Bob Franklin, Northcote & desire addiction

Headed into the smoke last night to finally catch some Comedy Festival action. As always at this time of year the place was chockablock. While I waited I spotted yet another woman I had once gone out with. I backed into the shadows before she saw me, thinking you've lived too long in the one place when you keep bumping into ex-girlfriends – or had too many ex-girlfriends.

Anyway the yoga teacher arrived, we had a drink and then popped into the Town Hall to see Bob Franklin do his much lauded schtick.

I love Bob Franklin. Love that dry, deadpan humour and sense of the utter ridiculous. He may be a pom, but he's been out here long enough now to be one of the greats I think, a much respected and occasionally revered member of the comedy fraternity.

In this show he channelled an old English actor regaling us in his 'one man show' with tales of his career, most of which are beautiful nonsense, and occasionally borderline defamatory – though I'm sure Bert Newton doesn't mind being accused of being a mass murderer of drifters anymore than Kate Ritchie does being alleged as a coke fiend. It was a great stuff in a small room with an appreciative crowd well represented with people from Northcote.

That seemed a theme for the night – lot's of Northcote people. Of course I don't know if they really are from Northcote, but they had that look – alternative, grungily civilised, wearing duffel coats and quirky glasses, with back gardens full of home grown vegies and definite views on feminism, music and border protection. And, going by last nights experience, comedy.

There were a few more in Hairy Little Sista, where we went for a meal after the show. I'm sympathetic to Northcoters, though we have a different aesthetic. I don't know where I fit in, but it's somewhere more sensual and stylish. Somehow that became much of what was a surprisingly interesting post-show conversation over eggplant chips, saltimbocca and churros.

The yoga teacher and I have been ring-a-ring-a-rosy for a while now. We're friends, though it's hard to categorise our relationship beyond that except to say she is what I think of one of my 'spares' – spares being one of my reasonably numerous female friends I'll go out with occasionally for a drink, a meal, the odd show, etc. Last night she wanted to talk about relationships, a popular topic amongst many women.

I won't go through the ins and outs of our conversation except to say by nights end she had suggested I come to an arrangement with some suitable woman to have my babies; and that she was open to the friends with benefits concept (which I'm not – too formulaic for me).

The other thing was a minor insight that has come to me much too late. Our conversation was frank and honest throughout, and for one of the rare occasions I felt I could speak pretty openly. We discussed sex and one night stands and the difficulty of finding the right person. At one point I was explaining how much I still desired women on a raw, visceral level – and how I couldn't imagine losing that. We were talking about random sex when it occurred to me that what I really craved was that sense of desire. The sex is lovely, but uncoupled from the elements leading to it – the flirtation and seduction, the anticipation, the slow undressing – then it is merely mechanical. That's why booty calls and paid sex don't work. I'm addicted to desire.

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