Alive, if not exactly kicking…
November 15, 2013 § 387 Comments
I have been remiss, very remiss. Haven’t been reporting from the frontline of plankton-hood because there’s been sweet FA to report, except for hearing about all the women who have been joining my ranks, or continue to try to stem their individual tide precisely in order not to do so.
The old friend, as I think I may have mentioned, hooked up with a multi-millionairess, quite ten minutes after separating from his wife.
The amazing friend Janey is throwing yet another singles’ dinner – 4th in 5 years, far as I remember, and there may well have been others, without me. I must be a hard nut to crack, her most impossible client, in the sense that I am still here, planking away; but she keeps trying, and the trying alone is enough for me. It means everything to me that someone’s bothering (so few do, and I am in love with those friends who make that supreme and kindly effort); success would almost be a side issue. What I have come to accept of late is that I am enjoying the benefits of planktonhood more than I have in the past. Realisation that it is not all bad; and acceptance. Course, I have known that all along, but I’m not fighting it any more. In fact, I am thinking the answer – flying in the face of popular opinion – is to be MORE picky, not less so. This old “so what first attracted you to multimillionairess Gina?” friend, lives bloody miles away in a far-flung county and loves his dogs and multi-millionairesses and probably gets excited by phrases in the colour supplements such as “luxury travel goods” which leave me colder than a witch’s tit. If all that shit is his bag, I would be bending backwards like a fucking limbo dancer to have the honour of being with him, I think. Ach! Don’t need it.
Met another man the other night. Really lovely. Seemed modest, gentle, clever, got the joke. I repeat, got the joke! That’s more the sort of person, I thought. Not that I am going to do anything about it. Call me a reactionary, but that’s his job. He knows where to find me. Like my ex-husband who never courted higher-paying, commercial work but wasn’t averse if it courted him. I won’t be averse but I am not planning on angling. Can’t be arsed. Don’t want it so much, or maybe I have just given up. Either way, not angling is fine with me.
I’m having a nice time, managing my kids, seeing my family and friends; working, not enough (not enough of it about), but a bit, to keep the spirits high and the bank balance a degree or two off destitution. That’s all that matters. Especially as I read news of the Philippines which utterly flails one, and since one friend has told me all the gory details of her beloved husband’s chemotherapy (the stuff you never hear about; don’t ask), I think all the more, that that is all that really matters: family, friends, supper together.
Spent the day watching a child in a match and enjoying the craic on the sidelines and then went to visit my sister and my niece and went on to the supper where I met Modest Man, with old friends, seven of us round the table, eating, and laughing. Drove home listening to whoopingly-loud music and thought, with days like that I want to live for ever.
They don’t come round much, such days, but when they do everything, briefly, seems OK.