It’s 3.00 a.m.and the wind is mighty.
I can hear the pentatonic clanging of the mobile in the garden,
The fire died around ten o’clock, the house is now silent all the occupants in bed ‘cept me.
On Facebook I call Bonnie in Holloway, she dips her hand into a pot, sifting through a pile of words I shout stop. She pulls out a word. She does it again. I shout stop she reveals a second word.
This afternoon the first word was Romance.
I let that sink in. The second word was Forgetful.
I get instant images.
Johnathon Longman was a handsome artist at Camberwell art school. I was 18. We met somewhere, our eyes locked and we agreed to meet. On the embankment. A cloudy sky, evening giving way to night. The lights reflecting on the Thames.
I was nervous. This was a real date.
We walked towards each other. As he got level with my face he said
‘I’ve changed my mind.’
And walked past me.
It was a sucker punch. I stood there wondering what he had seen between our first glance and this moment under the lampposts.
Made for a good story even though my ego was bruised.
Most of my romances were forgetful. But others weren’t.
When you get older remembering your life before decrepitude can be a joyful activity,. Eyes closed sinking into nostalgia.
I had another encounter with an artist.
Drury Lane 1968. He was delicious, wore a cap and asked me to go and live with him in Barcelona.
I never did but my ego was massaged.
Bloody ego gets in the way of everything.
Then there was the electrician from The Phoenix Theatre in Leicester.
He wore glasses and peed the bed. I ceased the relastionship when he peed all over my right shoulder.
A geezer in Munich was an Australian Ukranian, with a flat and a clean bed. Ken Campbell, our leader, told us we had to do a moonlight flit from our hotel, we’d run out of money, and would we mind very much finding a bed for the rest of the gig.
I winked at the audience member, he coughed up and I had peaceful slumbers for the rest of the tour.
Actors were considered immoral, back in the day, I was true to my profession.
And then there was the Israeli director, who I would prefer to forget.
Romantic it was till he opened up his wallet. Flip flap flop went the photographs of his wife and children.
I was horrified.
The Dutch beau offered me a bed on the Amsterdam canals.
He used Old Spice soap in his shower, and had a water bed.
I got sea sick.
I got romantically involved with a bloke who had a leather jacket. He wanted me to buy him a new Stratocaster guitar.
He said he was musician when he actually worked in a mens clothing shop in Temple Fortune.
He was born in Oklahoma and had halitosis.
When they came to investigate me from the American Embassy – coming from Communist parents – our trip to the landlocked state was aborted.
I’m not sure my multiple dalliances could be described as romantic, I did what every girl did in the sixties – the newly available contraceptive pill gave us freedom and a wilful way.
I stopped bedding actors and musicians and decided it would be better to be alone and forget romance.
And then I met the old git. I had no intention of stepping into another liaison but the old git did what he always did, made me laugh and acted extremely well.
The northern branch of my life taught me that romance was unlike the southern approach to it.
‘Do you love me? I would simper.
‘I live with you don’t I.’ was about as schmoozey as you’re gonna get.
After fifty years his version of Mills & Boon has served us well.
I have a friend who married a man from Huston, he booked them into hotel in Paris and filled it with sweet scented mimosa.
For a split second I was jealous.
He turned out to be a complete dick.
I have another friend who had a man who was devoted to her until it turned into coercive behaviour.
We fell out when he maintained that a mans relationship to a baby was the same as a womans.
‘You dont carry it for none months.’ I argued. ‘There is a substantial difference.’
He left his own house to buy a newspaper and I never saw him again.
So what is romance?
According to the Cambridge Press;
‘Romance refers to a feeling of strong attraction or love between two people, often characterised by emotional intimacy and excitement.’
Certainly the Northern Git and I were characterised by emotional intimacy and excitement and then we got old. Now we are about as romantic as a pair of slippery eels.
Old age may give you wisdom but it don’t ‘alf fuck with affaire du coeur.