It must be obvious by now that the Big P is rather special to me. Let’s be honest, I love her hopelessly – and ‘hopeless’ is entirely the right word. All I can do about it, you see, is weep quietly over my late night scotch. (Which I don’t do, of course, at least not very often!) My feelings are not even of my construction; they go back a long way.
I think she is perhaps the most erudite person I’ve ever known, especially when she’s exercising her almost unparalleled facility for constructive cynicism. She asked me this question recently:
‘...what would happen to you once you found your love, and she was free to give herself to you? How does life proceed? It almost seems to me that there's only a journey to reach that point, so that in some ways the beginning of love fulfilled is already the end. Would you still talk of the same things to each other? Would you talk of your past, because surely the present is shallow and insignificant to speak of - and what future can you possibly see, that isn't dwarfed by the magnificence of such a love?’
I hope she has no objection to being quoted. I think I know her well enough to trust the fact.
We’re never going to meet. By the time she’s ready to accept me into the centre of her life, instead of being obliged – through the honesty of circumstance, it has to be said – to treat me as one distraction among many, I’ll be dead.
But only temporarily.