A retreat back to my mother's house is usually a welcome experience. She has all the things that I don't have in my flat. Major appliances that all work, freezers stocked with food, a whole fridge dedicated to beverages, not to mention lots of wine (as opposed to empty bottles waiting to be recycled); a dish washer (obviously it needs to be stacked, but someone else does this) and a tumble dryer (as opposed to radiators).
This year, however, I was rather ill over Christmas. I won't go into detail (it involved vomiting), but basically it lasted the duration of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. It also meant that I had to endure the most painful car journey in the world, catching a lift to Hertfordshire as I did with the worst driver (OK, so I'm ungrateful) in the world, who managed to hop us along, bumping gears and jerkily braking, all 25 miles home at a steady 40 miles an hour. Never get a lift with a gay man, if you are feeling ill. They drive like pensioners or girls.
It was a bit of a group homecoming, for along with our hometown driver, my friend Adam (another hometown boy) was with us much to his chagrin. He had planned to be spending Christmas with his girlfriend, but she kindly dumped him just before Christmas Eve. She did this in accordance with the dating Geneva Convention rules, states that if you are going to dump someone over Christmas you have to do it before Christmas Eve as after that you can't do it until after New Year's (it's just terrifically bad form to act otherwise... I mean, so I'm told).
I seemed to be the only one generally looking forward to a really warm house and a large comfy bed, which I could be waited on in my weakened state. It's like going to a hotel, but just really cheap (I have to make sure my mother never reads this or I am going to be quite busted). Adam, on the other hand, found the return home a reason for dismay. He particularly lamented the fact that of the three of us in the car, the only person who was in a stable relationship was gay.
"What does that say to you," he raged.
"Absolutely nothing, is this going to be a conversation about failure to commit?"
"I've been thinking about that. I think it comes down to inappropriate choices rather than a failure to commit to one woman per se."
I have to say I was impressed by this astute analysis. What he was saying was that it came down to being an issue of targeting. Actually, this made a lot of sense to me as only very recently I had been told by another friend that, while my acquisition activity was fine, I was let down by having no retention strategy. These people who work in marketing... the way they speak sometimes. I'm still waiting for someone to bring out the marketers' guide to dating, the section on customer loyalty should be a blast.
He rather let his argument down, however, by revealing that a crazy ex-girlfriend ("but she's really attractive, besides she had nowhere to go") was joining the family for Christmas Day.
Ill as I was, I ate and drank almost nothing. Just about everything turned my stomach apart from chocolate, of which my mother's house was stacked with. Chocolate really is the wonder food and I now really like those individually wrapped bits of Terry's Chocolate Orange.
Despite being so ill, I received very little sympathy. I don't know, maybe I groaned too much for a house with too many women in it. Everyone seemed to be under the impression that my illness was self inflicted. My sister, in particular, could not believe that I had not done it to myself. Some people. I blame it all on a single shot of Grappa, having been out on the 23rd and ending up in our local Italian, where the friendly staff issued us all with shots of this brew. I swear it is that and I have now added this drink to my list of alcoholic beverages not to be touched in future (joining tequila, jugs of crushed ice and rum, and absinthe) because of the memorable (not by me) social occasions they have created.
Anyway, I digress, the subject of this week is really about fancying other people's girlfriends (OPGs) and, more particularly, the very inappropriate OPGs. Generally, this is not a subject that one should write about. Even mentioning it feels somehow like there will be ramifications as the two things to remember about OPGs is that: a) they are other people's; and b) they can cause, as we all know, a world of trouble.
I could, in fact, write for a very long time about this subject, rolling out my favourite anecdotes, but one of the things about leaving the 18-34 demographic is that you suddenly find yourself turning into Mr/Ms Sensible. Besides, as most of the parties are still living it would simply not be healthy (or indeed safe) for anyone concerned to rake over the coals just one more time for journalistic purposes (besides, as fun as it is to quote Joan Didion from 'Slouching towards Bethlehem' about writers selling people out, it's less fun when threatened with violence). I thought long and hard about writing about it this time, but I saw my friend Marcus over the holidays (he who is resident of Stallingwalling) and he reminded me of a certain incident, which involved him asking out A. This would not have been a problem, had I not still been going out with her at the time.
Marcus explained away this by saying that he had a moment of insanity. Later, of course, after she had cruelly dumped me, I wondered if he had some kind of prescient knowledge. That's, in fact, a total revisionist lie. She dumped me the second time only after I had done it to her first (on my birthday -- see, I have style and clearly no need for the dating Geneva Convention), which only goes to prove what Adam also says that you should never go back out with someone who you have previously dated and dumped. The reason being as (no matter what they say) they will always want to get their own back and dump you to return the favour. It's a cruel world.
I continue to digress. The OPG concerned was a real shocker, in that she belonged to my cousin. This was bad on so many levels. Admittedly, it was not really as bad as it could have been... she was 24 (but still it's pushing icky territory, considering my cousin is a baby-faced 21-year-old). Worse still, I think as for the first time within the realms of the cousins/stepchildren/siblings and their other halves, I was in danger of feeling almost uncle-ish and not in a good way. All I needed was a dirty raincoat, which is funny as that so had not been in my plans for my Winter 2002/2003 wardrobe.
Fortunately, as the 20-something rabble downed B52s and other beverages of choice, I remained completely sober, unable to drink anything. This was, in the end, a good thing (clearly penance for inappropriate OPG attraction). I stood outside for a while with my sister, who was smoking in the garden (me being reduced to enjoying other people's smoke) and I admitted the OPG problem. My sister, as withering as ever, was quick to offer comfort.
"That's terribly sad."
"I know."
Then she relented: "I wouldn't worry about it, she's almost 25. It doesn't sound so bad that way."
I nodded at this, said nothing, while thinking that's no good, I'm almost 35 and well into this demographic shift.
The Demographic Shift is a new regular column on Brand Republic as Gordon MacMillan charts his own demographic timebomb.
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