Imagine That!

Maybe its my parent’s fault. Perhaps I should blame my convent school education. Or even the legal training which has knocked out all semblance of individuality out of me. Either way, it has become clear that I’ve a major socio-psychological problem. I can’t fantasize. This imagination deficit has become starkly evident in two separate recent incidents.

The first was earlier this week while stuck on a train to Westport. Due to engineering works, I found myself trapped in an antiquated carriage in the rural wilderness somewhere between Roscommon and Castlerea. We were motionless for about 20 minutes with only the occasional sound of a metal spanner clanking optimistically on some piece of high technology 1950’s engineering disturbing absolution silence. The carriage was empty but for myself and a thirteen year old girl who was engrossed in the latest Harry Potter – “Harry Potter and the Interminable Franchise”, I think it was called. This earnest young lady turned pages at a frightening rate, her eyes darting left and right as she devoured the prose. She became almost breathless with excitement and let out an almost orgasmic groan as she came to the end of her book. Being a polite young lady, she apologised for her subconscious outburst but explained how JK had really taken her places. We got into a discussion about the eponymous hero and I quickly realised that she does the lot – Potter, Lord of the Rings, Star Wars. I wanted to know her fascination with this pulp fiction. I’ve never been able to suspend my disbelief long enough to get into any of this stuff. She gave a cogent argument that would have done justice to any high brow arts discussion how the exploration of good and evil was an important aspect to the maturing personality. She extolled the importance of being able to escape the hear & now and, without saying it, left me in no doubt that I’m an incomplete person for not having acquired this faculty.

Tony and I have had several alcohol-fuelled discussions about the state of our relationship recently. We both agree that a certain level of complacency has created into our hitherto dynamic relationship. We seem to know each other too well and make subconscious compromises in our choice of movie, socialising, holidays, etc. Badly articulating one particular point, I remarked that the surprise, no excitement - the intrigue had gone from our courtship. One of the things I love most about Tony is that he makes an effort. Most times he doesn't know why, but he knows that he must. So I shouldn’t have been too surprised when he came home last night with some costumes and a book on role playing in a valiant attempt to spice up our love life. Tentatively, I tried to respond to his initiative. But no matter how hard I tried or how many glass of vino I consummed, I couldn't see him as a manly Roman centurion guard. Instead I could only think of him as the guy from Ranelagh that took me bowling on our first date. As for the skimpy nurse uniform, I was concerned that anyone attempting to administer modern healthcare in that get up had a lot more than MRSA to worry about! A woman who wanted to wear such a revealing outfit would, I reasoned, be unlikely want to empty chamber pots for incontinent A&E victims.

You see, I need to believe something is credible before I immerse myself in it. Quite simply I can’t fantasise! And I do try. Take this latest Roy Keane saga for example. Sometimes I want to grab him by his oversized necktie knot, throw him on the bed, rip off his shirt to reveal his chiselled six pack, tie his arms and legs to the bed posts and then … go off to the sitting room and watch Dublin v Meath in the company of Ger Canning. Please don't hate me because of my social dysfunction.