Samantha Morton came into the shop today. She has a daughter a little older than my own. We talked about light switches, though, rather than parenting small girls, neither child being present. She was dressed down. I had WD-40 on my favourite cotton jumper - it's off-white so you could see the stain forming - which made everyone feel relaxed. Her husband-to-be might buy some castors from me. After she went I read about her.
Human chemistry is a curious thing. Morton has an edgy on-screen presence, her performances don't always seek the sympathy of the audience. The journalists who write about her seem to start off on the back foot, accordingly. Which perhaps makes her uncomfortable. Anyway she seemed jolly simpatico to me and not extraordinary in the least, which in itself is remarkable, because she is an extraordinary actress, I think.
The night that Tyson fought Bruno I was at Jake's house, not sleeping with a girl called Helen, whose face might have launched a small flotilla. I was at that cynical stage of late adolescence where I was prepared to overlook some serious character flaws in order to get some love during the holidays. Helen was slender, absurdly pretty, and deadly dull. No, not deadly dull, but not interesting to me other than in the way that any girl is interesting to a teenage boy. She had boring parents, so it probably wasn't her fault. If I'd turned out that way, or if my good friend Martin had, we'd have no alibi. While I'm busy not sleeping with Helen Jake has worked out that her sexy and interesting friend Jo who wanted to sleep with me but couldn't surmount my misguided crush on her prettier but decidedly less charismatic chum would probably make herself available to him just to spite me. (I found this out later). While we were talking about "Emma" and waiting for the fight to start Jake and Jo were upstairs fucking. Well, this is what we assumed. They rejoined us half-an-hour later. Jo was barefoot, and a pair of tangled knickers fell out of her turned-up jeans and rested on the tiled floor like an accusation.
I thought about that evening earlier today, so I googled Jake. He's a monk now, in the Army of Jesus, he's been celibate for years, and wouldn't you know it, he has a blog. Life, truly, is rich and strange.
4 comments:
I hope you're not suggesting that "Emma" is deadly dull. Because I'll have to fly to England and box your ears if you are.
"Emma" is the bomb, clearly. And Mr Knightley is the shiznit. However, put yourself in the shoes of a sexually-frustrated teenage boy (actually the "sexually-frustrated" is tautological) and try to imagine if discussing the picnic on Box Hill is preferable to getting sweaty with a girl you like. Actually she was at her most animated when talking about Austen. She interned for CND in the holidays and was incredibly earnest. I moped after her for what seemed like months - about a fortnight in reality, I suspect - and then something shifted in my head and I realised just how boring, or utterly unsuitable for the dazzling wit I perceived myself to be, she was.
So THAT's why I barely dated in high school--all those books I read! Well, that and my complete lack of a bosom. Damn it. If only I'd had a "dazzling wit" such as yourself to guide me. Quelle dommage.
Hello Tom,
It is you, wow! Yes, too much excess too early, I have sought solace in the arms of the Lord!!!
How is life treating you, how is the literary career?
Peace and Love,
Jake
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