Next weekend, the Redhead and I and our kids are packing up into the Yaris for what may be our summer holiday this year. Whit week in the little market town of Yorkshire is still a big fucking deal. There is a parade and a fair which takes over the town, and everyone gts smashed. The younger men, and some of the more foolish older ones, battle in the streets to mimic the ancient ways of their ancestors and it’s a strictly new clothes, dress up affair.
I’m excited. When I lived there I rarely went out on Whit Monday but always managed to see the parade. So what is Whit?
Apparently the seventh Sunday after Jesus died, the Holy Spirit appeared to Jesus’ disciples as a white apparition. Hence, we wear white stilettos on the Spring Bank Holiday.
The date changes, because Easter changes..that pesky old moon.
Traditionally Whit week was a universal week off when the factories and mills would shut down to allow workers (men woman and child) to have a break and get ready for the full steam ahead season of Summer productivity.
As a child I paraded a circuit of church-park-church in a ball gown carrying flowers and had a buffet to look forward to at the end. As an adult I shall be looking for HOT MEN and might even wear a ball gown.
I am recording a new chapter in my life. The chapter where I actually DO stuff rather than eat stuff.
I have found a very nice chap on a dating site and am taking the plunge and meeting him for lunch tomorrow to break the ice. We may well break a few chairs as we’re both a little portly.
He seems smart and funny and kind..bit of a cutie bear and we’re getting on like a house on fire as far as phone calls/texts go.
I am, however hedging my bets. It wouldn’t be the first time a ‘perfect on paper’ guy absolutely rubbed me up the wrong way in real life..quite literally.
Chemistry is such an important thing. For some reason his pheromones may make me retch and recoil from proximity. Thats always a shitter.
I have been known to reject a mate on the grounds of (and bullet points are SO necessary here)
- strange smelling t-shirt
- odd smacking noise from the lips when tired
- odd facial control..by odd I mean slack jawed oafishness
- over tactile
- clingyness…I could just tell, man, don’t ask me how
- refusal to order another drink, thus stopping me from having another drink
- allowing food to settle on the chin
- wearing a shirt of odd style
- jeans just a little too short
So you see, he has a hard list to beat. Of course this is all nonsense when the right guy comes along. If I fancy, respect and adore them, they could turn up in leder hosen and a zimmer frame. I’m theirs for life. It’s just such an odd thing this chemistry business.
Hope he thinks I’m alright too
Will let you know how it goes. If you don’t hear form me again, I’m trapped in a cellar in Warrington and being kept as a sex slave.