Having finished Parsons, I am, naturally, listening to “The Best Sixties Love Album… Ever!” (I hate those titles). As Linda said, the last time I visited, “Is it any wonder we’re completely hopeless at this dating thing?” It isn’t. This is the stuff we listen to and believe in. This is what we want it to be like (I believe we had “When I Fall in Love” coming from the speakers at that point), and real life is bound to seem a bit tame in comparison.
‘(…) She could handle things the way they were. But for some reason, I couldn’t.’
‘Because you’re a romantic, Harry,’ Eamon said. ‘Because you believe in all the old songs. And the old songs don’t prepare you for real life. They make you allergic to real life.’
‘What’s wrong with the old songs? At least nobody thinks it’s clever to be a bitch and a lover in the old songs.’
‘You’re in love with love, Harry. You’re in love with the idea of love. (…)’
That’s it, isn’t it. In love with love. But then, as Harry realises, and I have known all along – or at least believed all along and will continue to believe:
And I knew that Eamon was wrong. If you are always craving, always wanting, never satisfied, never happy with what you’ve got, you end up even more lost and lonely than you do if you are some poor sap like me who believes that all the old songs were written about just one girl.
I want the stars and the fireworks and the “where did the orchestra come from”. And if it can’t be like that, then sod it, I don’t want it at all. But then, of course, I grew up listening to Fairground Attraction. So what do I know?
Voice on the stereo: whatsisface singing How Do You Do What You Do To Me?