Tonight, having decided I was ready for a jot of spontaneity, I demanded that my partner meet me at 10pm when he finished work, in order that we might go out for late-night dessert together. I felt fabulous for a brief moment, and then began to really indulge in the fantasy. I received a ‘yes’, it was allowed, I had put it out there and he had accepted my crazy notion. Alright then, well while we can do anything, why not make it exactly what I want. Banoffee waffle it was, at Zizzi‘s. My favourite. The gooey, fulfilling kind that actually had banana mashed into the mixture, topped with ice cream that had a dusting of little bits of vanilla pod throughout. And all that toffee sauce. The stuff that we were surely put on this earth for.
Off I strolled into the glorious evening with newfound love for grownup life and all the wonderful independence that comes with it, ready to surprise my love and own my city, knowing where I was going and taking what I wanted from it all, before – maybe choosing to have a drink, maybe not, what the hell, we’re young and frivolous – then walking home to bed, glowing with satisfaction.
And everything would have been so pink and happy, if only they still served it. Alas, there it was – gone. In its place (the waffle outshone a whole menu) was a paltry list of meats, salads and savoury-confused puddings. So we bandied about it for a good ten minutes, He decided he didn’t want to eat, which meant of course I couldn’t eat, so then he decided he would, and set out to choose again. Once settled and grumpy about it we mooched in, only to be told they were closed, forty-five minutes early.
We decanted to Café Rouge for a decidedly cordon bleu affair with some ice cream and a lot of lemon zest, but the night felt young to me once again, and I enjoyed the fantasy for a while longer, now even accompanied by some Woody Allen fan club jazz.
Looking out of the big high street windows across a cobbled square, I thought about how my ambitions might change under the imposition of a time limit. If I don’t sell my art within the next year, am I likely to give it all up and start again at something new? Or to settle with being a hobby artist, and take to it only as a yummy mummy might. Is that lifestyle an option, or do I have something real to say? Are the two things mutually exclusive?
I am waking up to a couple of ideas that shake the barley a bit.
#1: This might not go anywhere. The most driven of my collective is having strong doubts in our chosen path at the moment, and without her, I know it would be impossible. If any one of us were to quit, what it is now would end. Individually we have our talents and our passions, but combined they are different. We are capable of different things. We are making a brand for ourselves at the moment, and it’s something that I’ve been investing hope and energy into at the cost of putting the same focus on my own product. Will I only have to start completely anew and go through all this again, as myself?
#2: I am relying on people. I am holding the hands of my co-founders, maybe not taking enough initiative myself to drive the company forward. I think I am waiting for others to have ideas, and then just saying yes, and doing as I’m told. Perhaps not truly functioning how I should as the person who came up with this idea in the first place. It feels comfortable, but is becoming less so. Others aren’t satisfied in it, and that is what sends the wind through my feathers.
By way of maintaining a safety net, I desperately continue to write here, as myself more than anything. I strive to create my own brand, keep a ‘self’ separate, to have something definitive to hold on to.
- Banoffee Pie (rgrull.wordpress.com)