Nothing like a bit of introspection

Having joined two great friends for a lovely dinner last night, and a stimulating conversation about life, love and the world at large, we came to the same somewhat sad conclusión, that each one of us was a bubbling cauldron of hang-ups and emotional inadequacies, a little bit psychologically messy to some degree, in one way or another.  Two of us were British – women, and the other a chap from Argentina and from the off, we highlighted our cultural differences in handling emotional situations.  Happiness, sadness, disappointment, anger and the whole gaudy rainbow of sentiments in between.  But are we truly representative of our country’s stereoptypes or is that an easy excuse, a security blanket to grip on tightly to when we’re under some kind of pressure to express how we really feel?

Here I’m thinking exclusively of Britishness.  Bearing in mind the English language is full of drama and exaggeration, we are viewed, largely, as icy and distant.  It really upsets me when people say this about me, as I view myself as a prestty jovial, open book.  (Except when I am in a very bad mood for no good reason).  From my writing here, my Facebook page and Twitter, you can pretty much get a gist of who I am, frivolous, carefree, irreverent, I don’t profess to write work worthy of academic publication,  I write about being an auntie, gin, high heels, tits, bums, farts and willies (well, not farts actually, because I have never found and will never find, anything in the slightest bit funny about them).  I present in a Barbara Windsor sort of ‘ooooh, I say….**insert giggle here‘ way.

But is this really me?  Am I hiding behind a facade of silly life stories, packing up my true feelings tightly in a box (*wrapped in a pink ribbon of course), and stowing it away in a dark, dark place under the stairs, to be opened up on my death bed – maybe.

*Case in point, balance something slightly serious, with something really silly……..

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