Carpe Diem

It is rare on a Friday for Fryday not to have something to write about. Usually there is something worthy of a little borax or humour. Most of whatever that is comes to me late and Fryday is written hurriedly to catch the moment. Today there is nothing waiting for me: no gift, no pearl of wisdom, no interest from The Muse—and she is not a woman to be forced. No woman is, of course. A man is tempting fate if he tries to mould a woman into his ideal and schoolboy fantasy—or is it schoolgirl fantasy? A much better—and safer—route is to find the exact woman you want off the shelf. There are plenty to choose from. Fortunately I have never been particularly good at shopping. If my wish-list is a diminutive, submissive woman whose brain can be turned on and off, then I have been sadly amiss with those whom I have chosen to be my close friends and confidants. I am surrounded by wonder women none of whom completely fits my superficial ideal, my perfect woman. They are too perfect for that. This week I attended the funeral of a friend’s wife. As I recall, I met her only once but found her charming. She must have been quite something, for the manner in which she was eulogised and the devastation her sudden death caused her husband. I had to leave the funeral early, I have been unwell this week and vulnerable. But that too only demonstrated the beauty of women, a suite of whom enveloped me this week with compassion, concern and sincerity. They know who they are. So if I have somehow fashioned a Fryday celebrating women, foisted on me because I had nothing else to write about, let that not diminish the sincerity of the sentiment. Rather acknowledge if you will that we have a Fryday, and that, before I started writing it, I didn’t know how lucky I was.