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And she signs her name ME……. X
Blonde, that’s what she said….I’m blonde. That first internet
encounter, somewhere on cyber corner. So near and yet so, so
far away. And she was, blonde, vulnerable and damaged…..the
suspicion is, I have compounded that state.
Divorced and therefore by simple equation of circumstance a
single mum….dealt a fairly typical losing hand, well of course.
It must be something approaching 7 years ago when we met, maybe
longer, and courtesy of one of the plethora of chat programmes
available., almost like today´s text blizzard, given blame for
the onset of stolen moments, which often lead to unforgiving
and terminal despair.
She has always been more realistic and pragmatic than yours
truly, suggesting that distance, which with every passing year
becomes greater, is a very real obstacle, and that if I had
been so interested why did I move to a little island mere
kilometres from the African continent. Fair point, annoyingly
real for a natural blonde.
And yet almost perversely, our relationship, although I don’t
suppose we can really call it that, has survived because of air
miles ….with only one actual real meeting which for me at
least, will remain a moment of unforgettable tenderness.
Sure, my memories become embellished in monochrome. Stale
locomotive smoke fills the night air, a discreet but all
knowing barman hovers at distance, as our fingers first touch,
then entwine. Am I in the wrong film…?
It was sort of like that …though the bar was one of those
horrid company chains, soulless, and the settings, a similarly
anonymous English midlands, which too, could have been part of
a mass production plan by our great British government. A form
of death by blandness.
It was a train change that became the reason and excuse. The
custody of time, and everything else, has always appeared to be
against even this most innocent of liaisons.
Was It innocent?
I had been in Scotland attempting the tidy of affairs
concerning my withering clan, thus the perfect opportunity had
become available to rendezvous en route in the heathen south.
However our meeting only lasted an hour, when rail timetables
dictated my timetable, and I had to leave her until next time.
Was I in love?
There has been no next time, and I must live with my memories
of what might have been. Of course I still nurse the hope. She
will understand the private humour.
And she signs her name
Me……. x
Surf Bum
Donald Innes is a writer and photographer,
see more of his pictures on
http://donaldinnesross-aplaceforinnes.blogspot.com
If you are interested in buying any of his pictures just
call him on 662 529580
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