Be careful of the trails you leave in life
Thursday evening I was torn: the private view with the promised kick arse party to follow; or up to Stokie to catch a band that a friend is managing. Being the greedy girl I am, I chose both; after all, the band weren’t on until ten and sometimes a bike can get a girl about town almost as fast as the magic carpet that I so often dream of. So down in Shoreditch, I wandered through some cave-like, blackened passage, into a brilliantly lit room heaving with the kool-kid end of art-school alumni, unable to detect anyone I knew amongst the masses. The bar called, and with free booze, and easy drum and bass on the decks, I could see why everyone was hanging around. The art was typical of such group shows: one or two artist that were genuinely impressive; a couple that had the hype of big name collectors behind them; a number that were pretty or competent, but either highly derivative or not especially engaging; and one or two, where in search of doing something ‘different’ the artist had achieved doing something that should never have been done - vile coloured cheap paint with plastic straws stuck on.
In a big parking bay out the back, familiar faces were collected in front of huge oils of girls with manga eyes on the tube that had been painted by a friend. Every show at which I see his art, he has a new style or theme (in one phase, all his paintings were covered in cunts, with one such painting becoming my ‘cunt-face’ icon, used on this post). These ones had appeal, but I wouldn’t buy. We gossiped, and Physics Boy joined us. Last time we met, I thought him cute but too young to take up the random invitation he made; and anyway, I had other distractions. I mentioned the band playing up the road; but it being close to ten and surrounded by good people and music, it was more of a cursory comment about what I’d be missing. Back inside moments later and talking with others, Physics Boy looked at me and asked, ‘So, you wanna go see the music?’ Realising there was more to this request than music, I paused, weighed up the situation and we left.
Beers on the bus and we were quickly there; my bike deserted for another day. Laughing, we slooped down into the basement, just in time to catch the band. They were OK: girl with guitar up front, with intelligent and angsty man singing with strained face behind her; but from what I’d heard online, I’d expected more. Physics Boy looked composed, while I talked with new faces. Later, I asked him what he’d thought when we first met over a month ago, ‘I thought you were crazy,’ he paused to look at me, ‘And that you’re pretty.’
‘Why, thank you,’ I paused to provide a challenging smile, ‘but I don’t perceive myself as pretty - to me pretty is petit or soft and doll-like.’ being wise enough not to completely throw away a complement, even if it comes tied to something more tenuous, I held his eyes that were fixed on me, and added, ‘sometimes I can be quite attractive, though. And why crazy?’ I enquired, perceiving it held a mixed, almost magnetic appeal to him.
‘Oh, because you were all ideas all over the place,’ he said, trying to sound harmless; though not daring to say what he was really thinking.
I laughed anyway, and when he asked, I told him I’d thought him incredibly bright and charming and rather pretty. And young.
He looked at me, curiously, ‘but you’re my age right?’
‘Yer, right,’ smiling, I raised my eyebrows at him, ‘and some.’ I never pretend I’m what I’m not, and if they can’t deal with it, I’d rather know that sooner. The rest of the evening was slightly muted. I think he was a little uneasy about the kind of crazy that could let a woman like me live in my shoes: they’re not sufficiently ‘grown-up’ when looking from some angles, though I know how to walk in them and they suit me fine for now. Next time we meet, I imagine there’ll be a polite smile.
***
Saturday, I felt cold in my bones, even though we were a degree or two from freezing. I felt like I’ve used up all the warmth they store up in the summer, and they were complaining that we’ve had no spring to speak of. On the news they’d said it had been 22oC in London this same day last year. I felt like even half of that would make me happy now.
Photo Man cooked a most excellent dinner and a friend of his told tales of swingers on The Shetland Isles, where she’s currently setting up a whisky distillery. She’s one of those women who can make others feel almost inadequate for just being. Hell, I have no huge venture under my belt: all I have is me - which isn’t too bad.
***
On Sunday, I cycled across Walthamstow Marshes for lunch in good company. It came to light that one woman at the table was at Edinburgh at the same time as me, and we got onto gossip that overlapped. ‘Do you remember That Cool Writer?’ she asked.
‘Ooo yes,’ I giggled, conspiratorially. ‘Gorgeous Goth once dusted herself off as she followed him out of a broom cupboard, declaring, in her very proper pinched Scottish accent, “God, my knickers are full of his filth.” It became a mythic statement.’
We managed to match up equally noxious tales about others we knew back then; then moved up to date to swingers on Scottish Isles, inspired by her sister’s location and comments from the night before. She went on to tell of a slightly strange house an estate agent showed her, with fresh white walls and CCTV cameras in strange locations around every room. On enquiring about what was behind one door, the estate agent said, ‘I don’t know, let’s look,’ and heaved it open to find a dungeon inside. In the back garden, the neighbour rested her cleavage on the garden fence and smiled lasciviously as she enquired if they were planning to move in.
***
Tuesday night was a regular Old Cs meeting in a random well chosen boozer. So, we were talking shit and someone pulled out a huge book to return to Throbber, ‘This is your life,’ they jested as they shoved it across the table at him.
‘Fuck: you were on that weren’t you?’ I laughed.
‘Indeed; you and my shirt,’ added Mr Suave.
‘God yer: that was a fuckin’ weird one.’ Throbber’s hands slid up his cheeks and stretched his face into a strange shape, ‘I didn’t have a suit and had to borrow yours. And you said I could only have it if I did The Weird Wave on camera.’
‘And you bloody well did!’ threw in Mr Suave, proudly amused that his mate should have treated the show with the contempt it deserved, ‘right at the end. They were panning across all the guests and your hand was poking out doing strange things.’
Throbber went on to tell how he and his bird headed back to the hotel they were all put up in by the TV company, face full of economy coke, or speed or some other random white powder. Back in the bedroom, he turned on the TV, and his father was on the porn channel: ‘Suburban Housewives’ or some such lame sixties porn, with half the action hidden behind a hedge. ‘The bird wanted to watch it,’ he said, ‘but you’ve no idea what a fuckin’ turn -off it is seeing your own dad on a porn film. Weird thing was, I’d heard about it before, but never seen it. Then on the night they get him on “This is your Life”, in the hotel all the guests are staying in, there’s three things to choose from on the TV and one’s my fuckin’ dad doing bad porn. Served the ol’ bastard right.’ He went on to add his dad had his first heart attack shortly after.