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Eye Candy

27 November 2000
Jamie's not a perv - it's a spiritual thing. Honest.

The library, a couple of weeks ago. I was sifting through the dross in the New Book Collection (maximum loan one week, no renewals), wondering which of the famous-since-Tuesday celebrities' autobiographies to borrow, when I suddenly lost interest in The Jane McDonald Story. Surprisingly. A brief glimpse of blond locks was all it took to divert my attention away from the ship-dwelling diva and onwards to Paperback Fiction, where I was presented with the welcome sight of the only attractive female in the library. Or more pertinently, judging from my experiences so far that day, the only attractive female in Woking Town Centre. Sparkling entertainment my arse.

[I say attractive. Promising would be more accurate, since all I could make out was a nice arse in black trousers and long blond hair. But welcome enough, in a den of librarians and their kin.]

Naturally enough, paperbacks suddenly seemed exactly the kind of book I was looking for. (They're lighter to carry, after all, and they have quotes from reviews on the back so you know what's good and what isn't. Much more useful than 'praise for X's last novel'; what's to say the next one's going to be anything like as good? Stephen Fry's books have got worse and worse. No, give me a trusty paperback any day. They fit in your pockets, too. If you've got big pockets. And I have. Look.) So, time to browse. Peruse the shelves and the Sheila, as our friends in Oceania might say. Maybe she'd reach down for some Kurt Vonnegut (unlikely I know) while I was in an advantageous peering position.

What is going through the male mind in this situation, you might ask? Is he hoping to strike up a conversation with this woman? Hoping for a sexual relationship? Marriage? Offspring? A mausoleum for two? I wish I could give a more precise answer than 'well, I'm not sure really'. But I'm not. The nearest I could get to the truth would be, we just want to get a better look.

It's quite an abstract thing I suppose. And I don't know if I'm speaking for the unfairer sex in general, or just myself, but it's really quite a common occurrence. I'll happily take a quick detour, or stand on the right rather than walk up the escalator, for a few precious moments' appreciation. Walking down a crowded street, or through a busy station, there's something inherently satisfying about the pendulum swing of a ponytail accompanied by the tick-tock of the buttocks, left then right. A quick toss of the hair as the mobile is placed by the ear, chestnut waves soaring and coming to rest, and a fleeting, tentative shot of a cheek, lips, lashes. Then, of course, she stops, opens her mouth, and my reverie is shattered on the unforgiving rocks of imperfection.

You see, up to the point where reality sets in, the potential is limitless. Your imagination fills in the gaps. But as soon as you overtake them and cast a glance over your shoulder, Eurydice is dragged back to the Hades of your mind. Women generally look a lot more attractive from the back. Funny, really, given the amount of time, money and mirror-gazing invested in their frontal and facial appearance, but that's the way it is. Sometimes it's better just to keep walking, keep the fragile beauty alive. (And as for hearing some of them speak...)

But then again, which would you rather? If you never looked back, your world would be full of beautiful, unattainable women you know you'd never see again, and memories of faceless, denim-clad figures would haunt your dreams. Maybe it's better to suffer the momentary disappointment of a face which certainly doesn't belong on a body like that, than to live in a world where everyone is beautiful but none of them are yours.

So if you happen to be walking down a street and feel a pair of eyes on your back, don't worry and don't get angry. It's not rude; it's not lechery. At least I'm not harassing you, bothering you in a bar, or approaching you down a dark alley wearing nothing but a grubby raincoat. There are worse things than a little gentle ornithology. Hey, look at it this way, you could even be brightening up my day!

[Oh yes, the girl in the library. She only reached down as far as Danielle Steele, but it was good enough for me. Not the greatest looker, but I finally got hold of Girlfriend in a Coma and One Fine Day in the Middle of the Night. So I went home happy. Which is the main thing]


Previously on upsideclown


Current clown:

18 December 2003. George writes: This List

Most recent ten:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
11 December 2003. Dan writes: Spinning Jenny
8 December 2003. Victor writes: Rock Opera
4 December 2003. Matt writes: The Mirrored Spheres of Patagonia
1 December 2003. George writes: Charm
27 November 2003. James writes: On Boxing
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
20 November 2003. Dan writes: Rights Management
17 November 2003. Victor writes: Walking on Yellow
13 November 2003. Matt writes: Disintermediation
(And alas we lost Neil, who last wrote Cockfosters)

Also by this clown:

15 December 2003. Jamie writes: Seven Songs
24 November 2003. Jamie writes: El Matador del Amor; Or, the Man who Killed Love
13 October 2003. Jamie writes: The Persistence of Memory
22 September 2003. Jamie writes: The Email Eunuch
1 September 2003. Jamie writes: Credo
11 August 2003. Jamie writes: Brad and Jennifer and Me
21 July 2003. Jamie writes: Interruption
30 June 2003. Jamie writes: Do you remember the first time?
12 June 2003. Jamie writes: Forthcoming Attractions
19 May 2003. Jamie writes: Stupid Mistake
28 April 2003. Jamie writes: Hoping and Praying
7 April 2003. Jamie writes: Strangers on a Plane
17 March 2003. Jamie writes: Q&A
24 February 2003. Jamie writes: Altered States
3 February 2003. Jamie writes: How to say goodbye
13 January 2003. Jamie writes: In A League Of Their Own
23 December 2002. Jamie writes: What's in a name?
2 December 2002. Jamie writes: Lies, Damned Lies and Spastics
11 November 2002. Jamie writes: Memoirs of a Gaysian: A Preface
21 October 2002. Jamie writes: Love is blindness
30 September 2002. Jamie writes: Time for bed
9 September 2002. Jamie writes: Angry Exchanges Can Be Puzzling [10]
19 August 2002. Jamie writes: High Speed
29 July 2002. Jamie writes: Firkin Hell
8 July 2002. Jamie writes: Do you, er... haiku?
13 June 2002. Jamie writes: Unnatural Porn Thrillers
20 May 2002. Jamie writes: The Triumphant Return of the Septic Fiveskins
25 April 2002. Jamie writes: Meeting People is Easy
4 April 2002. Jamie writes: I Want I Want I Want
7 March 2002. Jamie writes: The Player of Games
11 February 2002. Jamie writes: Fat Man Walking
17 January 2002. Jamie writes: Passive/Aggressive
3 January 2002. Jamie writes: Love (classified)
29 November 2001. Jamie writes: A Lil' Nite Muzak
5 November 2001. Jamie writes: Natural born liar
11 October 2001. Jamie writes: All I need
17 September 2001. Jamie writes: Postcards From The Edge (of the pool)
23 August 2001. Jamie writes: Class act
30 July 2001. Jamie writes: Ritchie Neville is dead
5 July 2001. Jamie writes: A Letter from God
11 June 2001. Jamie writes: "If it's in French, it must be deep"
17 May 2001. Jamie writes: Reportage
23 April 2001. Jamie writes: Show me the Logos
29 March 2001. Jamie writes: Sobering Thoughts
8 March 2001. Jamie writes: Stupid, Stupid, Stupid
8 February 2001. Jamie writes: Spent
15 January 2001. Jamie writes: Full to the brim
21 December 2000. Jamie writes: fuck xmas
27 November 2000. Jamie writes: Eye Candy
2 November 2000. Jamie writes: World-wide-web?
9 October 2000. Jamie writes: Kids' stuff
14 September 2000. Jamie writes: Scatological Warfare
21 August 2000. Jamie writes: I can't stand up (for falling clowns)
10 July 2000. Jamie writes: The Etymology of Greatness

Let meeeeee entertain you


We are all Upsideclown: Dan, George, James, Jamie, Matt, Neil, Victor.

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