Aren’t Sundays great?
I used to hate Sunday because it was ‘nothing’ day, somewhere between the weekend and the Monday morning. Now I love it, for exactly the same reason. There was a time where I saved up all the odd jobs for Sunday, tried to clear up the detritus of my life to make sure that the week ahead was a clean sheet. Now I just give in to it and go with the flow.
I’m not sure that this is going to hang together terribly well, but is seems to make some connections in my head, albeit it probably needs rewiring (my head that is).
I got home rather late last night, 3.30’ish I think but I’m not sure, after a night with the pyt’s (pretty young things) in town. It was one of the girl’s 21st birthday party and we did lots and lots of bars, and it was good, it was great fun, but I’m getting a bit too old for all the posturing that goes with an evening like that. So, drunk, happy and full of a ridiculous bubblalove, I thought it would be a good idea to try to tell my heart’s desire….something. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Yup, drunk and obsessive, (you’re such a divvie Colin) I wonder if she’ll ever talk to me again.
So, it had occurred to me that I’ve read a lot more ladies blogs than chaps. Its not a conscious decision, they (you) just seem to have more interesting things to say. I did wonder if it was a kind of voyeurism, unhealthy somehow, but I don’t think it is….
I don’t “get” women. Yes I know you hear it a lot, it’s tired, but it’s also true. You are a different species. I’ve read the “Men are from Mars…” and really after a dozen pages all I saw was bla, blablabla, bla bla. Do you feel the same way about men?
If you do, may I provide just a tiny little insight into the male psyche?
We are, on the whole, well intentioned. It’s easier to describe in a scenario: You have had a rotten day at work. Just a pig awful day, and you want to talk about it. You get home and you want to unload, and all you have to unload on is the poor witless buffoon that you live with?
Because there is the difference. You want to talk. The very act of talking is therapy.
We want to mend it.
That’s what we do, it’s some sort of prehistoric, biological imperative. We want to mend things, make them better. I’m not sure where that comes from, but my theory is that it’s an evolution or variant on the “impress the missus” urge.
Once upon a time Ug turned up at the cave door with two tons of dead animal.
“What the fuck is that?!” said Mrs Ug.
“I killed it”
“What the hell for”
“I thought we could eat it”
“It’s huge, you dickhead, we could hollow it out and live in it”
“Don’t you like it then”
“Oh fuck off Ug”
You see where I’m coming from? We want to impress the missus. We do our best, and it is well meant, but it’s not always particularly well directed.
So when you tell us about the people in the office who are making your life hell, we want to make it better. Can’t you see us concentrating? You’ve left us behind with the detail of course, and we’ll never remember the names of the people that you’re talking about, but that look that we get, furrowed neanderthal brow and both eyes in the same socket, means that we really do care –at the back of our minds we are constructing maps, and wiring diagrams and pits full of sharp stakes to murder your enemies.
It never occurs to us that you don’t want a solution, that all you want to do is talk about it.
Smashing eh? Look at your man when he’s not concentrating, oblivious, when he’s got that happy savant look on his face, and the chances are that there’s an A Team episode playing on a loop in his head