My son is a mass of want.
A maestrom of need. He needs a new pair of football boots. He needs
cycling shoes. Cycling shoes??? Really?
I bite my lip and resist the urge to say that, in my day, one had a pair
of plimsolls and that was it – none of this ‘trainers for this, trainers for
that’ malarkey. To be fair, he buys his
own stuff but still.
‘Can’t you wait?’ I ask.
‘No. I want them now,’
he mutters, clicking ‘Next Day Delivery’ with glee.
I sigh. Sixteen and
already the consumer world has its teeth in his throat. When I ask him what he wants to do, what
would make his soul sing, he says ‘Make money.’
I guess all teenagers rebel against their parents, huh?
There’s not much I really want – not material things
anyhow. But occasionally, just
occasionally something makes my fingers twitch with desire. And, well, you know this ‘thing’ I have for
snugly throws? For the last five years I
have been hankering after one particular one.
It’s wolf fur - fake of course – but just the softest, most beautiful
thing. Every so often, when I go away on
retreat, there is something soft and snugly on the bed and – childish, I know –
I snap a pic of myself embraced by softness.
But so far it hasn’t been exactly The One.
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| at Clinique La Prairie |
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| At Yobaba Lounge |
I’m a tactile beast – silky water, the hot kiss of fire, the
caress of satin and cashmere. Those are
the skin-songs that seduce my soul. But,
of all these, there is nothing that beats the feel of fur on skin. Maybe it’s atavism. Maybe my DNA remembers a time when I curled
up in caves, drenched in fur against winter’s sharp bite? Or maybe, who knows, I just yearn to get back
into my own skin?
A local shop has one (a brown wolfish snugly throw) and,
once a year, every time they have a sale, I sneak in and stroke it softly and
look hopefully at the price ticket. But it’s
still too much, even in the sale, and I can’t justify it, I just can’t - not
when we need logs or oil or whatever.
And so I walk away and I tell myself, hey, it’s just a thing. Who needs things? And we
don’t. But we do need feelings. We need sensuality. We need softness.
Anyhow. It was my birthday
the other day and yesterday this parcel arrived. A big fat squishy parcel. And – yes - you guessed it…there it was. My wolf.
My soft, soft wolfskin. My mouth
fell open, not in a perfect O but in a sort of slack-jawed village idiot
way.
‘Oh. My. God.’
‘What is it?’ said Adrian.
‘Is it something for James?’
‘No, it’s for me,’ I replied.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Who’s
it from?’ Peering over my shoulder at the label.
‘It’s from Sandie,’ I said, pulling it out, rubbing it
against my nose, against my cheek, wrapping it around my shoulders.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s a snugly throw.
THE snugly throw,’ I said, not quite sure whether to burst into a grin
or into tears. You see, it’s a bit of a
symbol, this. A bit emotional.
‘Well, it will keep you warm,’ he said. ‘No need for more logs.’
‘Indeed,’ I said.
And, last night, I curled up on the sofa in front of the
dead fire and wrapped it around me and felt…almost safe. The cave curled around me and, in comforting
warmth, there was no need for words. Just
feelings.
And it occurred to me, embraced in the sweet softness, that
waiting can be good. How much more does one
appreciate something that doesn’t come easily, that can’t come with a click,
that doesn’t offer instant, greedy gratification?
