Soul wings and roundabouts

Photo by Dug Blane

"I'm worried," I confide in Carol, as I'm driving her home after her work. 

"What about?" she says.

"I think I've made a wee mistake and condemned my soul to everlasting torment."

"Normal people mislay their car keys," she says. "How did you manage to lose your soul?"

"Susan was going to church this morning and wanted my company," I say. "Everyone there has been praying for wee Sally. She had a lot on her mind and didn't tell me what to do."

"And you received communion?" she says.

"I did," I say.

"But you're not a Catholic," she says. "You shouldn't have."

"I know that now. I've looked it up. But it seemed rude to stay seated. I did it with respect and good intentions. So I'll be all right, won't I?"

She says nothing, as I slow down to let a posse of tiny tots in triple pushchairs, shoved by green-smocked nursery workers, get safely across the road. 

"Won't I?" I ask again, and my peripheral vision tells me she's staring at me. 

"I don't think so," she says at last. "I think you're screwed."

"Define 'screwed'," I say.

"Eternity in the big bad fire, tormented by demons."

"That's screwed," I tell her. "Can I get a second opinion?" 

"You should," she says. "Talk to the priest. Explain what happened. The trouble is you weren't in a state of grace when you received communion."

"Because I'm not a Catholic?" I say.

"Because your soul is stained with unrepented mortal sin," she says.

"I don't think so," I say. "I'm a good guy."

"You'd be surprised," she says. "It's a long list."

"Such as?" I say.

"Such as homosexual acts, idolatry, incest, lying and masturbation," she says. "You're in the frame for at least one of those, I'm thinking."

"I am," I say. "I don't want to talk about it. It's embarrassing."

"We've all done it," she says. 

"Worn an amulet of the Buddha and rubbed it at times of stress?" I say. 

"Oh, right," she says. "Idolatry. No, I've not done that."

The nursery worker at the tail end of the expedition smiles in our direction, and a ginger-haired squirt in the buggy she's shoving waves at us. I wave back at him, slip the car into gear and pull gently away.

"You are down for one on that list though," I say. 

"I am," she says. "I can't go to church now because of it."

"I thought God allowed gay feelings," I say. "As long as you don't act on them. Tell Him you haven't done it in a while."

"I'm hoping that'll change," she says. "I want a long-term relationship. If I promise God stuff I can't stick to, it'll make things worse."

"Worse than eternal damnation?" I say.

"Satan's inventive," she says.

"It's a high price to pay for being yourself," I say. "Reminds me of Jeanette Winterson's mum: 'Why be happy when you could be normal?'"

"Like you have a choice," Carol says. "And occasionally it is easier being a lesbian."

"Yeah, when?" I say.

"When I was stopped by the police a few months back. I got confused at a roundabout, with them in a car behind me. They pulled me over and gave me a hard time and endless questions. Then I mentioned my girlfriend and they're like 'Whoa', and let me go right away."

"Scared of being done for discrimination?" I say.

"Right," she says. "It's called 'playing the gay card'."

"Any idea what card I should play when I talk to the priest?" I say. 

She studies me in silence some more. "Perplexed Protestant," she says.

"I'm not a Protestant," I say. 

"Brainless Buddhist," she says.

"I can do that," I say.

"I know you can," she says.

Who's the woman in this relationship?

Insults in Scotland are a form of bonding, a cultural device that doesn't travel well I discovered when I first went to England to work, and tossed a bit of friendly banter at a guy called Granville, who took mortal offence and never spoke to me again.

"Big girl's blouse," I thought, until I grew some cultural antennae and noticed the attention to courtesy, even among good friends, that prevails among our southern neighbours. 

Then on a writing trip to Helsinki a couple of years ago, I found Finns using gentle insults in the Scots fashion, and came up with the theory that it's about resisting pressure to conform from a powerful senior partner - both Sweden and Russia having laid claim to Finland throughout much of its history.

I still believe there's some truth in this. What I know for sure is that creative insults, done with humour in the right company, can generate shared pleasure at being on the same wavelength. 

But there is a line. And Susan just crossed it. 

"No I wouldn't," I tell her in Mary's house, where we've gathered on January 1st, to get the New Year off to the traditional sociable start, with whisky, chat and Belgian chocolate.

"You wouldn't what?" Carol says, coming through from the kitchen. "And why are you sitting so far from Big John on the couch?" 

"They were closer a moment ago," Susan says. "Much closer," she adds archly. "They separated when I asked if they were exploring their gay side."

"And I said I didn't have a gay side," John says. "But if I did, I'd be the man." 

"I agreed," Susan says, nodding at me. "And he'd be the woman."

Carol takes a cursory glance at the two of us and sits down in the middle of the sofa. "He would," she announces. "Anybody can see that."

"No they can't," I say, feeling beleaguered. "I don't want to be the woman. I got nothing against women. I like women. I just don't want to be one."

"All we mean is that you have a soft side," Carol says, patting me on the thigh. "You're sensitive," she says, stroking my arm. "It's a good thing."

"That's right," Susan says, keeping her face straight with a struggle. "Lots of guys would envy you."

"Do you envy me?" I ask John and his laugh is loud, raucous and, to my sensitive ear, bloody tactless. 

"He doesn't envy me," I say. "Listen, I got in touch with my feminine side once. She didn't like me."

"Build a bridge," John says, in his gruff, manly way. "Get over it. It's all hypothetical anyway. We're not gay. You and I are not going to have a relationship."

"That's true," I say and start to chill. "This is excellent whisky, Mary," I tell her and she flashes her lovely smile across the room.

"Because if we were gay you wouldn't be my type," John adds.

"What?" I say, the tension back in an instant.

"You heard," he says. 

"This gets worse," I say. "I'm not just a woman. I'm a woman no one could fancy." 

"I fancy you," Susan whispers. "I'll show you when we get home."

I give her a smile and relax - too soon again.

"After you've washed the dishes and made the beds," she tells me.

Get out, pervert!

Carol apologises more often than anyone else in the world. My sister probably comes second, closely followed by several other females I know. It's a girl thing, I think.

This morning Carol got started early, when I opened the bathroom door to find her naked in the shower, and exited with a swift apology. But not swift enough. She beat me to it by half a second.

I mean think about it. You've got your hair nicely lathered and are enjoying the luxury, in the chilly winter months, of hot water blasting your skin, soothing your insides and setting you up for the day ahead, when an ageing member of the opposite sex ruins the relaxing moment by blundering in and sending your fight or flight hormones soaring.

I know what I'd have done. I'd have screamed "Oy!". Closely followed by "Get out pervert!" 

But not Carol. "Sorry!" she said at the time, then "I'm really sorry" later, when she's dressed and I'm trying to apologise to her. "I should have locked the door," she says. 

"Well maybe," I say, "But you're far too quick to apologise. All the time. For everything. Like when that little dog took a liking to your leg and started humping it. You said 'I'm sorry about this' when everyone looked at you.

"You were sorry for what? For making your legs so irresistible that other species want to have sex with them?"

"For stopping the conversation," she says. "For attracting attention."

"It wasn't your fault," I say. "Then there was that time someone smashed a bottle of red wine at a party and the hostess went 'Aw Carol!' and you immediately apologised, even though you hadn't done it. That wasn't your fault.

"Then there was the time your uncle told you he had obsessive compulsive disorder aggravated by being somewhere on the autistic spectrum."

"And I said 'I thought you were just a wanker,'" she says. "And everyone laughed but him."

"So fair enough that was your fault," I say. "And you were right to apologise for hurting his feelings. But not for intending to."  

"I didn't mean to upset him," she says. "It was just a one-liner." 

"I know it was," I say. "And it was funny. Not because he is a wanker, but because - if you want to get technical - of the bathos of the pithy pejorative juxtaposed with the orotund psychological pseudo-diagnosis."

"Exactly what I tried to tell him," she says.

"The thing is," I say, warming to my theme. "The crux of it is that what you're doing all this time is apologising for being you. And that's the last thing you should do. You're smart and funny and kind. Your first thought when someone's in trouble is what can you do to help. I think you're great. You just have to stop apologising."

"You're absolutely right,"she says, and I know what's coming next and that there's no force in the universe strong enough to stop it. 

"I'm sorry," she says.

Science of sorry
Men think they've done fewer things wrong, which is why women apologise more often.

Size matters

While we're on the subject of words you can't use any more, I heard one the other day in a context that was more offensive than the word.

"You can hire a midget to handcuff to the groom on a stag night now," Susan throws into the conversation in her living-room.

Carol laughs, but I don't think it's funny and say so. "a) that's terrible, b) the word 'midget' is offensive and c) how on earth would you know that?"

"My son's the best man for an old pal in two weeks' time," she says. "He's organising the stag night. Said he'd found this company online you could rent a midget from and a set of handcuffs."

"Is he going to?" Carol asks.

"I told him if he does I won't be at the wedding," Susan says.

"Being a short person handcuffed to a drunk in the company of other drunks who'd think that's funny sounds dangerous," I say.

"I think it might be," Susan says. "He says they've got rules."

"Like no throwing the midgets," Carol suggests.

"That's Rule 1," Susan says. "Then there's 2. 'Remember the word 'midget' may be deemed offensive by your dwarf',' 3. 'No spiking of drinks and 4. 'Remember your dwarf is a person and not an object.'"

"What a bizarre business," I say. 

"I know," Susan says.

"Speaking of short people, Ellen and I have split up," Carol says. 

"I don't see the connection," I say. "Ellen's average size."

"She is but the midget she caught me snogging wasn't."

Susan's mouth drops open.

"Can we agree on 'dwarf' or 'short person' please, for the rest of this far-fetched story," I say.

"It's not far-fetched," Carol says. "It's true. Except I wasn't snogging him. It was a misunderstanding. But she doesn't believe me and I'm dumped."

She looks genuinely upset, so I put her fertile imagination and love of storytelling to one side and park the doubts. "Tell us what happened," I say.

"Well we're out for the night in a gay bar and Ellen is at the other end of the room chatting to a cute chick with a star tattoo. I've got talking to this butch babe at the bar who is making me nervous. You know what happens when I get nervous."

"You do something stupid," Susan says.

"Always," Carol says

"What was it this time?" I ask.

"Well I reach to the side to put my drink down on what I think is a bar-stool beside me. I don't look because I want to keep both eyes on the risky chick."

"And?" I say.

"And it isn't a bar-stool," she says. "It's the bald head of a short person."

"Bloody hell!" Susan says. 

"Yeah," Carol says. "He goes 'Hey!' I bend down to apologise and the little bastard lobs the gob at me. Ellen looks across, sees us kissing, storms over and gives me hell. Big argument. I'm dumped."

"That's a sad story," Susan splutters, looking like the effort not to laugh is going to cause an injury.

"It's not funny," Carol says. 

"No it's not," I say seriously, and stand up. "Can I get you a drink, ladies?"

"Lager for me," Susan says.

"Same for you Carol, or are you moving on to shorts now?" I say, smartly sidestepping the cushion she throws at me.

Staying in

Carol is my favourite lesbian. She came out to me last Christmas, when we sat up all night chatting.

"I've always had stronger feelings for women than men," she told me. "It's taken me nearly 30 years to realise what that meant. Also I feel like a man in a woman's body."

"You look like a woman in a woman's body," I say. "You're not exactly feminine but you are lovely."

She stares at me. "Are you coming on to someone who's just said she might be coming out?" she says. "What kind of idiot does that?"

"I was just trying to be nice to you," I say.

"Sorry," she says. "I'm a bit stressed. I don't know what to do. It's a big step. My mum will be disappointed. Having kids will be harder."

I'm not sure how it took me all night, but I said she had to do what was right for her. Not her mum or anybody else. I guess a lot of the chat was about making the right noises to support a decision she had made already.

"Thanks for listening," she tells me, as the morning light filters through the green living-room curtains. "Sorry I kept you out of bed."

"You say 'sorry' more than anyone I know," I tell her. "Being openly lesbian in a small town will be hard enough. Stop apologising. Get assertive."  

"Do you know why I decided to come out to you?" she says, giving me a big cuddle.

"Was it my fatherly warmth, sympathetic eyes and wisdom beyond my years?" I ask.

"No, it was because every other bugger had gone to bed," she says. "And I needed to tell somebody before I burst. It was you or the guy behind the couch, who threw up earlier in the spider plant."

I lean back and look down. "But he's unconscious and encrusted in vomit."

"I know," she says. "It's why I talked to you."

"That's a bit disappointing," I say.

"Sorry," she says.