Bad Medicine

Last night's Grand Bath Plan fell by the wayside when, just after 3 pm, I became stressed and irritable and Mr Bo offered me an escape route.

"I need a pint after work, fancy it?"

"Yes please!"

Three drinks and a lifetime of discussion with Mr Bo and Intellectual Crush later and I skipped gaily home to the family fold a much happier Wondy. It's good to talk. Or in the case of these two, I prefer to just sit back and listen. That may sound submissive, but then you've never sat down with these two brains and listened to them bounce philosophy and religion and literature off each other.

I like to think I can hold my own, but I'm bad at remembering names and dates and I lack confidence if someone is actually listening to me. In fact the only thing I am really sure on is Film and even my knowledge is put to shame by Intellectual.

Isn't it odd that while most other people find that their insecurities lie in their looks, mine lie mostly in my brain. I worry all the time that I am not good enough and clever enough to keep up with other people. I know that in itself, that is pretty dumb, but you can't help how you're made.

Deep down I know that you can't really measure intelligence, that street smarts and life experience can make you just as wise as the greatest living Philosophers, that Mathematical geniuses might have their trigonometry down to a fine art, but they might know nothing about paying the bills, living life or actual Fine Art.

That isn't to say, for the record, that I don't also feel bad about the way I look most of the time - but I don't live life as a very very pretty girl so I feel I have to invest time and effort into making the inside a better place. Cliché indeed, but all looks fade eventually, I figure if the inside is attractive, then the rest should follow.