Missy. Missssy. Miss E.
One fifth of a whole. Time flies does it not?
The rhythm of your remix makes so much more sense when put to pictures. Like piecing together memories, or recognising names from a map as you drive through a strange town. Yes your father was right, but it was an easy and throwaway statement; everyone is weird. You can call me Al.
I was going to say that you keep returning to the beach, but of course you live there so that would be stupid. It would be like you telling me that I spend my life going round London. Well duh. You clearly suit your surroundings, they seem to be beautiful and secluded. How appropriate.
London is the polar opposite. Probably literally. You cannot walk down the pavement in a straight line. Everyone walks at different speeds and zig zags and one in every ten will suddenly stop in front of you for no reason. First world problems ho ho.
I have wondered about the legend of what the psychobabblers call ‘father issues’. Is it another cop out? We all have fathers (tick) even if some die and/or fuck off when we are young (tick) and most are lost young men who never had a body clock telling them to have children (tick tock), nobody tells a girl how to be a mother, and that other myth about instinct is a bitching lie, well the same goes for fathers (tick) who know only how to find their way around fraternal blokeism until they meet a girl willing to offer love, understanding and obviously sex. Leading to child (tick) leading to the crashing realisation that nothing. Nothing will be the same again. Fuck. It is just too easy to see isn’t it?
I would never defend yours or anyones father. We fathers do not have a fraternity in the same way mothers seem to have a sisterhood. We cannot share emotions and have little time for gossip (well I can only speak for the British culture, but I would think my ancestors may have inflicted your poor sods down under with it too). We are coldhearted and judgemental bastards frankly egotistical to the point of selfishness. Our chief goal is to satisfy ourselves and wonder where it all went wrong for us when we realise that we are so far away from where we started with that nice long limbed girl with the big eyes that let us put our hand in her bra.
It takes time to realise of course. If I could jump into my Delorean set the clock to 1996 and squeal the tyres to 88mph in a firetrack lightning explosion time warp, I would find myself out then punch myself so hard I would not wake up and probably end time in a quark paradox. Or something. I hate the way I was; moody, bitter, frankly very umpleasant young man.
Or maybe not. Perhaps I am being a little mean to myself (memory is a bitch too). My kids do not remember me as Jack Nicholson bashing through the door in the ‘shining’ but I was hardly ‘Bert’ the chimneysweep from Mary Poppins either. My daughter says I scared her with my moods when she was younger, but my son can never remember me being that scary at all. They have both seen me angry, but that is hardly a crime is it?
It’s not my fault officer. These bloody tourists just keep stopping in front of me to take photos of bloody phone boxes, traffic lights, statues, and their fucking feet.
Bless you Missy, may demon 250 softly kiss your fulsome lips and supplicate itself at your polished feet.