Mais wee

I am fond of Gerard Depardieu (the actor) though, romantically speaking, he is not my type. Neither does it matter.

I am disappointed with him: If, as a grown man, you really ARE banned from going to the toilet – your bladder at bursting point – just as the plane turns a corner you do NOT relieve yourself – in full view of others – in the middle of the corridor. You go to the galley and draw the curtain. You know, that shows a little bit of initiative. Alternatively: Sit quietly – in your seat – use your jacket – even if a fully blown version of an Armany suit – and do your business in there. Surreptitiously as it were. Yes, your jacket will be drenched, yes, you will sit on a wet seat for the duration of the flight but at least you won’t have made a complete ass of yourself. You can always tip the stewardess and the cleaning stuff for their inconvenience later.

Reminds me of many years ago when Apple of my Eye and I had boarded plane only to be kept waiting on tarmac for take off for ages and ages and ages. Turned into a mild, nothing out of the ordinary, nightmare. Naturally, enter a young boy’s (say three or four year old) bladder. He had to go. That was all there was to it. Something had to give. And it wasn’t me. I rarely display, in public, utter disdain for arbitrary rules and regulations. But when I do – it sure works, most the time. We were not yet on a full roll on the run way when the stewardess blocked our way to the toilet with the immortal words: ” We CANNOT take the responsibility.” “No”, I said, “YOU can’t but I can. I am his mother”. She stepped aside. Oh, YES!

And since we are down piss and travel, and it is a deadly combo: Once the Angel and I heading down from England, caught in some traffic jam on a motorway in Belgium or Germany, with not one chance in hell for me to pull over, I handed him an empty (small) waterbottle: “Just do it.” He wasn’t convinced. I presented him with a choice and asked him to employ reason: Wet trousers or a full Evian recepticle? He trusted his mother and enjoyed a dry journey for the rest of it. By the way: Driving on high speed motorways for hours on end and bladders (including your own) are only for those with nerves of steel.

Good old memory lane,

U

Back to black

Before I try and climb Looney’s rope I will declare my hand:

I loathe blogs.

NO,  not yours. Mine. Such a ridiculous half way house between a PUBLIC confessionary and a diary. Always with the breaks on: You can’t spill ALL the beans, can you. Unless certifiable. So you spill some beans and ask yourself what the hell is the point. Other than getting some feedback from BHB, Magpie and Looney.  Those three are worth keeping this blog alive, if it kills me.

That I hate comment boxes on other people’s blogs even more than my own blog goes without saying.

Anyway, this minute’s gripe, and needs  to be vented before I think better: You know what I don’t like about life? What unsettles me more than any surprise or misery that can every befall me?

Yes, you got it in one: I’d be so much happier if I knew the hour/the day/the year. It’s  not funny. It’s not control freak. It’s wanting some peace of mind. Let’s say I knew I’d drop within the next 59 minutes (blod clot or some other sudden inconvenience) I’d tackle the remainder of my life differently than if,  say, being given one month to tidy my affairs. Or twenty years to meander around dreamily (whilst tidying my affairs). I don’t like uncertainty. And yes, I know it’s what has given us philosophy in its endless quest of finding out what life and its loyal friend, death, are about

All I want is an expiry date.

Is that so much to ask for? Go to your supermarket. Everything (even cans which last forever) are given a sell and a use by date. It’s only the human being left in the dark. With regards to the sensitivities of those who believe in God and an afterlife, I shall not be too harsh but seriously: Along with your birth certificate couldn’t you be given a pointer?

Back to black,

Ursula

Throw me rope

Since I am not afraid to come across as an idiot (we all have to start somewhere and idiots do have their place in society) here is a question which has been burning a hole into my inquiring mind for some time. Yes, the barnacle (http://www.looneyfundamentalist.blogspot.com). I would love to contribute something mildly intelligent or at least interesting on Looney’s blog but I CAN’T. Rarely am I lost for words; never mind him swimming with crocodiles or people drifting into his church half an hour late, I am at sea.

Maybe the good man himself will throw some Plato at me to help me through my difficulty. Which I wouldn’t put past him since his comments on other people’s blogs tend to cut through the crap. This is truly head scratching time. Has been for months.

I just can’t rev up the speed to break through the sound barrier required to fly into his comment box. Which, of course, he might be very happy about.

U

Hairy

This is platform U and may I make an announcement:

Grannymar has missed the train.

As clues go it’s not cryptic. Don’t worry, Grannymar. Ramana hasn’t even found the station yet. Just stay where you are. In the meantime please do keep your ever growing playground in check, make sure they all stand in line and have a clean handkerchief at all times. Now, children, follow the leader. Because, if you don’t, you will never ever be spoken to again. Your existence will not be acknowledged. Because Grannymar is kind and just, sweet and full of herself and forgiveness. It’s what keeps her so slim. And her comments so short. And vacuous. Indeed, maybe unnoticed by Ramana who has his own problems, she is now beginning to repeat herself.

So remember: KISS (keep it simple stupids) when it comes to GM and you’ll be just fine. Having said that I do miss Grannymar’s needle classes  (I do; for god’s sake can I say anything people will actually believe?); apart from peeling tons of potatos for our respective siblings an interest in stitching the one thing we share. Pity. Still, how does the saying go: You can lead a horse in vain to find some water.

Hot tip of the day, GM, once told to me by my father when I was barely out of my nappies: There is nothing more off putting, less erotic, for a man, than to come across the dead cuttings of a woman’s crowning glory – whether on the floor, in the toilet,  in your comb or preserved for eternity on your blog. Why do you think a large contingent of the most eminent (male) hairdressers have no sexual interest in women?

Hugs and kisses,

U

Mildly

There comes a time in life when one is not so much a sponge, absorbing. Instead reflecting and consolidating.

My time has come.

I write an answer to BHB. On my own blog. Only to find myself spammed by Akismet the blocker on wordpress. Unlike my loo I cannot unblock myself on this bog. Doesn’t matter. If there is one good thing – amongst many others – to be said about advancing years that eventually you don’t give a shit any longer. Whatever you do, please do not agree with me. Otherwise this blog will cease and I will turn my attention to other matters. Like keeping my communication private. And address mainly those who currently wonder why I keep pissing in the wind (that’s blogs for you) instead of staying on an even keel.

U

Vacuum

Did you know that it takes 6 (SIX) weeks to break a habit? Yes, so did I.

Let’s leave aside the absolutely mind boggling question what you’d do during the six weeks other than break yourself, your resolve, your patience, your pride and anyone witnessing the miserable failure you are. The last being the reason why I never tell anyone anything. Thus you only disappoint yourself. All others are spared.

I keep postponing the moment to test the theory. I am spoilt for choice: Which habit of mine deserves to be broken? The whole endeavour hampered by realisation that I am not a creature of  habit but would love to give up something. Not least because there seems such virtue bestowed on those who give up. I myself would be better pleased if I’d manage to erect  rather than tear down.

Let me know. Food (for thought) parcels welcome.

U

Laughing gas

Being the ray of sunshine I am I keep irritation to myself as best I can. And if I feel I won’t be able to control it I will warn (to be fair) anyone in the vicinity that clouds are on the horizon and don’t say later I didn’t warn you.

I don’t compartmentalize my life; it’s all one big goulash but I do keep irritation separate and in quarantine.

Irritation is that mosquito in your life; buzzing around in the dark; no sooner do you turn on the light to end a life it will all go quiet. I play this game with myself forever. It’s a private displeasure – few who know about it. The Angel finds that if my irritability is kept just at the right simmer my running comment is hilarious. If I let it boil over it’s hideous. Well, what are doors for if not to close them.

Yes, blogs. A source of irritation to me if ever there was one. Obviously there is Ramana’s most valuable lament yesterday which I will expamd on at some point because similar thoughts have exercised my mind. But till I have tamed them [thoughts] I cannot commit them to paper. Take  heart Ramana: Frustration comes with the territory. Anyway, let’s leave that for a more mellow of my time.

What has got my goat AGAIN? I don’t frequent many blogs. It’s a type of self preservation, a defence mechanism against the imbecility of my fellow human beings, not least my own that I rarely bother visiting the great unwashed. Two recent example (and no, I won’t give you the links) so dire, so awful, so everything I could have pummelled the sofa cushion if I’d had the energy. My big fat beef, and it’s just been barbecued once more, are bloggers’ “comment policies”. Let’s just forget for a moment that I hate the law being laid down full stop; far worse for me to discover again and again what little Hitlers, Stalins and Mussolinis are out there telling their readers what not to say, what to say. Whatever happened to “Speaker’s Corner, Hyde Park, London, The Box”? The worst bloggers those who will assure you that, naturally, they will vet your comment before they let it go through, EDIT it, that religion and/or John Lennon or teddybears are NOT ALLOWED to feature in any of your utterings should you wish to see the light of their comment boxes. It’s a turn off for me if ever there was one. You might as well wear socks before entering.

Admittedly, a few of those control freaks are interesting enough to keep my attention despite my disgust at their dictatorship but on the whole people like that are not for me. Yes, people’s tender feelings, sensitivities. There, there. Well, if you are so delicate: Don’t put yourself into the open arena.

Feeling better now? So am I.

U

10 minutes later

You want murder? Look no further. No not down some Devonshire village with Miss Marple in tow. Wasn’t murder so genteel  in those days? Grannymar with a clanger in the pantry being caught in flagrante by Ms U and her mousetrap. The Raj’s own Ramana making his excuses why one needs to take inventory (with GM) at 1 am. Well, Ramana, don’t worry. I understand. As we say in the motherland: “In der Not frisst der Teufel Fliegen.” Roughly translated as: “When supplies run short anything will do”. Yes, I know. I am the pinnacle of tact and discretion. I also just read most illuminating on human emotion which one should suppress at all times. No, not jealousy. You and GM are welcome to each other. Another emotion worse has got me in momentary grip,  so vile I am in denial and refute that I am part of the human race.

Make me a dungbeetle as long as you don’t stand on me; ask me to keep Looney’s barnacle company, let me get caught red handed stealing treasure with Magpie; I’ll even get on my bike with BHB, make it work not just for Jean but everyone else, but do not ask me to hurt a fly. I won’t.

Back to the screenplay. Let’s leave aside why some people have irrational fears of, say, spiders, moths or bulldogs. If there is one thing I  fear it’s another human being. A boa constrictor, unless hungry, will leave well alone, won’t it? Yes. Enter the superior human. And we don’t even eat each other, except say when on the high seas with Moby Dick and little choice. By the way, have you noticed, that those stranded on high waters usually eat the thin ones first? What sort of logic is that? Surely the fattest pig is the one first for the chop.

Anyway, have completely lost  my thread. Well, BHB, that’s stream of consciousness for you. Heaving a sigh of relief.

U

Baywatch

Am swimming. Holding on to the life raft which constitutes my dignity. I don’t care about my dignity. Only reminding myself of it to spite the person who’d love nothing better than for me to lose it. And lose it I will. Later.

Never knew that I am able of feeling such contempt. Nay, outright desire that I were different and capable of biting someone where it hurts. Like where? You can’t hurt the stoically insensitive.

Oh yes.

U