For at least two weeks now, I’ve been waking up in the middle of the night, startled, agitated and sweaty; but don’t worry, not in a way that I should be reporting it to the police.
It’s taken me a while to realise the reason behind these night tremors. At first, I thought I just wasn’t adjusting well to the heat, or I was going through an early menopause – there is no grey area in the dark mind of the hypochondriac. It couldn’t possibly be down to the fact that I’d been sleeping with my window wide open and my radiator on full blast, could it? Perhaps. Maybe it’s a combination of that coupled with my overwhelming guilt at contributing to global warming in such a selfish manner? No, it’s definitely not that. I’m sorry, but it’s just really hard to give a toss about being energy efficient when your rent is all bills included. I must admit that even though I know that they’re considered the green activists kryptonite, I tend to find find the gentle glow of the standby button somewhat comforting, atmospheric even. Like some sort of digital candle – but, less erotic. And when I say erotic, I’m referring to the romantic glow that they emanate – not that I’m some sort nymphomaniac who gets all worked up over anything slightly phallic looking. Just to clarify, in no way am I one of those Objectum-Sexuals who fall in love with a brick or something equally as mundane and ridiculous.
Although, just for the record, if I was one then I think I would definitely be all about the candle. Just think, unlike the Berlin Wall – they’re so accessible. Going into Wax Lyrical would be like porn, and those middle class Candle Parties would suddenly be like a private orgy.
Tap in to that market Ann Summers…Tap. That.
Although, on second thoughts it could make every day life just a little bit tricky. Funerals would never be the same again for a start – and I don’t think I ever want to be the sort of person that gets aroused by a Bonnie Tyler video.
I’m digressing.
So, before settling 100% on the notion that my restless nights were the result of a 26 year old prolapsed womb, I eliminated other possible causes first.
I finally turned the radiator off – nothing. I did the trusted cold side of the pillow flip – nothing. I even perfected the art of slipping my socks off by only using my big toe and still remaining semi conscious. (Sexy, I know. It’s the single girl’s equivalent of slipping your bra off under your top in one seductive swoop.)
And, still…nothing.
I started to wonder if perhaps I was stressed about something. However, I hadn’t been stressed for months…not since that elusive day I finally held the £10,000 sheet of paper I like to call my Masters degree in my chubby little hands. Come to think about it, the sheer fact I own any piece of paper worth that amount of money and isn’t a £10,000 cheque, kind of stresses me out a little bit. Mustn’t dwell… mustn’t dwell.
Then, walking to work one day it finally dawned on me – literally. It’s the Sun – the Sun is making me anxious. Not the newspaper, although that does make me slightly anxious when I read it in public. Partly, because I once got rejected in Costa Coffee from a blind date I wasn’t actually even on – just because I was reading it. But largely, because I always feel a certain sense of shame in the fact that I studied journalism and once genuinely thought that the ‘G8 Summit’ was just a shit name for a shit new band.
Like Blazin’ Squad – but smaller.
I know it makes me sound like a miserable git, but as a big eared slightly warm haired girl – I just wasn’t cut out for summer. Don’t get me wrong, I like Summer – but for one reason only; beer gardens. Nothing quite beats long lazy, hazy days sitting in the sun surrounded by friends with a nice cold drink, and then a Calippo for breakfast the next day.
But, I dread it for so many reasons…
- My ears stick out. This means that I am constantly tormented by the suns position and how it will affect me throughout the day. For instance, on my walk to work on a morning, the Sun rises slowly behind me and follows me with the kind of intrepid intensity one would only expect from a stalker – thus illuminating my ears with a brilliant orange glow rarely seen outside the core of a volcano. Or more recently; Iceland. Sometimes, it will focus its intentions on just one ear – provoking people to wisecrack: “Oooh, your ear’s going red, someone’s talking about you…” No they’re not. It’s God – and he’s taking the piss. Prick.
- Freckles. Yeah, some people find freckles cute, I get that – and I can thoroughly appreciate how a small smattering of freckles across the bridge of the nose or delicately patterned across the chest can look pretty. However, when you’re the sort of person that just ten minutes sitting out in the sun makes you look like Michelangelo’s clumsy apprentice who has just given the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel an undercoat in terracotta – life ain’t too sweet.
- I’ve got inappropriately massive feet. This one is self explanatory. YOU CAN’T WEAR FLIP FLOPS IF YOUR FEET ARE MASSIVE; unless you’re a bloke. Or transgender. Mine? Well, mine look like plasticine hands – think Wallace and Gromit. If – god forbid – I try and wear sandals, I look like I’ve trod on Chas before I’ve stepped out into the Sun…and then Morph on the way back in.
- Massive feet also rule out the possibility of wearing cropped trousers of any kind because they only emphasise the fact that you have said massive feet. And so I am resigned to jeans.
- Skirts aren’t even an option because I’m 90% sure I suffer from undiagnosed Rickets. I did have a moment of madness a week or so ago where I brought a maxi dress. As soon as I got home, I put it on and whatever magical spell had wafted over me in the changing rooms had completely lifted, because I suddenly felt very aware that I looked like I was waiting for my photo call for a plus size model shoot in the Littlewoods catalogue. I’m not even going to go into my experience with a pair of leggings in Peacocks…
- I’ve got the shoulders of a retired Olympic swimmer which means more ‘broad’ than ‘brawn’, and more ‘malleable’ than ‘muscle’. This in turn means I can’t wear short sleeves, and will be resigned to an uninspiring array of cardigans – all of them in uniform black. (I don’t know why I’m trying to fool you by using the plural of cardigan, we all know the truth)
- I’ve got naturally curly hair. After spending the last 10, or 11 years worshipping the church GHD, and religiously burning each and every last ringlet out of my follicles on a daily basis – I thoroughly resent the fact that just a brisk walk and some slight humidity can make me look like I’ve just scalped Mick Hucknall; circa 1986.
- I don’t own a single summery item of clothing. In fact, as I was explaining to Tine last night, in a last ditch attempt to make myself look slightly more summery before I met them at the pub, I actually tried to dangle a pair of sunglasses off the front of my vest. I thought, it would give me that ‘fresh from the park, breezy look’ – the only problem being that my sunglasses broke last summer when I sat on them and now only have one arm. It would have taken just one hawkeyed punter and the whole illusion would have been shattered. Now THAT’S pretty pathetic – even by my standards.
I could go on, but I’m just being self indulgent and a bit moany – I blame the antibiotics.
Basically, in a world where everyone looks like a beautiful Russian gymnast in the Summertime, I will still always feel like a walking Renaissance painting – but a frigid one. I mean, let’s face it, as plump, pale, proud and long necked as those girls were – they certainly weren’t shy of a little nipple action were they.
So, spring has barely even sprung and it appears that Summer has come early, and therefore until I reach that glorious age when I find inner peace and embrace change – I will once again find myself stuck in an endless spiral of the same conversation…
Just for the record when I next see you in the beer garden, yes, I am wearing jeans, yes, this is a cardigan – and yes, I am very hot thank you for asking.
Repeat to fade…
There’s only one thing for it, next year I’m moving to a Muslim country where my own restricted clothing tendencies are not only encouraged – but admired. Plus, I am very attracted to bearded men. So it’s win win! I think I could be very happy indeed.
I’m sure we could come to some sort of agreement over the binge drinking…
“I don’t like big feet – they remind me of gammon” – Alan Partridge
My point exactly Alan, my point exactly.
xx
