When I was younger I decided that one of the requirements of me falling in love with a man would be that he would have to spoil me rotten. It’s probably worth noting that at this tender age spoiling me rotten meant allowing me to eat all the sweets I could and letting me go to bed whenever I wanted. Back then I was a soft-touch, a bit on the easy side.
My idea of being spoilt rotten evolved a little in my teen years. It stopped being as simple as never-arriving bedtimes and rivers of sweets. It now included clothes, shoes, handbags, manicures, pedicures and a massage here and there. Oh the list goes on and on. I became insatiable. That’s a fairly melodramatic line. So I didn’t become insatiable.
I eventually realized that my idea of being spoilt was a little on the materialistic side. Okay a lot on the materialistic side. I realised, after an incident, that straight men, generally, don’t have an eye for handbags and shoes.
My idea of being spoilt rotten had to grow-up and in the end, miraculously, it did.
I now consider myself spoilt rotten when the person who has looked after me all weekend, while I lay dead and dying, arrives with flowers, wraps me in their arms, looks deep into my eyes and says I love you. I love you even though you drooled on my pillows and your congested snores made it impossible for me to fall asleep.