The Woman's Place.

I take back what I said in an earlier post. I am obsessed with women; they are both my crutch and my cross depending on how old they are, what they look like, what kind of shape they exhibit, what kind of eyes they have, whether they can do the enigmatic look, whether they appear to offer a modicum of intelligence, how their sense of humour works, how they choose to relate to me, erm… well, you know, that kind of thing.

Take the nice looking one I encountered in Tesco today. She came to clear my self-service till because I had alcohol among my purchases and the till refuses to proceed until your age has been attested by someone deemed to be compos mentis. She paused briefly and said she wasn’t sure whether I was over 25 or not. It was a bit predictable I suppose, but still sweet. I would have been inclined to offer some manner of physical contact by way of honest gratitude, but realised that such an action would be both reprehensible and most unwelcome. Besides, I didn’t much fancy having my freshly laundered linen shirt liberally spattered with projectile vomit. But I did manage a non-committal smile.

See what I mean about crutches and crosses? Sometimes they’re both.