Pretty girls were always my weakness, you know. It started
when I was age 10 and had an innocent fling with Elaine Bailey who lived a few
streets from me. She had a friend called Janice Turner who I also thought
rather attractive. Elaine had dark hair; Janice was a frizzy blonde. One of my
most abiding memories of childhood was going to Janice Turner’s birthday party
and knocking a glass over. It’s my earliest recollection of feeling embarrassed
to the point of being mortified. I’m sure I squirmed in my seat, and I have
little doubt that my face was the colour of the car which passed me in the
lane.
When a pretty girl smiles at me these days, I go straight
into an inner dialogue:
No point in looking
longingly after her, JJ old lad.
‘No?’
No. When a pretty girl
smiles at you now it’s a smile of congratulation that you can still walk
unaided and manage to carry you own shopping.
‘D’you think so?’
I know so. If you
dropped something she would probably hurry to pick it up for you and ask
whether you need any help carrying it to the car.
‘Oh.’
Besides, remember all
that trouble you used to get into? All that stress you used to pile on
yourself?
‘I do.’
And you wouldn’t want all
that again, would you?
‘Erm… well… erm… Suppose not.’
Well there you have
it. Content yourself with marvelling at moths and beaming at bats during the
magical hour of twilight. And remember this: the older you become, the less you
know; and the less you know, the less you judge; and the less you judge, the
wiser you are. Isn’t that a worthy substitute for the approbation of pretty
girls? Isn’t it worth something very much deeper and more meaningful?
‘Like what?’
Er… mmm… OK, let’s
leave it there for now.
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