Unlucky is lust

I see in the Guardian today that one of my former flatmates is releasing her misery memoir later in the year. I was so very sorry to hear that she had faced a lot of dark times when she left our humble zone one duplex and moved to America and am certain that the telling will be excellently executed, interesting and worthwhile. The review certainly suggests a v good read. I also hope that her life is now bringing her brighter times, and happy stories to publish in the future.

However there was one very concerning aspect to the write up which has both taken me by surprise and caused me a modicum of consternation.

For in their billing not only is she detailed as a writer, she is red carpeted as former beau to Colin Farrell. Yes the Colin Farrell, he of my top list of scrabble favourites! 

I have had the romantic rug pulled from under my feet; she has beaten me to love with one of my key dream gentlemen. Really, when am I going to get my turn on the arm of a swarthy Hollywood bad boy heartthrob?

But I shouldn’t be surprised, It’s not the first time my friends have had luck in the bedroom or Valentines booth (no I don’t know what one of those is either) with people I have been sweet on or sweated over.

There was one gentleman who for a couple of years I would bump into at various times and places and each time my knees would go weak and my heart beat a little faster. I dreamed of being swept off my feet into a cloud of international travel and love and obedience for many years to come in the arms of this hulking great, drop dead gorgeous man brute. But it was not to be, which was fine, I was never really his type. I could live with that - I’m used to it.

But what I couldn’t live with was the ever growing list of people I knew who had snared him in the pant department. It seemed every time I either mentioned this person or he came up in discussion, someone would say - ‘Oh yes I dated him’, or ‘I’ve been out with him’ or ‘I’ve seen his Valentine booth’.

Now obviously I am only friends with the Beautiful People, but I have turned some heads in my time, and received interest from a range of desirable benefactors of the heart and other organs from all sections of society including high. And I think I could certainly match these friends in terms of love points wink for wink.

It’s all very unfair, and now this! So please, if you end up going out with one of my dream men, can you kindly keep your dirty, selfish lovin’ to yourself. Nobody’s interested and it’s not big and it’s not clever. You are simply cheapening yourself by its mere mention.

However I suppose on reflection none of this really matters, the wounds and sadness will heal in time, and after all, I’ve decided to keep myself nice from now on. So maybe it’s best that these he brutes are dating other people. It would only nasty my counterpane anyway.