Who Is The Fairest Of Them All?

When I write, I am – it has to be said – an egotist.

It’s all about me. Me. Me. Me me me.

You don’t get a look in. Not really.

And if you do it’s only as a mental aside, a construct that I formulate to pander to my already inflated ego. I imagine you being entertained by my witterings. Rolling on the floor, guffawing out loud – ROLFing. Wiping an amused tear from your envious, admiring eye.

Occasionally, of course, I may write about other people, refer to the existence of others and how their existence has impinged on my own. As you know, I have to be careful about such subject matter now. Loose lips has created blips on the ol’ work ethic. Data protection. People’s right to privacy over my right to express a personal opinion. Etc. Etc.

And it has chafed.

It has constrained.

And I’ve felt a little muzzled.

But that’s OK. I can sneak a tooth or two around the leathery confines now and then. I can still savage an ankle or three when the mood takes me.

But the thought occurred to me this morning that this conflict arose from a basic difference in perception. See, I’m writing this ‘ere blog thinking that it’s all about me and my life and my ego but actually...

Actually... there are some people out there who perceive the written and spoken word as a mirror.

They hold it up to their eyes and see themselves applying their make-up, titivating their hair and squeezing a few of their blackheads.

Suddenly, I’ve been elbowed out of the way! Never mind that I’m trying to shave and wax my pits... no, suddenly I‘ve got some other person’s mush and ego jostling mine for the exfoliating cream!

Some other person thinking that all this is about them them them!

Well, excuse me for breathing!

Now shut up and pass the toothpaste – you need it a lot more than I do.

But joking aside, it’s interesting isn’t it? I mean, I lay claim to creative copyright where this blog is concerned.

But do I have a right to that? Do I really? Is it really all mine? Or is it yours too, you who read here and insert yourself emotionally into the body of my work (oo-er)?

And if you choose to read my blog and stand right in front of me as I do my blogging thing, isn’t some of the stuff here your fault too?

Is this some kind of weird partnership?

Are we married?

Do I even know you?

What the hell are you doing in my bathroom anyway?!

Just who is that looking back at me from the depths of the mirror?

Suicidal Tendencies

No, don’t worry. I’m not thinking about attaching a hoover pipe to the car exhaust and gassing myself. Or indeed casting myself into the River Leam with my clothes left by the roadside accompanied by a note reading “goodbye cruel world”. (Given the Leam I’d be more likely to die by poisoning than drowning anyway).

I’m talking about that urge that most of us get at one time or another to stick your head above the parapet. To go “over the top” in World War I parlance. To deliberately step into the gun sights of assassins that you know are just waiting for an opportunity to take a pop at you.

For years, man and boy, I’ve been one of the shrinking violets. One of those conscientious people that, if alive 200 years ago, would have doffed their hat to Dorcas Lane and spoke in hushed tones of the quality toffs that lived in Candleford. I’d like to blame my working class upbringing. I know my place and all that crap. But actually that’s rubbish. When I was a kid being working class was already about cocking a snook at the middle and upper classes and speaking of them scathingly in the snug of the local pub.

But nevertheless I was brought up to respect those in authority over me. Not just to respect but also not to question. That’s quite a telling distinction.

I’ve never been able to rid myself of that whole thought process – that mind trap – until recently.

I don’t know what’s happened over the last few years – well, I do: I’ve had kids, finally got my University degree, had experience of running my own fledgling business – but suddenly that invidious bit of mind programming has been broken. The algorithms no longer work for me.

And the inherited fear that was part and parcel of that mindset has also dissipated.

I’m suddenly thinking so what? I’m suddenly questioning not just why but also why should I? Why me and nobody else?

And best of all: isn’t there something better? Why not do what I want to do?

It’s a heady brew all this jumping around with a big target painted on my chest. Years ago my natural sense of self preservation would have had me diving into the nearest Anderson Shelter. Now I want to just shit down the air-hole of everybody else’s.

I’m starting to realize that in some [bad] situations you actually have very little to lose if it all goes tits up. So why worry? Why care? Why take it?

Dangerous thinking.

But don’t worry. I might be mooning at the enemy troops out here in No Man’s Land but I have no intention of putting a pistol to my own head either.

I’m just saying that the smile on my face is a knowing one. Not an insane one.

Laters.