Love In A Time Of Terror

Laetitia has a new sun hat that seems like something from the Daisy Buchanan wardrobe. When I told her that, and followed it up with, “You know, from The Great …” She told me that yes, of course she knows who Daisy Buchanan was (or was not, as she is fictional), and which book she appears in. The Great Gatsby – my favourite novel, I think, and a book I try to read as regularly as possible (once a year, at least, I would say, for over a decade).

It’s like that, I suppose, when you know someone. Really know them: you know what they like and don’t like; you know the way they think; moods changing in them appears more obvious to you than those changes would to others; you can predict what they are going to say, and even finish sentences for them sometimes. You start to like the things they like, and some of those things would never have appeared on your radar previously – and if they had you would have produced a deep, mocking, diabolical laugh at being presented with such notions and ideas and concepts.

But there you go. You change. The other person – let’s say, your counterpart – changes too. I recall a friend furiously attempting to study up about cricket so he could demonstrate his interest, and share his new passion with his then girlfriend. (You can’t learn cricket in a few days, by the way.)

In this way it’s not true what they say about not being able to change a man, and you shouldn’t hope to do this, as it won’t happen, and all that. I suppose what that “don’t try to change him” advice represents is the view, probably very wise, that if the male individual in question is a rampantly sexist pig who thinks it beneath him to even know his own underwear size[1], let alone ever clean anything, or refrain from pissing all over the toilet seat, on purpose – and let’s face it, a guy like this has got problems and probably should be in gaol for something criminal he has done – then he isn’t about to become Sir Galahad any time soon (although Galahad’s toilet habits were not recorded by Malory or Tennyson).

Well, this has come to an end through lack of momentum, hasn’t it? Love and companionship are strange things, and so is creativity, but sometimes fatigue is more powerful. And I don’t feel so creative right now.


[1] Not quite sure what mine is, to be honest. An item for the To Do list.

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Published in: on November 3, 2010 at 6:53 pm  Leave a Comment  
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