As an actor, I have always loved the
idea of Valentines and all the accompanying pomp. The card from an
admirer, the flowers, the chocolates and of course, the wild,
unbridled passion, which, during the first three in the list, hangs
there like some dastardly lingerie wearing carrot.
It has been sometime since my wife,
Eleri, left me for the man who, it has to be said, is not a patch on
her husband. But that is not my opinion, take the swath of letters
(unpublished) the local paper have received from people who know me
berating her decision. All anonymous, naturally, but all of a similar
tone, that happiness would not be hers, that I was (in the writers'
opinion) better off without her strumpet ways and frankly who could
blame me for taking terrible and merciless revenge sometime in the
distant future.
It is difficult when a
relationship breaks down to such an extent that one party is left
bereft of the feeling of trust and love, but one must move on. When
one is wronged to such a massive extent by someone with the morals of
an alley cat on heat, one must drop the pretence of hoping for
revenge, for natural justice or a coerced version, and move on. One
may regret the decision to put dogs' mess through their letterbox,
burn all their pictures or sign them up to a variety of weird porn
magazines (you can find the addresses of these easily from any
suitable provider). But one must, at some point move on.
Sitting outside their house day after
day as well is not recommended, even if you have a car it still looks
suspicious. So don't let it blight you. Move on I say, and I am not
just quoting the officer of the law there.
So, Valentines' Day, a day when my own
personal circumstance is different from other peoples, in that I am
alone, in my flat. Either side of my walls parties and Barry White
can be heard, a cheeky feminine giggle, the odd lash. Romance is in
the air. Except for me.
Not that you should feel sorry for me,
oh no. I have my works of Shakespeare, my complete poets of the 18th
century and my half woven dog basket to occupy my time. Plus there is
a rising suspicion that something might be stuck in my u-bend, so my
life is not completely lacking in adventure.
Harking back to my distant teenage
years, when I was a mere slip of an actor, who couldn't emote to save
his life, I remember my first dalliance with the fair sex.
An excerpt from my diary of the time
May 23
Met Kerry after school chess club and
went to shady glade. What treasures lie under those garments to
explore! Her soft lips meeting mine, and an exchange of what I can
only call spittle. The intoxicating scent of her hair, the soft touch
of her skin, the sparkle of cheek and anitcipation of forbidden
pleasure in her eyes.
There followed several more
assignations like this over the intervening years. Including one
which is particularly imprinted on my mind.
Aug 6
Lost track of time in Poona during a
run of Little 'Ampton. Awakening to find my troupe gone, I was alone
and adorned only in silken towelling. Then entered the Goddess. The
most beautiful woman – apart from Mama of course – that I had
ever seen. The shimmering veils leaving so little to the imagination
and causing much stirring in 'little tarquin', she made her way to
the bed.
I do not wish to go further with this
story, suffice to say a good time with several encores was had by
all, as, later, was penicillin. I was going to complain but seeing as
how I had not obtained a receipt I didn't have a leg to stand on,
legally.
When I returned to the troupe house,
they all seemed to know what has transpired between myself and the
lovely Betsy, mostly from the (now gone) male bravado of boasting and
telling but also from the 8mm film someone had thoughtfully made of
the whole event.
From then on, on that tour, I was
referred to in the local dialect as 'bendy one'.
So don't you worry about me on
Valentines' Day. I have more than enough to keep me occupied.
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