In my case should be retitled: ‘Pecks at, sleeps, lights another ciggie’, having no intentions of learning Italian, committing to any religion, or giving a shit about the balance in my life.
I LOVED it. The book ‘Eats, Prays, Loves’ that is, and am devouring her second, ‘Committed’, and learning an awful lot about religion and marriage in the process.
Surely Elizabeth Gilbert is me? Of course I know she isn’t, she’s several decades younger, far more sussed, and has a greater command of the comma than I shall ever have, but she so understands that we are all the same.
Tragic. The realisation that we are all the same. Tragic but comforting. There are thousands of 21st century women right now on their own personal roads of discovery, all of us finally realising…we are all the same. I commend it to all women and can only say it is head and shoulders above the film.
Back to more salacious issues, (having discovered all women are the same, I am now depressed, comforted and bored.)
David and Jonathan. What a couple! Actually what a menage a trois. It turns out that there is a third member of their harmonious matrimonial set up – Charles.
They have all lived together for nigh on fifty years. Well first David and Charles. Jonathan came on the scene some five years later (a sexy little whippersnapper), and was almost a deal breaker.
David is -naughty. I suspect David has always been naughty and, being naughty, he recognised a kindred spirit the moment he spied my Miss Haversham gloves.
I have many ‘naughty’ David’s in my life and I love them all. They are the best company, cock a snoop at any kind of conformity and revel in mischief making.
Some years ago, on being introduced to a friend of my daughter’s (another David) and seeing the look of puckish delight that passed between us, she moaned, “Oh my God, I wish I’d never introduced you!” Naughtiness naturally followed. Not nastiness, just devilment.
Back to the menage a trois.
David made, and lost, fortunes in the city, being a) excellent at making money and b) hopeless at holding on to it.
In days gone by they would hire Claridges for parties at enormous expense, travel the world first class (they managed to wangle directorships of a travel company) and generally live the life of Riley.
Now they are in “The final decade” as David says, and live a far simpler life.
They are not destitute by any means, the mews house off Kensington High Street, the cottage in Brighton and extended holidays (albeit now travelling cattle class) testify to that, but they have slowed down.
Days for David and Charles are now spent watching the horse racing on television and placing the necessary bets, better to enjoy a few moments of instant gratification (sex having been relegated to ‘memory lane’ some years ago), while Jonathan, “He’s so sensible and kind”, still holds enough enthusiasm for the ‘cut and thrust’ of commerce to go out and earn a living. He is currently working on a boutique luxury hotel in central London but his past client list reads like a who’s who of any Rich List you care to name.
‘Wasn’t it difficult when Jonathan came on the scene?’ I ask.
“Oh yes” says David “But I love them both, what could I do?”
Only a truly ‘naughty’ boy could get away with it with such flair – and he did, for 45 years they have lived together in a harmony that most heterosexual marriages can only dream of.
“You see” he explained to me over beers in the bar “Jonathan loves me and Charles loves me and I love both of them.”
How simple, how stupid of me not to understand.
“Now tell me how many times have you been married?”
Naughty boy.
He worms all my secrets out of me and we giggle like kids behind the bike shed, luxuriating in our new ‘naughty’ friendship.
A phone call last night has cast a shadow over their happiness.
Charles has been taken into hospital. Charles is more ‘upper crust’ than Jonathan but not in any way, David is quick to point out, a drama queen.
Charles has cancer. David tries to hide his worry.
“That’s life, my darling, but I do hate the dreaded C.”
I squeeze his hand and hope that all will be all right, knowing it most probably won’t, and sensing that their final decade, like sand, is gathering speed as it trickles down through the egg timer of life.
They left today.
I decided to stay, they will need to adjust on the journey home and don’t need to entertain an interloper, besides the weather is still too cold further north for me.
We have exchanged details, well Jonathan has given me his business card and home details – “I leave all that to Jonathan” says David, adjusting his ‘Death in Venice’ hat to a jaunty angle in a brave attempt to hide his hurt.
“You must come up to Kensington and I’ll show you that dreadful newscaster who walks around Waitrose in leggings with her underwear showing and no make up.”
Having promised each other the delights of newscasters in Waitrose and tea at Hampton Court, they depart pressing bottles of water, pots of pistachio yoghurt and kisses on me.
I hope all goes well. I know we will never meet again.