Monday

Dearest sweetest Hearts, let’s hope it’ll all come out in the wash.

Reading blogs is bringing out the worst in me. The critic. The swine that will not be silenced. Do you have any idea how hard I work at not pressing send after having composed that which will tear into a blogger’s heart and soul, more importantly his copy? Come to think of it: Those I do tear into should count themselves lucky. Clearly a sign that I think them made of sturdy stuff; deserving. Anyone can sniffle.

Still, whatever I say, however I justify it, my being so critical is a deplorable trait. Correction: It’s great. Because it gives me so much pleasure to pick everything apart at its seams. What is at odds – a spot of self revelation here – that I am a truly “nice” (pass me the sick bag) person, kind, compassionate, considerate, generous, selfless to a fault – yes, really, Sweethearts, and take it from me: There is nothing wrong with blowing your own trumpet. Mind you, to keep this in perspective, I have been told, many a time, that it’s virtually impossible to pay me a compliment since I just brush it aside. You pay me a compliment? The only person who can validate me is myself. Thank you very much.

It’s why I hate people fishing. Oh god. The coquettish on the internet. They will put themselves down. What am I supposed to do – should I be so inclined as to comment? Build them up? Well, stay down there if you must. I am not your analyst or your mother. It’s one of the reasons  I cannot understand (yes, I know, Magpie, you are one of them) why anyone will choose a theme for their blog stating “Just another blog”. Come again? If it’s “just” another blog why bother? Bring yourself to market.

Since I am at it, may I also say that there is a way of self deprecating which is foul. Was interrupted here. Have now forgotten what’s foul. But that’s Denmark for you. Then there are those who preen in desperate attempt to be validated. It’s ok, guys and guyesses. Relax. You are fine. Less is more. More or less. Just like real life what an education the blogging world is: I am clearly attracted to those who know their self worth, know where they stand. No nonsense for them.

And lastly a word of advice to those of you who desperately, almost to point of death, keep pointing out your “copyright”: Either share yourself or keep hugging your babies to your chest. Don’t take yourself so seriously. Don’t lay down the law every single time you publish. Do you really think the world is out there to steal whatever you have created?

There are blogs I could and will name which have grace, share themselves freely and generously: Whether it’s their art work, their copy, their feelings, their imagination. I am not given to gushing however would like to say to some of you: Thanks for enriching my life. Wish I could cook for all of you. Will paint my own picture of said party (in words) another time. Pass me a Bloody Mary now. No, make that a Martini, two olives. One shaken, one stirred.

U

Don’t judge a book by its reader

There is a blog I visit in the same masochistic spirit as one picks at the huge scab on your knee after you – spectacularly – fell off your bike (age 9) and just as the wound starts healing.

The blogger would make an excellent – highly strung and highly irritating – self absorbed heroine in a Maupassant or Somerset Maugham story; Hemingway would have shot her by now or tossed her to his bull in the afternoon, never to see the dark of print.

No, no, it’s not you,

Mwah,

U

Going to the dogs

Trying to log on, as usual my mind doing its own thing completely ignoring what its purpose is and guess what: For a moment I couldn’t remember what my blog is called. Is it really that forgettable? Please do not answer the question since I never fish for compliments neither am I in any state to hear the truth. In fact, you’d do me a favour if you said: Yes, it is [forgettable].

Before I forget, since you may ask what my mind’s purpose is: It’s to follow the leader. I am the leader. Which is presumably why my mind pulls into the other direction to get me back on the path and sniff another tree.

Today’s interlude: Dreams (of the nightly variety). May you all lead a double life as I do. My days and nights seemingly interchangeable. My dreams being so vivid and REAL  I will wake not knowing, for a few seconds, who, where, what, how and when. I have deliberately not included  ”why”.

Last night I was trying to stuff some loose and unruly white material and ribbons  into large square solid cardboard boxes.  Say 1.50 x 1.50 m. No sooner did I try to put the lid on the box  some of the material started floating out. And again and again. Nightmare. Since I never give up I must have been at it all night.

So come and have breakfast with me and tell me all about your nightly adventures.  Remember: Dreams are the digestive tract of our lives;  pointers, signposts to where lemmings will not go.

If you really must give thanks have some of my hugs and kisses,

U

Flotsam

Have realised that I am my father’s daughter and my son is my son: Our happy go lucky smiley optimistic selves will propel themselves forward till the camel’s back breaks and can go no further through the eye of the needle.

Cue irritation, shortly followed by sense of heightened potential for irritability.

One of the, untimely departed, cats (the one who was a dog in a previous life) was  sensitive to a sudden dip in temperature (my mood). She’d bolt through the cat flap before I’d said a word. This minute I am so annoyed a stampede of wildebeests would look for a different route to bypass me.

I already pity my son, due back any minute, being subjected to my disenchantment with lack of hot water. I am trying to finish the washing up. And yes, I’ve checked the fuse.

Before my American readers, no doubt in full possession of a state of the heart Smeg fridge freezer (metallic finish), will utter so much as the word “dishwasher”: Don’t. My dishwasher (best of German engineering, unrivalled) and I were cruely separated on account of lack of space in new den’s kitchen. I don’t mind returning to the ancient art of washing  dishes by hand. I have got Marigold gloves. Industrial strength. But I need HOT water.

Don’t send bucket. I prefer running.

U

PS Where are rats when your ship is sinking?

PPS Naturally, it’s Saturday. A bit like a toothache.

Farcical

Looney just left me a comment which reminds me that if there were a title for Queen of Empty Promises I’d win at least a duchy. With a horse. I shall call it Rosinante in remembrance of Sancho Panza whose love of food and wine I share. Only to find myself building windmills which I promptly have to fight. Any of you may audition for the part of Dulcinea but don’t keep your hopes up.

So many ideas in the oven, broilers on the boil. It’s crazy. It’s also a sure fire way not to get anywhere. Or, oh so witty, get nowhere fast. Spare me. As my mentor, her of the chocolate, tartly remarked the other day: “It’s all very well, Ursula, but you have got to follow THROUGH.” I know. I know. I know. I couldn’t agree more. But then I do like the chase. It’s the man in me. And the perfectionist dormant, possibly long dead. There are people in my life, sniffy, because I have “let them down” not being my old perfect self. Well, sorry. You know: As life goes on there is more to tend to than bloody perfection. Go and scrub your own doorstep if you must. Don’t wax it though. You may slip.

So, yes, Looney. Einstein will be taken care of, eventually. Now his flesh having fallen off the bone he will have more room for manoeuvre (turning in his grave).

U

PS Stock phrase of my youth, encompassing any eventuality: “It’s all relative”

Niceties

A question which has long been burning a hole into the fabric of my life:

If you saw a stranger walking around with his fly open, her tights/stockings laddered, were talking to someone with a bit of spinach between their front teeth: Would you point this out to them?

U

Anaphylactic Shock

With no one else to hand: Why not throw myself onto my blog? Anonymity such a cloak of comfort.

I have a peculiar, physical reaction when I find out that I have been lied to big time: My heart starts racing like crazy. Always has. Most unpleasant sensation. And that’s just the body. Never mind the mind.

This will be closely followed by my throwing up. My body is good that way. It translates – literally.

Some of you may remember that I have a peculiar relationship with lying. I don’t like it. Trouble is that – like a pig trained to find the truffle – I will, unintentionally, find out when someone deceives on a level where it pulls the rug from under my feet.

Don’t get me wrong: White lies. Sure, I do them too. Mainly on behalf of others. What is it to me when someone needs an alibi to save their marriage, stop them being expelled from school or whatever? Being a story teller I come across so convincing I will stand up in court and the accused will go free.

But when I find out someone lies, big time, to ME, I go stone cold. Apart from my heart racing and throwing up (see above). And no, dear readers, do not jump to conclusions: What I have just found out  has nothing to do with “romance”. This has to do with such a mega shit that the person who has caused an INNOCENT to lie to ME will pay the price. Big time. One day this will out. Not today. Not tomorrow.  But when it does there will be tears. Probably mostly mine because everyone is always so good at justifying their actions. Naturally, I will have brought it all onto myself. Sure. Whatever you say. In the meantime go on and destroy my life. Why not? As spectator sports go I am sure it’s entertaining.

How did I say the other day: The unimaginable is slowly but steadily happening: Like a weed in my heart: Hatred, or what I imagine hate to be, is growing.

And no one, no one give me “drama queen”. You know what: Life is drama. On the very stage you are standing on. Unless it’s a flop.

To think the innocent I once was. The good in people. Oh, I find it. There are those. Unbelievably so. And then there is foam.

If I weren’t me (made of steel) I’d probably kill myself within the next few hours or so; after having cleaned the house top to bottom – mustn’t leave a mess, must we? Oh no. Everything just so. Ship shape. Good old Ursula. Always to be relied upon to deliver. Well, let me tell those of you who do not know about this blog (which is family and some friends): Fuck off. You have done enough damage. Find yourself another soap opera. And don’t you even think about attending my funeral. Or I will rise from my grave in most unbecoming fashion.

Hugs and kisses,

U

Don’t

Just read my Horror Scope. By accident. The deed is done. Anchored in my brain. As off now living in dread of imminent future.

Yes, the forecast is brilliant. Thus hopes are raised. Will, no doubt, be unpleasantly surprised, nay, confirmed that our fortune is in the stars whilst lying in the gutter (see Oscar Wilde if you must).

U

Tarred

I have huge likes and ENORMOUS pet hates. I won’t regale you with my likes  since you will have your own. Neither do I wish to waste your time. However, pet hates need to be aired and shared.

I have been trying to suppress one for some time, hoping it won’t hatch. But it will. Neither will it be the runt of my litter: Oh no, that little amusing duckling most likely to turn  into a bad tempered swan with a hunched back. Straight neck. No feathers.

Before it’s too late: Anyone for roast duck? Peking? A l’orange? Confit?

U

Where the sun rarely shines

Do not count your banana skins before you’ve slipped on all of them.

U