Love Poetry

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‘You’ve only come so you can write about it,’ the guy says, with an irritating smile.CC Image courtesy of dichohecho on Flickr

I scan the room.  ‘Hmm.’ 

It’s a birthday drinks.  I don’t drink, and I don’t like the birthday boy.  And the guy I’m speaking to, I was mildly obsessed with for about a year before he hooked up with my best friend – two days ago.  So I’m having a whale of a time.

 

The only dating potential I’ve found so far is propping up the bar.  He’s got a slight paunch – the mark of the mature student – and is wearing a t-shirt bearing the slogan ‘I love Cromer’.  Get too close and he starts spouting poetry.

 

I’ve had enough of ‘elephant in the room’ conversation with smiling guy.

‘I’m gonna head.  Goodnight.’

I do head, to the bar; I’m in the mood for a poem.  Since we last spoke, Paunch has communed with a couple of beers, and I find him in high spirits.  He might be gay – did I mention? – but he’s also frighteningly clever and well-read, and, well, you know what they say about opposites attracting.

 

Three missed Byron references later, I’m stammering out an apology/explanation, whilst he writes down, not his phone number, but a reading list.  Yep.  I leave the joint with the following prescription:

  • Geoffrey Hill
  • Kipling (not the cake – I checked)
  • Some obscure poet
And orders to watch Azerbaijan’s Eurovision entry.  Did I say might be gay?
CC Image courtesy of PanARMENIAN_Photo on Flickr



The Couch and the Poof

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‘How are you feeling about it all?’ 

One of the perks of having an aspiring psychotherapist for a best friend: being asked wonderfully open-ended, self-indulgent questions – for free.

‘Surprisingly fine!’

‘Good!’

‘Yes, well, sort of.  OK, so I wasn’t going to tell you this…’

Whatever.

‘… but – the method I chose for getting over him – I went for the oh-so-healthy option of immediately transferring all my feelings onto a new victim!’

‘Oh!  Who?’

‘Simon.  I think I’ve mentioned him before?’

‘Y-es.  Isn’t he gay?’

‘Jury’s still out on that one.’ 

The same could not be said of Simon.

‘Rrright.  Well… well done!’

I feel a huge sense of achievement, and admiration for my friend who has the makings of a marvellous psychotherapist.

 


Cruel to be Kind

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CC Image courtesy of crosathorian on FlickrI thought Thursday Guy was just another crush, another notch on my emotional bedpost.  But then the insomnia started, accompanied by the sending of crazy emails to my best friend at 4am.  I had been so sure that there was something there that it was proving difficult to let go.

Wednesday evening, I rang my Mum.

‘No word from Thursday Guy.’

‘Oh?’

‘It’s been nearly three days and he hasn’t replied to my message.  Not a good sign, eh?’

‘Did you ask him a question?’

‘Yes, I asked if he’d had a nice weekend.  Shouldn’t have done that, should I?’

‘Hmmm probably not.’

‘I guess I just got the impression he liked me so I didn’t feel the need to play games… maybe, cos it’s lovely weather, he’s not at his computer much…’

‘Hmmm.’

Two lessons that can be learnt from the above:

  1. If you are using the weather to explain a man’s silence, it is time to move on.
  2. If you want someone to lie to you and say what you want to hear but know to be untrue, call a friend, not your mother.

CC Image courtesy of edd_b on Flickr

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