I can’t tell you that it will be plain sailing, or that there will be any sailing at all for a long time. You think it’s going to be easy and fun but really it’s terribly bumpy and often dire, if not embarrassing.
Dating is hard. For the most part.
I’m not one of those girls that flits and jumps from one relationship from another. I seem to just float about waiting for someone to give me a story to make my friends laugh.
So don’t come to me for dating advice. Because I don’t date.
I’m not sure if I’m texting a brick wall or if you’re silently reading everything I say to you and choosing to punish me for trying to build a bridge between us.
I hope you’re just taking it all in ready to get back in contact when you’re back to yourself. I miss curry and Stargate nights. (I don’t miss your cat.)
I have a snippet memory of my Mum. We’re driving somewhere, and she starts to get pains in her leg, and it starts to move of it’s own accord (we later discovered it was her brain tumor). We pull over and she gets out of the car to stretch. I’m sat behind the driver’s seat. She still has all of her hair and is wearing awful massive thick-lensed glasses.
Anyone who has heard stories about my grandparents will know what amazing characters they both are, and how much fun they are. This is the story of how they got engaged. My Granny’s parents are Goan, but she she was brought up in Nairobi in Kenya. My Granddad started his life in Goa, and competed in the all-Indian Olympics in high jump (he would have won and gone on to compete in the Olympics but he broke his knee in the finals). He didn’t have any qualifications but was very smart and came top of his class in aptitude tests for banking. His father gave him a loan so he could move to Nairobi where there were better paid jobs. He was poor, paying back his dad and the rent and bills on the mess he was sharing with five other men. In his words, he had a lot of women interested in him but no money to keep a girlfriend.
He happened to work alongside my Granny’s uncle Albert, and every now and again she would come in to get a lift home with him. She thought he was smart and well dressed. Little did she known it was his only suit. After a spell at his job, my Granddad asked his boss if they could give his brother a job, and they agreed if he would be transferred to their office in Mola. The day before he left for Mola, my great uncle Albert, his wife Betsy and my Granny went to visit him at the mess he was staying at. When he arrived at the Mola office he received a letter from my Granny, and it took him an age to work out who Joyce was. Eventually it clicked and they began writing to each other, and my Granny invited him to a family Christening which is when I guess things got serious.
He was transferred back to Nairobi to open up a training centre for the bank. He was due to make a trip back to Goa to visit his family and dad advised him that if he had his eye on a woman, to get engaged because he would be inundated with proposals when he arrived. So he proposed to my Granny. Goa still worked on a caste (class) system back then, and my Granddad’s grandparents happened to know my Granny’s family so a goid word was put in. Apparently he was quite the catch!
They married in Nairobi with about 200 guests. The cake slice was missing and uncle Albert had to run home to grab one so they could cut the wedding cake. Their honeymoon was 3 days in Mola in a farmhouse, and when they returned together with my Granny’s parents they bought a house: my grandparents living downstairs and my great-grandparents living upstairs. My Granddad maintained they were too poor to have kids just yet but my Granny wanted to start a family (strong lady) so along came my Dad. I think that’s about it for the story of how my grandparents courted and came to be together!
I spent last night wondering whether I should be mad at you and leave our relationship be. Leave it in tatters, angry and broken where we left it a week ago. Or, to push it aside and go against my friend’s recommendations and reach out to you because in all honesty, I can’t stop thinking about you. Because I worry and I care.
I text you this morning and will continue to be in contact until you tell me that I should have left us broken.
It was all there in my script hand-writing. Laid myself out bare. Folded it neatly and slid it into an envelope. Licked it closed. Found your address and wrote it neatly on the front. Told you (on the back) to read it with a cup of tea. Stuck a second class stamp in the corner and left it on my desk.
The next day I decided not to post you your letter, instead I put it in my drawer.
A week later I decided not to ever post you your letter so I put it in the shredder.
And I feel better for it. Some things are better left unsaid.
Refreshing Tumblr. Writing more random and heartfelt stories with terribly drawn, and awfully coloured in (on paint) pictures.
Do I see you?
It sounds stupid and condescending to say but I think about you all the time. I worry about you. I worry about the way you perceive yourself, and how you feel the world sees you, and how you think the world wants you to be.
I think you are you with me. I think I know you, and if I do then you are a good man with a good heart. You are generous and loyal and strong and tender and honest.
I don’t judge you for your vices. I am so proud of you for acknowledging them and fighting them and working to quash them.
I can see you’re sad from your work. It’s like you’re crying for affection and I don’t know how to give it to you without confusing whatever our relationship is at the moment. Your work is intimate and that makes me sad; that you’re more honest detached than in person.
And I love you very much.
For such a short while you were real and we dreamed and planned and worried and soothed. And then you were gone leaving a void a thousand times larger than you were.
It’s not meant to be, but when it is, it will be great. Swathes of cotton and swaddles and blankets. Bunting and cakes and dummies and cribs. And we’ll worry and get excited all over again.