Laugh all you
want and cry all you want and whistle at pretty men in the street and to hell
with anybody who thinks you're a damned fool!
How many knitters would admit to spending the best part of their lives, struggling through a
complex patterned, over-sized sweater for the ‘One I loved’ that another may
well be wearing now? It is literally, wearing your heart on your sleeve. Don’t
worry. We have all drank too deep at the foundation of emotional depth and
despair and lived through the hangover. God knows, my knits may be well worn around the block. Speaking of hangovers, the sun is
shining bright in Ireland, so officially it’s okay to drink during the day. All
is well with the world again. Brace
yourselfs; these mutterings are a crude attempt at correlating early evening
boozing for something meaningful.
I have
fallen in love...again. Okay, he is a bit older, a bit of an 80’s icon, a mecca for women
of the literary world and he is fictional. Rupert Campbell-Black, literally
fell out of my sisters book shelf (upper wardrobe space, hopelessly overfilled
with bags, rubbish and some old books), onto my head. I had been watching Jilly
Cooper on the Saturday Night Show with Brendan and thought, she seemed a bit of
fun. And god knows, I am in need of a bit of fun. As usual, I am a good two decades behind everyone else. I remember two of the elders squealing about Riders/
Raiders/ Ropey Lovers or whatever it was called back then. I thought it looked
all a bit grown up and stuffy, like reading Naomi Wolf’s ‘Vagina’: a hopeful,
adult approach to my womanhood and spiritual view on my nether regions. In
reality, it turns out to be a good head romp in the summer shade. I am ever
hopeful.
It comes to light, I
had something in common with those girls, I grew up, with after all and they never
much appreciated my knits either. Sorry, excuse me, but its time for a glass of wine and some, erm, reading.
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