There is nothing more tedious, depressing and downright annoying as a woman who has taken leave of her dignity and formed a distressingly deep attachment with an unsuitable male. In the futile hope that the intended will one day see the error of his ways and come round eventually, the deluded female brings his name into every conversation, describes boring anecdotes about his character in meticulous detail and, when drunk, spends hours shunning the general conversation to send progressively more creepy text messages to her beloved. The first time I encountered this phenomenon was with my flatmate of two years, who lusted after this guy she had had a week-long relationship with in my first year at St Andrews. By the sounds of it, the brief love affair had consisted mainly of sleazy sexual encounters, followed by a dismal cocktail of backbiting and recriminations. Nonetheless, good old Gordy would sometimes pay a nocturnal visit to my housemate, promise to call and make his merry way back home. My flatmate would sweep around the house in joy, spring-cleaning and phoning her mates to tell them the wonderful news. Predictably, the roguish fellow would prove about as reliable as the 16:12 from Liverpool Lime Street. Weeks past and no phone call came. Gloom descended upon our happy household. After this had happened a dozen times I was beginning to see that she was never going to cotton on. Love is blindness, but in some cases it amounts to outright stupidity.
Another time I encountered this phenomenon was when I was trying to hit it off with one of my friends in Second year. Instead of telling me how great I am -or some other suitable topic of conversation that could have been a prelude to drunken snoggery- she insisted on talking about her nauseating ex in a way that made him sound like a cross between the marble David and St Francis of Assisi. ‘I admired him for his honesty’, she would witter on, as I rolled my eyes, ‘for instance, he would always tell me if I happened to be looking ugly that day’. This is a common feature of the obsessed female; they will take some despicable characteristic of their idealised former lover and twist things around to make it seem like an adorable quality. The ex began to pop into every conversation and I began to grow sick of hearing it. ‘I saw him playing football the other day’, this girl would announce, as if this were akin to witnessing the second coming of Christ, ‘I think he might have looked at me, but I wasn’t sure’. Here also we see the capacity for self-delusion, as the woman constantly looks out for omens like an 8th century monk. Every trivial gesture becomes magnified into something far greater, a mere wave in her direction or a passing mention of her in conversation, becomes a sign they are going to settle down together, have kids and get married. Usually, this is about as likely as a sequel to ‘Mein Kampf’.
Another feature of this type of woman I should mention, is their irritating habit of saying ‘I wish he (the unsuitable male) was a nice guy like you’. I do not believe that nice guys exist, it is far better to see them as potential bastards. Similarly, it is easy to preach freedom and equality when you are a small time rebel hiding in the forests of the interior, however it’s hard not to resort to megalomania when handed the keys to the presidential palace. Women who prostrate themselves in this manner, are subjecting themselves to the fickle mercies of the disinterested male, it’s a position of power they finding it all too tempting to exploit.
My room overlooks a school playground, a vantage point that has given me a valuable insight into the problems with the education system in this country. Children are no longer forced into freezing cold class forms and given endless amounts of Latin grammar. Instead they seem to have perpetual break time, given leave to spend their school days running around outside my window and screaming their little lungs off. Much more of this and I shall turn into a Daily Mail reader.
In other news, my intellectual powerhouse of a fiancé has attained some ridiculously high ‘grade point average’ and won a scholarship to Nottingham. In about 19 days time I shall begin moving my stuff from the cells of Blenheim hall into the more homely surroundings of my friend Sarah’s house. I now need to get a job from somewhere, a venture that requires returning to the infamous application forms and sending the fictionalised version of my life contained in my C.V to various employers. The ‘real world’ is approaching fast.
Call me old fashioned, but what the hell is the point of this??????