LOVE IN A FACE PLANT: DRIVE-BY LOSERS July 1, 2009

As outlined in my previous post:

Face plant n. a serious fall which culminates in one landing on his/her face; the involuntary act of plant impersonation with one’s face as its roots; from the colloquial = ‘when trying harder does not make you a winner, but makes it funnier for others to watch you lose’.

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This particular episode occurred by no means near the beginning of her search, and it is impossible to say that it was nearer to the end, either.

Despite the fact that Toobaa’s front door was fitted with a camera which, when activated upon the Knights in Various Armour ringing the doorbell, would show in each room of the house who was at the front door, obviously including how they adjusted their clothes and if they muttered to one another unassumingly, she still preferred to get a pre-preview by peeking childishly through the window at the top-most room of the house.

For fear of being accused of hastiness, she wouldn’t admit that this trailer was where she pretty much made her preliminary assessment: who drove the car; who got out first; how many times did they drive up and down the road before identifying the correct number; did anybody assist the elder lady of the house out of the car; what was their expression upon first seeing her un-selfishly giant abode, etc, etc.

Anyway, on this particular day (the particular-ness of which hasn’t actually been outlined so, one day), having already seen pictures of a new collective from Kent and dramatised the compulsory (and somewhat genuine) reluctance, Toobaa awaited at her lookout point and, everything short of laying her hair out the window, Rapunzelled the time away.

So, she existed at the window for a quarter of an hour. Then she noticed the car. It slowed as it neared the top of the hill. Needless to mention, Toobaa had by now moved to a more discreet spy-point and even held her breath for good measure. Then, three wheatish-brown complexions peered from the windows of their blue car. Blue is the only description Toobaa was able to register before she saw, quite clearly, two of the three jaws drop, a self-conscious hand waving at the house and then at the driver (unconfirmed reports on which member of the family this was). Then there was a chortling engine sound and the car spluttered off down the other side of the hill.

It is said that Toobaa’s abode was perhaps too big for the Knight of Kent. Or maybe they were actually the royalty of a long lost empire that continues to exist under the English Channel and our home seemed to them a chunk of seaweed or a cracked sea-snail shell – of the two it cannot be said. What can be said with certainty, however, is that that is no way to behave. The misfortune of presuming the beautiful to be arrogant or air-headed; the ugly as incapable of passion or being loved; the poor as jealous and crafty and the rich of being miserly and haughty falls both ways. This is probably how we miss the precious, hidden gems we pray to find.