Scuse me, love, can I 'ave a word?

When - for whatever reason - you don't write a lot of blog entries, there build up many layers of Things I Was Going To Say in your mind. It's virtual archaeology in there. And as the weeks progress, the earliest Was Going To Say's become fainter and less retrievable. Just a sense remains that there was that something you intended to write about, had you only had the time/ energy/application. I can say at this moment that there are at least six strata, and can remember the content of the top two or three. And there simply isn't the urgency any more to spell them out. Their moment has passed. Which is unfortunate, because at the time they would have been the Finest Blog Entry You Have Ever Read. And you'll just have to take my word for that.

All of which leaves the one that burst through. This little topic has managed to commit me to the keyboard, on account of listening again to a superb song by The Beat (The English Beat in The States - but they're just wrong, because their American The Beat doesn't count). Too Nice To Talk To was a single for the band 33 years ago (yes, indeed, we are all old). It recounted, articulately and movingly as ever in lyrics by Dave Wakeling, unrequited love-lust. However, like so much good (concept warning!) art, its meanings are various. So, on the surface we're looking at a boy bemoaning his lack of success when it comes to connecting with the object of his desire (presumably at a nightclub or party); but so many of the lines cut far deeper. We have the lost opportunities; the temperamental inability to act decisively (The Prince of Denmark springs to mind); the simple twists of fate (Thomas Hardy springs to mind); the self-loathing and how that feeling might be transferred ("my heart is retarded", but "your emotions so guarded", so it could well be your fault after all).

That last example touches on the shadowy realm of Healthy Relating, and the problems intrinsic to interaction in general. Nevermind those endless plains of thwarted opportunity and loneliness: if you finally do get to connect with another soul, you're far from out of the woods. Bin that can and open another. Mmm, juicy worms. Communication with your beloved is dotted with existential potholes, and can be just as difficult as making that leap to talk to the person you've only ever worshipped from afar. Can one ever properly connect with another? Where does deep connection become gooey with co-dependency? Where do you build the fences, and how high should should they be? Can I ever know that what I say is received, processed and understood the way I meant it? And so on and so forth into the multi-million dollar world of the Relating Industry.

I still look back upon my fallow emotional years as the wasted ones, and those spent with the former potential ex-Mrs Cole's (erm, girlfriends would probably have sufficed) as something else. Often far from great years; some dreadful times. But never wasted. And not from a "Whatever doesn't kill you..." perspective, either. I suppose it's more that, however rocky and maddening and frustrating and incomplete the connections could be, I'd had a go. I'd done something human. I'd discovered she actually wasn't too nice to talk to after all. Nobody is.