| Writer :
Neil Wills |
| Contact
Writer at : neilwills@cs.com |
| Location :
Stamford, England |
| Received :
23/12/2001 |
Different
©Neil Wills December 2001
Different. A good word and
one which I’ve always suspected as being invented for me. I don’t mean
in any conceited sense. Nor do I mean special. Just, not the same as
others. Other reactions, senses. Other viewpoints. An instinct that others
are not quite the same as me.
I’ve always felt distanced. No more than a distracted voyeur gazing at
life but not part of it. Any psychoanalysts out there who want to write a
paper?
From one of my earliest recollections of a birthday party at 3, the world
has rolled along in its serious, dangerous, tragic and multifaceted ways.
Only briefly and intermittently have I felt alive and part of it.
Today is not one of those infrequent but treasured days.
I am at the company ‘do’. I have recently joined this company through
desperation to earn money to pay the multitude of bills which hit the mat
every day, not ambition. Perhaps this has clouded my perspective. My
jaundiced view may not be shared by anyone but please read on and see if
any of this strikes a chord.
I’m no oil painting. I’m certainly not Billy Connolly or Paul
Whitehouse. I know my limits. I feel this fact most keenly at large
gatherings, functions and public occasions. Others do not. Why is it that
at Christmas other people decide to override the limits?
Opposite me is a branch manager. He wears a party hat and is smoking
furiously. He’s been drinking since 9am. His gang are all shouting at
each other and laughing at everything they hear or see – especially
their hugely amusing leader.
None are gifted comics. They belong to the tribe of wannabe comedians who
trundle out and inflict upon anyone near them a repertoire consisting of
monologues from Monty Python. The parrot sketch rates highly in the
pecking order of this group.
Cliches, obvious ripostes and unfunny observations clatter noisily behind
their guileless trains of thought. The punch lines are telegraphed and
predictable but all meet with huge approval and much back slapping.
Girls demonstrate their contempt for what I imagine are normally humdrum
daily lives. No more or less appealingly humdrum than mine I am sure. As
much grope or grape as they can get or give.
The office manageress is a parody of youth and sexual attractiveness. Her
off the shoulder top reveals lardy drumstick shoulders from which pointed
elbows and skinny arms project dangerously into the darkness of the dance
floor. With each drink she becomes less appealing but more certain of her
allure.
Groups spill onto the dance floor where they, along with me, shake their
stuff at a pace of 123, 123 regardless of the tempo. The dance floor is
preferable to the table. At least I won’t be asked what’s wrong any
more. My jaws ache from stretching unwilling muscles into a grimace to
pass for a smile.
The branch manager has moved onto Monty Python’s ‘Spam’ sketch when
I return. His acolytes wriggle and jerk with mirth. Spam, spam, spam. Very
funny stuff.
Unlovely people trapped in this hell-hole of a conference centre. Automata
cackling madly in a frightening amusement theatre. No atmosphere inherent
and absolutely none being generated by the frenzied throng. Drink. More
drink and more Monty Python.
This is my introduction to life as an estate agent. If I intend to keep
off the prozac, perhaps another career change is imminent.
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