I, like many others out there I am sure, had an imaginary friend.
We did everything together, and a better friend a boy never had.
We would make up songs, draw pictures of each other, ride our bikes through the leafy alleyways behind our house (though my bike was not rocket powered.)
We shared a bedroom, and I suppose that's where the problems began.
We would target each other, snipe with remarks calculated to wound,
Our passive aggressive back and forth tore at our respective self esteem,
Until the night.
One I shall never forget, the tension released, all became hazy yet somehow clear.
The wild passion, untamed desire, the cause of our problems suddenly revealed,
but in the light of the new day a whole new set assembled.
Clumsy and awkward, eye contact evaded, shame nagging like an unappreciated wife.
Our world had changed, we were foreigners in our own kingdom.
We eventually lost touch, but I still sing the songs.
I had an imaginary friend,
One I shall never forget.
This was originally meant to be a joke, now it just seems weird...
Oh well, if the plan falls through and a statue that plays a selection of my best-loved catch-phrases on the hour isn't chosen as the replacement for Nelson's Column, at least this will serve as a monument to my bizarre mind.
Wednesday 9 February 2011
The chicken didn't really cross the road...
I was on a date with a girl last week, I say girl, I suppose woman paints a clearer picture.
Yes, she was a bit older than me, and had a six year old, just to add some tangible baggage to the usual swirling cacophony that is the female psyche. (Note to female readers, I am not sexist, I've got loads of female friends... Mmm creamy and post-modern, take that conservative agenda!)
Anyway, it was a good night, we hate all the same music, we've shared a few bottles, we both prefer red, and she tells me about her son. He has special needs.
I have had the privilege in my life of meeting and working with many special needs children, for the most part I have got on with them very well, some were assholes, proving that they are as normal as anyone else.
Unfortunately I chose to display my easy going attitude to this potentially awkward topic in the only way I know how, with my usual brand of surreal wit.
"What, you mean he only breathes argon?" I laugh, she doesn't, my laughter begins to fade, it's awkward.
"He has muscular dystrophy" I am no longer laughing, the bar suddenly seems very quiet, the dim light, cosy only a few moments ago, suddenly casts intimidating shadows.
I search for something else to say, anything that will make the last ten seconds rewind. Sympathetic remark? Too much of a U-turn. Story about a boy called John I used to work with who has the same condition? No, he's a miserable bastard. Surreal wit? Too late. It comes to me and out of my mouth, in a quiet voice wrestling against the great monolith of tension we have erected to this perfect moment of good old British embarrassment.
"Of course, it's inaccurate to say someone would only be able to breathe argon, it's denser than air, it would make more sense to say one could only respirate argon, perhaps as a result of a mutation of the alveoli or atrium, or through a system of anaerobic respiration." She gives me the same look I get when I walk into a crowded lift and don't turn around.
Empathy! I hadn't thought of that, relate to her plight...
"My cat is on prozac..."
Still nothing, she must be a dog person, I desperately try to recall an episode of the Dog Whisperer I saw before I fixed my TV arial.
"Did you know that Great Danes..."
"Please don't."
"Fair enough."
She tells me it was lovely to meet me and shakes my hand, she gets into a black cab, twilight is fading, muted laughter echoes out of the bar door.
Did you notice too? She said it was lovely to meet me, not 'nice' or 'good', lovely.
Maybe fairy-tale endings are real after all, she'd look beautiful in white.
This story is based on true events, I really did go on a date once, I really know a guy called John with muscular dystrophy, he really is a miserable bastard.
The chicken didn't really cross the road.
Yes, she was a bit older than me, and had a six year old, just to add some tangible baggage to the usual swirling cacophony that is the female psyche. (Note to female readers, I am not sexist, I've got loads of female friends... Mmm creamy and post-modern, take that conservative agenda!)
Anyway, it was a good night, we hate all the same music, we've shared a few bottles, we both prefer red, and she tells me about her son. He has special needs.
I have had the privilege in my life of meeting and working with many special needs children, for the most part I have got on with them very well, some were assholes, proving that they are as normal as anyone else.
Unfortunately I chose to display my easy going attitude to this potentially awkward topic in the only way I know how, with my usual brand of surreal wit.
"What, you mean he only breathes argon?" I laugh, she doesn't, my laughter begins to fade, it's awkward.
"He has muscular dystrophy" I am no longer laughing, the bar suddenly seems very quiet, the dim light, cosy only a few moments ago, suddenly casts intimidating shadows.
I search for something else to say, anything that will make the last ten seconds rewind. Sympathetic remark? Too much of a U-turn. Story about a boy called John I used to work with who has the same condition? No, he's a miserable bastard. Surreal wit? Too late. It comes to me and out of my mouth, in a quiet voice wrestling against the great monolith of tension we have erected to this perfect moment of good old British embarrassment.
"Of course, it's inaccurate to say someone would only be able to breathe argon, it's denser than air, it would make more sense to say one could only respirate argon, perhaps as a result of a mutation of the alveoli or atrium, or through a system of anaerobic respiration." She gives me the same look I get when I walk into a crowded lift and don't turn around.
Empathy! I hadn't thought of that, relate to her plight...
"My cat is on prozac..."
Still nothing, she must be a dog person, I desperately try to recall an episode of the Dog Whisperer I saw before I fixed my TV arial.
"Did you know that Great Danes..."
"Please don't."
"Fair enough."
She tells me it was lovely to meet me and shakes my hand, she gets into a black cab, twilight is fading, muted laughter echoes out of the bar door.
Did you notice too? She said it was lovely to meet me, not 'nice' or 'good', lovely.
Maybe fairy-tale endings are real after all, she'd look beautiful in white.
This story is based on true events, I really did go on a date once, I really know a guy called John with muscular dystrophy, he really is a miserable bastard.
The chicken didn't really cross the road.
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