Love is…


In the three weeks since I last posted, I have mainly been whoring myself out on Twitter and writing gig reviews. I did a Grimes one which I hoped she would see and cry herself to sleep about not agreeing to give me an interview, and I’ve just written one for the amazing L’Amour Des Reves, which will be published somewhere sometime soon.

What I’m trying to say is “I’m not workshy,” as my BFF Jaime used to bleat when he worked on a building site and the rugged menfolk tittered at his art school physique.

“I’m no weed, my work can lift the spirit of mankind”

I’ve just been on the daily dog walk. I seem to have lost about a stone in the past 3 months with our Thirds Diet, a lack of belly which made itself known suddenly and traumatically when my trousers started to plummet to the ground. Just as I made it to the main road, my belt gave way and whereas usually my baggy 90s jeans would be lodged on the muffin top they embrace, they now went into freefall. Picture me, each hand being tugged akimbo by a straining dog, hands desperately fumbling to get my buckle safely in its hole as families walk towards me, their faces turning from concern to fear to disgust.

Finally, I managed to get off the street and down to the park where I could manhandle myself unseen. As Gary Numan knew, down in the park you’re just another weirdo.

 

The dog walk is always a fraught affair. Yesterday, it was taking its usual mundane course until:

Lisa: Oh God, what’s wrong with everyone? Why are they all pretending?

Me: Who?

Lisa: Everyone. They’re all in on it!

Me: On what?

Lisa: They’re all dressed up as humans, but everyone knows they’re not. I want to scream.

Luckily we get to the end of the park and manage to bundle Lisa home where she could rock in the corner of her room while the light faded.

Behind closed doors, we can all be each other’s weirdos. It’s a sign of affection I think to sit next to each other muttering in our own private funnyfarms. Love is…a low security asylum. 

The longer a couple is together, the less veiled the insults and threats become. It’s quite sweet really. Love is…a killer diss.

“Mummy, are we in the matrix?”

Esther: Aww, look at those cows. The baby’s saying “get up mummy, I want to go for a walk.”

Me: Or that’s its fat lazy girlfriend…?

Esther blinks: Or the girlfriend is the little one and she’s broken the fat boyfriend’s legs.

Me (scared, so changing the subject): Which boy in American Pie would you rather be?

Her: The homophobic surfer dude

Me: Me too

So, to sum up, love is…agreeing where it matters.

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