A couple of days ago, I received an e-mail from an ex-girlfriend. Very ex – I can still recall the dulcet screech of the pterodactyl accompanying our first walk in the moonlight like it was yesterday. Well, okay – maybe it wasn’t that long ago, but it’s been strange seeing the old memories suddenly become active again. They haven’t done a stitch of work for more than a decade and now they’re all jumping up and down, shouting, “Me! Me! Me!” in their demand for attention.
It’s disconcerting.It’s also been interesting to observe the inevitable, but ultimately pointless ‘what if’ scenarios playing across the screen of my imagination. The thing is, I know it would never have worked out for us in the long term. At the time, I was an immature, selfish git and it took me years to outgrow my gittish ways. You may be wondering why she was ever with me in the first place, but there’s no accounting for taste.
When she reached the stage where she was ready to commit, I still had a large bulging bag marked: ‘Wild Oats (best before 01/1995)’, so we went our separate ways, each feeling suitably aggrieved with the other in the time-honoured way of these things. Game over, move on.
And yet, years later, I find these confusing echoes of emotions rattling around in my head. My wife thinks it’s the onset of my midlife crisis. I bloody well hope not, because with the state of my finances at the moment, I really can’t afford a red convertible. I don’t really like red convertibles either, come to think of it. I asked the Magic 8-Ball for a second opinion and fortunately, it doesn’t think the situation is anything to get seriously bent out of shape over.