Do you ever meet someone who just suddenly comes along and has the affect of a sledge hammer hitting you in the face at full force? Siggi was a full force hammer walloping me in right between the eyes…
I always thought that teardrops were a waste of time. Crying was just a waste of emotional energy. It never achieved anything. But I think I’ve changed my mind. I can now think of a good use for a teardrop. And I always thought that e-mails are impersonal things when compared to a hand written letter sealed in an envelope. I still think that.
“Stirrrr it, there’s sumthing at the bottom”, Siggi had just finished impersonating my accent very badly for what seemed like the 50th time that morning, then proceeded to light what might have been her 20th cigarette of the day. After that, she made yet another joke about my age and how old I was.
Siggi and urine went together. I think I should be clearer here. Siggi and taking the piss went together. She was German and spoke English fluently but didn’t know what the English word “mockery” meant. Very strange considering it was what she excelled in. This girl could piss take for Germany if there were a world cup in it.
Every time she had to pay for something she pulled out her purse containing a cute, funny monkey face on the outside. I used to joke that I couldn’t tell the difference between it and her. But I could. I most certainly could. She was beautiful, with her shiny black hair, smiling eyes and pretty face. I always wanted to touch her hair to see if it felt as soft as it looked. But I knew I never should and I knew I never would. And despite all of the mockery, mainly directed toward me, I thought she was extremely funny. And I don’t mean just any old type of funny. She radiated a kind of laugh out loud funniness, with laser beam wit. This girl was sharp; she could cut through steel.
Do you ever meet someone who just suddenly comes along and has the affect of a sledge hammer hitting you in the face at full force? Siggi was a full force hammer walloping me in right between the eyes – in a very nice sort of way of course. She said that she had been to art school. That didn’t surprise me. I could feel creativity oozing from her. If she ever returned to painting once more, I would like her to paint a self-portrait and give it to me. Maybe the painting would reveal some deep aspect of her that she keeps hidden away from the world. Because beneath all of the joking around, I suspect there was a much deeper person inside that she didn’t want the world to see. Perhaps she’ll paint it for me one day.
Strange as it may seem, I was actually beginning to have “feelings” for her. What those feelings are I have difficulty in saying. But I think you know the type that I’m talking about. They are the kind you develop when you meet someone who in your opinion stands head and shoulders above the crowd in terms of how they look, how they act and most important of all, how they churn you up inside.
She couldn’t take me seriously when I told her this. She wondered how anyone could feel that about her. I guess she believed that she was just run of the mill normal. I know what boring normal is. And she didn’t fit into that category. She most certainly didn’t. So after having plucked up a huge amount of courage to tell her about my precious “feelings” she just kind of waved them away. Great! Bloody marvellous.
The next day I read a few chapters of my book to her. The saddest and loveliest parts of the book. She sat next to me and I could almost see her melting into the sand on the hot Goan beach. Finally my book was becoming the babe magnet I had always wanted it to be! I always thought that if musicians have groupies, then why can’t writers have them? Then I stopped reading. Within five minutes she had solidified again, no sign of meltdown on the beach, and launched back into her piss taking routines. Funny almost to the point of strangulation.
She once said that we would never meet again. I thought that it was possibly very true. Then I thought that it was probably very sad. And when I said goodbye I gave her a huge hug. The last thing I heard was I rode off on the motorbike was Siggi shouting from behind in mock emotion “Colin don’t go, come back”. I’ll remember Siggi because she was beautiful – beautiful to be with and beautiful to look at. She’s still inside my head. I hope that I’m still inside her head – “Stirrrr it, there’s sumthing at the bottum” – and no, not just because of my damned accent, which she insisted on calling an Irish/Scottish one (its Liverpool/scouse one actually).
E-mails are so impersonal. Sometimes when you write something, you may feel as though the words flow from your heart along your arm and into the pen. The writing on the paper comes straight from the heart. And when you have finished, you may place it in an envelope and pretend you are sealing it with a teardrop. Sent with a teardrop. They do have a use. I guess if I ever send this article to Siggi I’ll just have to it with the click of an electronic mouse. No teardrop-sealed envelope, but definitely with words that come from the heart. It’s not the same really. What a world we live in. Click.
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