I have been exposed to images of Kim Kardashian’s body parts so often I feel I know her backside better than my own.
Days ago she was taking naked selfies of herself in an effort to prove to the public that she really is pregnant and not using a surrogate.
I admit to having a good old gander at her Zeppelin-sized behind in all its natural glory. Kim has one huge caboose, though not as big as the backside that was shoved in my face last week!
The said backside’s owner was clearly no stranger to a sausage supper and no matter what way I moved my head, he moved his gargantuan bottom in tandem. It was like being lap danced by a space hopper!
Incidentally, I wasn’t at a raucous hen party, I was trying to watch my young son perform in a production of the musical Grease.
Junior joined a theatrical summer school. By the day of the performance he was word perfect. Decked in his T-bird outfit I couldn’t wait to see him perform.
Unfortunately, I saw little of the production’s beginning but lots of the wobbly bottom of the man sitting in front of me. His backside will be indelibly imprinted in my mind for ever more.
The Grease production was like being at some sort of videoing convention. As soon as the kids entered the stage, arms shot up out of the audience, all holding cameras, as parents videoed their children.
Many parents didn’t give a hoot if their arm was blocking anyone’s view. The man in front of me stood up and began filming and stayed that way throughout the show, despite there being rows of people behind him.
The woman in front of him also arose. She was holding up an iPad in a colourful bulky cover which totally obscured the glimpse I was getting of my son on the occasions I was able to unsynchronize movement of my head from Mr Blobby’s backside.
I was getting really annoyed with this man’s selfish antics. I did lots of disapproving huffing and puffing, but didn’t actually have the courage to ask him to sit down (I can’t help it, I’m passive aggressive!)
In the end I left my seat and stood at the back of the hall, other parents joined me, thankfully they too were non film-takers. We proudly drank in our kid’s talent.
We danced and sang along with the music, thoroughly enjoying the moment.
We didn’t miss out on any of the fun by faffing about with a phone trying to be Steven Spielberg, taking films that will probably never be looked at again.
Later, I saved some photos from the theatre school’s website on to my computer. They were taken by a professional photographer, and that will serve me nicely as a memento, though should I feel the need to recreate the moment it’s all there in my mind.
Mobile phones and iPads can be a nuisance at events. I’m not one for going back and watching film footage. Perhaps it’s because I grew up in an era where mobiles didn’t exist. Of course I understand parents wanting to have a mementos of a special day; it’s the inconsiderate people that stick their arms up, or their backsides in your face, not giving a thought for those behind them I take issue with. I’m not one of life’s film-takers. I just like being there, in the moment, drinking in the atmosphere and burning the images to the memory card in my mind.
It seems everything must be caught on film these days. Part of me resents this era’s love of taking every image captive in time. A lot of the enjoyment is lost in occasions when people are frantically scrambling to film things.
It’s as though they are trying to drag the present into the future, concentrating on seeing it all later, when the atmosphere and the reality of the moment has gone.
When growing up, none of my childhood concerts or school events were photographed or filmed, it wasn’t the done thing then. I like that those moments were not captured forever.
Most of my history is only viewable in my mind’s eye and in the significant others’ memories who were part of it. That makes me regard my deliciously secret, exclusive mental photographs as exceptionally special, though that’s something that would be hard to explain to those who are a product of this Kardashian-backside-flashing age of no selfie-control.