So last night at the festival was a chap called Stewart Francis. Apparently he is some big deal (seemingly all you need is ot appear on a panel show and you're all set these days), but I didn't hang around to check him out. Not that I don't enjoy comedy, I just wasn't on form for it.
What I think was the root of this was a horrifying second where I caught eyes with, not exactly an ex, but an old aquaintance (literally talking about 6 years ago here at the very least) who I'd always half liked, from a distance, about a million years ago. It was utterly insignificant, and didn't create any awkwardness between us, but still, I reacted as if I'd been punched in the stomach.
Reasons? Twofold-
One- I thought the guy had left the country, which he had. But I also found out this very weekend that something truly awful and frankly unbelievable had happened to him. Its his business not mine, so I won't post it here, but still. Bad.
Two- I realised that I always thought he was a bit of a looker. Cheeky, in that Irish twinkly way. It was with utter horror last night that when I looked at him, I realised whatever quality it was I was attracted to, was exactly the same quality the last guy I was involved with had.
How awful would it be, if we all kept going for the same prototype all the time?! I'd be doomed, as my much mocked type is definitely dark, troubled and hairy. Through in some alcohol abuse and we're talking true love. Jesus Christ, I wish I was kidding. I think it has to be because I'm, on the face of it, very different from that. Everyone thinks I'm this cheery, happy-go-lucky girl. For the most part, I play my role well, but yeah. I like the messed up ones because I definitely connect, and possibly feel less guilty about unloading my own baggage on them then. It becomes a fair trade.
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