Go On A Course Why Don’t You?
July 20, 2011 § 17 Comments
If one more person tells me to go on a fucking course.
“That’s how my mother’s friend whose husband left her for his teenage secretary met a very nice man. She did a pottery course in Guildford,” they say. (And what sort of man, I feel bound to speculate?)
You name it, I have been told to go on them.
Pottery; poetry; photography. I hate blinking pottery – oh, the chill clay up to your elbows and the wheel of tedium. The notion of amateur poetry or watercolouring in some chilly church hall makes me want to… well, I would rather, as the Arab insult goes, have the fleas of a thousand camels infest my armpits.
I have a friend who was single for twenty years, lived alone in Shepherd’s Bush with her cat, then met the love of her life on a yoga retreat. Transformed her life, he did. They now live in a glorious loft apartment in New York and do yoga together and both love the cat, together. Fairy story. Trouble is, I have never got to grips with yoga.
What of an academic course of some sort, people wonder for me? Improve the mind and meet someone into the bargain.
But it’s not like that, is it? These courses – as a wise commentator on one of my earlier posts (who has also been told a trillion times to go on a course) so rightly pointed out – are just full of planktons like her and me, going on courses because they’ve been told to go on courses – to find a man. Not a man to be seen.
OK, people say, so think out of the box. Take up something a lot of men do, like – ping – golf! (The idea always occurs to them in a blinding flash as if they are the very first to think of it and are so very inspired). Do I look like someone who has golf in me or wants a man who has golf in him? You know, I would rather swallow an entire club in one gulp than take up fucking golf. I may be sticking my neck out here, but golf strikes me as the very naffest of every sodding sport going, with the possible exception of darts, and I loathe all sport with a vengeance. I am not looking for a man with pastel-coloured diamond jumpers and two-tone shoes who wants to be associated with a wanky club all the members of whom regard women as midges except when they (the members) have hard-ons and then they upgrade them (women) to spitoons.
OK, people say, so think of something completely different and/or further from home.
Top of the suggestions of something completely different and/or further from home, for reasons I cannot fathom, ALWAYS seems to be walking in the Himalayas. What is it with walking in the Himalayas? Why does everyone come up with this gem? I hate fucking walking. I ran a marathon once, so I am not a complete fat jobber, but I am the kind of hateful person who tries to park in the space very nearest to the supermarket doors and who feels a sense of loss if I have to go in the one as much as fourth from the entrance. (I promise I am properly green in all other respects). When people suggest a walk round the park, suddenly out of nowhere I have a very serious work deadline, even if it is Sunday and I have just lingered over a huge lunch for all the world with work as far from my mind as goddamn golf. The thought of flying half way across the world to go on the mother of all walks with a whole load of people in highlighter, crispy clothing who worthily spew their guts up for the privilege and welcome this altitude sickness as some sort of badge to their spirit of adventure – and manage to meet someone like-minded?
Are you out of your fucking mind?