OB/NB: 21ST NOVEMBER 2013. DRESS OPTIONAL.

The dog has her period. She is the only dog I know who feels sorry for herself when she has her period and guys - I’ve known a few dogs, yeah? She’s lying next to me as I type, every so often angling her head up, ears down, whites of her deep brown eyes peeping out. What. A. Dick.

 

Sadly, she’s not the only one feeling sorry for herself in this here house. Mom’s alright. Some of the light bulbs under her kitchen units need replacing and they’re right tricky buggers to get out, but she’ll get over it. It’s me - ME who’s all self-pity and wallowing!

 

The reason for this is twofold:

1)  I am becoming increasingly convinced that one of my ex-boyfriends hates me.

2)  I am becoming increasingly concerned by the moral minefield that is this show.

 

When I decided to make this piece about memories, meeting up with friends and first loves and sharing the warping of our inarguably now grown up minds over time, I thought it’d be a laugh. A bit up and down inevitably, but pretty much just brilliant fun. Don’t get me wrong, a lot of it IS. Even though when I do meet up with people I have to steer the conversation, pull out the old Voice Memo function and make sure that my criteria have been hit before we can start boozing or genuinely enjoying each other’s company, it’s still.....fun. But I have, well, concerns.

 

I won’t talk too much about the ex boyfriend who possibly hates me. Suffice to say so far he has not been back in touch and I have come to realise that I have very little (no) recollection of how we broke up. None whatsoever. If I’m really, really honest, I’m more worried about discovering something shitty I did to a really lovely human being and forgot about than anything else. Everyone has a right to their privacy and, Christ, it is a bit weird to be asked out of the blue to meet up and talk memories with your ex girlfriend who you haven’t spoken to in eleven years.

 

This is where I’m really becoming unstuck. I’m trying to be as respectful, understanding and careful as possible in terms of how I approach people in this process. I genuinely want people to know that I will respect their right to not participate and I have absolutely no interest in slagging people off or mocking them in any way. But where do you draw the line? In writing about myself I am writing about other people, their lives and memories and - as an old school friend remarked to me today in an email - it feels like a whole different life now. I’m dragging up a part of their lives they may have absolutely no desire to think about. And I’m doing it to make a piece of theatre. Is there something horrible selfish in this? Or self-indulgent?

 

Essentially, this post is a little bit like me staring up at you as the dog’s still staring up at me. White’s flashing. Pity-me ears flattened to head. What. A. Dick.

 

Basically, just because I want to metaphorically get naked in public, it doesn’t mean other people want to get their kit off too. I reckon all I can do is tread softly and carry a big notebook. Right? Maybe grow an extra layer of skin. For when I get naked. And accept that when that happens it might just be me doing it and that that will be A-Ok. I have now talked so much about getting naked that I’m having images of performing this show naked, but I should say - publicly - that’s almost definitely not going to happen. So.

 

I’m back off to London tomorrow, my boyfriend’s mum is getting married and, in the search for a card in the infamous Card Drawer, me and Mom found an invitation written by an old school friend. It has a hand drawn flower on the front, coloured with purple and green pencils. on the inside, written very neatly in blue fountain pen, it reads:

 

You are cordially invited to an Old Time Music Hall,

6.30-7.30pm

June 20th

Dress optional

R.S.V.P.

 

Maybe that’s what I should add to my emails. To my missives of hopeful reconnection. Dress optional.