I was talking to this elegant woman at a party recently. She was very successful and dynamic. I knew she was successful and dynamic because she kept mentioning how successful and dynamic her life was. All her talk made her seem kind of insecure to my eyes but that’s grand if not a tad endearing. We’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.
Anyway, it dawned on me that I quite fancied this insecure woman. She was nice looking and made me feel like she needed protecting in a way. ‘If I wasn’t so lazy I could probably be the guy to protect this woman’, I found myself thinking. Then she seemed to realise that she’d been talking about herself for a while so she asked about me. ‘So Mr. Fugger what is it you do?’ she asked. I was at a bit of a loss. I gave an awkward chuckle as I mentally scanned the litany of defeat that had comprised my life up to now (I certainly wasn’t going to mention this blog). I found myself blurting out the line: ‘oh, not much, y’know, I’d rather be happy than successful’.
Then there was a bit of a lull in the conversation. I crouched down to get another can of Royal Dutch from my hold-all. As I came back up, I saw her observing me over the glass of wine she was sipping. Observing me through narrowed eyes. Then she mumbled something about having to catch up with the party’s host and walked off into another room. ‘Grand’, I said and gave her a thumbs up as she departed.
I saw her once more before she left. She air kissed me goodbye and said it had been great chatting. I stayed on at the party after that. I found some Captain Beefheart CDs and insisted they be put on. I ended up being the last to leave. I was pretty drunk but, y’know, it was a party. Eventually the host showed me to the door. He said he was tired and had to get some shut eye. ‘Ah, no worries’, I said, ‘I was bored anyway’. I gave him a thumbs up.
The host seemed a bit uptight as he waved me off. He’s a fairly uptight guy at the best of times but sure we’re all a bit fucked up. Well, you lot are. I’m grand.
I finished my last Royal Dutch on a bench by the Grand Canal. I spoke to a few swans but they were sleeping with their heads tucked under their wings. ‘Stuck up arseholes’, I shouted at them and flung an empty can in their direction. Then one of the swans popped its head out and peered at me. I could’ve sworn it rolled its eyes. I finally realised it was time to go home. I gave the swan a thumbs up and wandered off in some direction or other.