Comfort

Let’s talk about feelings.

I didn’t write about my trip home to Ireland. It was fine, but I was glad to be back in London. In the last few weeks, I’ve had two fairly horrible pieces of family news that I’m not doing a great job of processing.

I got to London determined to get back into the swing of being London Connor. French Train Platform boy came over. Now that I have my own place and I have no shame, I took the opportunity to answer the front door to my lover completely naked to give him a nice surprise. In the movies that means it’s actually your mother-in-law at the door, but no. It was my Frenchman. And it was wonderful. I was thirsty for him. We were both urgent in our need for each other. It was our raw-est encounter since our first one. It was what I needed it to be.

But how could I pretend not to be having feelings once I sent my French boy away though? Work, of course! I’ve stayed in work more or less every day for the last two weeks until 8:00 pm. And, yes, I am busy at work. But I don’t need to be there quite that long.

I did have a great moment of catharsis. Where was that Connor? Perhaps you watched a play by Shakespeare or listened to a Beethoven symphony? Of course not. I had my great moment of emotional purging at an amateur musical based on the songs of Steps. Where else would it be? There I was, upstairs in a pub, surrounded by middle class gays and theatrical girls drinking wine all having a great time watching a group of eager amateur actors in the Camden Fringe Festival as they did the moves to “Last Thing on My Mind” and “Stomp” and “Better Best Forgotten”  and “One For Sorrow” and “Summer of Love”  and “5, 6, 7, 8” and I cried throughout. My eyes hurt from so many tears. I was like someone in a TV show who suffers a tragedy and is eerily fine with it all and then in the last scene breaks down crying over something totally unrelated and they finally let their feelings out. TV is real, you guys. If you don’t get upset at the right time, it’ll hit you later, when you least expect it. (Though I have to admit that I have enough self-awareness to know that I would probably have a strong emotional reaction to a musical based on the songs of Steps.)

I’m surprised I’m not eating my feelings, but I’m not. I’m more or less following my diet and in spite of the binge I wrote about three weeks ago and in spite of a week of my mother’s cooking, I’m on track and have lost another two pounds, so I’ve now lost 4 stone 5 pounds. Phew! I brought some old clothes that haven’t fit me since Vietnam back to London with me from Ireland. Losing weight is fun. I still have plenty of clothes in Cork that are yet to fit me, but will again.

I don’t know if you’ll remember, but when I wasn’t feeling great about my life while living in Vietnam, I set myself the task of watching one episode of Gilmore Girls every day until I had re-watched the whole seven seasons. And I was very strict with myself. I wasn’t allowed to binge watch – just one episode a day so I’d appreciate it and really watch it properly. And I wasn’t allowed to skip a day, so there’d always be something to look forward to in my day. And I was successful. For 154 days in a row, I only missed one day. And it really did make life better. I’m now doing the same, but with Please Like Me, a show I love just as much, every episode of which I’ve seen at least ten times, and now I’m only allowing myself one a day, but I must watch that one. And it does work. It really does give me something solid to look forward to every single day, which is lovely.

I don’t want to sound sad, because I’m not. I like my job more than I’ve liked any job in ten years. I still love London. I went to see an all-male burlesque space-themed, drag-influenced show at the weekend. I couldn’t have done that in Longford.

What I didn’t realise when I was answering the door nude to my Frenchman was that that was probably the last time I would see him. Yes, he’d asked me to take him on a holiday to Ireland just two weeks ago, and yes he’d asked if we could have breakfast together more, and yes he’d told me lots of deep and meaningful bits and pieces about himself, but he texted me on Friday to end it all. A friend of his had ended up in hospital and when he visited him, they realised they were madly and deeply in love with each other. Grrh. He’s even romantic when he’s dumping me. Sap.

So Connor and French Train Platform Boy are no more. He was very good for me. I’ll have to find me another regular peen. Luckily, I’m in London and there’s plenty of it about.

 

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