I’ve got to watch it. It’s one thing to pride myself on never, yes really – never, using a spell checker. Why would I? Either I know how to spell or I don’t. And I can live with my mistakes and typos even if they are embarrassing at times. Am still traumatized from the time when the x on my keyboard gave out. Currently the ‘i’ sticks. Maybe my subconscious telling me to be more ego something. Will come back to eggs in a minute.
So in an idle moment tonight I pondered on what using more than one language – on a daily basis – does to your mind. What is a catalysator to some is, naturally, a catalyst to another (English that is). Have you ever noticed that when addressing the very person you’d preferably not make a fool of yourself in front of is precisely the person you will? It’s a sideshoot of Sod’s law. Can also be observed when you quickly nip out to get, say, a pint of milk at seven in the morning only to bump into someone you’d hoped would never see you in curlers (and before any of you run away and unsubscribe because you do not wish to be associated with someone in curlers stop the hysteria now: I don’t use curlers, mainly because my hair is curly by nature.) Yes, so there I was congratulating Charles on his daughter’s imagination and, needless to say, giving away my lack of education by using the word “catalysator” instead of “catalyst”. Why this occurs to me ca 24 hrs after writing my comment I do not know. But then my brain seems to have a mind of its own.
Where were we? Eggs. I rarely quote other people. Being full of myself I am content to spout my own nonsense rather than quoting George Bernard Shaw or, worse, Oscar Wilde. However, believing in exceptions to rules and also easily amused I came across this, in The Little Book of Wrong Shui:
Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. Use an egg box like everyone else and stop being such a poser.
Sartre eat your heart out.
One of the blogs I frequent (sorry, can’t link since momentarily forgotten which one it was) recently mentioned crystal balls and the future.
Don’t. Go there. I did more than twenty years ago. I was waiting, at some boat show cum fairground, for Fiona, a colleague. She phoned and told me to see a woman in a tent to while away the time till her arrival. Why did I listen to her? Five pounds later (1989 prices, UK) my life changed. Not that I realised it at the time. Everything went well. Time passed pleasantly, till my fortune teller set eyes on a particular line in my right hand. That was it: She dropped my hand, looked at me aghast, wished me a happy life and asked me to leave NOW. Since people often look at me either aghast or bemused I didn’t give it much thought. Till years later: When one of my many assignments’ briefs was to look into palmistry. I do not know who to curse more: The editor who assigned me. The palm reader. Or myself.
I, naturally, bloody studied the subject from the wrist up. By way of comforting you now: Don’t believe everything you find on the map: By rights I should have had as many children as I had (in truth) miscarriages. Which suits me fine – since both I and my son are “only” children by nature. Which makes us both more compassionate to other humans than a lot of those who had to fight not only for daily survival in the midst of siblings, but their fair share of affection from their parents.
Yes, so that was brilliant and has confirmed my view that, in order to ensure your anxiety has something to feed on, you may as well go and see a palmist. Tarrot readers (and, yes, you guessed it, Fiona sent me to one of those as well) are harmless by comparison. Though how the old woman knew that the most beloved woman of my life (my maternal grandmother) had died when I was eight beats me. How is that possible? And no, I did not give out any clues. And no Fiona didn’t brief the clairvoyant beforehand because she knew nothing about me other than that I like Sauvignon Blanc, a grape which will go with everything, even Thai or Chinese.
We have a minor scandal in our midst: All his lols in Millard’s admittedly rather witty email to Cynthia aka ‘Bike Hike Babe’ were not designed not soften the blow dealt to her tender heart. She has now promised to never bombard us again with her many missives. As results go it’s a pity. My dear Cynthia, what are you going to do with all those stars you reward yourself for each day? Why don’t you parcel them up at the end of every week (in a bit of toilet paper) and send them to the naysayers? Yes, Millard so thank you for that. I, for one, and not only because I am inordinately fond of the woman, DO enjoy Cynthia’s missives. Not only are they a reliable indicator in my inbox that BHB is still alive, she has brightened many a day of mine – and what with the time zones mainly my mornings - she makes me laugh, makes me groan (not least with regards to her political leanings), has drawn attention to a lot which otherwise would have gone to waste. So Cynthia, stars or no stars, please do NOT take ME off your list. I need my daily fix; and who are those guys to deprive me anyway?
Where I do agree with Millard is that you definitely have a feel for marketing; how to make a product known; get it to people. It is quite brilliant. Your daughter should be proud of you. In fact, I wish I had horses – if only to make your daughter’s business a further success. Alas I don’t. But I do know people who do entertain, maintain and ride them (not least my two nieces, my sister-in-law, friends) and here in Hampshire and adjoining Dorset you can’t so much as drive through a narrow country lane (of the type that gives the typical American the heebie-jebbies regarding oncoming traffic) without many sightings of the original horse power.
So I shall spread the word, nay, the manure with the ingenious fork.
And remember where there is muck there is brass. Greetings to Lydia.
Long intro, short purpose, which is why I deleted the intro (oh, how amusing it was: But then I do have a self indulgent streak).
I need to reinvent this blog. Unless you take the ‘bitch’ part ironic you will miss the point of my existence.
Last night’s moon full and shining onto my bedstead. And no I don’t draw curtains which is why the Angel sleeps with blinkers courtesy of Virgin Atlantic. Theirs being the most stylish.
Have decided that there is only one weapon of defence in the war of keeping your sanity: Money. Am now on warpath since my purse has been leaking for the last three years and wild scenarios as to how to make up for lost time and nerves shattered in process occupying me to the extent that I have lost all concentration; thus needing to re-read the same page ten times and still haven’t got a clue.
I resent Big Brother and some camera on you at all times: It’s taken all the fun out of robbing banks.
So where better to throw myself than at the bosom of the blogging world. Apropos of nothing: Did you know that women’s skin is much thinner than men’s (biologically); yet I maintain, the male soul being more fragile and a lot more easily trampled upon, women are the ones with the thick hide. Weep if you must.
Anyway, my new love interest has me baking Italian biscuits. I knew this from as early as age 5: Falling in love is not good for you. It is so distracting you might walk into an oncoming truck.