Botched

If,  in the wake of the last few posts, you think I am vain, I don’t care. I am not vain. I am perfect.

Which is why I feel like enacting some Greek drama. Appealing to the queen in me.

I will go unblemished for 363 days of the year – until the BIG day.

Apropos of generally feeling for myself: I was once recorded, in writing (class register): “Ursula’s excuses are getting ever more inventive.” Sweet seventeen, on the way to school the heel of my boot broke off. I am a very practical person and there was no way I was going to limp around all morning to the hilarity of my school mates. So I went to one of those pronto shoe repair places which, whilst pronto, made me late for class. I wish I’d kept the receipt. This particular teacher and I loved each other as best as teacher and pupil can. Yet, he did NOT believe me. That was the moment when I learnt that a mundane lie will triumph over the unbelievable truth.

U

Landscape

News on the blot front: It’s no better. A mirror has become an instrument of torture to me. In absence of veils I am considering a fringe. I don’t want a fringe. I don’t even like curtains. Which is why we live in a gold fish bowl.

My own flesh and blood, in a last ditch attempt to keep his mother happy, has turned to lying: “No, Mama, it doesn’t show.  It’s not noticeable at all.” Thank you, so kind. I am not blind yet. To keep things in perspective I remind myself of a long held conviction: Any of our blemishes are only magnified by ourselves, unnoticed by others till drawn to their attention. That excludes warts. If ever I had a wart I’d emigrate.

U

Out of circulation

Leaving the convenience of contraception aside, I live in the wrong time of this and the last century. Or maybe I should become a Muslim or wherever they are still allowed to wear Burkas. Which rules out France.  Burkas are god’s gift to women. Only yesterday I came across a woman wearing one  and all that showed were her eyes. Beauty if ever there was one. Mesmerising. And I am not even a man. Not that one needs to be a man to appreciate beauty.

Whilst still blinding with my dazzling smile my forehead is covered in three blotches from hell. They say beauty is only skin deep. Complete nonsense. Beauty goes deep. Before it gets ugly.

Had I lived, say, 150 years ago, I could still brave the public my head held high. As it is I am HOUSE bloody bound. Bring back veils. I love veils. I love mystery. I even wear gloves (in summer). Which no doubt accounts for the fact that my hands are unblemished.

Give it a thought: Outside Bulgaria, a funeral, your wedding or Venice  when and where can one wear a proper veil in this day and age? You know, the lacy kind. Black. Obviously.

Balzac, Maupassant, here I come.

U

Serial blogging

Years ago my brother sent us a computer game, and it was so wonderful I played it whenever I needed to diffuse (like mid afternoon): You had to be bloody damn fast to shoot a lot of chickens. They [the chickens] winging it across the screen, yet looking so friendly, inviting you to shoot them. So  I never felt any guilt at all the carnage. Neither did I have a dog to collect the bounty. There were a few windmills too. Obliterating them didn’t give you that many points. Not that that stopped me from aiming.

A much cherished computer game the Angel and I used to play together (can’t remember the title, and the Angel currently not present to jog my memory), the challenge was to cross a busy road without being squashed. Hedge hog fashion. In a more benign version, though under threat of drowning, you had to have presence of mind to jump from fast moving  log to fast moving log trying to cross a river. The other challenges have gone down the drain of memory lost.

That’s blogging for you.

U

Blogging

A couple of days ago I became disenchanted with the world of blogging. I was subjected to something akin to accidentally stepping into a large dog’s even larger hard core, yet ever so soft, offering. Yes, a pile of shit for those whose sense of smell is impaired. Whilst that pair of shoes expensive, rather than cleaning them I binned them. False economy? Oh no. Dog poo may cause blindness. Blindness is forever, and a pair of  Louboutins only for Christmas and your birthday come at once.

The joy of blogging/commenting has, at least momentarily, evaporated; wholesale. To paraphrase: You may rein in a bolted horse, you may even be able to saddle it once more, but do I have any desire to mount it again? We’ll see.

Renee said, in her last comment, that she is glad to be my friend (which she is) and would hate to be my enemy. I agree with her: I wouldn’t want to be my enemy either. Not that I have ever been anyone’s enemy. I don’t have it in my heart, in my soul. It’s foreign territory to me. Still, there is always a first. Let’s just say, and, Sweetheart, you know who you are: Don’t mess with me. You may take away the accolade that no one but no one has ever insulted me and the trinity of my father, my son and my brother’s holy ghost more than you have. Congratulations. No doubt you will now draw more conclusions about my brain chemistry. Whatever turns you on, Sweetheart, whatever turns you. Hot tip of the day: Don’t project your vile fantasies on the innocent.

U

Vapour

Always spoilt/spoiled for choice which subject to pick. Which, sometimes, means I don’t pick any.

Don’t really care what I write about. Start – get interrupted – lose interest in what I was writing  half an hour earlier. The ephemeral. Let your heart sing.

I rarely dislike people. However,  and I’ll get this out as quickly as I can (before being either interrupted and/or losing interest in the subject) when I loathe I loathe. Not with a vengeance. Just loathe. This minute loathing is reserved for someone I hope never to cross paths with. He’d not know what hit him. Though, no doubt, he’d hit me first.

U

PS If I were my own editor I’d be more to the point. But then more is less.

Spares

On my own blog, little lamb that I am, I don’t go for subjects that may ignite political, religious or any other bees in bonnets. I will occasionally succumb to voicing views in other bloggers’ comment boxes – on the very subjects I try to avoid in public.Though have currently put myself in quarantine.

HOWEVER (I hate it when I use the word ‘however’. It’s rarely a bearer of good news.) HOWEVER, this minute I will make an exception to my rule: Just read about a woman (well known author) whose son donated one of his kidneys to her. Who wants to die? Yet, unless my son wrestled me to the ground, I would NOT allow him to mutilate himself for me. Put his own life at risk. Naturally, one could now discuss whether that’s selfish of me. I believe life goes FORWARD and, as hard as it is, we need to leave our parents behind.

U

Heart shaped

It is not my personal experience but I believe the scientist: Men prefer women with big eyes, full lips and a small nose. Really? Good. Excellent. I am so glad god gave me relatively thin lips.

Following the scientist’s reasoning I shall don my best Burka the next few days because by dint of accident I now have lips to die for (complimenting my big Bambi eyes, if not my Jewish nose). No, not Botox. I don’t do Botox. I leave well alone since I am sure nature/my genes knew what they were doing. Yes, so if you want full POUTY lips look no further than a very hot slice of Chorizo glueing itself to your lower lip. It’s amazing how much damage can be done in a couple of seconds. Shorten my nose and I am now your perfect woman. The ever observant Angel, as forthright as his mother: “Mama, you look as if someone has punched you in the mouth.”  Bring’s a whole new meaning to “Don’t give me lip”.

Yes, so shall patent that. Will open a chain of beauty salons – preferred location next to pizzerias. Americans seeking treatment will have to sign a pre burn clause. Well, you know what Americans are like: They choke on an apple and then they SUE: The apple, the person who sold them the apple, the grower of the apple, God for inventing the apple in the first place, and for good measure they’ll sue the snake too.

And before any Americans sue me for cruelty to a whole nation do not worry, have no fear: Where big brother (that’s the States) leads, little brother (that’s Britain) will follow. Some time ago I had an accident. It was a perfectly good reasonable accident as accidents go. Then the phone calls started coming in. I don’t know how these companies got wind of it: Suddenly everyone wanted me to SUE. Sue whom exactly for the fact I went flying (by accident)? Just fuck off, will you. Contrary to the impression you may get from my blog I am an extremely polite person. I have manners. So I, patiently, explained that there was nothing to sue. One guy wouldn’t give up. Every other day: SUE SUE SUE. I can’t remember my exact words during the last conversation we ever had; they were super polite, very calm, yet he abruptly put the phone down. Such are the powers of sarcasm. Good on him: Some people don’t get sarcasm. Sarcasm takes some thinking. So never waste it on the brain dead.

If nothing else the above shows you how one can drift, without effort, from a pout caused by chorizo on the pointy bit of a slice of pizza, via a business idea, into the intricate law of the US (and Britain’s) banana skin culture. And yes, lawyers need to eat too.

Hugs, kisses, actually, no – no kisses today, it hurts,

U

White

Am intrigued when bloggers moan about having nothing to blog about. Nothing to blog about? You’ve got to be joking. I talk and could write till the cows come home. Way past milking.

Still, better to be a snowball than an avalanche.

U

Onwards and down the drain

I know it’s not the first of January but am full of resolve today, 8th March:

I need to become a better person. Not that I am not happy with the person I am but – like any school report will tell you: “Could do better”.

I don’t do things by halves. Which is why I ask myself why I didn’t become a better person years ago. It would have saved so much time. Now, such is my ambition, we are talking Everest. Considering my fear of height I come unstuck at the first hurdle. I suppose as long as I remember to pack my Swiss Army Pen Knife and a pair of blinkers I’ll be ok. I feel like Hannibal on an elephant. Crossing the Alps.

Where to start? Option paralysis – here I come. Goethe said, loosely translated: The mind is strong, the flesh is weak.” He got it wrong. In my case the flesh is willing, the mind is weak.

Schiller put it better in his “Diver”. Don’t ask. Got a great play on his words but doesn’t work in English. There are limits to globalization.

What a choice come to think of it: Mountains or water? My mother asked me this a few days ago. WHAT? Come again? I don’t know. Neither. Or Belgium (pancake, windmills). If I were ugly I’d choose to be a mole. If only to ruin my father’s lawn.

U