A Single Woman

I have no patience. Zero. Squat-all. As a child I used tell my brother he was irritating. He would simply respond by telling me that I was irritable. Well it’s a fine line when you’re a woman. It’s a fine fine narrow piece of ice and my housemate is treading on it without any trepidation. He should be.

My threshold for daily annoyances has packed its bags and gone on holiday. I’m quite aware that this Saturday I move house, I move into my new, smaller, but less ikea’d girly and bookshelved flat and as such can no longer tolerate any annoyances I used to put up with. Is this normal? Am I some sort of intolerant freak? Am I to sit back and ignore the inhalation of cereal next to me, while words sputter out mid chomp? I guess this is just another addition to my list of middle-class problems, which I’ll throw in the furnace when I get a firmer grip of reality.

Speaking of not having a grip on reality, last night I watched When Harry met Sally for what was quite possibly the 50^th time. Which was preceded by watching 50 First Dates, another high quality contribution to the world of film, by a man named Sandler. All this on the one day that I normally pledge to resent love and be the bitter (prematurely) old woman that I am. The stupid universe snuck up on me. It filled my belly with paella, and then erased the fact that it was the dreaded V day from my brain and taunted me with a severely loved up tv schedule.  I wasn’t even bitter, not one bit, I even shed a little tear over 50 First Dates and dozed off blissfully before the final “and it’s not because it’s new years eve” speech of Harry and Sally. So in the spirit of positivity and ignorant bliss, I’l just assume that the little notes of secret admiration got lost in the post… hmmph.

On Saturday, still in the throws of ‘post-cereal-munching’ anger, I dotted off to the movies. By myself. This is hands-down, one of my favourite treats. I’m not some kind of freakish loner. I wanted to see A Single Man, with Colin Firth, and I didn’t want to risk it being ruined by company.  It was complete and utter film perfection, arresting, poignant, heart aching perfection. I’m in love with it, in awe of it and hanging on its every word. You should probably see it. 

surround sound scales

Merry Christmas. This year your dad's fiancé has given him guitar lessons. It seems on the surface, an innocent and benevolent gesture. It is not. 

Here's what we know about your dad. For years now he has been playing the guitar, singing along in the shrill poorly timed tones of a pre-pubescent chipmunk. His guitar skills and salary have never quite been in sync. In fact it would be safe to assume, that as the one got better, the other has taken a mind boggling nose dive. Four guitars and one too many versions of 'Summer of '69' later, you're a few radishes short of losing your mind. 

To make matters far, faaaar worse, he is in possession of an amplifier. So despite having said goodnight, and being behind the once safe enclosure, that is your bedroom door,  you can still hear the not so distant, not so bluesey version of Eric Clapton's Layla. Clapton himself is no doubt having a sleepless night at the very thought of the massacre. Layla stripped of all her blues, her off-beat, decidedly on, her swaggering confidence destroyed by a teenager sipping white lightning in a cold park.

Three lessons, with a floppy haired son-of-a-gun surely not more than 3 weeks your senior, and you're longing for the days when the rumbling downstairs was unrecognisable. Your every waking hour is interrupted by scales and screeching and wailing that no new-born baby has ever been able to match. If he confined himself to one room of the house, you could cope. You could watch Friends on surround sound, so that Ross burning his fingers on the fajitas, sounded like it was actually in your kitchen. That would be very well and good, if your dad hadn't decided to entertain both you and Ross in the living room. 

You didn't think the fiancé was evil, I bet you do now.