SAT on the aeroplane behind “Frank” and his friend “Old Boy” on the way to Turkey last week got me thinking.
When do we become self aware? Or, rather, when do we stop again?
One of my favourite things is to see little’uns dancing to the buskers in town.
Like tiny Thunderbird puppets with strings powered by song.
But a lack of self awareness also has that other side...
You probably know what I mean.
We all have a older relative who’ll ask loudly “what does she look like?” leaving you to hiss “shhh” and wish the ground would swallow you up.
On this scale – I’d like to think I care/am aware just the right amount.
I’ll do a head bob or silly walk if the mood, or music, strikes me - usually, it has to be said, to make my boyfriend laugh or my little sister embarrassed.
Which are good enough reasons right?
I mean I’m past the point of poking a mirror trying to work out how the reflection person is copying me.
But most the time I make sure my top is toothpaste free.
I seem to be stuck in the middle.
Thunderbirds to the left of me, loudmouths to the right.
Which I’m quite happy about that.
Unless I am on a three-hour flight and Old Boy is sure he gave the air hostess £20 for his fags and gin.
At one point I thought they were going to make us all vote on it – perhaps with a show of chairs in the upright position.
Of course, of all the seats in all the plane the double act ended up sitting behind us for the flight home a week later too.
Turns out they didn’t think much of the “foreign” food. The weather. The people.
Which could explain why they moaned so loudly when it can to time to disembark.
Their shouts of “quick march” didn’t seem to work – strangely.