Jack that’s-not-his-real-name

I have a sad tale to relate.  I found Jack that’s-not-his-real-name.  And he’s still married.

So that’s that.  I had thought I was just having fun with this fantasy, but actually – ackshally – it was a shock.  I felt bereft, and I cried, yes I did.  I felt as though somebody had died.  I also felt so ridiculous for having carried a torch for so long for a man I didn’t even have one date with.   Barely a conversation.   Should at least have had a passionate affair to have warranted my remembering him for so long.


Ah well, clearly my Jack is somebody else.  I still have a sense of who he is.  Maybe I just want to keep a fantasy because I don’t really want the reality!  Do I want a partner for keeps?  I don’t know.  I find it hard to imagine what it’s like.    When I’m not doing the dumb romantic thing, creating a film script in my head.

I wonder if it’s even possible for me to let somebody get that close to me again.  Wonder if my fortress walls are stronger and more impossible to breach than I realise.

Well, Jack that’s-not-your-real-name, so long.  It’s been fun.  Or something.  I hope you’re happy.  And  I hope you remember me fondly.  Even a bit sadly.  A bit wishfully.  While you’re about it, downright regretfully.

I can’t help it.

I can always write that film script about it, of course, and create whatever ending I choose.   That will be satisfying.  Then at least I’d have gotten something out of my torch carrying.  Especially when it wins an Oscar or three or four.  Then I’ll tell the story of a man called Jack that-wasn’t-his-real-name as I collect my golden statue.

And he can see me on TV and think oh god what did I throw away?


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