No tall stories
A meeting in a café: slight trepidation, not for the meeting of a stranger, but for the interpretation of that meeting. In itself, all is enjoyable; but I feel guilty in that agreeing to the meeting might have inferred I was open to more. In some respects I can appear very open; but there is a core of me that is very closed: self-protective independence or something.
***
Nephew, biggest niece and their dad were down from Scotland to look at universities. My flat felt like a campsite; but it was totally worth it. I am good auntie.
***
Saturday night I was down in Camberwell for a random birthday. Bright-as-a-Button Builder was their: he brightens things. He’s part of the Peckham posse and a complete honey, compressed into compact form. It’s not uncommon for people to enquire if I’m ‘heightist’ when it comes to love or lust, suggesting I might only consider men who are taller than me. At about six inches shorter than me, he’s amongst those who come to mind as justification for my denial. Not that there ever would be anything more than friendship between us; but that’s entirely in spite of his perfect physiognomy: I know he’s the type who would become unduly attached in a way that’s quite unsuited to my nature. I’m not available to be ‘owned’.
I admit: tall men tend to catch my eye quicker; but I would hate to discriminate on the basis of height, especially as I know it frequently happens to me. Tall women are something that are sometimes ‘admired’; but many men are intimidated and often only approach drunk at the end of the evening, or slip into some fawning, ‘victim of the dominitrix’ role when there’s no evidence there of any dominatrix traits within my nature. Honestly, it sometimes makes me almost want to slap them - except that would be too laughable.
Anyway, if I were to specifically discriminate on height, it would further reduce the already tiny pool of single, heterosexual, reasonably intelligent, non-arrogant, respectful, non-lardy, un-creepy, at ease with themselves men available for consideration for anything more than conversation - and these are just the basic criteria I require, before getting down to such subjective qualities as attractiveness, wit, chemistry and being a suitable age without having entirely gone to seed. So; short men can jump through my many challenging hoops, provided they have a physical presence that won’t leave me feeling oversized in their company, which, I swear comes down to their reaction to me. Indeed: I’m as likely to feel oversized in the company of men close to my height as those much shorter than me.
Aside from such trivial diversions in what I might look for in a man (in my very unfocused and unsearching kind of way; because, other than certain things I miss from being single, it suits me rather well), I spent the evening talking with two lovely woman while fielding off attention that went way beyond flattery from a married man. Married men: yes; you are allowed to be friendly; to even make the occasional compliment; to dance in my direction; but fuck off home to your wife and children and learn some fucking manners will you? It is NOT OK to ask if you can come home with me at the end of the evening, just because I allowed you to dance with me.
***
Sunday: possibly the last of the summer sunshine, so it had to be a picnic on Hampstead Heath. My, that heath is a perfect place to be when the sun shines and the company is good. The food wasn’t bad either. After, I went for a drink with Foxy, who somehow has managed to turn her life from an apparent struggle into something possibly quite grand in all of two months. She’s not looking that well on it just now, but sounding excited at all the opportunities. It’s a hard world she’s entering and it all sounds a little hyped. I hope that it works out for her.