I laugh in the face of normal
Learning from my previous experiences of strange flashing men and people who wanted to make my packed lunch and cut my hair, I decided that the next person I met would be someone I really got to know. Not like a urologist would get to know them, you catch my drift.
I’m not one to judge others on their status and I wasn’t looking for a professional person. What I craved was a lively mind (steady) and someone who could make me laugh. I’d had enough serious years in my lifetime and I longed for someone who was interested in me and not just a series of naughty pictures. I found myself more and more attracted to people with talents and skills at this time. People who could play the guitar figured highly on my list as did artists, photographers, writers – anyone with a dream.
I have often wondered whether really I was looking for someone a bit less esoteric when I reflect on this. Going around with the bassist in a band had been my girlish dream when I was a teenager – if he had long hair, a beard, smoked and my mother despised him, then so much the better, but let’s just say for the purpose of this story that he had to have a dream.
That’s when I got talking to a great bloke with a guitar, surprisingly. He didn’t have long hair, but he had what looked from his photos like the beginnings of a beard, so we began communicating. I told him my weird stories so far and how I wasn’t looking for someone to send me crazy pictures or frighten me by stalking me and he seemed genuinely penitent on behalf of males everywhere. We even took the step of becoming Facebook buddies, where I could see that he did, indeed, write songs and post a great deal about music. I know, I know, people can say what they want on Facebook, but I was re-living my youth, OK?
Not long afterwards I trusted him enough to pass on my number and we spent many an hour chatting and whiling away time discussing our taste in music and the madness of humanity. He made me laugh on numerous occasions and I began to feel genuinely hopeful that this one could work. He worked, he said, in the building trade while waiting for his music career to take off. He’d done other jobs, but that allowed him to devote time to his dream.
We spoke for about three weeks before deciding the details of a date. It was a lovely sunny week and we decided that we would see where the breeze took us. I took my car (always my plan, in case of a quick getaway – no one wants to be reliant on a nutter for a lift home again) and headed out to get him.
When I turned the corner that I was supposed to be meeting him on, there was no sign of him. In fact, there was no sign of anyone, except for a badly dressed homeless man, sitting on the kerb with his head in his hands. No guitar, no beard, no dinner for the last ten weeks either, by the looks of him. I drove round again. My head accepted what my heart already knew. It was him. What was I to do?
I did what any reckless woman in a flap would do under the circumstances. I didn’t run or hide. I didn’t pretend I hadn’t seen him. I opened my car door and took him for a day out to Blackpool and bought him fish and chips. I couldn’t think of another option. If I was going to be murdered, I reasoned, at least this one would make good reading in the local paper.
To be continued.