Thursday, 10 April 2014

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths

This is an odd blog. I know that people who follow this site do so because they wish to be outraged (on one side) or reassured (on another) about the Scottish Independence issue.

But it is my blog. I don’t do fancy graphics or easy to follow links or back references.. I just say what I think. Take it or leave it.

And I know that even my political opponents were taken aback when I wrote this. To confess to where my personal circumstances  were.  And in its aftermath I was appreciative of the sympathy I received across the political divide.

But, in the real world, life went on.  I went to my work every day. Tried, at least, to secure justice for my clients. And tried at least as importantly,  to make money. If not for myself then at least to secure the wages of those who work with me.

And all the while I was pretty miserable about the hand fate had dealt me but resigned to it.

Until about six weeks ago.

I defy anybody who has been married forever, as I have been, not to meet somebody and think “if only”.

So, about, ten years ago, such a person walked into my office. A wee dark woman. If you follow me on twitter you will know I like wee dark women.  And when her legal business was done, by circumstance, we still would bump into each other. And she’d smile at me and pass some time and I’d (much less attractively) do the same.  And I’d think again “if only”.

While wee Mo, who I will love to the very end, descended further and further into the pit which is Alzheimers disease.  Until Mo didn’t know who I was, except that I was a familiar face.

So, after some very mild flirting over twitter, I wrote to my (second) wee dark woman.  And I told her what I could and couldn’t offer and invited her to walk away.

Except she didn’t.  

She saved me instead. 

We’ve been out no more than ten times. First to hear the Scottish Chamber orchestra play Schubert and Mozart, where she turned up ludicrously overdressed and then let me laugh with her. Then to the Burrell that Sunday where she suggested I might want to spend more time looking at the Bellini (I did) and where she in turn nearly cried( I noticed)  when,  by coincidence,  a chamber group played her favourite music from Hungary. (She is Hungarian, did I mention that?)

Through La Boheme and Nardini’s at Largs and, after a Friday night off,  because I had a Law Society Dinner , to Edinburgh and the Museum of Scotland and then the (wonderful) refurbished National Portrait Gallery. With lunch at the Outsider in between (No need to applaud).

And then, a week later,  to the New Lanark Mill Hotel Cottages where we marvelled at the beauty of my own country and I cooked her dinner and then we watched the telly together. And then I marvelled simply at the beauty of her.

And then, then.  the ordeal of meeting her two teenage boys.  Two big lumps. Well actually one quite dashing but the other at least for the moment just a lump but about whom I was reminded of a certain Danny Kaye song.  And going to see the film they had chosen: “Need for Speed”. If there has been a worse film ever made then I have not seen it.  But then it is a very long time since I was a teenage boy. They thought it was so brilliant they were prepared to allow me to snog their mum afterwards. (briefly).

So, anyway, after a weekend  out  together shopping at the Glasgow Market and then IKEA, as a result of which  I missed the West Ham against Liverpool game for love, this woman and I appear to have become an item.

So much so that next week we are going to Hungary to stay with her parents: to make her boys happy to see their grand-parents (even at the expense of my company) but most importantly of all so that she and I might be together for a week.

So, twitter is odd. From time to time you think something you don’t quite understand might be going on beneath the radar.

Don’t speculate tonight. The use of “this woman” was unfair.  For her name is Andrea  Eperjes. She is


 on twitter and I love her  in a way I never thought I would ever love again. 

No comments:

Post a Comment