I've come over all Dickens. It's Our Mutual Friend what done it! Lord knows why though, because I'm not a fan. I was traumatised as a child by the one at the head and never recovered. Although I will concede that the TV Bleak House was genius.
But what of expectations? Stations, hotels, dinner, bed and breakfast! In our heads we imagine scenarios. Hers is Brief Encounter, all steam and noise on a black and white platform. Mine is Out Of Sight, quiet corner of a bar, mind if I join you, whilst undressing before a bed. I'd choose Clooney and Lopez over Howard and Johnson anyday. All that repressed Englishness; can't abide it. Bardot is more my cup of cafe noir. I say that, but I've never actually seen Bardot (real or fantasised, but that's soon to be rectified). Seen Huppert, Adjani, Deneuve, Binoche, Beart and of course Beatrice "Betty Blue" Dalle (who was only toppled from Number 1 by Bellucci, who's is Italian not French...there's a lot of "B's" in this...is that a sign?).
But I digress. As always. It's a trait. A defining trait perhaps. Irritates and amuses in equal measure I suspect. Symptomatic of a magpie brain. See, I'm doing it again.
But beginnings are easy to dream and to shape. Its Chapter 2 that's the problem. But the way I see it, I can't (co-)author Chapter 2 until I've drunk every last dreg of the first. What's next? Who knows? Who cares? I might get hit by a bus (unlikely I know, but more likely than say, a satellite). She might hate my comb-over, my halitosis, my rotting teeth. You can only turn a blind eye for so long, after all. Or she may find me less than entertaining without a keyboard. We're not here for plans, we're here for the moment. And if there are further moments then they'll be further moments. In the meantime hold my hand, let's skip down the corridor and open the door to the moment, the escape, the fantasy made real, the island of delicious longing safe from the outside world.
Oh and it's Chuzzlewit!
