Jesus Loves You.
That's nice I thought, sitting alone in King’s Cross tube station, clock slowly ticking down to the penultimate hour of the day. Unfortunately there was no phone number attached to the poster so I couldn’t make a personal call to the savior of mankind himself to check if he really meant it, I suspected he was just saying that to get me into bed. I hate that about men, words often just breeze out of their mouths like moths from a Tory chancellor’s wallet, lacking meaning and comprehension of consequence. I like words, and probably use too many of them but mean them all the same, or at least I do at the time; only in the cold and sober light of introspection do I realize that I too am one of those men.
That eerie breeze crept up on me like closing time in your favorite bar, stirring the hairs on the back of my neck in that strange way that it does. I’ve never quite understood my own fascination with the underground, the eclectic mix of passengers, the never pleasant, nor unpleasant smell, the rush of an approaching train. My senses always seem to wander around the sights and sounds of the stations, absorbing and judging. Twenty odd meters down the platform sat a young man, tie loosened around his neck, faint cheek glow of previously consumed alcohol permeating his appearance. He was like me, but for one important detail. Next to him, long hairless legs draped over his, sat his companion. A woman of not astounding beauty, but enough to keep a sparkle in his eyes. I looked on out of the corner of my eye, pretending I was staring past them, somehow trying to convince them that I found the darkness of the tunnel beyond them enough of a fascination to hold my eye for the long minutes. It was not that I was jealous. Well alright yes it was. But my jealousy began not at the attractiveness of his partner, nor the fact that he’d soon be doing naked press-ups over her grateful, naked body. Simply put, it was her hands clasped warmly around his that were the cause of my discomfort. I looked down at my own, not-being-held hands and wondered why. Is it so unfathomable to think that I too should have someone to hold my hand on this cool platform, or to head home to park the naked Landrover with? I guess this is the story of my life, my single-dom. I’m nearly always single, apart from brief dabbles into the world of couples I spend most of my life musing over lost opportunities and fantasizing about the next, reassuring myself that ‘Monsieur Fate’ has a plan for me. Occasionally I wonder if I spelt my name wrong on the application form, or ticked the wrong box, the one that said “Tick this box if you do NOT want to receive further information about upcoming opportunities in our popular line of Luck, Love and/or Life.”
That's nice I thought, sitting alone in King’s Cross tube station, clock slowly ticking down to the penultimate hour of the day. Unfortunately there was no phone number attached to the poster so I couldn’t make a personal call to the savior of mankind himself to check if he really meant it, I suspected he was just saying that to get me into bed. I hate that about men, words often just breeze out of their mouths like moths from a Tory chancellor’s wallet, lacking meaning and comprehension of consequence. I like words, and probably use too many of them but mean them all the same, or at least I do at the time; only in the cold and sober light of introspection do I realize that I too am one of those men.
That eerie breeze crept up on me like closing time in your favorite bar, stirring the hairs on the back of my neck in that strange way that it does. I’ve never quite understood my own fascination with the underground, the eclectic mix of passengers, the never pleasant, nor unpleasant smell, the rush of an approaching train. My senses always seem to wander around the sights and sounds of the stations, absorbing and judging. Twenty odd meters down the platform sat a young man, tie loosened around his neck, faint cheek glow of previously consumed alcohol permeating his appearance. He was like me, but for one important detail. Next to him, long hairless legs draped over his, sat his companion. A woman of not astounding beauty, but enough to keep a sparkle in his eyes. I looked on out of the corner of my eye, pretending I was staring past them, somehow trying to convince them that I found the darkness of the tunnel beyond them enough of a fascination to hold my eye for the long minutes. It was not that I was jealous. Well alright yes it was. But my jealousy began not at the attractiveness of his partner, nor the fact that he’d soon be doing naked press-ups over her grateful, naked body. Simply put, it was her hands clasped warmly around his that were the cause of my discomfort. I looked down at my own, not-being-held hands and wondered why. Is it so unfathomable to think that I too should have someone to hold my hand on this cool platform, or to head home to park the naked Landrover with? I guess this is the story of my life, my single-dom. I’m nearly always single, apart from brief dabbles into the world of couples I spend most of my life musing over lost opportunities and fantasizing about the next, reassuring myself that ‘Monsieur Fate’ has a plan for me. Occasionally I wonder if I spelt my name wrong on the application form, or ticked the wrong box, the one that said “Tick this box if you do NOT want to receive further information about upcoming opportunities in our popular line of Luck, Love and/or Life.”
I boarded the newly arrived tube, gratefully glancing at the map to ensure it would get me back to Victoria, so I could make my way back to the south coast. Immediately I scanned the faces of the four or five passengers to see if Monsieur Fate had finally come up with an idea. A fat and profusely sweating man in his forties, ring on finger thus married, but a look of pretence on his face. Thus I concluded, he’d probably recently been left by his wife who had begun a new career in porcelain doll making and had met a woman by the name of Rosalind who had been cheated on by three husbands and now had rediscovered a lost youth at night clubs where she jiggled her forty-four year old hips to music that sounds not remarkably dissimilar to R2-D2 shooting his mouth off about the state of the economy after a few cans of oil with the boys. Or something like that.
Your standard drunk bloke was gibbering on to himself to my right, best avoided as we all know. It does however serve to remind you that you might have sounded like that last Saturday, but at least that girl you were talking to was genuinely interested in what you had to say; whatever that was. An Asian youth reading the financial times, which is still amusingly pink. The Paper not the youth. And then, yes, there she was, I knew there was a reason I left the pub alone, again. A little done up for my tastes but hey, if that's what life has in store for me. After all, I’m sure as she matures a little and settles down with the love of a good man she’ll realize there’s no real need to wear a dress so short that it was close to being sold in the BHS underwear sale and being bought by my Gran. She’ll certainly grow out of wearing more makeup than Ozzie Ozborne; actually Ozzie was a bit more skillful in the application department. She looks distinctly like a Virgo, you can tell by the hair.
But did I talk to her?
Of course not.
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