Do you remember when we used to sing sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah?
Oh, it’s just me then.
Actually, now that I come to think about it, it was just me who sang sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah. You just walked away and pretended you were not with me, especially if it was on a crowded street. In fact, I distinctly remember you threatening violence if I ever did it again. Although, it was during your grandmother’s funeral, so I just put it down to you being a little fragile at the time.
But, as you came to realise over time, I was never that good at taking a hint, even when it was expressed with violence. I just thought that hurling household items at my head was your way of showing affection.
But back then I was somewhat naïve.
Ah, young love – do we ever feel its like again once we grow older?
I do believe, though, that the constant ducking as airborne domestic utensils flew in my direction did keep me both fit and on my toes.
But, my, how you have grown! Especially since the last time we saw each other. Nevertheless, you always had a fondness for pies, both savoury and sweet, usually with one following the other. Cast my memory back there, Lord, Sometime I’m overcome thinking about the way you could get those pies down your neck. Of course, I soon learnt not to display my dismay in such an over-surprised manner. I can still remember the sound that enamel pie dish made as it ricocheted off my forehead.
I suppose I should be, as the doctor in A&E said, that it was an empty pie dish. She did smile though when I pointed out that you would never even consider hurling any pie dish at me before it was empty.
I suppose a well-made pastry crust was the closest you ever got to true love. I knew even then that I was just destined ever to be a poor second to your love of steak and kidney.
I called you my brown-eyed girl of course, although there were some, including your own parents who claimed that your eyes were actually blue, but the amount of gravy you consumed in your pies had turned them brown.
Now I come to think of it, those eyes, the eyes I will never forget, were the deep dark brown of a good thick beef gravy. Eyes you could dip your bread in.
Of course, the closest we ever got to a waterfall was that one romantic day when you decided to share a bath with me. Even then, the pie consumption was starting to have a noticeable effect on you, but how you managed to keep your Cornish pasty dry in the subsequent deluge was – as one of our rescuing firemen said – an absolute bloody mystery.
We never did find the cat again. My sister still claims the poor cat was swept out to sea in the flash flood.
But, anyway, Sometime I’m overcome thinking about you my gravy-eyed girl.
Sha la la la la la la la la la la dee dah.