…Love List #1

April 8, 2008 at 3:20 pm (Mr Right, Omni) (blue eyes, hotel, list, love, Mr.Right, opera, perfect man, Placido da Mingo, proposal, room service, shower)

It’s a gut wrenching tragedy. Oedopal in proportion…or at a push, more Ophelial…okay, let’s just go with Spearian (without the Shake) kind of tragic.

I’ve been writing about MR now for a week to the misrepresented electronic ether. How you fizz and crackle at my typing. How you do not respond to my idiosyncracies, how you do not (yet) judge me…

And to my shame the L Word hasn’t been placed in my tags.

I am shortly to rectify this. But someone ( C[lose]P[ersonal]F[riend] reading this and knowlegable of my SecretSquirelSoliloquising) pointed out that for a woman in Love must have a heart of stone. Or at least a very poor ability to summarise/theme my outpourings.

And so. In order to fix this I am going to list all the things that make me Love MR.

The things that make him ‘Too Good For Me’ (CDeL) and Mr.Right in every way shape and form.

1) This morning, after a weekend of practically nothing (he has deadlines, which are greater, I know, I know, than my needs) he got on a train to see me. I am ‘out’ of London right now (for those that are even gently curious; I am meant to live most of the time in London, though it seems I am never there). There was a knock on my hotel room door this morning. Stupidly early. He held my complimentary newspaper in his hand and a vase he had taken from a breakfast tray of cold eggs three doors down.

“You didn’t come over.” He said, “I didn’t mean it.” He has those big blues on me like lightening.

2) He has those kind of blue eyes that scare children, they are beautiful and unerving in that way that makes you want to throw your clothes off. So I did.

He was referring to the flippant ‘marry me’ SMS from the other day. In the end I responded to neither him nor D&G. Neither option seemed better than either option. So I ate late night Prawn Crackers which didn’t come with any form of emotional guilt (the knowlege of an early morning gym session or a quick purge didn’t instill me with the same kind of fear as a deep and heartful conversation or a lustful triste).

MR doesn’t believe in marriage. He has good reasons for this, and I agree. I am not in the mood for getting married.

3) He is singing opera in the shower. OPERA. Non of your poptastic fandangle; full on thunderbolt and lightning Wagner. He used to sing tenor at a reputable ‘Red Brick’ British University. I won’t name it. It’s the Italian in his blood, he claims that when he was small he wanted to be Placido Da Mingo, but I know he does it because it makes my hair curl.

Can’t write anymore, room service and freshly washed man await. But will promise to keep up this list.