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  • Archive for January, 2012

    Love Fail: Fantasy v Reality

    2012 - 01.28

    In which I fall in love with a jacket, or possibly a man, and then certainly a fantasy of the man, which despite his being a pretty decent prospect, usurps any possible reality. In short, why I am fast approaching my 10 year anniversary of undisturbed spinsterhood.

    I’m in the tube station leaving Oxford Circus and I see this amazing tan leather jacket ahead of me. It’s battered and faded, it has tabs and twists and buckles and it tapers at the waist with fancy stitching and I think: that is a hell of a jacket.

    It’s a man’s jacket, and if I had a man, I would totally dress him in a jacket like that, and then I would have to fight every other woman off him.  With a katana. It would be like Kill Bill, every day, only this Bride would be fighting for her man.

    Behold, the blood of mine enemies (Photo: Victor Kurzweil)

    It’s that sort of jacket.

    The jacket is keeping pace with me through the ticket barriers, and is right ahead of me going down the escalator. Time to look beyond the tan leather: who could possibly be wearing this divine article? Turns out it’s not a bad profile. Not bad at all. Crafted. Stylishly styled medium length hair. Designer stubble.

    No,  I hadn’t met Jake again, but you get the idea.

    This is all fine, but what I really need is to tell him how amazing his jacket is. It’s a compulsion – admiration for an article of clothing this special must be articulated publicly. The words desperately need to leave my lips. But this may come across stalkerish, no? Or like a really, really bad chat-up.


    I stand on the escalator, quite paralysed. Fortunately, it’s a long escalator. I have time to notice the folder in his hands. Fancier than your lowly ring binder, and just about as battered as the jacket, which I have managed to look away from. Artist then? Attractive prospect. Under his grip, I can just make out the words ‘Milan – Paris –  New York’.

    Ah, not an artist, but a designer instead? Fashion. Probably gay. My gaydar is either broken or was never installed and there isn’t anyone around I feel it would be socially acceptable to nudge and do a ‘pssst! Dude in the jacket. Gay?’ to. Where is Trudi when you need her?

    So we get to the bottom of the escalator, and he’s hovering at the turn to the central line. He glances my way – MOMENT! – but I brick it, drop the ball, epic fail. The usual sunny smiles refuses to appear.  Suddenly – and it’s taken six years – I am a Londoner. I do not make eye contact or speak.

    I am an idiot.