No one has ever comforted me. That’s hyperbole, but seriously: How often do I cry in another’s loving arms? The ratio of tears I’ve shed by myself to tears I’ve shed in another’s arms must be 100 to 1. Maybe a 1000 to 1.
And that’s not right.
Have I ever cried in my in my mother’s arms? In my father’s arms? In a sister’s arms? No. What about in Carla’s arms? Very rarely, if ever. When I think of how I dealt with major decisions that came with regret—the decision to break things off with Val, say, or the decision to close the door to West Arête—did anyone comfort me? No: Advised me, yes, but comforted me, no. I often think when talking serious personal items with other men (usually on walks): Unlike this bloke here, I never need consolation.
But it’s not true.