Loneliness

Has it ever occurred to you, as you walk from the Victoria line to the Piccadilly, what the people standing on either side of you are thinking? Has it occurred to you what the lady in front of you is dragging along in her trolley case? Or where she might be going. Home to a lover who’ll shower her with the affection she’s craved all day, or throw an ashtray at her in frustration. Or the man who sits opposite you, perhaps on the tube, and reads the paper. I wonder how his day went. I wonder who he’s going home to know.

Of course, it never really crosses our mind that perhaps these people have nobody waiting for them. That in fact, they are thinking about how to spend the next four hours alone after the episode of Eastenders finishes. We think people are happiest when loved, when with somebody who will love them and give them what they most desire; belonging, a sense of belonging. And we like to assume that everybody is loved, that everybody is loveable.

The truth is, many people living the London life are single. Many many people in the world as a whole are single. And many parade their youth-free-and-single self quite happily from one end of Trafalgar Square to another. But all with the desire in their mind that someday they’ll be just as happy and there will be a second person attached to them for times of acute loneliness.

I have been lonely, terribly lonely, but then so are most people in the world at some point in their lives. It’s only natural, one would assume, this state of oblivion. Not knowing what’s about to happen and not really caring, as long as it’s something.

I’ve never regarded my own loneliness with any greater weight than the loneliness of others. All loneliness is equal, I thought. Of course, the consequences of each individual loneliness couldn’t me any more different. What we do with our solitude is something which sets us apart from those around us. Stamp collection and flower cutting are solutions I’m sure, the same as curdling in one’s one deep and dark pool of sadness.

The reason I talk about loneliness is that I have just returned from watching a film that has really crept under my skin. Notes on a Scandal, starring Dame Judi Dench and Cate Blanchatt. It was excellent. Having read the book and now seen the superlative performances that grace the silver screen, I have real admiration for perhaps the two most stunning performances in recent times.

Of course, great films are often sad. And this was. It made me fear my singledom for perhaps the first time in my life. Festering in one’s own loneliness is perhaps the thing I fear most. Not because of what it is, but because what it might do. Mental Note: Must not turn into a lonely obsessive bachelor. Must find someone to pounce on in times of misery…. and joy, let’s not forget.

Points of passion…
The idea of a teacher pupil relationship is no new fantasy. The huge number of pornographic videos on the subject continues to be ample support for this assertion.

And the Connolly Boy in the above film is delicious, as is Cate Blanchatt’s character, Sheba.

It made me feel old you see, all this pre pubescent sex. Passionate, lusty, horny, greedy. I want some of that so badly. I need to re-evaluate my entire strategy I feel. Whore myself truly and utterly in the face of youth. Drink from the fountain, pull from the tree. And it’ll be the purest form of sex ever. Animal sex.