Meeting Ann St Vincent

I met someone remarkable recently. She’s a fellow blogger who calls herself Ann St Vincent. ( )I’m a follower of her journey because in many ways, seen from a high level, we have been treading a similar path.

We’ve both been trying to find meaningful love while trying to make sense of what is going on around us right now. Along the way we have both discovered that the way forward lies behind us. Until we make peace with our past the future will be a repeat of a sorry old scene that always ends the same way.

I’m aware that it is an easy mistake to form an impression of someone from their blog. We’ve been trading witticisms and barbed comments on each other’s blogs for two years, so when the opportunity arose to meet her, my trusty steed couldn’t keep me away.

A cool, blustery Saturday afternoon outside a bustling Tube station was the setting for our first face-to-face encounter. I wasn’t too sure what to expect. This would either be a waste of time or the total opposite.

My initial thought upon meeting is how tall she is for a woman. I wasn’t expecting that. The vibe she exudes is positive and energetic. Her intellect was quickly on show as her rapier-like questions poured down on as if fired by a battalion of archers hiding behind the ramparts of an internet firewall.

My plan for the afternoon involved taking her to St Katharine Docks to share a convivial drink on the balcony of the Dickens Inn. I know that she has read my every post so she might appreciate the significance of the setting where the majority of my dates have happened. Alas, the public transport system wreaked havoc on my plan and we ended up only halfway there, at Piccadilly Circus to be exact, when I had to conjure up an alternative plan.

I remembered a nearby funky pub where I took The Model for our first date. The rugby World Cup was on and an important game was being shown on a huge television that other patrons worshipped. I positioned myself strategically so that I could watch the game over Ann’s shoulder. If she was a talkative bore I could make the most of it.

I don’t know what happened during that game because Ann was sparkling company. We could have talked all night about anything and everything that the rising moon overhead cared to cast it’s gaze over. I was concerned that we would degenerate into swapping unpublished details about penile playthings, but that wasn’t the case. Instead we had great banter that made our time together fly by.

When I inevitably and sadly escorted Ann back to her lodgings for the night I got the feeling that she didn’t want to say goodbye. We fumbled our parting, but I know that we’ll see each other again.

Even after spending the time with her as I did, it still isn’t clear to me how her story will play out. Perhaps like mine?

What I do know for sure is that anybody who counts Ann as a friend should consider themselves lucky.

Claude Debussy : Clair de Lune