Call Me:

With the number of entities that show an interest in my potential and/or have contemplated an acquisition on my life, it takes considerable effort to keep my ego from bursting its currently generous proportions.

I suppose I am rather tempting. Young, relatively intelligent, passably pretty, supposedly virginal, fleshy around my muscles and occasionally capable of hard work, I am just about unformed enough to be of interest to itching hands. And society does cannibalistically crave the malleable flesh of youth... the more closely related to themselves the better.

Of course, I am not very young any more. I have held down a steady job, travelled a fair bit, run a household, dealt with major family crises and bought a car. I have not quite had the opportunity to marry and reproduce, an object of infinitesimal concern to myself and monumental concern to others. I forgot to add to my list of credits an active set of ovaries, which while they remain active, are an object of almost manic interest to other females past-fertility looking to ensure the genetic progress of their male offspring.

Ovaries are obvious though. And so very clichéd. You cannot understand what a liability it is to possess a pair unless you do. Yet, acquiring, planning and controlling the fertility of youth is only the tip of the iceberg.

The world seems to me to be so full of unsolicited advice, that I have built myself a raft with a canopy, and spend most of my time simply drifting placidly atop the currents. When I was younger, and incredibly more stupid, I would exhaust myself fighting the outpour. Can you imagine how ridiculous someone would look trying to shovel water back into a burst pipe? That’s how we appear throughout our adolescence.

As someone for whom assuming a position on the quality of breakfast, is likely the most laborious action of the day, the mere thought of perceiving, conceiving and nurturing an opinion on the life of another human being, not to mention the torture of disseminating that information, is an exhausting task. It is with avid and awestruck curiosity that I observe the energy and persistence with which people here impart, nay insist on their opinions on the lives of others and sometimes I burst into compulsive, unbridled applause!

That people sometimes seek out my advice has caused me, on occasion, to choke on my coke, (the kind you drink). Oh, I could help you fix a car, clean a fridge, get a bank-loan, move house, plan a wedding, finalise a divorce, train a horse or pass an exam. I am even capable of meaningful conversations on early twentieth century literature, the Second World War, aid-failure, Buddhism, Ukrainian politics, IKEA, evolutionary psychology, emigration and Benedict Cumberbatch’s hair. But ask me about life, and I know nothing. A steady relationship? Unless you meant physically holding somebody down, which I am fully capable of, I wouldn’t know the beast if it bit me in the leg.

With flexible work hours that pay my bills, I enjoy nothing better than a life committed to indolence. Why would I get a second degree, push for a promotion, nurture an enmity, procure a (fertile) husband or join a gym when I can divide my evenings between Top-Gear re-runs and James Joyce?

And here I commit the sin against which I rave! By informing you of the obvious, that if you have an idea about my life, I have likely already entertained and discarded it. If I wanted a man, a chocolate cookie, a baby or rosy shrubbery, I would have already done something about it. I do have ambitions that I have surrendered in favour of others, but I have no wish to unload my unfulfilled desires on deliciously unformed young things. It is not my place, it is not my life and it is entirely futile. So let’s all just calm down now and pay attention to how pretty the new Sherlock is. Beauty and its appreciation is all that really matters.

The Nation’s Call Me column is an anonymous piece of writing, where writers can  relate deeply personal stories.

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