Phoned my father this afternoon. As one does. Unless you are one of my sisters in which case you won’t. In-joke. Snarky. Forget it.
My father is a noisy person. I keep the receiver well away from my ear. This afternoon it got so bad my mother intervened to tell him he could be heard half way down the road. He did close the window.
Anyway, him never one to be held on a leash mashing you into a pulp, two more pronouncements were made on me (notwithstanding that – as usual and by his own confession – he enjoyed our conversation): In his opinion I am supremely arrogant, on top of which, apparently, I divert any subject from the theme back to the person.
Yes. So? Whatever.
I am good at letting people run into open doors. So I conceded that I am indeed arrogant. With good reason. Arrogance is the intellectual equivalent of sartorial elegance. Keep it understated.
As to my, apparently, turning the abstract to the more personal: Try it sometime. Makes for so much more intimacy. And friendship.
Sweethearts, I need your help, comfort, words of wisdom. I mean it.
I am five minutes, a stone throw away throwing a blast at someone’s life. I won’t do it. But am sorely tempted as that person destroyed several years of my happiness. Maliciously. Vindictively. With not a shred of regret, an apology. The reason I am not going to repay in kind are twofold. Firstly because once upon a time I loved that person, secondly because I’d never forgive myself if I stooped to her level.
And yet, and yet. If I could wipe that self satisfied smile off her face for five minutes, make her feel – for just five minutes – the utter misery and humiliation she put me through. I won’t. But I wish I would. Still, unfair fight. I suppose. As she has always maintained: She wouldn’t wish to cross swords with me. Which is, no doubt, why she stuck the knife into my back. With repercussions her imagination does not stretch to.
In the aftermath of that disaster I do empathize with those who seek revenge. Yet, what’s the point? What’s the fucking point? What, other than a short lived moment of satisfaction, do you get out of paying back in kind? Nothing. That’s what. Or more despair. I keep reminding myself: The damage is done, there is no rewinding of clocks and revenge will not bring back what once was.
Devastated, and disgusted, yours,
I like descriptive language. Language that conjures up an image in your mind.
Thus I have just been reminded of “Kummerspeck” which the author of the article correctly translates as “grief bacon”. For those of you either dim or preoccupied with other things: Grief bacon is when you eat BEYOND HUNGER because something is eating away at you, like grief.
So you are unhappy, you eat. Which means that an awful lot of people in this world (no, not the starving – they don’t have the means to drown their grief in a bacon sandwich) must be unhappy. Forget the BM index. Measure your unhappiness in wobble. Don’t you dare: I have already patented this amazing piece of intellectual property in copyright. All I now need to do is write it all down and get it on the market.
My father once remarked (and yes, I do know I have mentioned it before) that if I, his daughter, were driving down the motorway and the radio would announce that there is a ghost driver coming their way I’d think to myself: “What do they mean, ONE? Thousands.” I took it (not) hard. Though as character assessments go it was on the harsh side. Still, being my parents’ daughter I am thick skinned. I smiled to myself – and it’s true. Going against the trend.
Going against a trend. Doesn’t make you popular on its own. You have to charm people in other ways rather than just contradicting perceived wisdom.
Yes, so in short, when I have ‘Kummer’ (grief – even lightweight one) I lose all appetite. The last thing I need when gnawing away at a piece of shit fate has buried for lean times is food. Stomach shuts down. Most effectively. I can barely eat one of my beloved apples.
Do you know what a syllogism is? All cows are animals. Not all animals are cows.
So just because I am slender does not mean … Don’t worry, I have lost my own line of reasoning in the course of this meandering … not least slightly distracted by the remnants of Big Bertha having arrived at the South Coast: Hale bashing against the window. Thunder in the middle distance.
As ‘addictions’ go mine is not poisoning my body, only my mind. This is the fourth summer I have gone without a garden. Now I can’t watch a garden programme or read so much as a feature on anything grown outdoors without tears welling up. At least it gives me a pointer of what is missing in my life.
Many many years ago my mother sent me a rather funny article on why gardeners are a miserable lot. And it’s true. We battle. Not least when we grow our own food. Then it becomes serious. Also one does want to see a reward for effort. One radish will do. Two will make your heart sing.
Thinking back my life has been defined by soil and gardening. My first memory being my grandfather putting down some sunflower seeds with me. They grew – a bit like the Angel – so tall they were towering over me. Miracle. And then my father digging over my first own little plot underneath my beloved apple tree. My father is a meticulous man. So all the drills into which I then distributed seed were perfectly parallel. He advised me to have one useful side (vegetables and herbs which I sold to my mother at the kitchen window) and one playful side (flowers) on the other – which I did NOT sell to my mother, just gave them to her. Yes, little paradise.
And paradise continued in many shapes and sizes till a few years ago. Never mind. Better to have had a past paradise than one in an uncertain future.
My brother-in-law once asked me where I’d see myself in advancing years. Guess what: Yes, with garden. The devil is not in the detail as the saying goes. The devil is in implementing that which you desire.
Thank you for being slightly bored with my above self pity. No good to weed where one can plant.
I need to “grow up”. Because what I gather from grown ups that – once you ARE grown up – you become cynical, tough skinned and generally pretend to not give a toss about kicking others in the shin.
Count me out.
I will concede that life is shit at times. As are people. But please please please do not try to rob me of my belief in, well, I don’t know: Whatever is good in the world. Even if everyone around you is pissing in the wind. Which reminds me of, say, latrines. Or worse. Here is one for you, Friko: Plumpsklo. Oh my god. Those were the days. At least one could have a good honest shit without flushing the loo as if it had never happened.
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.