I dreamt of English girls and how much I missed them and woke up missing them by that amount exactly.
I was awash with a longing for the out of reach, not just across the distance, but because of the time gone and a longing too far away to find that’s getting further every day.
I first made love to a girl when I was fifteen. A very serious affair it was, we were the old married couple of our group of friends and had been going out together for almost six months, eternity.
Fifteen years later I finally left England for America and fifteen years later I am still here. So my experience with the female sex is very balanced between here and there. Although, perhaps understandably, I think (and dream) of English girls, but American women, which -again- reflects my own history.
Pound for pound I prefer American women, but I do miss English girls, and the way they sound. As with so many other Americans, I fall under the sway of an accent, although in this case it is my own.
In my dream I was sitting in a small café in Ravenscourt Park which is just along from Hammersmith in West London (for those who don’t know).
My same fifteen year old girlfriend was with me there but we were both as we are today. We drank lemon tea and talked of all that had happened to us, to our lives since then. Of how innocent we had been as almost children, blundering in the world. How easy and stupid and happy and hopeful, unthinking, we’d once been.
She said:”It takes so long to learn how you should have done the things you did and when you do it’s too late then to do those things that once were done so differently to how you’d do them now.”
And I thanked her for reminding me that regret can bring forgiveness as easily as it does sorrow.
We woke up better friends.