I
look up, through slices of silver glass, and see the purest blue sky I have
ever seen.
Not
the moody blue of Paris, or the inevitable cloud-infested blue of Cardiff; but
a blue that makes you want to reach as high as you can to touch it.
Way
beyond the throngs of people on the sidewalk below; past the hundreds of office
windows; and way beyond the point of the highest top of the highest building. A
place where there is only the silence of empty blue.
It
is the moment I fall in love with New York City. The "energy" and the
"vibe" that everyone told me I would love have passed me by; I lived
in Central London for 28 years - I know vibe. No, what captures my heart are
moments such as these: when you look up and feel the silence through the chaos.
I've
been here for over two weeks now and, apart from one dinner with friends, have
been pretty much by myself. Tourists in bars and restaurants are very chatty
and friendly, and I met up with someone I knew only from Facebook, who
accompanied me on Broadway to the musical Aladdin, courtesy of my good friend
Tim Rice, who co-wrote the lyrics.
But
apart from that, it's been an unusual period of isolation. It's been productive
in terms of coming up with new ideas and getting them off to people but, but,
but . . .
I
haven't felt the slightest bit lonely, but the older I get, the more I realise
that being single,
particularly
as a female in your mid-Fifties, is a very strange place to be.
Almost
all my friends have partners. Most are married and have children or grand-children,
who take up most of their spare time. Outside of that, they want to spend some
much needed time alone together, not partying in the early hours with a
woman who should be old enough to know better.
I
am lucky always to have had my work, which I love. I am blessed in having a
wonderful mother, brother and sister-in-law, to whom I am very close. I don't
see them often enough, but that's nothing to do with my living mostly overseas;
in fact, I have seen them more since living in LA than I ever managed to do
living in Cardiff.
It's
just that people have their own lives - quite rightly. Work takes us further
away from each other and requires us to settle in new places more frequently
than we once did.
Most
of the time, being single doesn't bother me. This week, in New York, I was
chatting with a lovely woman from another part of the US, and her husband
ordered her back to the hotel - and I mean ordered.
I
asked her what his problem was and she said his behaviour was probably as a
result
of
his being homophobic (we had been talking to a very vibrant transvestite).
I
felt relieved that I do not have a man ordering me around. Let alone one who
turns psycho at the sight of a bloke in a dress.
I
love my freedom: deciding at a moment's notice to go anywhere in the world,
without having to ask permission; being my own timekeeper; talking to whomever
I want to, whenever I want to.
But
if there is one thing that makes me long with all my heart that I had someone
to .share some time with, it's . . . fairgrounds.
I
have always loved the funfair.
I
love the rides, and the higher, faster and scarier, the better.
Last
year, I went to Barry Island by myself and went on a few rides, and you know
what? It was no fun at all. So, although I am desperate to go to New York's
Coney Island, I can already hear my tears - and not from fear.
I
want someone to cling to when I'm scared; at the very least, I want to come
down from a ride and tell the the person at the bottom too fearful to have come
on it with me how great and/or how terrible it was.
I
want someone to tell me that there no real spooks on the Ghost Train and that,
no matter how scared you might be on the roller coaster, that's okay, and that
no fear lasts forever.
Sometimes,
I just want to share a little bit of blue sky.
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