There are quite a few sounds that have defined today so far: An alarm going off at stupid o’clock, train annoucements you can never quite hear properly, the rattle of the lukewarm coffee trolley being pushed down the aisles. And then, of course just as I was half dozing off, I got a ping notification from one of the online groups where I admin:
“I still LOVE you! Every time I see your pic my heart jumps… ok maybe it wasn’t JUST my heart jumping!”
Ah yes. Romance. Poetry. Cardiology.
This particular gentleman, previously unknown to me, felt compelled to share that his internal organs were staging a small trampoline display in response to my profile picture.
I do worry when someone is apparently so entranced by a non curated, fully clothed pic; sudden unexplained jumping should be monitored: it could be arrhythmia or a poltergeist. My reply was measured, public spirited and, so far has kept him quiet:
“Bit dramatic for someone reacting to a profile pic, isn’t it? If things are randomly jumping, you probably need to get that checked in case it’s poltergeist activity.”
Because if you cannot bring light paranormal diagnostics into an unsolicited DM from some thirsty Murrican, where’s the fun?
There is something deeply charming about the confidence required to open with “I still LOVE you!” to someone you have never met. It is the emotional equivalent of proposing in the queue at the supermarket. No context. No history. Just vibes and unchecked optimism – dream on Chuck…
Meanwhile back in the real world, I am on a train rolling north towards Edinburgh, heading to watch the mates play and to soak up the particular atmosphere that only rugby and questionable alcohol induced singing can provide. Round four energy is always slightly edgy. By now everyone is an expert and has opinions on referees. By tonight, a few will have lost a bet and be a few pints worse for the day.
The beauty of the Six Nations Championship is that it neither does “subtle”nor half jump. It commits. If that Septic Tank had channelled even ten percent of that into something resembling wit, we might have had a banter. Instead, his heart and possibly other body components jumping require either beta blockers or a springling of holy water .
There is a lesson in that somewhere. If you are going to leap, leap properly. Do not shuffle into someone’s inbox clutching a vague organ-based metaphor and hope for applause and a ticket to the post match dinner.
I’m hoping to do some jumping this weekend; a last minute try in the corner to win a bonus point… which would then make us tournament winners. But let’s not go there – things can go awry big time. And as I was saying in a break out room on Wednesday, everyone ups their game when they play against us. I also remember the lads recounting stories of “unforeseen circumstances” that have happened in the past – tactics deployed to try and derail them as a team pre-match…
My besties, meanwhile, are in Rome, living their best espresso-fuelled lives and preparing to watch their own slice of round four drama unfold. Apparently it’s going to be 19C for them today – while I will no doubt be navigating wind and rain, but my heart warmed by the joy of hanging with a bunch of Frenchies in the pre-match build up.
Rugby weekends have a way of clarifying priorities. You are either in the stands shouting yourself hoarse, on a train laughing at nonsense messages, or in Rome pretending you have always understood Italian refereeing decisions (hopefully the weather will not be a repeat of Scotland’s opening match). What you are hopefully not doing is clutching your chest because someone has a picture of their face on their profile…
So here’s to round four. To big tackles, bigger opinions and the annual national tradition of acting personally affronted by a referee’s decision on a forward pass. Here’s to friends in Rome, Pooh Bear in Edinburgh and the joy of a Saturday that does not require paranormal investigation.
And to the man whose heart apparently vaults at the sight of my photograph, I genuinely wish him well. May his jumps be medically supervised and his metaphors workshopped.
Allez Les Bleus !!
