Thursday, 18 November 2010

To Sir With Lub...

One of Small Child’s schoolfriends has some kind of syndrome or is perhaps just delightfully eccentric before her time.  Small Child is held in continual thrall at the barmy antics of this Crazy Chick.  Apparently, at times, and. completely when the mood takes her (which is what I so love about this child) she ups and off’s from her table and floats around the classroom declaring her “lub” for certain of the most handsome (and Small Child will vouch for this) of the boys.  Not such a crazy chick then eh?

Ah yes! Lub!  A wonderful subject that I ponder most regularly – and particularly at this time of year when the sun seems shinier and my eyes see greener fields.   

Spring though, was yesterday.  Tonight as the wind and the rain rage against the walls of this tiny cottage I ponder and I wonder and…I think I might want to weep.  A short and snotty little blub.  A bit like the one Emma Thompson had in Love Actually when she found her christmas present was not the pretty gold trinket she had found in her husband’s pocket a week before, and thus said trinket must  now hang around the neck of her husband’s lover.  Or should that be lubber?  Well, anyway, it was a supreme little blub and just up my street as blubs go.

Small Child’s friend incidentally, is not a short and snotty blubber.  No.  She is a wailer.  She howls her protests at perceived injustice or her hurt feelings and her howls begin from her toes up.  She could be a professional. 

I don’t want to howl or wail.  I do though, feel a short, sweet but snotty little weep, preferably into a white lace hankerchief is in order this evening.  I think a little redness round the eyes might be appropriate. 

A bit Celia Johnson is how I am a feelin’.  Then, of course, I could give a short, sharp blow of the nose, twiddle my hankie over my lower face, sigh deeply and then announce (to no one) that  ”that is that, over and done,  soldier on girl.”  I could tuck my hanky into the sleeve of my grey, pilled cardigan, adjust my hair (or at least fiddle with something), swallow and give a small, resigned smile before I stride orf to immerse myself in ‘good works’ for others.   Of course, all this would be in black and white and sooner or later I’d be referred to as “a good egg!” 

I won’t though.  Cry that is.   Let’s face it, he’s not even spilt milk.  One can, of course, cry at a loss, and in particular a lost love.  That is certainly allowed and almost compulsory for some – I’m thinking heroines of Jane Austen novels here.  Especially of course, if he (the subject of your lub, true or not) has given you the boot.  He hasn’t though.  I have finished him, finished us.  Not that us was much of an us at all, but still we, were a we, at times.  Certainly not for long, in fact, a truly Brief  Encounter – or series of them anyway.  They were, however, occasions or should that be Occasions – well I wore a hat didn’t I?!

I can tell you why they were Occasions too.  How long has it been since I felt abandonment, lust, love?   Too long, too long, thats how long.  How long since a man held me and kissed me and at least thought he liked me, even if it were for that moment?  How long eh?  Too long!  In amongst the sheer, hard slog of being “mum” when did I get to feel that way?   Never that’s when.  Not even when the husband was still there.

We were a mini series Sir and me.  We lurched from episode to episode, a cliff hanger at each ending.  I did a kind of grown up version of  that game children do with Dandelion Clocks.  “He loves me, he loves me not, he loves me….he love’s me not…even a little bit.”

So, I finished us because I know the signs.  Doesn’t reply to a text?  He’s gone love…Sir has left the building…actually, in all honesty, Sir never quite got both feet through the door.  Well he did once.  A moment on a muddy pathway amidst the cold winter fields. We stood a long moment  in silence, watching the pair of Herons on the water, him stood behind me, hands on my shoulders, taller than me, nuzzling the back of my neck.  He liked me then, in that moment and for a while longer.  Until he didn’t.  What is the new film called?  ‘He’s just not that into you’ – that’ll be it!

So, yes.  I finished us and that is a good thing.  I have places to go and a particular someone to find.   He might come back again of course.  He has a tendency to return, out of the blue, like we never said goodbye. The chirrup that announces a newly delivered text message, and on opening, the delightful “Hello Minxy!”  Yes, he may come back yet for Episode 4 or is it 5?   I think this time though, this time will be it…I think.  Hence the need for that weep…a way to mark his passing from my life. 

He was, you see, frightfully and terribly important, as Celia might say.  He woke me up.   He shook me from my numb and slumbering state.  He reminded me that I used to be a girl who sparkled when desired.  A girl who grew into  a woman who could wear the Ready Brek glow of love as well as any new item in her wardrobe .   He returned me to consciousness, resusitated  me as I neared the death of love.  He may not be that into me but he got completely inside me anyway.

Small child’s friend sees only that her ‘lub’ should be declared.  She delivers her announcements without care or any sense of inhibition.  She seems to need nothing by way of return.   When she ‘lubs’ a boy she ‘lubs’ him.

So,  Sir, before I go, and despite the fact that you have gone already, I want you to know;

”I did, do and will always lub you.”

Frightfully and terribly.

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