Round and round

In the line of my desk’s vision is a florist’s shop. Run by a mother and her daughter. Both as round as apples. Sweet and lovely. Wish I could give them more business. Can’t, currently, afford to buy myself flowers.

They have a dog. It’s not small. Neither is it big. It’s ugly. The street has – most painfully and as slowly as only the English can – been pedestrianized in the last many months. So whilst the big wigs who give a shit over a parking fine which makes no dent in their restaurant bill will park where they shouldn’t the dog is now out there. Not that we have much sun but whenever I see that dog outside the florist’s shop, on the freshly laid pavement, that saying about “Mad dogs and Englishmen in the midday sun” springs to mind. Kittens chase their own tail. But then cats make do with whatever moving comes their way. That dog runs around in circles. Incessantly. If he were a human they’d carted him off to a lunatic asylum a long time ago.

U

Curvy

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?

U

Tall tails

Choose your friends wisely. Particularly when given to fainting.

It will, immeasurably, add to my mystique that I can now claim that one of my correspondents, BHB, close to my heart, let her cat out ca 2 in the morning; the cat, half way up the tree, consequently eaten by a coyote. How romantic is that? Anyone can go all Little Red Riding Hood, out in the woods, with her little basket, and ask the wolf in bed and in granny’s clothing: “Why are your arms so hairy?” To have your cat devoured by a coyote raises the stakes.

Hope the cat was fat.

U