7 Jun 07
By way of what may seem like a contradiction to the views expressed by myself in my blog entry of 31st May, I must confess that I like to watch people – I’m a people watcher – yet I do not like to be watched; I can therefore understand any aggravation that may be incited by my watchfulness. I hope, however, I may assure you that I am not one of those outdoor tradesmen who hang off scaffolding, slightly above street level, leering and whistling and offering lewd commentary upon every passing female in a short skirt. Nor am I the young, boisterous lad who, emboldened by the company of his “mates,” offers a score out of ten to every passing “totty.”
My observations are stealthy. At least that is my intention. And they have little or nothing to do with the “attractiveness” (by whatever measure one may consider) or indeed gender of the observees. Humanity, with its ancient genetic and cultural heritage, comprises such a vast and diverse assortment of traits, be they relating to race, physical stature or the nuances of individual personalities, that it is (in my humble opinion) endlessly fascinating to note and reflect upon an expressive wiggle of the hips, an exaggerated swinging of the arms and the near-infinite multiplicity of facial expressions which may flit across the visages of the jilted lover, the anxious student on the verge of his final exams, the proud mum-to-be or the city trader about to clinch that multi-million pound deal.
What are these people’s stories? What is the source of that limp? Why did she decide to wear that sparkly silver top or he the kilt and why, on this particular day in June, have those group of twenty-something men all got green hair?
These are the things of which stories are born, and, being a writer of stories, I feel it is my prerogative – my duty, even – to stare intently, as frequently as I can manage, from the fourth floor window of the office where I work, at the heaving throng below. I don’t think I am noticed… Do people bear any mind of a man staring out of a tinted window four floors above them? Ahh well, whatever. If I was ever called upon it, I could always feign a studious fascination for pigeons… 😉