I don’t feel the driving rain as I cut a lonely figure negotiating through revellers in Brighton streets, unfazed by some pretty girl trying to dance with me. Singing the same song lyrics over to myself, using the downpour to camouflage glassy eyes. Sitting alone nursing an ale surrounded by empty seats. I ghost to an unwelcome bed after time is called. It takes a lot of balls to take a risk when it comes to love. Sometimes it pays off and you get your just rewards. Sometimes it doesn’t. Unfortunately it looks like once again I’m falling into the latter.
I didn’t come back here for friends, family or to “sort stuff out”. As horrible as it sounds, it was just a front. A smoke screen. I was really doing the one thing that I swore I’d never do. Follow a girl.
After a whirl-wind anti-romance and intoxicating times together, the obstacles are far too great for it to continue. She was the first girl to visit my parents graves, the first to see where I used to live. The first to see a side of me I didn’t think I had. The first to truly make me laugh. I’ve never met anyone like her. But between perfect birthday gifts, beautiful dinners, stunning vacations and an incredible intimacy I’ve never known; I was just too damn overconfident I could change her mind. That’s time at the bar darling. Last orders.
Yet many a friend would scoff at such declarations. They’ve “heard it all”. “No I assure you it’s different this time!” “She’s not like all the rest!” Actually it’s no different. Nothing has changed. Once again I’ve failed to find what I’m looking for. Once again groans of familiarity wail from close pals. Stuart’s heart ripped off his sleeve, smashed onto the floor and stamped on. Then a dog has chewed it up, crapped it out, to be abducted by aliens, given an anal probe, slapped down onto the street to be pissed on by a homeless man and shat on by a pigeon. I really haven’t learned any lessons.
I’ve not slept, eaten or showered in days. Actually I’ve had a chicken and mushroom pot noodle and bowl of crunchie nut cornflakes. There’s more Gin in me than blood, and I’m rattling through a pack of tobacco a day. I’m trying to put a band-aid on cancer. But fear not dear readers, for I will be alright. I will drag my stinking carcass out of this black hole of remorse to a brighter tomorrow, or die trying. Please don’t call Social Services; I’ve simply fallen in love with the wrong girl. Or the right one at the wrong time. I’m not sure which is worse.
It’s not through any fault of hers or mine. Time, age, distance, and circumstance are all contributing factors. Yet I get the impression (as with so many girls who say “they’re not ready for a relationship”) that if the right guy came along they damn well would be. If I was Rob Stark they’d be throwing themselves at my feet. “It’s not you it’s me.” I’ve heard that one so many times before you’d thought I’d be used to it by now. I’d move mountains to make this work, but never do anything for someone who wouldn’t do the same for you in a heartbeat. People who are meant to be in your life will come in and stay there. If only we’d met at 26, perhaps I wouldn’t be an old dog with old tricks. The reason that it’s such a bitter pill to swallow, is that she is totally right. I can’t fault her wisdom. But it really hurts. It’s something she has to do, something she can’t ignore. She’s different. If you love someone set them free.
It is with a heavy heart that I get back on the road. The hitch to India will continue with my return to Bucharest as soon as possible. I will remain in London another week or so, while I spend a small fortune on sorting out my broken glasses (again). It’s ironic they break literally, while I’ve not been able to see figuratively. Perhaps somewhere down the line she will be ready, and maybe it won’t be too late, but you’d better believe she’s going to regret it. In an ideal world I would wait for her, but until then, and until further notice (and when I get my sight back); I’m still Looking For Stu.
Broken in Brighton
I don’t feel the driving rain as I cut a lonely figure negotiating through revellers in Brighton streets, unfazed by some pretty girl trying to dance with me. Singing the same song lyrics over to myself, using the downpour to camouflage glassy eyes. Sitting alone nursing an ale surrounded by empty seats. I ghost to an unwelcome bed after time is called. It takes a lot of balls to take a risk when it comes to love. Sometimes it pays off and you get your just rewards. Sometimes it doesn’t. Unfortunately it looks like once again I’m falling into the latter.
I didn’t come back here for friends, family or to “sort stuff out”. As horrible as it sounds, it was just a front. A smoke screen. I was really doing the one thing that I swore I’d never do. Follow a girl.
After a whirl-wind anti-romance and intoxicating times together, the obstacles are far too great for it to continue. She was the first girl to visit my parents graves, the first to see where I used to live. The first to see a side of me I didn’t think I had. The first to truly make me laugh. I’ve never met anyone like her. But between perfect birthday gifts, beautiful dinners, stunning vacations and an incredible intimacy I’ve never known; I was just too damn overconfident I could change her mind. That’s time at the bar darling. Last orders.
Yet many a friend would scoff at such declarations. They’ve “heard it all”. “No I assure you it’s different this time!” “She’s not like all the rest!” Actually it’s no different. Nothing has changed. Once again I’ve failed to find what I’m looking for. Once again groans of familiarity wail from close pals. Stuart’s heart ripped off his sleeve, smashed onto the floor and stamped on. Then a dog has chewed it up, crapped it out, to be abducted by aliens, given an anal probe, slapped down onto the street to be pissed on by a homeless man and shat on by a pigeon. I really haven’t learned any lessons.
I’ve not slept, eaten or showered in days. Actually I’ve had a chicken and mushroom pot noodle and bowl of crunchie nut cornflakes. There’s more Gin in me than blood, and I’m rattling through a pack of tobacco a day. I’m trying to put a band-aid on cancer. But fear not dear readers, for I will be alright. I will drag my stinking carcass out of this black hole of remorse to a brighter tomorrow, or die trying. Please don’t call Social Services; I’ve simply fallen in love with the wrong girl. Or the right one at the wrong time. I’m not sure which is worse.
It’s not through any fault of hers or mine. Time, age, distance, and circumstance are all contributing factors. Yet I get the impression (as with so many girls who say “they’re not ready for a relationship”) that if the right guy came along they damn well would be. If I was Rob Stark they’d be throwing themselves at my feet. “It’s not you it’s me.” I’ve heard that one so many times before you’d thought I’d be used to it by now. I’d move mountains to make this work, but never do anything for someone who wouldn’t do the same for you in a heartbeat. People who are meant to be in your life will come in and stay there. If only we’d met at 26, perhaps I wouldn’t be an old dog with old tricks. The reason that it’s such a bitter pill to swallow, is that she is totally right. I can’t fault her wisdom. But it really hurts. It’s something she has to do, something she can’t ignore. She’s different. If you love someone set them free.
It is with a heavy heart that I get back on the road. The hitch to India will continue with my return to Bucharest as soon as possible. I will remain in London another week or so, while I spend a small fortune on sorting out my broken glasses (again). It’s ironic they break literally, while I’ve not been able to see figuratively. Perhaps somewhere down the line she will be ready, and maybe it won’t be too late, but you’d better believe she’s going to regret it. In an ideal world I would wait for her, but until then, and until further notice (and when I get my sight back); I’m still Looking For Stu.
Hopefully so is she.