights, other memories - and ones which rightly have the claim of being bigger, more important but which now, here, seem to pale in its wake.

To giggle at myself as, thirty minutes later, I stood in the lock up throwing bags of costumes into the space in no particular order, bellowing that everyone should "PACK FASTER!", an Army General on the precipice of war.

To remember standing on tip-toe as the rain trickled down my back, bouncing in puddles at my feet and I barely noticed.

"You always knew that this is how it would be"

"I know, I didn't have any illusions - but it doesn't change the fact that I liked him"

"No, it never does".

After the initial hilarity, the hangover and then the cold bath of the guilt I've been left with the much less substantial realisation that during the four weeks I'd left myself more emotionally open than I'd expected. You just need to look at how I'm splashing myself on here to realise that. What started as the regular game of who was to be my favourite actor got a heck of a lot more complicated than I'd envisaged. C was, I suspect, far too good at the game. And me, well, I wasn't quite as good as I thought I was.

For all concerned, not least you dear reader, I promise this will be the last time I do the literary equivalent of popping balloons with a pin and giving pronouncements on the noises they make as they deflate. But just now, just for this moment, I need to let the bruising heal.

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