If My House Was A Man
Hear that funny noise? That’s the sound of my disgruntlement.
Hell yeah, I’m in a grump. I’m in a grump because I live in grumpyville and ate grumpybix for breakfast. See the thing is this: I have got to go out two nights on the run. And have a lovely little someone stay over Saturday night and go for a meal on Sunday day and quite frankly I can’t see the woods for all the busy busy socialising I have to do and those who know me well, know that me and socializing don’t get on until I’ve forced a bottle of red wine down my rapidly ageing neck and then I’m the life and nonsense talking soul of the party.
Who said going out was the new staying in? Having to do it two nights on the run should be against the law don’t you know.
So yes. I have to go out. I have to stop kissing my new lovely wallpaper, and that stack of delicious new books, pack my child off to his Daddys and climb into glad rags I don’t own because unlike me, Richard has a life he will insist on sharing and this is one of the downsides of loving someone years younger than yourself because youth prevents yellow scabs forming on his skin if he has to be out in high heels after dark more than once in a blue moon.
It should be becoming clear that I love my house more than I should. If my house was a man he wouldn’t be Brad Pitt. Or George Clooney. He wouldn’t even be Bob from Emmerdale: all cheery smiles and mad statements. No. In my mad head my house wouldn’t be a Bob, because my love for it is darker, more brooding than that. It might be all antiques roses and polka dots on the surface, but underneath it is tumultuous nights and intellectual breeding ground. Sexy and shabby and ok, just a teeny bit dirty. My house is A.A. Gill and Russell Brand and maybe even a little Jeremy Paxman. With Sean Connerys’ voice. And there’s the rub: there isn’t a woman on the planet who would want to go trolling around the lovely streets of Liverpool when she could be lying in bed listening to Sean Connery whispering sweet nothings in her ear now is there?
That’s how much I love my house. Like I said: more than I should.
But tonight I have to untie my apron strings regardless and go to an album launch. I know. Get me. An album launch. Since when did I do anything as cool as that? Because trust me this is kinda cool: 10 Reasons to Live are a home-grown Liverpool band on the verge of certain stardom probably because the lead singer is both a) awfully handsome and b) terribly good, and Rich has been a long-time groupie and is now kinda friends with the band, and it wouldn’t be good form to send him off to celebrate a band he is passionate about, with his ex-girlfriend, and her girlfriend, without being in attendance.
So in attendance I shall be. Pondering why they called the band 10 Reasons To Live when I can think of three million off the top of my head (not least being laundry lined sheets and Finn’s impression of Eminem). Trying not to swoon. Or look like the kind of frizzy haired greying old lady who prefers a nice cup of tea. Or snark at unsuspecting strangers when my feet start hurting. Or worst of all, dance in an embarrassing fashion. Because trust me all of these things could happen tonight. And the man who is known as Richie to everybody but me, will die of certain shame.
Must not embarrass man who hangs Cath Kidston wallpaper and makes my heart gallop with joy. Must behave myself in company. Must keep filthy mouth firmly jammed shut. Mustn’t dance like someone else’s Nana. Mustn’t tell cool types I would rather be curled up with A.A. Gill, while Sean Connery reads me Daisy Dalrymple stories and Russell Brand blows warm air down my shivery spine.
Absence makes the heart grow fonder after all. Wish me luck Sweeties won’t you?
(P.S: if you have ever wondered how men from my town speak, go listen to the gorgeous lilting accents of the boys in the band. Liverpool is not The Beatles country any more.)