The circus comes to town

It made me want to rush home, find every colourful piece of clothing in my cupboard, put them all in a suitcase, and join. Only one problem: I have no special skills that they’d be looking for. I thought maybe I could let my middle-aged lady hairs grow on my chin and be The Bearded Lady, but I don’t think that’s what Cirque du Soleil are looking for.

It was, literally, breathtaking. The colours, the silliness, the fun, and then the acrobats – swooping through the sky like superheros, throwing each other around as if they were weightless… seriously, I found myself taking in huge lungsful of air every now and again at the astounding stunts.

And to add a cherry on the top, I know one of the characters. Back at Small Town University his older brother was my first love and they included me in their family for a good proportion of my varsity years. I used to help him with his maths homework when he was little. Back then he was friendly and funny and sweet and now: he’s friendly and funny and still sweet and incredibly talented and I kept wanting to jump up and shout: “I know him!”

And to add another cherry on the top, his family were there from Small Town University town, including Nanna, the granny, who I haven’t seen for years! So lovely to see them all and bask in their pride. Well deserved pride, too.

What a treat to spend a Sunday afternoon in a Dr Seuss-esque glow, eating popcorn and Whispers and gasping in delight, then seeing old, old friends.

TDoT(9): Someone you didn’t want to let go, but just drifted

I think the person this probably applies to most is my First Love. It was almost storybook in its perfectness. I was 19, he was 17 (yes, yes, cradlesnatcher blah blah) and our first kiss, after much dancing about each other with knowing looks and stars falling from the sky in great meteoric showers, was on the beach on a moonlit night, waves crashing below as we wrapped ourselves in each other. See? I wasn't lying. I said it was storybook.

We remained wrapped in each other for almost two years, growing up together, he was the first person I slept with, it was gentle, beautiful, storybook (again.) I realise, now, after hearing other people's stories that I was incredibly lucky. We did everything together and were truly, youthfully, happy. He got me, I got him. Every bit of each other. As is the case of many relationships, the happiness got less and we eventually (after much angst, pain, and to-ing and fro-ing) called it a day. We were very good friends still, though.

Well, we still are, but the drift came in. We fell in love with other people, moved to different towns, life happened, he moved continents, we got older, exchanging sporadic e-mails that became more-and-more sporadic until they are, now, reduced to an occassional comment on Stalkbook. I never meant it to happen, but it did.

The good news, though, is that I am pretty sure (as sure as one can be of these things) that, when he returns to these shores, he'll still get me and I'll still get him, and that friendship will return.

My first love returns by dream

On Saturday night I dreamt of my first love. Probably because Stalkbook had alerted me to the fact that it was his birthday. You've got to love how Stalkbook has allowed us to become that good kind of friend who never forgets birthdays (something I am loathe to admit that I was - the forgetting type. With even more loathing I have to admit that even with Stalkbook telling me, over there in the corner, that it's Aunt Mabel's birthday, sometimes I still forget to phone. Oops.)

Anyway, my first love was of the stuff that Sweet Valley High novels are made of (am I dating myself?), but with a little bit of scandal thrown in. First, the SVH bits: he was the younger brother of a good varsity friend of mine. The first time I saw him, he came to visit with his brother and I literally had to stop myself drooling, as metaphorical stars flittered from above his head, bright light shining through his blonde locks from behind him. It turned out to be the neon light in the passage, but still.

A couple of months (and the end of year vacation) later found us serendipitously stranded in the nearby seaside village for the night, thanks to my fabulously unfaithful emerald green 1975 Ford Escort. We kissed for the first time in the sand on a moonlit beach, waves crashing, young naive hearts beating. It was lovely, and was the beginning of a beautiful thing that lasted almost two years.

I became one of his wonderful family (who lived in our varsity town). They embraced me, immediately - unconditionally. I am still friends with them all. I was surprised by their unconditional embracing, though, because (here comes the scandal)... I was the Older Woman. While I was ever so grown-uppedly in my second year of university, first love was but a schoolboy (admittedly in his final year.)

When I think of it now, the hero-worship he must've had from the pimply teenage boys in his class when I'd drop him back at school in my emerald green 1975 Ford Escort after taking him back to my digs for 'lunch' - his hair dishevelled, his tell-tale grin. He was just SO cute in his school uniform!

We grew up together really (well, a bit) in that time and our passion and intensity was that of only first love - bright, colourful, naively complicated, tempestuously calm. He was my first for many, many things, and it was wonderful. We were inseperable for that time.

In my dream, he had on a top that had been through the wash and was just too small for him, and I was pushing my hands and arms in under it to stretch it and make it fit. There's no understanding the sub-concious, is there?