Time and Mary Davies.

It’s been a long time since I wrote a blog post. I fear it might be a long time before I write another one, but time will tell. Time always tells until the sands run out, and then it stops and moves on to tell somebody else. (Meanwhile, it continues to allow me the time-honoured propensity for irrational statements. I always took the view that irrational statements are fine as long as I know what they mean. Time is ever blasé about such matters; it’s one of the old man’s more liberal traits.)

The fact is that my mind currently lacks the sort of mental vitality necessary for the making of blog posts. The only reason I’m making this one is the sudden realisation that today (4^th December in all but name) is Mary Davies’s birthday.

Readers of longstanding might remember that Mary has had several mentions on this blog. She was dark of hair, slight of build and pretty of visage, with an ever-present hint of mischief in her eyes and a penchant for romantic deception in her make up.  Had she been a dark Irish colleen possessed of a black velvet band, she would have carried the association well. As far as her association with me is concerned, her indubitable claim to distinction is that she introduced me to my libido. My mother disliked her because she felt that Mary was leading me astray. No other recommendation need be offered.

So, Happy Birthday Mary Davies, albeit a few hours late. I remember your birthday because you were just six days younger than me. It horrifies me to reflect on the fact that you’re still just six days younger than me.

Changing Times, Cate, and Cat Fights.

The article I was reading on Catherine the Great sought to dispel the more lurid myths which took hold after her death. It said that she had twenty two male lovers (all human) during her reign, and went on: ‘While this would be considered modest by today’s standards…’

It would?

*  *  *

During my late teens I had a spell in trainee retail management. One day I was sitting in the canteen taking lunch with my then girlfriend – the ubiquitous Mary Davies who makes a habit of turning up on this blog – when one of the older women decided to have a go at me:

‘My husband says that real men either do labouring jobs or work in offices. He says men who work in shops are wimps.’

Mary, bless all 112lbs of her (which I could lift above my head in those days,) grabbed one of my hands and thrust it forward for general inspection.

‘Look,’ she hissed, ‘he’s got calluses.’

Which I had. Mary seethed; the accuser did the dismissive look; I smiled; times change. You get to be a member of the club these days if you’ve got a job at all.

Life and Mary Davies.

OK, I’m in the groove now. I just listened to another YouTube track that took me back a bit.

Once upon a time I was seventeen. So was Mary Davies. We were sort of an item, you know? – in the way that 17-year-olds are wont to be. She was from the bad side of the tracks, I was from the good, which probably explains why I believed her when she said she could only see me on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because she was washing her hair the other nights.

Are you giggling yet?

Eventually, a friend of hers told me the truth of the matter. On Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays she was seeing somebody else, and on Sundays she went out with the biker guys from the local pub. I didn’t see her for about six months after that. (I did, however, wonder when she found the time to wash her hair.)

But then she called me and asked if we could go out again, so we did. We went for a drive and called in at a pub on the way back. She had two vodka and tonics, then fell asleep in the car. I took her home and never saw her again.

The End.

Isn’t life a hoot?

The Yorkshire Lass and the Leprechaun.

Tonight I found a rather special video on YouTube - Kate Rusby, Cathy Jordan and Dervish all on the same stage singing As I Roved Out. I've already posted one YouTube video tonight, so maybe I'll save this one for another time.

It's of some small interest to me that Kate Rusby has the same birthday as Mary Davies, the first girl who truly aroused my passion when I'd reached the ripe old age of seventeen. We worked together, and she used to come around to my house when we had an afternoon off to listen to some music in my bedroom. My mother didn't like her; she suspected poor Mary of trying to lead me astray. Mothers can be incredibly naive about their sons sometimes.

The passion went largely unrequited, but that's of no importance. It's always the feelings that matter, not the actions.