Either a teenage moment, or a fairly rare disease

I don’t know what it was; yesterday I stared at men’s hands; the nice hands of the shop assistant who was wrapping up my purchases, then my hairdresser’s tan, muscular arms. I was staring at him in the mirror, so taken, somehow wanting to bite. Perhaps a strange case of misspent lust, perhaps the onset of rabies, I don’t know, time will tell.

This afternoon I was extremely sophisticated in an upper middle class hippie kind of way, sipping a soy milk latte and nibbling on a spelt bun, do you hate me? And checking out people’s asses from my vantage point. How disconcerting, I said to my soy latte companion, this week I’m finding men sexier than women.


He was ignoring me, so, slurping, I went off into a reverie about vague malecrushes I would now like to share with you. I tend to go for tortured, self-deprecating French singers/songwriters with messy hair.

Wouldn't you? I know I would.

This shampoo bar will last longer than most relationships, they said

Today, I’m mostly shaking my hair, because it smells so good! It’s that new shampoo bar I bought on Saturday morning; at times, for a whole minute, it distracts me from that whirlwind of fears about Where am I going and why bother? A whole minute, several times a day. I’m telling you. It was well worth the 3 quid. I know what my problem is: my problem is that I was born two generations too late, I don’t have ploughing and milking and general farming to keep my horizon low, and therefore I worry. But, had I been born two generations ago, I would probably had greasy, smelly hair, and I would be dead by now, so this is a stupid idea.

Yes, I am

Next to me on the train is sitting just another 14 year old, wearing one of those mini skirts that I wish I could wear, but I can’t. She’s on the phone: Mum, mum, my battery is about to go. Clearly something’s up, my reflex is to lend her mine, if it’s an emergency, but the battery hasn’t given yet. Mum listen, I have no battery left, can you please come and pick me up at the station? ….it’s pouring. Well, it is here. I look out at the perfectly dry afternoon and just because of the lie and the whining, I hope her mother won’t pick her up.
As I get off the train, the deluge begins. I feel a little bit bad.

I have secret dreams of moving into my grandmother’s house in the middle of nowhere. I’d chop my own wood and not watch the 8 o’clock news on any of the six tv channels. I would only have a shower every other day in winter because there is no heating in the bathroom. I would have two dogs and go for walks on frosty mornings and miss big cities.

I have secret dreams of being a 27-year-old middle class American female, and living with my husband in a tiny northern Californian town. Our house would have a fireplace and a hot tub and it would smell of woods and we would drive our suv to go grocery shopping, and rent movies on Friday nights. We would probably have two kids, and I would worry about what school to send them to.

I have secret dreams of moving to a Spanish village, and cursing the heat six months in the year. I would grow my hair and go out in the evenings, and be the foreigner who knows all the slang words and who shuns other foreigners.

I have secret dreams of leaving, always, no matter where I am.

I’m training for when I’m old, talking to squirrels in the park. Just to make sure I don’t mix them up, they’re all called Damien. Yesterday I was walking home and Damien was sitting on a high branch, screaming like I didn’t think a squirrel could scream. I don’t think he was shouting abuse at me. What to do, what to do? Squirrel in pain? Squirrel tantrum? Along the path I met another: Quick, Damien, I said, your friend over there needs help. He darted off like a squirrel on a mission, and I pretended there was such a thing as a squirrel solidarity network.