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Published: July 12th 2006
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5th November 2005 - MY BIRTHDAY!
Brighton, England.
The view over the ocean upon awakening this morning was absolutely fantastic, and it was upon that happy note that the rest of the day unfolded.
Mum phoned - twice - to wish me a happy birthday, and on an impulse I stopped at a supermarket to buy some silly birthday masks and such, as well as the necessary fireworks, which in this country is sold in just about every two-bit cornerstore at this time of year. The majority of the day was spent happily driving about the coast, eating guilt-free junk food and whirling about upon the myriad amusement rides of Brighton Pier. I laughed and screamed until I was hoarse, spun until I was nauseous, and probably spent more money on the pier than on the Toy Car. And regretted nothing.
After watching a beautiful sunset from the elegant white balustrade of the Pier it was time to set off for Lewes. The only jarring note to a fantastic day was trying to get the tiny car out of the miniscule, badly designed parking garage. Lord only knows how I'd squeezed it in in the first place, or
how anybody ever gets out, but even with the miniature dimensions of the car it took over forty minutes of reversing and forwarding between the cars wedging me in to make any progress. It could not have been done without a fair amount of tapping bumpers, either, which freaked me out.
But, finally, near sobbing with relief, I was free to race on down to Lewes, where after parking I hosted a few free peepshows in my hurry to change, but what did I care? The sugar rush was kicking back in and I was blissfully happy again. It was my birthday, I was all dressed up, which I love to do, and surrounding me were hundreds of people in the same jovial mood as I.
The first street parade arrived moments after I jostled into place on main streetm and amongst the costumed revellers were pirates, vikings, fire-jugglers, eighteenth-century bar wenches, and so forth. After they had passed through we trailed them on to the next junction to see another society's mixture of costumed marchers. There were six societies in all, each marching around the town with their own bands and themes and hangers-on, and it was
great fun to wander about, sometimes with the crowd and sometimes against it, in search of entertainment. Everybody was drinking and laughing and dancing to the drums, caught up in the infectious happiness of the night. Sometimes somebody would stare at my eclectic mix of finery, not seeing a connection to any of the other themes, and I would smile and point at my "Birthday Girl!" badge, and they'd laugh in sudden recognition and sing
Happy Birthday or hug me, which was nice.
Eventually the societies all marched their ways out of the centre of town to their respective Bonfire Sites, where each would torch their own effigies or woodstacks and detonate their fireworks. I followed the river toward what had been promised as the largest of the fires. And, indeed, once lit it was a veritable inferno that had those crowding the perimeter rail run fleeing from the unbearable heat of the three-story blaze.
(I hesitate to write the following, as it is not perhaps the most flattering demonstration of myself, but I have determined to be forthright in all writings, so...)
It was at this point, at the edge of the glow, threading though the
crowd with a can of lukewarm beer in one hand, that my gaze collided with that of a young man staring at me with the strangest look on his face. "You're mine", he blurted out, and in that frozen moment something in me seemed to acknowledge and accept it as as truth. As easily as that, some instinct gave way to him and said, yes. But then his friends burst out laughing, poking fun at his gaucheness, and I turned away, embarrassed, uncertain that I'd heard right. Surely not.
I moved perhaps three metres further into the crowd, still close enough to hear his friends mocking him. "You're miiine," one of them crooned in a dramatic falsetto, and at this confirmation I glanced back just as he looked up, red-faced but unrepentant. Again, I was struck by something in those eyes, by some unguarded answer in my own head, but this time it frightened me, this acceptance of it, and I pushed deeper into the safety of the crowd just as the hiss of erupting firworks began.
Though not usually particularly impressed with fireworks - "if you've seen it once", right? - this was the best show I'd
ever seen, likely due predominately to the fact that they were exploding no more than twenty metres above our heads, so close and extravagant as to consume our worlds. For a few minutes I watched the night sky, entranced, and the strange panic faded into an urge to discover more of this premonition of fate. I turned and started to weave my way through the crowd as the fireworks drew to a close, but with everybody's attention on the skies above them it was hard to get some to move. Two embers fell upon me and burnt twin holes through the sleeve of my prettiest jacket.
By the time I'd reached the fire's perimeter, he was gone. I stood unmoving for a moment, dumbstruck that he had abandoned me, before darting through the departing crowd in search of him. I stopped just as suddenly. What would I say?
"Hi, why did you say that, what did you mean?" Or
"Hi, I only have another day before I have to leave, but are you my destiny?" I returned to the fire's edge and searched the passing faces, waiting, hoping, suddenly eager for what I had run from.
There are two possible explanations, I thought.
Either that was the corniest, most astonishingly effective pickup line I've ever heard, and I'm a total pushover, or some strange destiny was at play. But all was lost. He did not return, and it was with a sense of failure that I drove into the foothills of Brighton in the early morning hours and bedded down, any further half-evolved party plans abandoned. I wasn't depressed, only regretful. The day had been fantastic, a long adrenaline-fueled rush. But oh, what more might it have been.....?
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