(no subject)
The past two days have been really rather surreal. I still feel slightly dazed and disoriented from it all...
On Thursday, I slept in till about 2pm as is to be expected of me on any of my days off work, and sat on my arse till about half 4, when my cousin Nicole came up for help with Maths homework. After which, I sat on my arse some more until a certain man named Felix signed into MSN Messenger and spoke with me for at least an hour and a half on topics such as the split brain, hemispherectomies, women, white matter and multi-tasking, autism, monogamy, male and female sexuality, the male tendency to speak in monosyllables and ask for directions only after five U-turns, religion, racism and xenophobia, Judaism and circumcision. And then I headed out to try to catch Starbucks for a mocha before it shut.
I missed Starbucks by a few minutes, and sat outside Borders on Buchanan Street beside my bike listening to the guy who's always singing opera around there, and whom I usually give a few quid whenever I passed. He flashed me a smile that told me he recognised me, then another a few minutes later. I approached him, gave him a few quid as usual, and decided to strike up conversation. He was one of the nicest guys ever, and had quite a lot of tales of the unexpected to tell.
It turns out he's unemployed, and has actually been rendered incapable of working because his depression, and would find it extremely difficult in any case because he is quite badly dyslexic. He never actually had any formal vocal training, but rather was lucky in that when he was in care he was "befriended" by a woman who was a professionally trained singer who taught him everything he knows. He told me a lot of deeper personal sorts of things that I'm not at will to share - but when he told me that he was there that night to get enough money to have his gas switched back on, I gave him the bloody tenner in my pocket, and asked if he wanted to come to Subway with me and get something to eat.
He sat analysing me the whole time, with interesting comments such as: "When I look at you, you appear very soft and feminine, but when you talk, you look and sound very confident, and kind of masculine...
"I get the feeling you put up quite a hard exterior to cover up a softer interior"
(Which isn't quite true, as I'm usually quite honest about the fact that I'm a soft bastard. And my occasionally appearing assertive isn't an "act" - it's another facet of my personality. True, I may use it sometimes to avoid being walked over for being such a soft bastard inwardly...)
He also commented about the fact that I have a habit of staring right into people - which is something I thought I'd got over after I realised it was getting me a lot of unwanted male attention - particularly after moving into a red light area. And told me about the time he met Billy Connolly. He said he couldn't believe I was single. I said I couldn't believe it either, and that he wasn't the first person to have said that. I told him about my simultaneously dramatic and uneventful love-life and he said that the much-revered Wonderthighs "doesn't know how lucky he is". You're fucking telling me... And he isn't the first person to have said that either. Several people have already - male and female friends alike. I've stated my case a thousand times now, and the matter isn't up for debate. Though I do sometimes wish it was... Pfft.
And that was that. I got home at about half 11, after walking the guy to the train station and that. And at about midnight I was in a rather strange mood when a work colleague whom I've been becoming increasingly cosy with over the past three weeks came online. Goodness knows where it came from, but I suggested we could perhaps meet up that night and find a quiet place to spend some time together. Being male, I imagine that this sent his imagination into overdrive, and he didn't appear to need much encouragement.
And so it was that I slipped out of the house just as my dad had gone to bed, and I found myself and said colleague wandering the city centre for about three hours just to find a hotel that wasn't full. We ended up in the Ibis hotel, on whatever street it's on - which was £48 for the room for the night. The bedclothes in the room looked really quite nasty - but that aside, it wasn't all that bad at all. We sat up talking drivel for a little while, which somehow led to a little romance, and then later, talk of broodiness - as he is one of that strange breed of men who actually have feelings of paternity before even in a long-term relationship (interestingly he is also 6' 2", built like a brick house and going bald, so he's not particularly effeminate) - which led to me stating: "This is not the best situation for me to be getting broody in..."
Which led, a little while later in proceedings, to a pained, half-jesting cry of: "Make me pregnant! ... No - doooooooon't!!!" Which I suspect might have been the first call of its kind to be cried out in any cheap hotel anywhere, and possibly caused a raised eyebrow or two in adjacent rooms.
It's nice to find a man who wouldn't run out with his tail between his legs at that though. Most men have absolutely no fucking idea how overwhelming maternal instinct can get for some humble females like myself and my good friend Ruth, and I suspect more recently, my good friend Jac. I have been actively trying to avoid infants in public recently since I burst into tears in sheer broodiness a few days ago, not for the first time. It sounds pathetic. It probably is. Does anyone know where I can grab some testosterone supplements? Perhaps left over from your late gran's HRT? I mean, come on, they dish out oestrogen for little or no medical purpose... And if testosterone won't do the trick then will someone please find out what will - or make most of the world hold maternity in slightly higher regard than they currently do (did you know how rapidly levels of Attachment Disorder are rising these days) - where babies aren't presented to females entering breeding age simply as screaming, shitting inconveniences that no right-thinking female would forgo sitting in an office from 9-5 for.
A bag of flour, a computerised screaming machine, a doll that wets itself, may well highlight how tough parenthood can be - but it fails completely on simulating all the little things that make my brother say that his son is "the best thing that ever happened" to him. And because of the overall lack of realism in these baby machines, I resent them, even for the noble lesson they claim to aim to teach. I'd quite happily take a bloody mallet to one of those stupid baby machines, and if you even suggest that I'd be likely to do similar to any offspring I may bring forth in future, I'd be sorely tempted to do similar to you - not least because you'd be spouting some amount of shite that it'd be offensive even if it were not personally so.
Sure, the world is becoming just a bit over-populated - but surely that could be solved quite simply by castrating ugly people and neds/chavs... They appear, most unfortunately, to be the most prolific breeders. I see my own reproducing as doing the world a service.
And if you could also develop infants that, fantastic though they were, didn't stick spanners in the works of some of your most fanciful dreams, then that would be nice, too...
Maternal rant over - After the time spent in the hotel, the guy, who does have a name, which happens to be George, took me to Where the Monkey Sleeps - which is this cool little café tucked away in, I think it's West Regent Street, which looks like a hippy's little utopia: There were at least ten bikes locked up against the small stretch of fence directly in front of it, and inside there was this ridiculously laid-back air, over-priced fancy sandwiches, and coffee that was probably no doubt Fair Trade and certified by the Soil Association.
As soon as George told me to go find a seat, I came back 5 seconds later beaming like an excited child: "There's a piano!" Then walked back, lifted the lid of the piano and walked back to George to report: "And it isn't even locked." George says that he knew what I'd spotted it the minute he saw the look on my face. And then I spotted the cutest wee lassie with lovely ginger hair, and said to George: "Right, get me away from the weans..." with a smile.
I thought I was safe... but where I ended up sitting, there was a big rectangle window-like gap through which I could see and hear the little cute bastard. I could hear her gurgling and babbling and could feel my ear canals dilating. I looked through a few times, and then... then one time she caught my gaze, and she grinned from ear-to-ear and stuck her tongue out at me. I turned to George to ask the pointless question of whether or not my pupils had dilated. He told me I had very little iris left, and looked "like a bloody owl".
I did my utmost to stay slightly preoccupied with eating, but she wouldn't leave me alone. She looked over at me again and said: "Hiiiiiiiiiiiii..." Awwwww... And a little while later, she was crouching low beneath the ledge of sorts, and bouncing up and saying: "Boo!" - With a big smile on her face. And after that it was offering me her doll. God help me... I asked George: "Do you think it may be some vibe that I'm giving off?" He suspects so. I did have a strange talent when I was younger, where strangers' babies in push-chairs would stop crying when I looked them in the eye. It hasn't worked on Ryan yet, but he has more than once run to me for sympathy when being given into trouble by his father. Once hugging my legs and pressing his head in...
After the wee sprog vacated the premises with her respective family, I had a tinkle on the piano, followed by George, who played his speeded and jazzed up version of Moonlight Sonata - complaining afterwards that it hurt his fingers due to the slight arthritis he has - and I said that I had arthritis in my family too, and as such it would probably be best if we avoided making babies together, as I had high hopes of producing a brood of pianists and violinists.
I have to get up for work for an 8am start in 6 hours. The next post will wreak less of oestrogen.
On Thursday, I slept in till about 2pm as is to be expected of me on any of my days off work, and sat on my arse till about half 4, when my cousin Nicole came up for help with Maths homework. After which, I sat on my arse some more until a certain man named Felix signed into MSN Messenger and spoke with me for at least an hour and a half on topics such as the split brain, hemispherectomies, women, white matter and multi-tasking, autism, monogamy, male and female sexuality, the male tendency to speak in monosyllables and ask for directions only after five U-turns, religion, racism and xenophobia, Judaism and circumcision. And then I headed out to try to catch Starbucks for a mocha before it shut.
I missed Starbucks by a few minutes, and sat outside Borders on Buchanan Street beside my bike listening to the guy who's always singing opera around there, and whom I usually give a few quid whenever I passed. He flashed me a smile that told me he recognised me, then another a few minutes later. I approached him, gave him a few quid as usual, and decided to strike up conversation. He was one of the nicest guys ever, and had quite a lot of tales of the unexpected to tell.
It turns out he's unemployed, and has actually been rendered incapable of working because his depression, and would find it extremely difficult in any case because he is quite badly dyslexic. He never actually had any formal vocal training, but rather was lucky in that when he was in care he was "befriended" by a woman who was a professionally trained singer who taught him everything he knows. He told me a lot of deeper personal sorts of things that I'm not at will to share - but when he told me that he was there that night to get enough money to have his gas switched back on, I gave him the bloody tenner in my pocket, and asked if he wanted to come to Subway with me and get something to eat.
He sat analysing me the whole time, with interesting comments such as: "When I look at you, you appear very soft and feminine, but when you talk, you look and sound very confident, and kind of masculine...
"I get the feeling you put up quite a hard exterior to cover up a softer interior"
(Which isn't quite true, as I'm usually quite honest about the fact that I'm a soft bastard. And my occasionally appearing assertive isn't an "act" - it's another facet of my personality. True, I may use it sometimes to avoid being walked over for being such a soft bastard inwardly...)
He also commented about the fact that I have a habit of staring right into people - which is something I thought I'd got over after I realised it was getting me a lot of unwanted male attention - particularly after moving into a red light area. And told me about the time he met Billy Connolly. He said he couldn't believe I was single. I said I couldn't believe it either, and that he wasn't the first person to have said that. I told him about my simultaneously dramatic and uneventful love-life and he said that the much-revered Wonderthighs "doesn't know how lucky he is". You're fucking telling me... And he isn't the first person to have said that either. Several people have already - male and female friends alike. I've stated my case a thousand times now, and the matter isn't up for debate. Though I do sometimes wish it was... Pfft.
And that was that. I got home at about half 11, after walking the guy to the train station and that. And at about midnight I was in a rather strange mood when a work colleague whom I've been becoming increasingly cosy with over the past three weeks came online. Goodness knows where it came from, but I suggested we could perhaps meet up that night and find a quiet place to spend some time together. Being male, I imagine that this sent his imagination into overdrive, and he didn't appear to need much encouragement.
And so it was that I slipped out of the house just as my dad had gone to bed, and I found myself and said colleague wandering the city centre for about three hours just to find a hotel that wasn't full. We ended up in the Ibis hotel, on whatever street it's on - which was £48 for the room for the night. The bedclothes in the room looked really quite nasty - but that aside, it wasn't all that bad at all. We sat up talking drivel for a little while, which somehow led to a little romance, and then later, talk of broodiness - as he is one of that strange breed of men who actually have feelings of paternity before even in a long-term relationship (interestingly he is also 6' 2", built like a brick house and going bald, so he's not particularly effeminate) - which led to me stating: "This is not the best situation for me to be getting broody in..."
Which led, a little while later in proceedings, to a pained, half-jesting cry of: "Make me pregnant! ... No - doooooooon't!!!" Which I suspect might have been the first call of its kind to be cried out in any cheap hotel anywhere, and possibly caused a raised eyebrow or two in adjacent rooms.
It's nice to find a man who wouldn't run out with his tail between his legs at that though. Most men have absolutely no fucking idea how overwhelming maternal instinct can get for some humble females like myself and my good friend Ruth, and I suspect more recently, my good friend Jac. I have been actively trying to avoid infants in public recently since I burst into tears in sheer broodiness a few days ago, not for the first time. It sounds pathetic. It probably is. Does anyone know where I can grab some testosterone supplements? Perhaps left over from your late gran's HRT? I mean, come on, they dish out oestrogen for little or no medical purpose... And if testosterone won't do the trick then will someone please find out what will - or make most of the world hold maternity in slightly higher regard than they currently do (did you know how rapidly levels of Attachment Disorder are rising these days) - where babies aren't presented to females entering breeding age simply as screaming, shitting inconveniences that no right-thinking female would forgo sitting in an office from 9-5 for.
A bag of flour, a computerised screaming machine, a doll that wets itself, may well highlight how tough parenthood can be - but it fails completely on simulating all the little things that make my brother say that his son is "the best thing that ever happened" to him. And because of the overall lack of realism in these baby machines, I resent them, even for the noble lesson they claim to aim to teach. I'd quite happily take a bloody mallet to one of those stupid baby machines, and if you even suggest that I'd be likely to do similar to any offspring I may bring forth in future, I'd be sorely tempted to do similar to you - not least because you'd be spouting some amount of shite that it'd be offensive even if it were not personally so.
Sure, the world is becoming just a bit over-populated - but surely that could be solved quite simply by castrating ugly people and neds/chavs... They appear, most unfortunately, to be the most prolific breeders. I see my own reproducing as doing the world a service.
And if you could also develop infants that, fantastic though they were, didn't stick spanners in the works of some of your most fanciful dreams, then that would be nice, too...
Maternal rant over - After the time spent in the hotel, the guy, who does have a name, which happens to be George, took me to Where the Monkey Sleeps - which is this cool little café tucked away in, I think it's West Regent Street, which looks like a hippy's little utopia: There were at least ten bikes locked up against the small stretch of fence directly in front of it, and inside there was this ridiculously laid-back air, over-priced fancy sandwiches, and coffee that was probably no doubt Fair Trade and certified by the Soil Association.
As soon as George told me to go find a seat, I came back 5 seconds later beaming like an excited child: "There's a piano!" Then walked back, lifted the lid of the piano and walked back to George to report: "And it isn't even locked." George says that he knew what I'd spotted it the minute he saw the look on my face. And then I spotted the cutest wee lassie with lovely ginger hair, and said to George: "Right, get me away from the weans..." with a smile.
I thought I was safe... but where I ended up sitting, there was a big rectangle window-like gap through which I could see and hear the little cute bastard. I could hear her gurgling and babbling and could feel my ear canals dilating. I looked through a few times, and then... then one time she caught my gaze, and she grinned from ear-to-ear and stuck her tongue out at me. I turned to George to ask the pointless question of whether or not my pupils had dilated. He told me I had very little iris left, and looked "like a bloody owl".
I did my utmost to stay slightly preoccupied with eating, but she wouldn't leave me alone. She looked over at me again and said: "Hiiiiiiiiiiiii..." Awwwww... And a little while later, she was crouching low beneath the ledge of sorts, and bouncing up and saying: "Boo!" - With a big smile on her face. And after that it was offering me her doll. God help me... I asked George: "Do you think it may be some vibe that I'm giving off?" He suspects so. I did have a strange talent when I was younger, where strangers' babies in push-chairs would stop crying when I looked them in the eye. It hasn't worked on Ryan yet, but he has more than once run to me for sympathy when being given into trouble by his father. Once hugging my legs and pressing his head in...
After the wee sprog vacated the premises with her respective family, I had a tinkle on the piano, followed by George, who played his speeded and jazzed up version of Moonlight Sonata - complaining afterwards that it hurt his fingers due to the slight arthritis he has - and I said that I had arthritis in my family too, and as such it would probably be best if we avoided making babies together, as I had high hopes of producing a brood of pianists and violinists.
I have to get up for work for an 8am start in 6 hours. The next post will wreak less of oestrogen.