A Christmas conversion

In the days BMS*, I had a lovely boyfriend. Not as wonderful as Mr S, of course, but he was indeed lovely. He was fun, funny, romantic, extremely caring, intelligent, a good dresser and drove at thrilling (yet dangerous – not the pace you would want the father of your future children to drive at!) speeds. I find myself thinking of him whenever I look up at the sky and see clouds blown along by the wind.

Coming from Scotland, noticing clouds moving in the sky was not something I’d ever paid attention to, just like water coming from a tap. I never played games of looking for faces in clouds, or animals, because quite frankly, I hated the grey sun obscuring, rain producing things.

Adam, let’s call him that, saw clouds in a different light. He thought they were beautiful and was determined to show me. I, in the throws of new love, removed my sceptisism long enough to be enlightened one Christmas Day. We were at a deserted beach on the edge of the desert, driftwood was strewn across the sand after the previous night’s storm and spots of rain were pricking my exposed face and hands. While time stood still, we lay against a large log wrapped up in each other, in our warm clothes and under a blanket, just looking up, up, up.

I have no idea what it was about that day converted me. Absolutely none. Fluffy clouds, fat water producing clouds, rolling clouds, they all passed by and somehow their beauty pierced a small corner of my soul. Adam was so enthralled by them, so excited by them and entirely caught up in making sure I shared the understanding of their beauty to the same extent as him, that I did. I really did.

And when I look up at them today, years later, on another continent, I smile and know that I still do.

Adam’s downfall, in case you’re wondering, was that he was a smoker. I’m not sure there’s any cigarette marketer in the world who can convince me that kissing an ashtray tastes good, no matter how wonderful its owner (or how many times he brushes his teeth)!

*BMS = before Mr S

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