Sep 17 2009
Day 3.
Names are strange, Astro has a ‘proper’ one given to him as most are by adoring parents, I promised not to print it here. He was that name to me (and still is to family and friends) until one day an acquaintance of mine called him Astroturf man and although I don’t say it out loud much…in my head he was from that day and remains to this, Astro.
Dave Gorman (namey kind of perosn) was in Chain Reaction this week (another increasing desperate clamour in the direction of contemporary sartorial broadcasting from Radio 4) half listening I somehow formed the opinion that saying yes to every opportunity I was offered would result in my inevitably winning a fortune by having my mother put a bet on a Dubai based golf tournament. As a result I decided to engage in a little pro-action myself, the opportunity quickly arose when an invitation via text arrived to attend a gig a friend was doing about an hour and half from home. Usually I need three to five days notice before considering such an expedition but in keeping with the Gorman’s words and with thoughts of Dubai in my head I hot footed it home from work, packed a bag, threw on a second skin of make-up, some jeans my leather jacket and a scarf and set off. Mum baby-sitted and I arrived outside a wet venue twenty minutes before kick off feeling slightly shocked at my own impulsiveness. I got home at 2.00am and slept badly after a silent quarrel with my friend, he is on the tele and therefore at a loss to understand why I don‘t sleep with him. I feel a little like I’ve been dumped and find it embarrassing when he tries to seduce me in bars where all the customers recognise him…last night did not go well.
No one was more surprised than me when I met and fell in love with my proper grown up boyfriend, a short slightly overweight blond scientist from *******, it seemed the most likely explanation was that I was so repulsed by my consistently poor choice in previous lovers that I had in effect rebelled against myself and chose him. I had never before entertained anyone under six foot with hair paler than mahogany brown/espresso, amongst my brown haired beaus a motorbike racer, a devastatingly handsome Range Rover driving farm manager and a very tall bloke called Chris who I once vomited all over but never slept with.
It was the friend that christened him Astro that I spent last night with and who text me this morning to complain that I don’t like him and am not interested in anything he does, what he probably meant was that I lied to him, I’m impossible to impress and that he hasn‘t seduced me. Needless to say it was a disaster in keeping with the last time I attempted to glean philosophical insight from a radio 4 program and thanks to a very convincing Buddhist monk ended up with an £80 parking ticket. Please Radio 4 consign PM and Eddie Nightmare to the small hours, put the Archers on at 5.00 so I can stop missing the first half of Emmerdale and make more programmes about anchovies and therefore less featuring inspiring ideas.
I hope he forgives me, I sort of miss him.
