Time to get back to a particularly putrid part of my dismal Dating Past (whilst we conveniently overlook the Dated Present). Well, not so much dating as relational hell. Which, it appears, I’ve a queer knack for f*cking up monumentally – due more to insane choice than any actual issues relating, per se.

The Drama Queen

MLC Score: 2.25/14     KO Rating: 8.5/11

After playing glorified kindergarten teacher for Dr McPolar (replete with predictable “we need to talk” closing scene), I (thought I) saw the light and moved toward it. Only to find I was very much mistaken as I ran smack-dab into the glaring headlights of an oncoming freight train. Which is not to say The Drama Queen is (or was) fat, but  let’s just say the once beautiful dancer’s body is way beyond it’s prime and slipping rather gracelessly toward a very middle age. Post plenty under appealing ginga, I was easily impressed by blond, blue-eyed good looks.

{ aside }

As I write this, my little inner cynic crows with delight:

“See the parallel, Scar, do ya, do ya, do ya?! Seems you run willy-nilly into the arms of some random surfer boy with a modicum of decent geneage after grimness with a ginger and wham!bam!thank you m’am too late realize you’re a fool.”

SN: Ermh, ja welll no fine *sigh* Someone hand me those anti-depressants – yup, right up there next to my anti-psychotics. Um, ta. No really…

*

But back to the business of beginning – back when it’s still sonskyn en rose and everyone’s equally in it to win it. A brief note on this particular Player – you’ll be seeing him again (damn fool I was) so bear in mind this is first of first, there’s still an encore to look forward too (and yes, yes, laugh all you want – for such mindless insanity, I probably deserve it)

{ C1 } The Call from The Queen, if you remember, came while the good doctor and I were on our way (over and) out.  He took me long toothed to his sister’s school where daddy presided, baby brother did dodgy drug drop-offs and a certain surfer plied his trade in theatre. Through a fog of cloyingly conservative conformity, The Drama Queen (DQ) stood out as thoroughly unconventional, ergo remarkably interesting (not to mention seemingly sexy) which is why, when Dr McP abandoned me at the bar, I was only too happy to be entertained by he.

"Erhm, not what I was expecting but you do have such charming blue eyes..."

{ P1 } The Pull  > Somewhat wary post the almighty medical mess, things started slowly: we hung out, drinking good coffee and just talking. As Kurt Vonnegut so wisely t(w)ittered “Charm… a scheme for making strangers like and trust a person immediately, no matter what the charmer had in mind.” This is probably the pernicious point in history when The Narci begun sharpening their fangs and polishing the craft. Beginnings are when they bloom best – those blue eyes worked overtime magic as one long, meaningful conversation bled into another under boughs of beautiful trees in the Botanical Gardens. While the artic chill of his inherent aloofness left me vaguely queasy, I put it down to star signs (airy Aquarius) and told myself I was being unfairly neurotic and suspicious (haha). Guard kept well up til he came with me to see Pan’s Labyrinth in Durban and I, expecting some joyous happy fantastical something, was rather rattled and sorely in need of a (very strong) drink thereafter. So he took me for a stroll down at Umhlanga Rocks, pausing for dramatic effect beneath the towering lighthouse and stooped (he’s tall – ye gods! another perverse parallel) to kiss me. I’d sensed something afoot but wasn’t expecting to be kissed (having requested we wait til at least after my birthday – one of my delightful little spiritual superstitions) and it caught me off guard. DQ kisses were always weirdly cold, oddly reminiscent (I imagine) of making out with a cadaver.

{ C2} The Catch came, physically, just before my birthday. I’d taken myself away for a little spa rejuvenation at Indigo Fields (if I could go every year, I’d would) and DQ surprised me with an early birthday dinner at his home. A wise hand at The (oldest) Game, he’d rustled up Glühwein (my birthday falls in winter when it’s icy in the Midlands and it’s possibly my favourite thing in the whole wide world – sorta), prawns and a blazing fire. Desert came as strawberries and cream, and cunningly, um, served without cutlery so next thing I know, I’m in his bedroom (cue soundtrack: Here Comes The Man) and Loki’s licking spilt milk. I remember thinking, quite clearly, as I lay in that well notched bed:

“Wow, I’ve just been seduced! First time ever. Masterful, didn’t even see it coming…”

Monty Python meets Chatsworth Street Fighting

The more perilous fall came a month or so later: the night before we were off to the South Coast for a long weekend (and I’d just booked tickets to CPT to go to a wedding with him) DQ had to tech a show at The School for Jacobus van Heerden and Liam Magner of The Neon Anthems. By the end of Tokoloshe Come and Go the girls were all but a rioting froth of pubescent hormones (single sex schools breed lust like lice) when the power failed (oh well done, Eskom) and the theatre was bathed black. Suddenly a superhero, DQ shouted for everyone to remain calm and in their seats as he ran down to the stage with a massive torch (portable generator light or something: the detail eludes me) to illuminate the duo for the thunderous applause. It was at that exact moment I felt myself swoon as the act of supposed pure selflessness made me veritably sick with the flush of love. It does bear mentioning that when I finally confessed how deeply impressed I was by this grand deed, he admitted wryly:

“There was no power failure, I blew a fuse so had to fix it.”

A powerful portent of how our doomed relationship would run: me reading all manner of deluded loveliness into actions of his which were usually nothing short of damage control wrought by something short-sighted, selfish, stupid or just plain irresponsible he’d done. So I ask you – who’s your Fool?