It must be said that I love attention. Adore it. A bit like the poor desperate sods on Big Brother all clamouring for the moment of glory, I too love it when I have the exclusive attention of everyone around me. ME, ME, ME!
You know that split second between gasping and having expectant faces turn to you to ask you what’s wrong? I love that moment. Just knowing that in the next few seconds you have the full undivided attention of listeners, ready to hear what you have to say, no matter how banal or stupid.
Forget inner beauty and other chat-show self-loving philosophies. I like the superficial coo-ing I get when I rock up to a seminar in a beautiful brand new skirt… the ensuing discussion about where said skirt was bought, how it "soooo compliments" new boots. Not that I’m a materialistic clothes whore (that’s another column for another day), I just like that brief spell of limelight.
Mind, none of that crass, shouty loud sort of attention seeking. Fluorescent coloured hair, multiple piercings, loud discussions about last night’s drunken escapades: none of that. The best kind of attention is the sort received subtly, so you’re not making it obvious that you’re looking for it or, when you’ve got it, that you’re rollicking around it in joyful, indulgent glee. Which is why quiet things like a gasp and a skirt do the trick beautifully.
There are people who will run away if they have to cry. I’ve never quite understood that, because I think there is something oddly satisfying about having an excuse to be slightly embarrassed while having lots of sympathy lavished on you at the same time. And anyway, running away just draws more attention to you, so might as well stay and accept the coddling.
There is always a girl bawling through teary eyes and smeared mascara in the girls’ bathroom in clubs and I’ve always wanted to be her. Just to get that awkward sort of attention where everyone else can’t help but stare, while all trying very hard to siddle past without noticing. Then it’s like you’re getting attention without overtly demanding that everyone else stop what they’re doing.
Forgive me. I was the fat kid at school, never ever cool enough for the pretty popular group who basked in the glorious attention of worshipping high-school wannabes. Humour me this little bit while I bask in the momentary sunny delusions of my own ego.
I like to think, at least, that I’m being honest and modest about it. And, at least I’m not in Big Brother.