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[ 3 minute read ]
Court Me
Go on, have a good sniff
I have pieces of A3 and A4 paper stuck to three of my four living-room walls. Some people keep a diary to set their thoughts down and I suppose read it again one day. 'Oh Wow! I had forgotten her' or 'I was so unhappy then.' and 'I am glad I met......and went to .......' My walls do not speak to me in that way. They make dry comments about marketing and business strategies. 'Did you know, Martin that if you do this and this you can expect this?' My walls watch me disapprovingly with their arms crossed. The subtext is always the same, 'If I have told you once, I have told you a thousand times.' They scold me for being a lump.
'Get out of bed and seize the day,' I say to myself in response. 'Make a list. Look at where you are and where you need to be.' 'Go and get some love, for goodness sake'; well, for my own sake, obviously. It isn't that easy though. 'Did you know that my wall told me that.....' doesn't make anyone swoon. Do people swoon in the 2020s? I can't help thinking of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night in which Orsino's hard and thrusting determination to make Olivia swoon never worked. In my mind, if ever the passion was mutual between the two, when they meet only Olivia would swoon and while Orsino might be almost overwhelmed by her presence, he would not need to loosen his corset to breathe and let his racing heart beat freely. He would not swoon. So there; nobody swoons anymore. I sound almost wistful to myself, I think. I hope I am just a romantic and not instead wanting to notice women falling over when they spot good-looking and charming men and women. I would be aware that they never fall over when I am the only man in the room. In the modern day, thankfully, the 'room' does not join in with my penetrating walls at home, with their facts poking me in the eye every day, urging me to do better. Selfishly, I am so glad women no longer wear corsets.
I have just realised that it would be difficult for a woman, or indeed a man, in a corset to pick up a handkerchief because they can't bend their backs.Certainly, they cannot bow and so they must curtsy. I also happen to know that men at dances would stuff their own handkerchiefs under their armpits to absorb their sweat. At 'appropriate' moments they would flourish it in the air under the nose of a fancied woman to release their pheromones, in the hope of attracting lusty attention. I say I know that. It was a Morris Dancer who told me that. You know, prancing dance steps, waving handkerchiefs and clashing sticks. The striking sticks, she told me, were to scare away evil spirits. 'Morris Dancing is all about fertility, in farming and husbandry, as well as human procreation,' another one said. I suppose I am imaginatively wistful for the days when everyone signaled their feelings; waving handkerchiefs and swooning women. Of course, the people in the villages-past didn't need such accoutrements to signify their attraction for one another. It is no mistake that I used a French word there. Perhaps, I am egregiously conflating country bumpkin paganism with refined courts. I think the healthy, robust and strong farm-girl never said, 'Court me' to the bulky farm-lad. If she did, she was most certainly a lost spy in the countryside.
How about I do what my walls tell me and make lots of money? If I wave around my debit and credit cards instead of a handkerchief will I attract anyone? It doesn't take me long to recognise that I would rather 'court' a farm-girl than impress a courtesan. In any case, who likes plastic these days?