Wednesday, February 28, 2007

lonesome pining

Some people reading this blog must think rather poorly of my husband. How can he leave that poor girl, so educated and metropolitan, so beautiful and charming, so talented and yet so self effacing, up there in the cultural wasteland that is the north whilst he carries on working down in swinging London?' How, they ask, yes, how can I be sure of our marriage when he is living the bachelor life in a city of four million women? Well I tell them that my husband is not like other men and they should keep their personal opinions on relationships to themselves and not post them on the internet every day for the world to read. They say there is no such thing as love at first sight, but when I first laid eyes on those matinee idol looks, those tight Levis, and those cowboy boots I knew right then and there that he was the one to carry me off into the sunset on his white charger and yet also go shopping for shoes with. All he needs is a ten gallon hat and a cheroot and he could have walked right out of the screen during a showing of Blazing Saddles. He’s my lone ranger, my man with no name, my east, my north, my deep south and my wild west and I know that every fourth weekend he’ll walk in through that door with arrows in his hat, a six shooter in his pocket and bunch of Texaco flowers and sweep me off my feet with his lasso of love. But in between those weekends of steamed up windows, sitting in bed taking it in turns reading aloud from the Laura Ashley catalogue until we can no longer keep our hands off one another, when I’m all alone up here in the north with my Black Lace novels, My period home magazines and my printed out posts by Wife in the North, wistfully waiting for his call, my phone in my lap and set on maximum vibrate wondering oh when, oh when will I see my love again, he’s spending his evenings in his flat in London watching Brokeback Mountain with the red Indian from the Village People and thinking only of me.

15 comments:

Anonymous said...

Rilly, I weep for you, I rilly do. Your suffering touches me deeply.

Nick said...

Ho ho ho. This is splendid stuff. Arthur C can still spot a good 'un . . .

rilly super said...

oh anonymous, thankyou for your kind words. I think you must be my only friend north of St Johns Wood. I can see that you appreciate what I'm going through. Nick, thanks ever so for visiting. I see that you are also living in the north so I hope that we can offer each other moral support and comfort in this, our hour of need.

Anonymous said...

Rilly, I must ask why you are hiding your literary light under a northern bushel? Surely some posh London paper that comes out more than once a week must be beating a path to your door (if the editor can find their way through the mist...)

rilly super said...

anonymous dear, an editor from London did set out to come up and see me but she began to miss her husband too much, being so far away from him, so she turned around at Watford Gap and went home and that was the end of that.

Anonymous said...

Darling, my cotton handkerchief is now soaked with tears for your plight (paper tissues, along with soft loo roll have not yet reached this benighted place).

However, I have been struck with a stunning idea which could help you - why don’t you get into your car and head back to London? Wouldn’t that solve all of your problems?

rilly super said...

Perhaps you're right anomymous, but a book entitled 'my enjoyable but sadly short stay in a lovely town in the north' wouldn't sell any copies and I can't see Hollywood going for it.

I can send you some soft loo roll if you like, I brought a whole bootful up from London

Anonymous said...

I've read about soft loo roll ...

rilly super said...

anonymous, you musn't torture yourself so with thoughts of luxuries beyond your humble reach,you must know your place in life, and anyway, people will think I'm making you up and then they might question the truthfulness of the whole blog

Anonymous said...

Ah divven’t think so, hinny. Ah cannit write like ye can.

Ma A-levels came from a Northumberland comprehensive and ma degree’s not frae Oxbridge…

andy said...

Rilly, when you want to build the summerhouse for your Pimms, I've got a mate called Bob, he can build and fix anything and has a tool for every job...

Anonymous said...

Perhaps if you were to take time out between your self pleasure sessions, you might have the balls although some what empty by now I should imagine, to try and script something of your own. Or would that engender such feelings of inadequacy about your literary talents that you'd need the spam mail to provide the medication for your next session.
You absolute Pancake!

Anonymous said...

Oh Rilly, don't be upset by that other anon's wicked remarks.

I expect they are some poor local with no sense of humour.

Do they not understand the concept of parody in your part of the North?

rilly super said...

oh anonymous, I ran your comment through the northern to english translator and found that you said your parents were so poor they couldn't afford Oxford and could only mananage to send you to Cambridge. It rilly is grim up north. For an uneducated northern person you make this a lot of fun though so thankyou.

Andy, I've heard your friend Bob is very good with his hands so send him over! It might be hot work though, so he would probably need to strip to the waist, his rippling muscles glistening with sweat...oh dear, hang on, got to change my underwear again..

other anonymous, is 'you absolute pancake' a term of endearment where you come from? thanks ever so for dropping by and spending your vaulable time reading about my grim life.

last anonymous, don't worry, anyone who can spell 'literary' is more than welcome to my blog, they're just the sort of reader I'm hoping to attact!

Miriam said...

silly Rilly, anon can't spell literary, (s)he looked it up on spellcheck. I hear even northern computers have that nowadays! this blog is really funny, mimi