“So this date you’ve got tonight – are you going to take her home with you?” my girlfriend asked.
“Absolutely” I answered with conviction.
“And later – are you going to go to bed with her?”
“Yes I am,” I said equally confidently. “I can’t guarantee we’ll have sex but I’m definitely going to sleep with her.”
Let me explain: last Monday night, I took myself off to the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden to see my favourite ballet Mayerling. It was a late decision, the house was sold out but I managed to acquire the one last decent seat in the house.
I felt rather brave attending such an illustrious occasion on my own but I really wanted to see Carlos Acosta performing in the role and you don't get him prancing about at the local Odeon.
I had a few apprehensions about entering the enormous Vilar Floral Hall bar by myself during the two 20 minute intervals and had I been completely wussy about it, I could have simply stayed in my seat. I was, however, determined to enjoy the whole experience and so I did.
Mayerling was a feast for all the senses - not many people could choreograph a story about a syphilitic, morphine-addicted womanising Crown Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire who died in a suicide pact with one of his mistresses and make it entertaining, but the late, great Kenneth Macmillan certainly managed to.
While I was sipping my glass of champagne and enjoying my cashew nuts, a couple of men looked at me and smiled. A couple of women looked at me then looked away again. I didn’t care. I was dressed up to the nine and half weeks and I’d paid the price of my ticket.
And now I’ve fought the fear and done it anyway, I’ll never be afraid of going to the theatre, cinema or away on holiday on my own ever again.
Another evening concerned a young gentleman I’ve been texting for some time with whom I finally made a date to cook with only to have him cancel at the last minute ‘due to illness’.
The date was rescheduled, duly confirmed, a menu decided upon, the shopping done and guess what? The little f*cker cancelled again - ‘called away on business’ or so he said!
What is it with some blokes that they just feel they can just fiddle around with your agenda when all you’d really like them to do is fiddle around with you?
Anyway, nothing lost. I called in my first reserve and had a thoroughly enjoyable evening eating all the delicious goodies and watching TV on the sofa. And then we went to bed.
Learning to Love Yourself is Truly the Greatest Love of All!
Wednesday, 4 November 2009
Sunday, 25 October 2009
GRIEF ENCOUNTER...
Someone asked me recently if, after so many meanderings through the labyrinths of life, I didn’t now hanker deep down for a long-term, settled, committed relationship.
Having given what some may say were 'the best years of my life’ to marriage (all through my 20s and all through my 30s) plus a further 7 years from 49 to 56 to long-term, settled, committed relationships only to have them not work out, I now know what suits me and what doesn't:
Wabi-Sabi: a Japanese expression meaning The Beauty of Impermanence.
The trouble with the merging of men and women is that we both want different things. On the basis of there being, say, 10 levels - if you click with someone on 6 of them, they’re going to be found wanting on the other 4. And what they’re wanting is going to be very different from what you’re wanting.
As time goes by, those un-clicked levels are going to gnaw away at your happiness until there’s a hole big enough to drive a lawyer through.
To my mind, being ‘settled’ at this stage would be akin to having one Wellington boot stuck in the mud while the foot with the tango shoe on it thrashes the air helplessly trying to dance.
* * * * *
The fact that I write about my sex life seems to be an open invitation to some men to grope me indiscriminately just because they feel like it. They also assume that because they want me (or possibly anyone) ‘me’ must automatically want them back. Having invited a lady out, they should not expect that lady to invite them in. And when they’re let down – gently but firmly - yet still persist in being lascivious, that’s just downright arrogant, ignorant and rude.
I am, however, prepared to keep an open mind and as an antidote to my forays into toyboy territory, I help to run a Singles Social Group for people aged 50-70. On Sunday we visited a stately home for a guided tour and afternoon tea.
In one of the grand salons where Countess Lavinia Gimemore-Goldleif once entertained The Grand Duke Harry und Gedemoff, there were some chairs. Two of the male members sat down and promptly fell asleep. Older men, eh? I rest my case.
So as far as long-term relationships go, it ain’t happening at the moment. And so I shall continue to amble through the maze without finding the way out. Because I enjoy the Wabi-Sabi - and let’s face it: a long-term, settled, committed relationship wouldn’t half interfere with my social life.
Having given what some may say were 'the best years of my life’ to marriage (all through my 20s and all through my 30s) plus a further 7 years from 49 to 56 to long-term, settled, committed relationships only to have them not work out, I now know what suits me and what doesn't:
Wabi-Sabi: a Japanese expression meaning The Beauty of Impermanence.
The trouble with the merging of men and women is that we both want different things. On the basis of there being, say, 10 levels - if you click with someone on 6 of them, they’re going to be found wanting on the other 4. And what they’re wanting is going to be very different from what you’re wanting.
As time goes by, those un-clicked levels are going to gnaw away at your happiness until there’s a hole big enough to drive a lawyer through.
To my mind, being ‘settled’ at this stage would be akin to having one Wellington boot stuck in the mud while the foot with the tango shoe on it thrashes the air helplessly trying to dance.
* * * * *
The fact that I write about my sex life seems to be an open invitation to some men to grope me indiscriminately just because they feel like it. They also assume that because they want me (or possibly anyone) ‘me’ must automatically want them back. Having invited a lady out, they should not expect that lady to invite them in. And when they’re let down – gently but firmly - yet still persist in being lascivious, that’s just downright arrogant, ignorant and rude.
I am, however, prepared to keep an open mind and as an antidote to my forays into toyboy territory, I help to run a Singles Social Group for people aged 50-70. On Sunday we visited a stately home for a guided tour and afternoon tea.
In one of the grand salons where Countess Lavinia Gimemore-Goldleif once entertained The Grand Duke Harry und Gedemoff, there were some chairs. Two of the male members sat down and promptly fell asleep. Older men, eh? I rest my case.
So as far as long-term relationships go, it ain’t happening at the moment. And so I shall continue to amble through the maze without finding the way out. Because I enjoy the Wabi-Sabi - and let’s face it: a long-term, settled, committed relationship wouldn’t half interfere with my social life.
Tuesday, 13 October 2009
TALKING TURKEY
I came back late last night from a long weekend in Istanbul. OHMIGOD! The men! They're all insane! But I loved it!
I’ve had a chat up line or two thrown in my direction in the past few years but none as inventive, exotic and amusing as those dished out by the Turks!
Any ladies feeling neglected in the fawning department should head straight to the airport. Don’t bother to pack – you can shop till you flop right there.
The first point in the Turkish men’s favour is that 50% of them are gorgeous: tan-skinned, black-haired, pistachio green-eyed, three-day stubbled, in short . . . drool-worthy. And if you glance admiringly in their direction, you’ll get it back in spades.
The second point (perhaps not in their favour) is that they’re the biggest shmoozers in history. All I wanted to do was browse the Grand Bazaar but I nearly ended up with a third husband!
Before you’ve had a chance to take in the stock of jewels, handbags, leathers, souvenirs, pashminas, spices and furs, the merchant salesmen have lured you into their caves with a:
“Vel-cum, beautiful lady! Vel-cum! Today is my birthday! You help me celebrate or you break my heart!” Oh! OK then. . . if you put it like that . . .
A small boy appears through the labyrinth swinging a silver tray on which balance various glasses of fruit tea: apple, sour cherry, pomegranate, melon – very tasty. Of course, you neither want nor need a glass of tea, but it’s all part of the shopping experience.
As the banter goes on, your head is turned, your blood starts to pump, a surge of adrenaline fuels the fire as a thousand and one designer handbags dance before your eyes. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to resist the vendor’s leathery clutches.
“Your body is perfect. . . like a Coca-Cola bottle!”
“You look so delicious, I want to eat you in a sandwich. . .”
“Look into my eyes, I will change your life . . .”
British Men: LISTEN AND LEARN!
Now I’ve never had myself down as naïve or impressionable – not with my great age and experience – but by the end of the trip I’d fallen in love - not once, not twice, but three times in as many days! So much so that I actually began to empathise with those foolish English women who set off somewhere hot, and within hours of arriving want to stay forever because they fancy themselves enamoured with the first man who flatters them.
And you can understand why: there’s something utterly seductive about a place where the air smells sweet, the nights are balmy and the moon hangs, laconic and lemony, in the dark night sky.
Add to this a sip of raki, the whisper of promise from those full and faithless lips, the brush of a dark-skinned hand against your hair, the adoring gaze of a pair of long-lashed eyes and what woman wouldn’t find herself hooked?
OK. I'm not shtoopid. I know what they’re after: the same thing men all over the world are after, no matter their colour, creed or climate, but what a wondrous web they weave in their efforts to ensnare you!
No: “Get yer coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled!” or “Brace yerself, Sheila!” for the likes of them. It’s all about ‘your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, the scent of your skin, the shape of your mouth’ – keep talking, baby, just Keep. On. Talking. . . even if it is a load of old (Istan) bull!
My first visit to the Grand Bazaar produced one fabulous handbag, a chinchilla-trimmed leather jacket and a date with Josof. The second visit delivered an amethyst necklace, presents for the family and an invitation from Ferro, the quintessential tall, dark, handsome Turkish toyboy. Within hours of meeting, we were snogging on his sofa. Yup! They sure move fast.
The nightly trips to the Tea Garden to smoke shisha pipes and get leered at by anything in trousers offered up Murat, Hasan and Ozäy all very keen to take our relationship to a higher – or was it lower? – plane. In fact the one we nicknamed Ali Baba who started with the usual: “Verr arr you from?” immediately followed this up with: “I have very good feeling about us!” Us? Really? What was your name again?
He did manage to sprat my mobile number though by dictating me his, asking me to dial it to check I had it right and presto! he had mine. Duh!
So now Josof and I are meeting in Rome in November and Ferro is coming to London as soon as he gets a visa and we’re taking the Eurostar to Paris!
I’m very hopeful these two events will come to pass. Why wouldn’t they? These are genuine guys after all, about as genuine as all those Gucci, Fendi, Hermès and Vuitton handbags!
But you know something? I don’t care. You don’t have to go to the party, but boy, it’s nice to be invited! And my long weekend in Istanbul was the most ego-boosting, life-affirming, femininity-flattering experience I’ve had in a very long time.
I’ve had a chat up line or two thrown in my direction in the past few years but none as inventive, exotic and amusing as those dished out by the Turks!
Any ladies feeling neglected in the fawning department should head straight to the airport. Don’t bother to pack – you can shop till you flop right there.
The first point in the Turkish men’s favour is that 50% of them are gorgeous: tan-skinned, black-haired, pistachio green-eyed, three-day stubbled, in short . . . drool-worthy. And if you glance admiringly in their direction, you’ll get it back in spades.
The second point (perhaps not in their favour) is that they’re the biggest shmoozers in history. All I wanted to do was browse the Grand Bazaar but I nearly ended up with a third husband!
Before you’ve had a chance to take in the stock of jewels, handbags, leathers, souvenirs, pashminas, spices and furs, the merchant salesmen have lured you into their caves with a:
“Vel-cum, beautiful lady! Vel-cum! Today is my birthday! You help me celebrate or you break my heart!” Oh! OK then. . . if you put it like that . . .
A small boy appears through the labyrinth swinging a silver tray on which balance various glasses of fruit tea: apple, sour cherry, pomegranate, melon – very tasty. Of course, you neither want nor need a glass of tea, but it’s all part of the shopping experience.
As the banter goes on, your head is turned, your blood starts to pump, a surge of adrenaline fuels the fire as a thousand and one designer handbags dance before your eyes. Try as you might, you find yourself unable to resist the vendor’s leathery clutches.
“Your body is perfect. . . like a Coca-Cola bottle!”
“You look so delicious, I want to eat you in a sandwich. . .”
“Look into my eyes, I will change your life . . .”
British Men: LISTEN AND LEARN!
Now I’ve never had myself down as naïve or impressionable – not with my great age and experience – but by the end of the trip I’d fallen in love - not once, not twice, but three times in as many days! So much so that I actually began to empathise with those foolish English women who set off somewhere hot, and within hours of arriving want to stay forever because they fancy themselves enamoured with the first man who flatters them.
And you can understand why: there’s something utterly seductive about a place where the air smells sweet, the nights are balmy and the moon hangs, laconic and lemony, in the dark night sky.
Add to this a sip of raki, the whisper of promise from those full and faithless lips, the brush of a dark-skinned hand against your hair, the adoring gaze of a pair of long-lashed eyes and what woman wouldn’t find herself hooked?
OK. I'm not shtoopid. I know what they’re after: the same thing men all over the world are after, no matter their colour, creed or climate, but what a wondrous web they weave in their efforts to ensnare you!
No: “Get yer coat, darlin’, you’ve pulled!” or “Brace yerself, Sheila!” for the likes of them. It’s all about ‘your beautiful eyes, your wonderful smile, the scent of your skin, the shape of your mouth’ – keep talking, baby, just Keep. On. Talking. . . even if it is a load of old (Istan) bull!
My first visit to the Grand Bazaar produced one fabulous handbag, a chinchilla-trimmed leather jacket and a date with Josof. The second visit delivered an amethyst necklace, presents for the family and an invitation from Ferro, the quintessential tall, dark, handsome Turkish toyboy. Within hours of meeting, we were snogging on his sofa. Yup! They sure move fast.
The nightly trips to the Tea Garden to smoke shisha pipes and get leered at by anything in trousers offered up Murat, Hasan and Ozäy all very keen to take our relationship to a higher – or was it lower? – plane. In fact the one we nicknamed Ali Baba who started with the usual: “Verr arr you from?” immediately followed this up with: “I have very good feeling about us!” Us? Really? What was your name again?
He did manage to sprat my mobile number though by dictating me his, asking me to dial it to check I had it right and presto! he had mine. Duh!
So now Josof and I are meeting in Rome in November and Ferro is coming to London as soon as he gets a visa and we’re taking the Eurostar to Paris!
I’m very hopeful these two events will come to pass. Why wouldn’t they? These are genuine guys after all, about as genuine as all those Gucci, Fendi, Hermès and Vuitton handbags!
But you know something? I don’t care. You don’t have to go to the party, but boy, it’s nice to be invited! And my long weekend in Istanbul was the most ego-boosting, life-affirming, femininity-flattering experience I’ve had in a very long time.
Saturday, 19 September 2009
SATURDAY NIGHT...
The nights are drawing in and the pages of the calendar will soon turn from green to gold but there's Strictly! X Factor! Thai Sweet Chilli Flavoured crisps and dips! Sofa! Heaven!
Now that the world's two favourite programmes are back, fighting for ratings and keeping our channel-flipping thumbs happily occupied, there's only one place to be on a Saturday night. Rejoice and celebrate.
Our old friends Brucie, Tess, Simon, Cheryl, Louis and that girl with the wonky nose are back so no need to feel lonely or afraid if you don't have a date. He'd only talk all the way through it or demand to watch the football instead, and some things - like bars of Green & Black's Dark Organic Cherry Chocolate chomped in front of trash TV - are far better enjoyed alone.
The Wedding in Marbella turned out to be a bit chavvy, in case you were wondering. Despite the beautiful setting, with a ceremony on the fringes of a sunset beach, the company left something to be desired (salvaged at the 11th hour by some cool people on my table).
The first person I set eyes on when I arrived was Paul Danan. And I thought this was meant to be a "Celebrity" wedding!! I was also teamed up with the most boring man on the planet but in case he's reading this, I better say: "Oh no I wasn't!" (then you can say: "Oh yes you was!")
I downed a couple of kir royales in quick succession in an attempt to make the other guests look marginally more attractive. I then embarked on a side-splittingly misguided toyboy moment. Unable to accept the fact that amongst a blur of middle-aged faces I was just another one of the same, I attempted to claw back some of my personality by making eyes at the very bloke who'd filled me with dread on arrival: Paul Danan.
I vaguely remember lurching up to him, telling him I was losing the will to live and demanding that he entertain me. How embarrassing was that? More so, because although he rose to the occasion and promised to comply with my instruction, even suggesting we head off down the beach to search for stranded dolphins, he swiftly disappeared into the crowd never to be seen again!
The expression: No Fool Like An Old Fool was obviously invented for a reason. Shame that night the reason was me!
On returning from sunnier climes, I found a proper old-fashioned letter amid my post. You don't get many of them to the pound nowadays. It had been forwarded by my publishers and contained a 5-page hand-written missive from a man I did not know, whose address began 'H M Prison...'
I'll tell you all about it next time...
Now that the world's two favourite programmes are back, fighting for ratings and keeping our channel-flipping thumbs happily occupied, there's only one place to be on a Saturday night. Rejoice and celebrate.
Our old friends Brucie, Tess, Simon, Cheryl, Louis and that girl with the wonky nose are back so no need to feel lonely or afraid if you don't have a date. He'd only talk all the way through it or demand to watch the football instead, and some things - like bars of Green & Black's Dark Organic Cherry Chocolate chomped in front of trash TV - are far better enjoyed alone.
The Wedding in Marbella turned out to be a bit chavvy, in case you were wondering. Despite the beautiful setting, with a ceremony on the fringes of a sunset beach, the company left something to be desired (salvaged at the 11th hour by some cool people on my table).
The first person I set eyes on when I arrived was Paul Danan. And I thought this was meant to be a "Celebrity" wedding!! I was also teamed up with the most boring man on the planet but in case he's reading this, I better say: "Oh no I wasn't!" (then you can say: "Oh yes you was!")
I downed a couple of kir royales in quick succession in an attempt to make the other guests look marginally more attractive. I then embarked on a side-splittingly misguided toyboy moment. Unable to accept the fact that amongst a blur of middle-aged faces I was just another one of the same, I attempted to claw back some of my personality by making eyes at the very bloke who'd filled me with dread on arrival: Paul Danan.
I vaguely remember lurching up to him, telling him I was losing the will to live and demanding that he entertain me. How embarrassing was that? More so, because although he rose to the occasion and promised to comply with my instruction, even suggesting we head off down the beach to search for stranded dolphins, he swiftly disappeared into the crowd never to be seen again!
The expression: No Fool Like An Old Fool was obviously invented for a reason. Shame that night the reason was me!
On returning from sunnier climes, I found a proper old-fashioned letter amid my post. You don't get many of them to the pound nowadays. It had been forwarded by my publishers and contained a 5-page hand-written missive from a man I did not know, whose address began 'H M Prison...'
I'll tell you all about it next time...
Saturday, 5 September 2009
OH ME OF LITTLE FAITH!
Well not only did he NOT cancel, he arrived with all guns blazing... or at least the Big Gun that mattered. I was ambivalent about how to handle this. Does one slide between the sheets with ex-lovers who've become friends just because one of you is horny? I guess it depends on the amount of alcohol consumed and I was stone cold sober at the time.
It did, however, put to rest something that had been bothering me since the last visit from Beautiful Cherokee. On that occasion, we talked for five hours and then he went home. Much as I enjoyed the social intercourse, his departure left me slightly miffed. I was saddened to think he no longer fancied me. By way of explanation, however, he told me that he had grown to like and respect me so much, it didn't seemed appropriate to have sex any more! Shucks! Does one not have sex with people one likes and respects?
As of today, I am the mother of a 40-year old. How in hell that happened, G-d only knows - I remember giving birth to her like it was yesterday. I've long since stopped worrying about numbers though, and I no longer lie about my age and the ages of my children. It's all out there, loud and proud.
We had a fabulous party,and she ended the day bedecked with new diamonds - a pendant from her husband, a ring from me and a bracelet from her father. My 11-year old granddaughter Tatiana sang 'Hotel California' well worthy of Simon Cowell's approval and we all joined in the line "...we haven't had that spirit here since 1969..." because that was the year of the birthday girl's birth.
The only thing she found disconcerting was the fact that when her newborn third daughter Xenia celebrates her 40th birthday, she will be 80! And I'll be 103! Or dead!
For the next two weeks, I shall be in Andalucia immersed in writing my second novel - working title: The One and Lonely.
I have a showbiz wedding in Marbella to attend in between. If it's worth blogging about, I'll let you know.
It did, however, put to rest something that had been bothering me since the last visit from Beautiful Cherokee. On that occasion, we talked for five hours and then he went home. Much as I enjoyed the social intercourse, his departure left me slightly miffed. I was saddened to think he no longer fancied me. By way of explanation, however, he told me that he had grown to like and respect me so much, it didn't seemed appropriate to have sex any more! Shucks! Does one not have sex with people one likes and respects?
As of today, I am the mother of a 40-year old. How in hell that happened, G-d only knows - I remember giving birth to her like it was yesterday. I've long since stopped worrying about numbers though, and I no longer lie about my age and the ages of my children. It's all out there, loud and proud.
We had a fabulous party,and she ended the day bedecked with new diamonds - a pendant from her husband, a ring from me and a bracelet from her father. My 11-year old granddaughter Tatiana sang 'Hotel California' well worthy of Simon Cowell's approval and we all joined in the line "...we haven't had that spirit here since 1969..." because that was the year of the birthday girl's birth.
The only thing she found disconcerting was the fact that when her newborn third daughter Xenia celebrates her 40th birthday, she will be 80! And I'll be 103! Or dead!
For the next two weeks, I shall be in Andalucia immersed in writing my second novel - working title: The One and Lonely.
I have a showbiz wedding in Marbella to attend in between. If it's worth blogging about, I'll let you know.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
ENTERTAINMENT OVERLOAD!
A full week at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival produced such a glut of comedy, theatre, culture and various other weird and wonderful forms of performance art that I felt the need to lie down in a darkened room. This activity obviously could not be done alone...
One of my sometime toyboys is now a stand-up comedian and was appearing at the Fest. On the comedy front, whenever this particular gentleman was upstanding before me, I tried not to laugh. He is incredibly well blessed. Gasp? Yes. Guffaw? Noooo.
Although I was unable to catch his show due to a clash of agendas, we did meet late one night for drinks. Our physical relationship dwindled into friendship a while ago as he had a steady girlfriend at the time. He was also working the clubs from Land's End to John O'Groats. Although it was suggested, I don't do matinees with attached men... well not that particular one at any rate...
However, with the heady adrenaline rush produced by great reviews in the Edinburgh press, he suddenly turned up the heat on me again. This resulted in a rather public snog in the shadow of the Udderbelly - a giant, purple, blow-up cow used as a venue at the Fringe.
That old feeling flared at once but I was sharing a hotel room with my sister and he was gigging nightly, so our romantic reunion has had to delayed. I'm a sucker for anticipation. We have a date for Thursday. My instinct tells me he's going to cancel. I think when he comes back down to earth and London, he may feel differently. Insecurity is alive and well and living in Maida Vale!
Post Edinburgh, I managed to slip the Lesbian Love Slut event into my calendar and very nice it was too. It involved an old lover (he's 39 now!)I see infrequently who doesn't mind wearing lipstick and silky lingerie. This produces an erotically androgynous character who is ALL MALE in every other respect, while fulfilling some of my darker urges in others. I may need to explore this further at some point...
On a more sombre note, two of my girlfriends have cancer and are undergoing chemotherapy. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to them. There but for the grace of God go any of us. They are brave determined women but one has confessed to being terrified, especially on her own at night...
I wish them courage and renewed good health. And I urge you all to CARPE DIEM. You never know what's around the corner and that is why I seize my days (and nights) and squeeze out their juices for all they are worth.
One of my sometime toyboys is now a stand-up comedian and was appearing at the Fest. On the comedy front, whenever this particular gentleman was upstanding before me, I tried not to laugh. He is incredibly well blessed. Gasp? Yes. Guffaw? Noooo.
Although I was unable to catch his show due to a clash of agendas, we did meet late one night for drinks. Our physical relationship dwindled into friendship a while ago as he had a steady girlfriend at the time. He was also working the clubs from Land's End to John O'Groats. Although it was suggested, I don't do matinees with attached men... well not that particular one at any rate...
However, with the heady adrenaline rush produced by great reviews in the Edinburgh press, he suddenly turned up the heat on me again. This resulted in a rather public snog in the shadow of the Udderbelly - a giant, purple, blow-up cow used as a venue at the Fringe.
That old feeling flared at once but I was sharing a hotel room with my sister and he was gigging nightly, so our romantic reunion has had to delayed. I'm a sucker for anticipation. We have a date for Thursday. My instinct tells me he's going to cancel. I think when he comes back down to earth and London, he may feel differently. Insecurity is alive and well and living in Maida Vale!
Post Edinburgh, I managed to slip the Lesbian Love Slut event into my calendar and very nice it was too. It involved an old lover (he's 39 now!)I see infrequently who doesn't mind wearing lipstick and silky lingerie. This produces an erotically androgynous character who is ALL MALE in every other respect, while fulfilling some of my darker urges in others. I may need to explore this further at some point...
On a more sombre note, two of my girlfriends have cancer and are undergoing chemotherapy. My heart, thoughts and prayers go out to them. There but for the grace of God go any of us. They are brave determined women but one has confessed to being terrified, especially on her own at night...
I wish them courage and renewed good health. And I urge you all to CARPE DIEM. You never know what's around the corner and that is why I seize my days (and nights) and squeeze out their juices for all they are worth.
Saturday, 8 August 2009
YOU NEVER FORGET YOUR FIRST LOVE . . .
How do you explain to someone you haven’t seen for 44 years the depth of the footprint they left on your life? Especially when you only have 15 seconds in which to do it and they haven’t the faintest idea who you are!
This happened to me last week - but first let me take you back to 1965. . .
The place is Marbella, a sleepy fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling parents.
She escaped to Spain because when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw courage of a man prepared to place himself - unprotected save for a piece of cloth - in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage beauty of this ancient art.
Over the next few years, the girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco. She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to see more bullfights.
Her grandmother muttered: Be careful what you wish for . . .
The girl enjoyed her first few weeks away, but money became tight so she began to look around for something to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café one afternoon, she got talking to an American - a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El Cordobés! He needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set off next morning for Córdoba.
I was that girl and over the next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo, as he was known, was the craziest, most charismatic person on the planet. He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan and had risen, through sheer bravery and determination to global stardom – the quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.
The title of the book “. . . or I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on the morning of his first fight.
“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ”
Angelita got her house and then some.
Although initially banned in Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.
The problem with Manolo was you couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever we went. Young, old, married, single - he was The One they all wanted to know.
Even nuns in convents campaigned to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt later in the privacy of their cells in places man had never been. He was James Dean, Elvis, John Lennon and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. Except he had an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.
Although I found him magnetically attractive, I tried to keep my feelings hidden. I was, after all, working - doing a serious research job. He wasn’t an easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .
Over time, we became rather attached. He was relaxed and comfortable in my company – unlike the others, I wasn’t after him for what I could get.
On rest days, we’d spend lazy afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.
On fight days, we’d travel across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap, me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with love as I kept vigil on the long roads through the night.
The international press soon picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!
One afternoon, in the middle of his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me - a high accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however, did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.
He raked his fingers through his floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.
To further compliment his dedication to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I bloody well told them!
That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust he had so often sought. . .
In October, the Spanish bullfight season terminated and the toreros prepared to fly south for the winter, to Mexico and Latin America. I was invited to accompany them but my father wouldn’t let me. And so the dream ended and I went sadly home. I packed up my photographs, press cuttings, cine films, diaries, letters and bull’s ear and stored them away in my memory bank.
Over the next four decades, I revisited those memories many, many times. I also got married and divorced twice, had two daughters and now have four grandchildren. Manolo also married and is the father of five children.
I continued to visit Spain two or three times a year, but I never saw him again. I became an antique dealer and then a writer. Last year I wrote my first novel, Blood On The Sand, based on our story or at least the beginning of it. . .
And then I heard he was to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award to be presented to him in Marbella. A grand occasion was planned: a midnight bullfight by candle light with flamenco music instead of a brass band showcasing three of Spain’s top matadors. I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight . . .
I arrived at the bullring with my sister well ahead of time, flustered and nervous. I was no longer 19 yet I still felt it inside! A limo drew up. I could see him through the window. Without hesitation, I pounced like a panther and explained - in the 15 seconds I had available before the press descended - exactly who I was.
He smiled broadly and took my hands in his. He looked confused, bemused, amused.
“You’re still so pretty!” he enthused kissing me warmly on both cheeks. At 63, I could have been a wizened old crone. . .
I showed him some of our old photos. He beamed and put his arm around me. My sister took a picture. My heart soared. I was right back in 1965. Maybe I should have defied my father and gone away with him after all. Who knows how my life may have turned out?
After the bullfight and award ceremony, I managed to snatch another few moments just as he was leaving.
“We have so much to talk about!” I told him. “Talk to me! Talk!” he managed before another microphone and TV camera were shoved in his face.
He did his interview then the chauffeur floored the pedal and off they sped - out of my life for a second time.
I’m sure I’ll see him again, though. I’ll make damn certain of it. And it won’t be another 44 years this time!
This happened to me last week - but first let me take you back to 1965. . .
The place is Marbella, a sleepy fishing village on the southern coast of Spain. An 18-year old English girl is taking an extended vacation from her boring job, capricious friends and controlling parents.
She escaped to Spain because when she was nine, on holiday in Alicante, the girl had an epiphany: she was taken to see her first bullfight. Mesmerized by the passion, drama and raw courage of a man prepared to place himself - unprotected save for a piece of cloth - in front of a wild and raging bull, she became fascinated by the savage beauty of this ancient art.
Over the next few years, the girl researched the culture, studied the language and learned to dance flamenco. She longed to spend more time in her beloved Spain, her greatest wish being to see more bullfights.
Her grandmother muttered: Be careful what you wish for . . .
The girl enjoyed her first few weeks away, but money became tight so she began to look around for something to do. Sitting at a sidewalk café one afternoon, she got talking to an American - a journalist. He’d been commissioned to write the life story of the world’s most famous bullfighter, Manuel Benítez El Cordobés! He needed assistant and interpreter! The girl could not believe her luck! They set off next morning for Córdoba.
I was that girl and over the next few months, I travelled the length and breadth of the Iberian Peninsula as part of the matador’s entourage. Manolo, as he was known, was the craziest, most charismatic person on the planet. He’d begun life as a feral, gypsy orphan and had risen, through sheer bravery and determination to global stardom – the quintessential ‘rags to riches’ story.
The title of the book “. . . or I’ll Dress You in Mourning” was taken from what Manolo said to his sister on the morning of his first fight.
“Tonight, Angelita,” he told the fretting woman as he left the hovel where they lived, “I will buy you a house or I’ll dress you in mourning. . . ”
Angelita got her house and then some.
Although initially banned in Spain due to its references to the Civil War and supposed disrespect for the dictator, Franco, it went on to become an international best seller.
The problem with Manolo was you couldn’t just take him or leave him – you had to get involved. Women threw themselves at him wherever we went. Young, old, married, single - he was The One they all wanted to know.
Even nuns in convents campaigned to have TVs installed so they could watch their hero fight, twitching no doubt later in the privacy of their cells in places man had never been. He was James Dean, Elvis, John Lennon and Mick Jagger all rolled into one. Except he had an added twist: he faced death every afternoon.
Although I found him magnetically attractive, I tried to keep my feelings hidden. I was, after all, working - doing a serious research job. He wasn’t an easy man to resist, but resist him I did. . .
Over time, we became rather attached. He was relaxed and comfortable in my company – unlike the others, I wasn’t after him for what I could get.
On rest days, we’d spend lazy afternoons at his ranch, hanging out with his friends and family, sharing al fresco lunches and flamenco-fuelled dinners or buzzing around Andalucía in his Piper Aztec plane.
On fight days, we’d travel across country in his chauffeur-driven limo, him asleep with his head in my lap, me tenderly stroking his forehead, my heart melting with love as I kept vigil on the long roads through the night.
The international press soon picked up our story. They called him ‘the English girl Wendy’s personal Peter Pan’ and wrote that ‘El Cordobés had a British fiancée and was learning the language of Shakespeare’! In truth, his parish priest travelled alongside us teaching him to read and write. A scholar of the Bard he was not!
One afternoon, in the middle of his hectic season, he dedicated the life of his noble bull to me - a high accolade and display of affection of a very public nature. The animal, however, did not share this affection and tossed him mercilessly until his pants were ripped to shreds, his buttocks exposed for all to see.
He raked his fingers through his floppy hair and changed hurriedly into a pair of jeans. Then he went back on the sand and showed that toro who was boss. He displayed such valour and artistry that he was awarded the trophy of an ear.
To further compliment his dedication to me, he lobbed the severed appendage straight into my outstretched hands. As I caught it in a clap, warm blood splattered all over my dress. Boy! Was I proud of that! I never washed it off and later, if anyone asked me where the stains came from, I bloody well told them!
That night, persuasion overcame propriety and I allowed him the sword thrust he had so often sought. . .
In October, the Spanish bullfight season terminated and the toreros prepared to fly south for the winter, to Mexico and Latin America. I was invited to accompany them but my father wouldn’t let me. And so the dream ended and I went sadly home. I packed up my photographs, press cuttings, cine films, diaries, letters and bull’s ear and stored them away in my memory bank.
Over the next four decades, I revisited those memories many, many times. I also got married and divorced twice, had two daughters and now have four grandchildren. Manolo also married and is the father of five children.
I continued to visit Spain two or three times a year, but I never saw him again. I became an antique dealer and then a writer. Last year I wrote my first novel, Blood On The Sand, based on our story or at least the beginning of it. . .
And then I heard he was to receive a Lifetime Achievement Award to be presented to him in Marbella. A grand occasion was planned: a midnight bullfight by candle light with flamenco music instead of a brass band showcasing three of Spain’s top matadors. I didn’t hesitate. I booked my flight . . .
I arrived at the bullring with my sister well ahead of time, flustered and nervous. I was no longer 19 yet I still felt it inside! A limo drew up. I could see him through the window. Without hesitation, I pounced like a panther and explained - in the 15 seconds I had available before the press descended - exactly who I was.
He smiled broadly and took my hands in his. He looked confused, bemused, amused.
“You’re still so pretty!” he enthused kissing me warmly on both cheeks. At 63, I could have been a wizened old crone. . .
I showed him some of our old photos. He beamed and put his arm around me. My sister took a picture. My heart soared. I was right back in 1965. Maybe I should have defied my father and gone away with him after all. Who knows how my life may have turned out?
After the bullfight and award ceremony, I managed to snatch another few moments just as he was leaving.
“We have so much to talk about!” I told him. “Talk to me! Talk!” he managed before another microphone and TV camera were shoved in his face.
He did his interview then the chauffeur floored the pedal and off they sped - out of my life for a second time.
I’m sure I’ll see him again, though. I’ll make damn certain of it. And it won’t be another 44 years this time!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
