He wasn't waiting on the door step. He hasn't even called to apologise for being woefully late.
Also, all the interesting things in the world did not happen the moment I stepped out of my front door to go and gig in Essex. In a way this was useful because, had that happened, the rest of my life might be somewhat anticlimactic. What did happen was that I drove to Essex with a nice man, arrived at the venue to discover it was Fresher's Week and there were roaming hordes of Freshers out trying to hook up and start a merry chain of sweaty regrets. They came in waves - ordering a shot each and then leaving.
It was a pretty depressing experience to be in the queue for the ladies with 14 other girls who were all wearing smaller skirts that were less "Seductive" more "I've Only Worn This Much Because I Have To". The three girls behind me were having an animated conversation and bonding over the fact they all really needed a wee.
"I need a wee!"
"Oh my God me too!"
"I know - I really need a wee!"
"How funny!" - Back to first girl.
Not even the tiniest bit of irony from any of them. I desperately wanted to express my regret at not being able to join their conversation but I was actually queueing up to take a massive shit. I refrained and continued to shake my head inside and wonder when I made the complete transformation into an old woman. I was standing in the queue with my cropped jeans, hoodie and flip flops on feeling about 39... have I really got that old that quickly?
I suppose I must have been the same when I was their age? I have certainly never been one to dress as a bit of meat - in the early days it was a total lack of faith in the hocks that the good system of evolution has bestowed upon my family as "progress". What the hell did we start with if a cylinder of cottage cheese with a baked potato in the middle is where we are now? My ancestors must have been stumping around on legs made of spit, corned beef and a few sticks lashed together - I doubt knees were any more than a luxury for my gene pool until at least the 1950s.
Nowadays I still have very little faith in my body being a display item but I like to chalk it up to moral beliefs about the female body being all to readily displayed and therefore diminishing its value. Supply and demand - ladies, if we flood the market then who's going to want to work for it?
I've never been particularly comfortable being a dolled up girl - every now and again I find the perfect outfit that makes me feel great. If it's a little skimpy (and by some miracle I've enjoyed wearing it) then I'll wear it with pride. Generally, however, I prefer jeans and a t shirt. It doesn't mean that I don't get inexplicably jealous of girls who can dress up and carry off the "My Body is Designer" look that people drool over. I say 'inexplicably' jealous because I clearly don't want to do it, or I would have done - but I for some reason still look at girls like this and feel totally intimidated by them. Perhaps it's conditioning.
Right now though I'm wearing track suit bottoms and my old University of Kent Cricket Club hoody... so I suppose Glamour Magazine is going to have to wait until tomorrow - or until I find my hair brush (4 days and counting),