That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me. Because I will not do them the wrong to mistrust any, I will do myself the right to trust none; and the fine is, for the which I may go the finer, I will live a bachelor.
(Act 1 Scene 1)

Egged on by Gaston’s what if? comment and in my efforts to exaggerate my manliness, I thought I would ask why is it that the most desirable people you ever see are always in a social construct that makes it virtually impossible to combine your destinies in any kind of measure?

In the opening scene of Closer, Jude Law accidentally knocks over a random stripper, played by Natalie Portman, and soon they become ill-fated lovers. I used to work for a bank in the same building that Jude Law’s character had his offices as an obituary writer (a job no less boring than my own at the time) and saw them film that scene right outside where I worked. I watched them for all of 2 minutes, and remember thinking how pretty Natalie Portman was in the flesh shortly before I went looking for a tuna sandwich (I really love tuna sandwiches).

Anyway, one fine October night I went to a dingy bar of the best type, a dark hole in the ground, to watch rugby and drink beer, when after a while in walks one of the most striking girls I’ve ever seen, and there was something in her manner, the way she held her head and looked around before walking down the stairs, so carefully and so regally, that I was immediately taken by her and thought to myself, “why on earth Lord, don’t these girls ever cross my path or turn up in my home-group? Why? Why? Why?” I asked God all this.
 
A little later in the evening I noticed that she was standing in a group nearby and that if I took a really big step, I could reach out my hand and touch her back. Now in situations like this the odds are stacked against a single male considering the complex political situation of a mixed-group of friends that could present all kinds of subversive peer pressure; ex-boyfriends, potential boyfriends, needy girlfriends, over-protective brothers - the risks are enormous. Undeterred, I shuffled around that if by chance she should turn, her gaze would fall upon my lovely face. There was going to be no “chance” at our chance meeting.

She turned. I said something. I’m not sure what. I think it was something lame about the rugby match, but it was long enough to hold her attention beyond those crucial first few sentences. And so I proceeded, as nature would have it, in trying to separate the wounded animal from the pack.

It was going well. She was great, smart and full of beans. We laughed. We kissed. I took her number and in the early hours of the morning I made my way home from the bar. It was 4 or 5 in the morning when I put a pizza in the oven and my jeans in the wash, with my phone and her number - this was crazy behaviour and I’m not sure why I did it (well actually I have some idea). When the stupidity of my actions finally dawned on me later in the day (the losing her number bit) I nearly cried, but figured it must have been an Act of God - a divine slap on the head of sorts.

Maybe she was a stripper.

 
ps. I went for coffee with a friend after church on Sunday (£7 - I picked up the tab) and found out I wasn’t on his Christmas card list. I was tempted to ask for £3.50 back out of spite. Who on earth sends out Christmas cards these days?