I wish I suffered from blog fatigue. Unfortunately I don’t.
I wish I suffered from blog fatigue. Unfortunately I don’t.
Sweethearts, pass me a handkerchief. It doesn’t need to be starched, only clean.
Come to think of it, and to take attention away from what is really on my mind and shouldn’t tell you anyway: Wasn’t it lovely when people still carried handkerchieves? I am sure it’s one of the reasons I like “Gone with the Wind”. Clark Gable (what did I see in him?) passing that conniving Vivien Leigh his pristine hanky. Oh the romance of that gesture! Since all of you are too old to bother watching that film again you will never know whether I have just made up that scene or not. Just remember to carry something (preferably white) when you meet me. I may graze my knee. Or get shot (in the foot).
Yes. Insert sigh. Now it’s all tissues. Paper. Disposable. Commendable and most hygienic. Yet you can’t make a knot into a piece of tissue. It’ll tear. Admittedly, unless clumsy, a long string of toilet paper will let you make a knot. But then: Who carries a roll of toilet paper with them? I don’t. Other than when on holiday on Corsica. My sweet and tiny grandmother used to make knots in her (lacy, white) handkerchief when she wanted to remember something. No Filofax or iPod in those days. It puzzled me. Greatly. How can looking at a knot you made earlier that day or ten ago possibly jog your memory? I still don’t know. And I smell a rat even before I see it.
Off to do some ironing. No, not handkerchieves. Toiletpaper.
Feeling better now. Hugs and kisses,
Sweethearts, should you never hear from me again it’ll be due to an aneurysm. Exploding. In my brain. Or wherever. No, I am not a hypochondriac. I am afraid of aneurysms. And this minute the left side of my head is making itself known. Pulsating.
I am torn between one moment admiring the miracle of life, the next the disaster of unannounced death. Call me a control freak but I like to know where I am going. And when. Even if it takes me into a different direction. As long as I am alive I really don’t care where I am.
Which reminds me of a most refreshing conversation I had with the Angel a couple of nights ago. Over dinner. Pork ribs – procured by the young bacon hunter.
The Angel doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. Yet, and I suppose it’s good – at least he won’t starve – he was adamant that he’d chase any animal that came his way should he find himself on a desert island with no late night supermarket round the corner. Gave him a few pointers. Like how to kill poultry. There is a neck to it. Pull. Don’t twist. Naturally, as one does, we, or rather I, drifted onto the subject of vegetables. No, he tells me, he can’t live without meat. And I agree. To fill a twenty year old with greenery and lentils without the all important protein to get his teeth into is no mean feat.
Since I am fond of Vasco da Gama and his ilk I ventured over to cannibalism. Asking the Angel why the thin ones of the crew get eaten first. When surely the biggest of your fellows would make more sense. I now see my son in a new light. He, himself lean if with muscle, explained to me that no one wants blubber. Yes, I said, I know everyone is careful of their shape but in the pacific? No land in sight? Surely fat is good for you. Nope, apparently not.
I dearly hope I won’t be caught in a boat with the Angel. I am smaller than him. He has a mathematician’s brain. Doesn’t even need a calculator.
Since I don’t want him to fret over matricide I told him I’d kill myself before he may eat me. I prefer cucumber sandwiches.
The moral of the story: If you do have to get lost try and be in that boat on your own. Otherwise you may NOT live to regret going onto a foolish expedition.
Before I revert my attention, as promised, to gays, let’s get something straight.
There is a blogger out there who is beginning to get on my tits. For the sake of convenience, and so that he recognizes himself, let’s call him Nick. Normally I don’t use the expression ‘on my tits’. But needs must. Not least Nick’s. Nick is a man, say in his mid sixties. I shan’t comment on his maturity. He has fashioned himself into a spokesman for womanhood. I had this out with him the other day in both his and, mostly, in Ramana’s comment boxes.
Since I get chastened in comment boxes every so often I shall take Nick’s shit into my own pig sty.
Nick, let me remind you: I am a woman. And I resent you telling me how I feel and what offends me. You know what offends me, Nick? You maligning YOUR own gender, only to quiver when I say boo to an as yet to be cooked gander. Let me enlighten you, Nick: What you are doing with many of your posts, what you are accusing other men of, is cheap titillation. Ever thought of it like that? No, didn’t think you would. When I say that being wolf whistled is nothing to me you don’t take it seriously, do you? Nick, the man (don’t make me laugh), do draw your own conclusion. If you can’t see the irony then you are beyond a woman ever looking at you. Not that I’d whistle at you even if I could.
Let me tell you something, Nick, Woman to Man: Denigrating your own gender does not make you a better man. It makes you most unattractive. I am the mother of a son, a daughter of a man, a sister of a man, a cousin to many a man, a friend to the stalwart – and I do NOT like the way you talk about men, the way you make them into sexual predators. Still (see above), I know you wish to titillate and ingratiate yourself with your, sometimes misguided, female readership. Your offering today, a man in a bikini ‘asking for it’, really did it for me. I wouldn’t even shake your hand. And I have had limp hand shakes before. Yours no doubt dripping.
Sorry, Nick. I know you are of a sensitive disposition. But you do need to either be taken out of a closet or given a shake.
Before I forget, but then of course for you, Nick, men are the bad boys, by coincidence and not for the first time, the Angel (a most attractive specimen of a twenty year old) mentioned to me yesterday that whenever he goes out strangers will come up to him (women that is) compliment him on his drop dead gorgeous long long long blond hair, touching it. Invasion of privacy, Nick? One stretch too far? Invading personal space? You tell me. I dare say: Like his mother was in her time, he too is perfectly able to live with the attention and look after himself.
Get a grip, man.
I nearly said something. But then remembered where I am. On a blog. My own. Of all places.
I may have to leave the country once I am finished – and move to Mars. Who cares. Destiny leads, I usually run away.
Yes, so this is GAY week. On my blog.
And when, and if, I use the wrong lingo then, dear gays, do forgive me. I am only human thus errors are made. Why am I so down in the mouth? Well, Sweethearts: Fact is that some six or seven years ago I fell in love with a gay man. I knew he was gay from the beginning so sex wasn’t exactly an issue. Though would have slept with him – on request – if we had made to Paris or Rome.
Nay, my trouble with gay men is semantics. I do not fucking get the lingo right, do I? Am I an expert? No. In my experience we make allowances for each other. Count gays out on that score. They are unforgiving. Sorry about generalizing, but generalizations are there for a reason – mainly to get a point across.
Yes, so I put my foot into it. Still don’t know how. I used ‘preference’ when I should have used ‘orientation’. Or whatever. I have to hand to you gays: Some of you are so sensitive may the sun never set on you. You’ll burn.
And please do not keep pointing the finger at heterosexuals. Lend me a helping hand instead.
As some of you know I am taken with gays. Not lesbians. Lesbians will wink at me and then run. Which is good. Because it saves me from running in the opposite direction. Yes, guys (not gays) there is one of your fantasies crushed.
The first gay, known to me, was a hairdresser. That’s what’s expected of gays. They dress hair. And they do. My boyfriend (living abroad) was dead jealous of Peter, the gay, gorgeous as they come (tall, slender, blond with lined eyelashes). In return Peter hated my boyfriend – in a sort of militant way one doesn’t normally associate with gays. Yes, Peter and I were good. I went down with a fever, close to death’s door, Christmas Eve 1978. Peter took care of me. Unselfish. Kind.
When we went to nightclubs our combined beauty bounced off each other. He was not so gay as not to pass as my boyfriend which saved me a lot of hassle.
Our appartments were next to each other. We shared a wall. With our respective beds on either side of it. Which meant that, in the middle of the night, he’d send me little knocks on the wall, Morse code. A bit like texting nowadays. Only louder. And more reassuring. Though his cat was pretty neurotic: As Burmese with cabin fever are. His boyfriend a fully leather clad complete with motorbike policeman. Thus I was initiated into a world I knew nothing about, still don’t. Then I moved country. I dearly hope Peter didn’t fall prey to the Eighties’ disease. He was such a sweet gentle man, a good friend.
As to GG. Well, I have been there, done that, enjoyed it immensely whilst it lasted for a delicious three years, didn’t get the fucking T shirt – and now I am a damaged case.
John, with his pig, his chickens, his dogs, came along just in time, slowly restoring my faith in gay manhood
As I have confirmed, over at John’s, the Angel thinks my gaydar non existent. True. What’s it to me what you do in the privacy of your own sheets. My longest standing friend, not known for mincing words, and in an attempt to cure me of GG, said the most foul he could come up with on homosexual men. As did my brother. Where did they learn all this stuff? Think toilets and Hampstead Heath and you’ll get the idea. Well, I love my brother and that macho of machoest friend of mine, so – in an act of self defence and as not to whip their friendships out of shape – I no longer mention GG. Not even to the Angel.
One of the funniest comments ever, on the subject of homosexuality, was when, last year, the Angel came home and, relating the happenings of the previous evening, remarked that one of the host’s friends was SO gay “even the girls found it a bit much”. Is that brilliant? Or is that brilliant? Let me know.
Make of this what you like. There will always be Freudians among us – and why not? Freuds too have a right to an opinion, how to interpret the world. Let them.
Looney, over at his, published a lovely photo of a sea creature. Looks like a snake in water.
Snakes and humans don’t mix. Not for the obvious reason (that they might bite you and then what?). But because they slither. And, like with spiders, you can never quite anticipate what will be their next move. One of my sisters, who has a slightly cruel streak to her – not intentionally, it’s just the way she is – once remarked that there were flying spiders in the house (she lives in an old school, converted – huge place, mostly staircases). That was just the sort of information, on visiting her, I didn’t need. Yet, in all the time I was there I didn’t see even one spider. Most certainly not a flying one. But that’s my sister for you.
Yes, snakes. And eels. I have a lot of experience with eels. I don’t like them. Not even when they are dead and smoked. Particularly not when they are dead and smoked. Does nothing for me. In my early twenties I had a boss – a formidable women (I have only ever worked with formidable women – my male bosses, by comparison, sweet teddy bears on tranquilizers). It wasn’t in my job description which didn’t stop her from asking me to prepare a champagne breakfast on occasion of her wedding. No problem. I love cooking. Messing with food. Unfortunately part of her idea was eel. OH MY GOD. Luckily no one was watching me since all the guests were at the registry office. Had to bloody skin the thing, didn’t I? Brilliant. Still, like most people, I work best under duress. And the bride and her husband most pleased when they arrived back. You can tell, can’t you: I am still traumatized. And they are divorced now.
Like all good morsels, or maybe you don’t agree, the best should be left to last:
Some of my uncles and my then still alive grandfather loved fishing, a pastime. I too love fishing. Indeed I love fish. I love my current fishmonger. She is a find if ever there was one. What I didn’t like was waking up, say I was about 13, sharing a bed with my youngest sister (then two years old) and finding what in our bed? Between us. Yes. Live eels. Freshly caught by my grandfather the day before and put into a holding asylum, an “aquarium”, right next to our bed. OH MY GOD. Yes, so that was that.
Bet you didn’t know that eels can jump, did you?
I have just about had it with the English Press (the paper and its commentator not to be named). What is with the English? They refer to the rest of Europe as “the Continent” when they themselves are part of fucking Europe. They refuse themselves. If the Euro were a bedchamber they might find themselves either in a nunnery, a cloister, or in a divorce court – marriage annulled.
So fucking Germany once more being maligned when Germany is the very country who bails out everyone. Including the Greek. It’s incredible. If, and I hope I won’t because I’ll be going down, meet that columnist who wrote his smear, probably whilst having lunch and one too many drinks on his paper’s expenses account, I’ll punch him. I will. With pleasure. Let him pay for his own Moussaka and a bottle of Ouzo.
Sometimes in life we mess up. But don’t piss on those who lend a helping hand.
Vorsprung durch Technik? Well, you could have fooled me. And whilst you are at it: Why not put up for sale your BMW and break off your neighbour’s Mercedes star?
Do any of you ever think about how you came about?
Your mother born with all the eggs ready, or unwilling, to be fertilized. Your father’s sperm renewed – and at such extravagance – all the time. If there is one WONDER in our life it’s how we – the I – actually made it. That one sperm hitting an egg in waiting. Making YOU. Reflect on it. If your parents hadn’t been in the mood, if that sperm hadn’t made it to the finishing line you wouldn’t be here. Would you?