I got sucked into a Franz Ferdinand video the other night, when I couldn't sleep and sadness had driven me from my bed. Do you know the one I mean? The Scottish boys are prancing around a modern art gallery, asking me if I want to, if I, if I want to.
It occurred to me that while I will always have a weakness for skinny British boys in cigarette pants and three button jackets, and I do, indeed, want to, I'm pretty certain that's not enough to ingratiate me with Alex and the boys.
There's too much suburbia in me, too much wide-eyed awe and terror at their ways. I imagine that they all live in posh squalor, and I'm too uppity to settle into it with any kind of style or even false leisure. I've got this image in my head of the boys swigging from fantastic imported bottles, passing it around like it's hooch in a paper bag, before bending their heads over lines the lengths of which wouldn't go remiss on a baseball diamond. And I would sit there, perched uncomfortably on a Starck bar stool, chuckling at jokes I don't understand. By the end of the night, shyness would have driven me to drink too much and, in a desperate attempt to appear a little less like Harriet Nelson, hit on the woman who only comes to do the washing up after one of their dos.
There’s really nothing to be said for self-awareness, sometimes.
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