They say to glimpse a bride on her wedding day (by accident, not design) brings you luck.
Lucky me. There is a wonderful tiny flowershop in line of my desk’s vision. I looked up a few minutes ago – and there she was. Wonderful dress. Fifties’ style. Tiny waist. And how so very unusual – the bride picking up her own bouquet. Then she got back into her (white) taxi. Any minute now taking one of the biggest steps of adulthood. The only bigger one being that of becoming a parent.
Moving. I wish her luck.
That’s it, Sweethearts. A career change on the horizon. I have finally found my destination. Or is it destiny?
Yes, I will become a “taster”. For no lesser man than Putin. If he’ll have me. And he will.
For those of you who slept through your history lessons: A ‘taster’ tastes food before – paranoid for good reason – king, queen and other heads of either state or country put morsels into their mouths. Just in case. So if your taster keels over you’ll go hungry. As careers go you can’t beat it. Talk about third party liability insurance. Bumping up the premium.
Naturally, the whole idea is flawed. Even I, and I am not a chemist, could poison someone with several hours’ delay. Only arsenic and a mushroom I shan’t mention will make you die on the spot. My reasoning I hope will remind you, me and Putin that there are no guarantees in life.
Other than that I have gone off chicken.
Sweethearts, I am so excited (and yes, I do know there are many comments and posts of yours to be answered):
Just opened today’s post and what do you know: Dear dead dog in heaven, I have been summoned to do Jury Service in September. It’s going to be awful. That old black and white movie whatever it’s called will have nothing on me keeping everyone in suspense. Let’s hope it’s a shut and cut case.
Of even more interest, maybe, that I have a “Juror’s Number” and the letter is printed in pink. Why pink? The forerunner to a red letter? Blood? Don’t get started, Magpie. If I want a lecture on anything I’ll phone my father.
No idea why this just popped into my head:
Playing hide and seek with my siblings. It’s one of the more annoying bits of being older by a long shot. You are clever. You could hide anywhere. No one would find you. Bliss. However, you don’t want to disappoint the little blighters. So you make it easy for them. Not too easy. Give them the joy of the chase. But easy nevertheless.
And then my youngest sister broke my heart. Can’t remember how old she was. Maybe two or three. It was her turn to hide. Don’t ask. To this day I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Or both. I was counting, very very very slowly to give her time, down to ten. Then the three of us turned round … She stood in the middle of the lawn in full view, her eyes closed and had put – for good measure – her tiny hands over her eyes. Invisible to herself. We did a very good job pretending that it was truly hard to find her. Till we “found” her. Before she ran out of patience with us.
I am sure there is a lesson in there somewhere. If so I don’t know what it is.
It’s getting a little tiresome. For those of you who miss me and my comments desperately: I am stymied. It’s like sitting in a traffic jam on the M25 in hot weather without any water to drink. Next there will be steam coming out of the bonnet of your car.
Whilst able to access certain websites but NOT their comment boxes I am bombarded with messages to the effect of something to do with “security certificate”. They always want you to ‘click’. I am not doing that. I may be an idiot (I am) when it comes to things computers but even my alarm bells start ringing when asked to click here there and everywhere. I was tempted earlier this morning but had visions of the whole caboodle going up in smoke. A bit like that rather old detective series (can’t remember the name this minute) with Robert Vaughn. The team would get their mission via a phone box call and then be sizzled to a cinder (the message not the team). Yes, good old Robert Vaughn. Hope he is not dead yet. Seems en vogue these days: Dying.
Anyway, upshot being that I haven’t got to the bottom, never mind the top, of the problem. What makes life even more interesting – and I’d rather not think about it – that I have a deadline to meet later today (which, is no doubt, why – in a moment to deflect my anguish – I am writing a blog post rather than getting on with it) and if I don’t it’ll cost me big time (in Pounds Sterling that is). My computer playing a rather nasty game of hide and seek. The file has vanished. Never mind. Something will come to me. And I’ve still got about nine hours to reconstruct two weeks of hard work.
Still, at least Argentina was put in its place last night. Unpleasant team. Brazil must be jumping for joy at their rival’s defeat. As am I.
Considering that the American motto is to “stay positive” I can’t help getting miffed and wonder at how many times a sad, down in the mouth, little face shows on my computer screen. Assuring me that it can’t ‘load’ but would I like to wait, reload or kill myself now. Whatever. The last option is no option since I can’t leave the Angel with the mess of paperwork patiently waiting to be sorted out. The other day I came across most useful advice how to keep funeral costs down. In previous years I opted for a cardboard coffin. Now I find that a shroud will do. Also makes it easier for the worms to get inside your skull.
Yes, skull. Extraordinary piece of engineering to keep grey mass protected. If there is one thing I shall mourn (apart from missing my enjoyment of life) it’ll be my poor poor brain. It’s at bursting point as it is. And then? Then nothing. As a child I sometimes used to lie awake trying not to think about eternity. Or, worse, the universe/space going on and on. And even if there were boundaries to the universe what would lie behind the fence? No wonder my poor father sometimes got a little impatient. Yes, the wonder of childhood. When you think your parents have all the answers.
On a point of housekeeping: I am blocked. Can’t even access my email. Apparently there is someone out there fucking with me, my computers and both isps and everything else. I hope they’ll enjoy themselves. Assholes. What do you actually get out of it?
So, yes, not least you, Shackman, whilst I was able to read your last input I am not allowed to post a reply. If this shit doesn’t lift within the next few hours (my day has been crap enough already and it’s barely midday) I shall try and “share” my wisdom here – in response.
Sorry about the bad language. I know it’s not lady like. But then a lady is not always in the mood to be a lady. More is the pity.
Sweethearts, stand by to be blown away.
I have never had any ambition to publish a book. Why should I waste half my life for my readers to get to the end of my endeavours in, say, five hours flat? Which is why, and as an aside, Proust had it sussed. He stayed in bed, let his mother wait on him hand and foot. And to this day no one but no one I know (apart from myself) has ever made it to the end of his manifesto “In search of lost time”.
I am in search of lost time. In the woods. I may be a dreamer but I am not stupid. Those breadcrumbs to show me the way back out of the woods have now been blended into the Gazpacho Andaluz I am eating this minute.
Most of those of you who know me know that I HATE self help books. Which is why, no doubt and for my sins, I have just come up with the most amazing idea for the self help book of all times. It’ll be short. Because one doesn’t need that much help to scramble through the few years allocated to us.
Sometimes people will ask you how you are. The English do this habitually and how you are is of NO interest to them whatsoever. So you keep it short: “Fine, thank you”. Once we have established that we are all fine, social niceties over, you may proceed to weather.
My parents never ask me how I am. It’s an oddity which I do not wish to invest time examining why this is so. Most certainly not because of lack of interest on their part. More likely my forbidding character. When my dear sweet mother asked me, two days ago, I knew my father had put her up to it. Because he can’t bring himself to ask me himself. Strangely the phone line kept breaking.
Even I am hard pushed to describe one of the most delicious sensual experiences you may be lucky to encounter.
That of the ‘breeze’. No, dear sweet Americans, not air conditioning: The Breeze. As in open windows. Curtains gently moving.
I know I keep moaning about the ghastly shrills of seagulls in the morning but they are well made up for by that gentle fresh air keeping me afloat – all windows open. Living so close to the coast I have no idea what it’s like inland. Knowing England the air will be either stale, stagnant or so windy you have to hang onto your hat and roof tiles lest they fly off.