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MATT HARVEY - resident of Totnes, writer of sharply witty poetry and prose, performer on the alternative circuit, radio 4 broadcaster, co-author of the captions in Stone's Glastonbury book... and new Connect columnist. Here's Matt's - The Hug
THE HUG
MY first floor flat is directly opposite a vegetarian restaurant, Willow, which serves fine food all year round. What follows is a true story and happened just the other day.
I was walking past Willow, up to the post office, when I glanced in and there by the window table I saw two men, hugging. They were both swarthy, with thick, dark designer stubble on cheek and neck. One had a ponytail. One had a beret lying beside him on the table like a floppy dog-bowl. Both wore colourful baggy trousers. I thought: Hmmm, two men having a hug. Then I carried on to the Post Office.
I did my business at the Post Office and came back the same way. They were still there - clasped together, eyes closed. I thought: Hmmm, long hug. And I carried on down to the bank.
I was a good 10 minutes at the bank, then I wandered back up town. In the window of Willow the two men were still hugging. They hadn't moved. I began to feel a bit uncomfortable. I thought: What's going on here? Was one of them deeply upset; or both of them? Were both of them afraid to break the hug for fear of seeming to have a fear of intimacy? Could it be a sponsored hug for charity? There was no way of knowing, so I went upstairs to my flat.
I pottered about a bit, watered some plants, did a bit of tai-chi, a bit of ty-ping, and tried not to think about the hug. But a glance out of the window saw them still there. Same men. Same hug. I can't explain it, but hysteria began to well up in me. I began to panic. I phoned my friend, Chris.
I said: "Chris, there are two men in the window of Willow restaurant, hugging." He said: "So?" I said: "They're swarthy, they're wearing colourful baggy trousers, one of them's got a ponytail." He said: "So?" I said: "They've been there for over 25 minutes." He said: "Hmmm." I said: "I don't know what to do Chris, it's been over 25 minutes since I first saw them." "I see." "What am I going to do, Chris?" He said: "Matt." I said: "Chris," He said: "Matt, it's their hug." "It's their hug - but it's your fear." "My fear." He said: "Face your fear, Matt." "How, Chris?" "Move towards it. I want you to go down to Willow and face your fear. You can do it." I said: "Thanks. I can do it." And I did.
I went down to Willow to face my fear and discovered I wasn't the only one affected by the hug. Some people were dropping coins into the beret as they went by, treating it as a form of indoor busking. Others were making complaints: "We're not happy with the hug in the window. This is a vegetarian restaurant and it's a very meaty hug. We're not comfortable."
But the management were firm that their policy was to support same-sex hugs with no time limit - and if customers weren't happy with men hugging perhaps they shouldn't be in a vegetarian restaurant in Totnes. Others, disconcerted by the hug, had formed a small self-help group in a room at the back.
We sat in a circle and shared feelings that the hug was bringing up. I spoke frankly of my fear and felt accepted by the group. Another man shared how hard it was for him because his father had only ever shown affection to him when they were underwater. I thought: This is valuable and instructive, but has anyone asked the huggers how they feel? My fear was giving way to curiosity and I had an urgent desire to know what was going on for the two huggers.
Rolling all my courage into a ball I approached them, coughed sensitively, and asked: "Excuse me, is everything okay?" The one with the ponytail opened his eyes. and they met mine. I saw gratitude, exhaustion. His mouth moved and I lip-read, rather than heard, the word: "Help." An urgent, whispered exchange followed, and all became apparent: They had become stuck together, but not for charity, or fear of showing fear of intimacy. Their hug was so snug, their stubble so dense, the follicle spacing ratios on their face so exactly matched, they'd become velcro'd together. We couldn't separate them immediately, or one of them would literally have lost face.
Using a pipette filled with olive oil we dripped drops down between them, let the seeping oil soften the tangled fuzz, then gently, tenderly prised them apart. It was a poignant moment.
For me the whole experience had been profoundly moving. I had faced a fear whose source remains mysterious; I had shared my pain with strangers and had asked, in my own way, the burning question, "What ails thee?" Not of a wounded king but of two fellow knights-errant. And more was to come: As I wandered home in a grateful, heightened state, I was vouchsafed on the way an awesome vision of Araldite, god of male bonding.
Matt Harvey
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