I am up in Edinburgh doing a show about turning 40. It’s been going very well: reviews are good, people are coming, have just confirmed a London run of the show at the Arts Theatre in the last two weeks of September (subtle enough plug for you?).
It’s the 20th anniversary of my first Fringe, my 23rd show and I am finally starting to enjoy myself up here. Sometimes I go to see shows (Pappy’s Fun Club is my top recommend – just this second nominated for the big comedy award), sometimes I sit in my dressing gown playing poker on the internet. Sometimes I go to the café and sit writing stuff, not for anyone else, just for fun. I seem to have decided to write using random memories from my life, in no particular order, just things that pop into my head. This is what popped into my head today.
I was on my way to Switzerland on a school trip. I think I must have been around 10 or 11 and I was starting to become interested in the opposite sex. I had a crush on Bridget Sealey. She was a tall, willowy beauty, I was a short, stocky swot. It was never going to happen.
But the moment I remember more than any from that fortnight of new experiences (or at least the one with the most resonance) occurred on the coach trip there. We were heading through France and I was taking in the scenery on the long, dull journey. I happened to notice a young woman standing on the balcony of an old, wooden house which, in my memory, was some distance back from the road. In truth I don’t know how much of this is genuine memory and how much is romanticised and even slightly an erotic invention, but I believe she was wearing a flowing, white skirt, with the sunlight shining behind her. It’s impossible to know how old she was, as what kind of judge is a 10 year old in such matters? But I guess she was 18 or so. She was slim, had a perfect figure and long brown hair… there’s just no way this can be an accurate reminiscence. I was young, on a fast moving bus, looking at someone in the distance, and I can only assume this story owes as much to a Timotei advertisement as it does to genuine recollection.
But what is true is that I recognised this woman as beautiful and wanted to express this confusing appreciation and so, being 10, I elected to wave at her. And somehow she spotted me as we passed and leaning on her balcony, enthusiastically waved back at me – a full wave, rocking her from side to side, her arm above her head, laughing and maybe shouting some French greeting. It was, and remains, one of the most beautiful sights of my life and I immediately felt important and delighted for having made this happen. And being 10, I was able to kid myself that the animated reaction meant that when she had seen me, she had had similar excited, barely explicable sensations in her stomach and had returned my greeting because she was enamored with me too.
With the benefit of hindsight, I can safely assume that her actions were not precipitated by some paedophilic lust and from her point of view a small, cute child had excitedly waving at her, so out of a spirit of fun and friendship she had returned the salutation, not even considering that the scene would have implications for that child’s burgeoning sexuality.
Of course, even if she had been sexually excited by the tiny, plump child who had attracted her attention so subtly, then there would have been little either of us could have done to promote our blossoming and strange love. We spoke different languages, I was at least eight years her junior, with little or no ability to interact even with girls of my own age and I was on a bus, hurrying towards Lake Geneva. Even the most romantically-minded driver (who could overlook the law) would be hard-pressed to stop the journey and allow us to meet.
Of course any actual coming together would have ruined everything. It was the temporary and transitory nature of the interaction between us that made it so special. I spent the rest of the journey with a warm feeling in my stomach, bragging to my friends about how this mysterious and beautiful French woman on a balcony had fallen for me.
She, no doubt, quickly forgot the whole experience. I would be surprised if she’s ever thought about it again. Though for me, three decades on, she still occasionally pops into my mind and I feel the same (almost) innocent visceral tingle of excitement. She is forever captured in that shaft of sunlight, young and untouched by ravaging time.
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