Feel like a moan and a whinge about the current one, for whom I very often put my own needs and wishes on hold and essentially good and adorable as he is, I think he never wakes up asking himself how he can make my world a better one today. No, most, if not all mornings, I’d say he wakes up with unsolvable work/life conundrums. They probably recede a little during the day, they return late at night, occupy his sleeping consciousness and there they are, fresh as a daisy in the morning whilst he’s tired out by them and distracted. I watch him playing with his hair, scratching his scalp a little and frowning. He’s not that aware that he does this. Or that I’m not asleep or blissfully unaware. I wish I was.
So, just to stop moaning about the current one, here’s the previous whinges distilled to their core. I’ve excised what made all of these good by the way – which would take many more paragraphs thankfully - and stuck to the crucial un-negotiatbles. And they’re not in chronological order. And money or a quiet life never were my driving motives for sticking to a relationship. I never needed one that badly. Even when I was exchanging letters or other text saying ‘I’d die without you’ I knew I wouldn’t really die.
Memory works in funny little pathways and this train of thought was started by driving past producer Trevor Horn’s house in Maida Vale. I remembered his trusted engineer, Tim W. One summer, I spent days falling in love with his hairy forearms. From the couch at the back of the mixing desk I had a clear view of his arms moving along the dials, faders, switches, and was mesmerised by the strong veins I could see. I guess I must have thought blood cursed through them like a torrent (yeah, doh, of course but you know more blood, more passion than average). The rolled up sleeves of his checked shirts, (sometime pale denim), also indicated he could er.. roll up his sleeves and get on with life, work, ploughing a field, god knows what was my fantasy then. And in the 80’ and 90’s a silver bracelet seemed to me to be shorthand for sexiness. It also matched the pushbike lifestyle, you know, bankers don’t do silver bracelets unless they are gay. If that one had carried on past a few months, I’d have been a studio widow. We might not even have eaten dinner together very often as he’d have ordered in or eaten with whatever artist he was producing at the studio. Usually around 7.30/8pm. Only to re-fuel and carry on several more hours and do the same next day. Yep, studio widow but housed in Portobello Rd. Knew there was a plus.
Ok, I’ll make the rest a bit shorter:
Mark – he’d have died a few years later. Of cancer. Never mind studio widow, real widow.
Martin – we would have remained a married man, and not married to me. Part time widowhood?
Craig – he would have carried on taking drugs. According to him he didn’t have a habit. Also a silver bracelet wearer, pushbike and motorbike rider. Hunky and dark haired as Tim W above and with checked shirts. Both are virgos. Oh dear. I see patterns clearly. Casual overdose widowhood?
Will – he’d never go on a trip with me that involved a bit of sweating or effort or trekking shoes. Oh and he’d have never fucked me up the ass. Or with a measure of pleasure. Ass widowhood?
Seth – he’d never been around when really needed. Or much. He nearly didn’t make it to the birth of his first child. Ok baby arrived a few days early but….emotional widowhood?
David – he’d have gone off eventually with a black girl. Always had that fixation. Was his idea to holiday in Jamaica where all the girls looked like his best friend’s younger sister. The one he got off with after me.
Dear John – he’d have gone off with umpteenth women and not owned a house till probably time to draw a pension. Oh wait a minute, he never had a pension and who’d give him a mortgage? Never mind widowhood, constant jealousy wearing me down.
Nige – he’d have made me get pregnant three times. And go to church every Sunday.
Andy & Daniel, the young ones – they’d made me think the menopause was never going to get me and then it would have and boy… talk about wanting to kill yourself. Fear of fifty? Moi?
Paul – he’d never be where he said he was, and never give me his mobile number and always be three hours late and forget any birthday and dinner plans. You think this stuff is superficial but wait till you try it.
Am sure there’s more… must have buried the memories.
Is there some leitmotif in all of the above?
