volcanic's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- new year, same old guff from Ms V So, people, I'm back. If you like, you can do that neck-shrugging thing at this point, like Eminem does in the video. I did, when I was writing it. Me and Fatboy saw this guy doing it while he was driving a van while we were waiting at the bus stop a couple of weeks ago. He had the music on so loud we could hear it quite clearly, and he was doing that ungh-ur-ungh-ur thing in time with Mr Mathers. We enjoyed the sight so much that we started to ungh-ur in time with him too, and he looked over at us as he pulled out of the junction and smiled. But I digress. Like I said, I'm back. I've been staying with my folks for the past two weeks, and it's the longest time that I've spent in their company since 1993. It's also the longest time that I've been away from my own home since about 1988, which was a tad disconcerting, to say the least. But I survived. It's been a lot less traumatic than I anticipated. I never imagined that I'd stay that long. My mum was as neurotic as fuck in the run-up to Christmas, and as a result the atmosphere was pretty frosty in the parental home, and that combined with my dad combined with alcohol inspired me to feel pangs of escape-lust. I started to wish that I was spending Christmas here in my caravan by the sea on my own. There must be some kind of magic love-glue that's kept my folks stuck together for nearly forty years, but god knows, I'd really like to hope that talking to each other like shit isn't the secret. Thankfully it all calmed down a bit once the insane round of dinner parties (I did three on consecutive nights) and trips to relatives were all done and dusted, and we ended up having a cosy family Christmas. Fatboy got an MP3 player and an electronic keyboard, so it's been musical and jolly. I got lots of lovely presents, too- No duff ones, this year, as my dad said. Ones that stick out as particular non-duffers were the Bulgari skin products from my mum, lots of beautiful notebooks, and the Shakira CD which is currently stuck in my temperamental CD player. I still hadn't heard from George when I went home. I kind of kept hoping, set up an email account on my folks' PC (y'know- just in case ) and started feeling a bit mental about it all. I was at my best friend's house, and she was amazed that I resolutely stuck to my plan not to contact him on the grounds that I wanted some kind of apology. Somehow that felt like someone somewhere was giving me permission to change my mind, so on Christmas Eve, I did. It was a very odd phone conversation. George sounded incredibly surprised to hear from me, and his voice was tangibly shaking as he spoke. We talked about the infamous essay; he brought me up to date with gossip from my old job and we both alluded to our respective sleeping problems without mentioning what may well have caused them. Freaky huh? We chatted for 15 minutes or so, and then I said my goodbyes- largely because I was freezing out in my mum's summerhouse, which was the designated smoking area. I rang him again on Christmas Day, late into the night. I like to tell myself that I did it because I was concerned about his wellbeing, because I know how hard he finds Christmas. If I'm totally honest I rang because I felt a little disjointed after the previous call. Eventually I plucked up the courage to ask him if he was still pissed off with me, and he replied that he had been, when I'd blown my top at him. So much so that he disconnected Instant Messenger and his email program and stuck a big notice by the phone telling people not to disturb him if he got any calls. I asked him if he still didn't want to see me, and he got a bit bothered and embarrassed and started muttering about how he couldn't see a way for our relationship to be "workable" and other related guff, and eventually I went back inside in the warm. He left it saying that maybe he'd email me when the fucking essay was done. And that was it, really. I've been really sad and tearful all week, as each day's gone by and the realisation has cut deeper and deeper that I really wasn't going to be seeing him over the holiday. It came to a head last night, when I ended up in a soggy weeping heap in my mum's bedroom, begging her to tell me why everything I get involved with goes pear shaped in the end. I was still crying at breakfast this morning. And I'm angry, y'know? Really angry. I still can't believe that he treated me so badly. I thought he was different; he comes with good references, from good people. He's just Very. Fucked. Up. I wanted him to be different to all the other ones, I wanted him to be the one that proved me wrong, I wanted him to be the one who would make the effort when I needed him to, to trust me and let me in. I went out with one of my former colleagues last Saturday night. I was looking gorgeous. A week of early nights and proper food had got me glowing. We ended up at one of those hideous laser-lit, alcopop-fuelled meat markets that seem to attract the flimsily-dressed and the desperate every weekend. I had inkling before I even got in the car that I was going to bump into some of George's friends, and I did. I got chatting to one of them, and we talked about George, and we both agreed that he's one of those people who have had so much crap to deal with that he just refuses to let nice stuff happen to him anymore. Alarmingly- as a result of my earlier disco-biscuit consumption- I told this guy how very much in love with George I am (something I'd never got round to telling George, because I was waiting until I saw him again in person- duh! because in my head, when George started feeling shitty I saw a very vulnerable and honest and humble side to him which kind of fitted the last pieces into the puzzle for me oh, I could go on and on ) Friend-of-George left me saying he was going tell George that he'd seen me. When we got back today, I spent a couple of hours unpacking and cleaning and stuff, before I sat down to check my mail. There was one there from George. Mostly talking about the fucking essay, and enquiring about whether or not I was back in Wales, and hoping that Fatboy and I were well. Now I'm really confused. There's a big part of me that says it's time to pick myself and dust myself down and start all over again, that it's a New Year and I can be whoever I want to be and meet someone who's going to buy me diamonds and make me smile and not toss me over for a fucking essay. There's another part of me, nearly as big, that hasn't written it off yet. That wants George- badly. That wants to say to him, Look, if you just take some time to sort out the mess that is your head, I am SO here for you. Because I lie in bed thinking about your body, and thinking about your smile, and thinking about your eyes which are quite heartbreaking to look into- but only when you take your glasses off, weirdly. And I want you making me cups of tea in the morning, and I want to lie on the grass getting pissed with you, and I want to explore more new beaches with you. Don't get me wrong- I meet lots of men, some of them interesting, many of them interested, but when I meet one that I can talk to about big knives and pornography and obscure films and arty photographers and bedroom colours and psychology and pharmacology and kids and families, I want to keep him. I'm drunk now. I apologise. I haven't replied to his email. Yet. Should I? And if I do, what do I say? 10:51 p.m. - 04.01.03 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
||||||