All my life I have been a very material person. Above all I was concerned with what I had, where I got it from and what it meant. Even my fringe was swept across in such a way so as I looked good sitting outside French cafés. God, how the worm has turned. Now I am pre-occupied with what I haven't got; with what I've lost and may never have again.
If I've learnt anything over these agonizing past weeks, it is that. That your life philosophy can be rendered false and meaningless by one small emotional event. Of course, that's another thing: there are no small emotional events. Those are the blows that sculpt and form us. Knock us into shape or knock the stuffing out of us. It's quite right we are three quarters water. We are 75% tears.
Tomorrow evening Verity will come around for dinner. She'll be getting lentils... Soggy, French green lentils with added pebbles. Verity's a vegan, at least until she gets drunk and want a kebab. In those moments her mouth will open to anything. For a long time she would drink a bottle of Chardonnay and then try desperately to straighten me out. I remember kneeling down in the toilet of a club one night, her polka dot knickers strewn across the floor and her furry pussy at face level. The only thing it aroused in me was laughter. I couldn't help thinking I was looking at a man with no penis. It seems that some women will only believe you're really 100% gay when you've turned them down, recoiled in horror at their 'flying V'. It's a psychological thing: no-one wants to feel rejected. Tristram Spencer understands that.