Not Sex and the City or 'Point of View – What’s the Fucking Point?'

I’m still supposed to be writing my Critical Study. It is now entitled ‘Point of View – What’s the Fucking Point?’ The answer, it turned out, quite fortuitously, was on Sky Everything.

I’ve been watching Sex and the City. It’s a program with multiple limited third person limited multiple perspectives. As well as a first person narrative point of view . This tends to put the whole idea of Sex in perspective, or at least from my point of view.

And I noticed something. Wherever the characters go they meet someone to shag. And they live in New York.

It’s a well known fact that Cardiff has all New York has to offer except without the wide pavements, wide sidewalks, Americans and lack of discourse about rugby. So, therefore, logically, wherever I go I should meet someone to shag.

Logic is a flawed logic I find. For this hasn’t happened to me. As someone wise once said – ‘Some are born celibate, some achieve celibacy and some have celibacy thrust upon them’. I have accomplished all three. Without the thrusting bit.

But I’m not going to be outdone by New York. I have briefly given up living in a musical and being Mary Poppins in favour of (sorry in favor of) living in a Welsh version of Sex and the City. Entitled Sex and the City. Interesting how the title works for both places.

Episode 1:
I get splashed by a bus.
I write on my computer a telling question: ‘Are New Yorkers sexier than Cardiffians?’
Friend 1 tells me about her sex life – it doesn’t exist.
Friend 2 asks me how to tell if a man fancies her – I explain about quantum physics.
Friend 3 doesn’t exist.
I go out to the greater metropolis to get chatted up and taken home by a sexy man. This doesn’t happen. I buy shoes.
I write on my computer – ‘Yes. And we buy shoes too. Albeit shoes from Clarks with flat heels and orthotic inserts. But they are red.’

I write on my computer - ‘The problem is that Welsh men don’t watch Sex and the City. They watch rugby. So they don’t understand multiple perspectives. Or that when a sexy woman in flat red shoes with orthotic insoles gently nudges their car in a multi-story car park that means she wants to be propositioned. They think that propositioning is something to do with rugby.’

So, thus I found out – the point of point of view is fucking. Or not. As the case may be.

I’m going back to being Mary Poppins now. Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.

How I didn’t Meet my Guardian Soulmate

I have retired from internet dating. For the time being anyway. Not because I’ve met my one true love (or perchance I have) (more of that later) but because they wanted money. The dating site, not the men. Although sometimes I might have been tempted to pay the men. Services rendered and all that. If only any of them had. But I wouldn’t have been able to anyway. I have a lot of wonderful things, cats, daughters, (sorry the other way round), a rural idyll, dandelions and a small widget to make coffee akin to amphetamines. Money, being the root of all evil, not buying you love, and being hard to come across, I don’t have.

I could have just left my profile up but I worried that some poor fellow would see it, fall deeply and irrevocably in love with me and then find that, due to lack of funds, I could never speak to him, and that he would become deeply embittered, kill himself by throwing himself off a motorway bridge, cause a massive pile-up that included various world leaders on their way to a peace summit and so miss their chance to save the world from war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines, and so we would all die of war, destruction, pestilence and coffee akin to amphetamines. Thus rendering internet dating obsolete.

Internet dating turned out to be a lot like shopping. I go into town and in the very first shop I find some shoes that are really nice. But then it’s the first shop, maybe there are better, redder, sexier more shoey shoes in the other shops. I spend a tiring day/week/year/lifetime trawling, inspecting, smelling, trying on other shoes only to decide that the very first pair of shoes was actually very nice.

And so I seem to be dating the first pair of shoes. The shoes may or may not think this is the case, as shoes are unfathomable creatures. This pair particularly so. It may be that the shoes have in fact wandered off. For how can any of us tell if shoes fancy us? I certainly can’t.

I feel for the sake of utter corniness I should make some joke here re shoes and soles and souls and soulmates. But I’ll save you from that.

PS – Shoes - if you read this the whole shoe metaphor thing was purely accidental. I do not now, nor never have, think of you as a pair of shoes. Although if you’d like me to…