Sundays were typically my favourite day of the week when I was with N. If I wasn’t playing rugby and then out on the town with the ladies, they were spent drinking tea, eating fat girl’s breakfast, surrounding by the papers and watching old films.
There is something very comforting (and comfortable) about being with someone on those kind of days, especially when the weather’s playing up outside. No expectations, no need to do one’s make up, change out of pyjamas. Warm, protected, safe and calm. Confident in the love and affection of the person you’re with.
Sundays in this foreign land of mine seem to be made for this cocoon of lazy domesticity. There aren’t any shops open and the flats are still (this is one of the occasions when I thank their funny by-laws about peace and quiet). At this time of year, the skies are grey, threatening snow or rain. There is a definite nip in the air. Perfect for not doing much with someone you love.
And I’m coping with them alone.
The last couple of Sundays have been spent in a state of flux. I have taken advantage of living on my own and relishing the fact that I have the freedom of being completely selfish about my time off and yet, at the same time, something’s been missing.
Whether it’s someone to doze off next to on the sofa, someone to make tea for (or, even better, make me tea) or to argue with about whether The Colditz Story or The Dambusters makes better Sunday viewing (the answer is, of course, The Colditz Story). It’s someone to collapse onto, your legs on his lap or you planted in the crook of his arm. Curled up.
I’ve started trying to fill up the Sundays with friends, outings, phone calls, pottering. But it’s not quite the same. I miss the companionship and I find myself getting a severe case of the green eyed monster at my loved up friends.
It’s a weird feeling, this feeling of pathetic need. I don’t do needy that often but when I do, boy, I do it well.
Model of a Modern Major General has been on the receiving end of my self-pitying rants for the last couple of weeks. (Normally I try and keep it to just that, something I deal with alone except for a few people whom I know will allow me to wallow, at least for a little bit. Until they tell me to buck up my ideas.)
However, yesterday, I found myself complaining to the American, Scotsman and Hungarian*. They had come round for a proper big fat roast dinner – on the pretence that we were going to talk some rugby chat and then watch the Scotland/Ireland game. They were, of course, actually just pawns in my evil ploy to stave off the feeling that I was going to die alone and be found 3 weeks later being eaten by my cats.
Anyway, it was yesterday that I realised that this condition (which I have decided to call Sundayitis) has got to a critical point. If my complete inability to find someone to spend time with has become the basis of a conversation with friends as we eat Sunday lunch, it must be a huge problem. One that needs solving. (in a very roundabout “Oh me? No, I’m fine without a man, I don’t need a boyfriend, please love me” kind of way, of course – can’t seem too desperate)
There is one fatal flaw. A gaping chasm which I haven’t quite figured out how to traverse.
There is a severe dearth of men in this one-horse town.
Don’t get me wrong, there are men in this town (this isn’t Coutts Crossing after all)
it’s just that… well, they fall into a number of categories:
- taken but looking (not my bag, baby)
- friends (not that I’m precluding the possibility of friends becoming something more but a) I don’t fancy any of my friends and b) it seems like a pretty silly thing to do. What happens if it didn’t work out?)
As you can see, there isn’t a category which is entitled “Single, financially solvent, sane, intelligent, amusing, charming, good looking straight man looking for a stable but exciting relationship”.
*as an aside, I really need to introduce you to my new group of friends here. And give them better pseudonyms.