Sweethearts,
Since all of you will have been buried by an avalanche of good wishes for the barely out of its shell 2012 I shall not add further to your burden. May we all have the same conversations in about 50 weeks’ time again.
This minute I need input: “Shoestring Murder”. Anything come to mind?
Don’t give me Velcro.
U
Sweet and Sour Hearts, we live in dangerous times. I am on the warpath. Pen poised. Paper in place. Yes, RESOLUTIONS.
There is always a first time for everything – a worrying thought – and this year I shall march resolutely across the threshold of an old to a new year with my banner of that which will NOT fail firmly in place. No, but thanks for asking, the banner is not blank. It’s crowded. It’s so crowded that the odd resolution falling by the wayside will not be noticed.
Good luck to you too.
Hugs and kisses,
Ursula
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
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.
U
Just received reply from Jean as to my latest dilemma (no, make that three or four – dilemmas).
Like Magpie Jean can always be relied upon to lend me helping hand (or clip me round the ear – depending on which more useful). So have decided to adopt them as my surrogate parents. Family relationships getting more complicated by the day.
First things first, Jean: What’s just happened is not so much a PROBLEM as feeding into my paranoia. Which increases proportionally every time I turn on the laptop telling me that I am not sufficiently protected. I am so paranoid that I can’t be arsed to do anything about it. Neither do I have any secrets. The two comps I mainly work on NOT connected to internet. Foiled someone there, Jean. A friend no less. Anyway have no time for stinkers who read other people’s stuff uninvited.
As to my recent incarceration, Jean, and please do not conclude from this that Britain is run less than efficiently, a few days ago I received same letter, alas this time not signed by Mr Pepper. Again threatening my arrest and demanding the £600 to be paid NOW or else. Once more being sent into Kafka mode (when you think you are a hamster on a hapless treadmill or, more likely, waking up as a dungbeetle) I phoned the Courts to save them the effort, reminding them that I had been tried and tested on 1 April this year, Magistrates Court, Poole. Nothing recorded on their files Nothing. You want NOTHING, Con? Come to Britain and you’ll be well served.
Fawlty Towers: Don’t mention the war. Eventually they called back and said that yes, indeed someone confirmed that I was trialed and let loose but unfortunately detail not retrievable since prosecutor on holiday or some such. Should you never hear from me again but be interested to see me in tatters look no further than the Tower (of London that is).
Still, that’s nothing compared to my other troubles: BHB, of all people, has mixed me up with Liz Taylor for all the world to see (in a comment at your cheerful monkey). BHB, it was La Taylor – NOT me – who said she’d only ever sleep with men she is married to. Your pointing the wrong finger akin to slander – considering that I’ve only been married twice (unlike Liz – the slut) and the last time I divorced is a good 15 years or so ago. I shall not consider allocating post of chamber maid, changing the bedding, to BHB because my reputation will be in tatters when she waves next morning’s evidence on the balcony.
Which neatly brings us to Jean’s concern for Ramana’s welfare. My father (not Magpie) has warned me all my life to be careful when entering a different time zone. It’s getting complicated. Indian customs (there are so many tribes, gurus and folklore) a mountain to climb. Still, my betrothed – and I respect him for being honest from the word go – has confirmed that men’s and women’s roles in India are clearly defined. Which is good: Who needs confusion over who is doing the washing up?
Since of a practical bend I am currently more interested in the logistics and expense of carting the whole of the Consortium and their regular commentators to the venue (as yet to be decided). Come to think of it – why don’t I get out my Atlas to find out where (geographically) my destiny lies 200 km east of Bombay or was it west? Doesn’t matter. Detail unimportant.
Yes, so that’s the status quo: Prospect of being locked up. Wedlock. Deadlock. And then there is Con. And the RING. Authoratively assisted by Barath who appears good stage manager/play writer material.
And it’s only 0630 GMT Wednesday 4th May 2011. No time like the present.
U
Gay acquaintance of gay friend (son has had with me and my grief over gay friend big time – he refuses to enter that discussion) is given to doing ‘vignettes’ on his blog. This is what gays do after they have tiedied the place, cooked you dinner, wiped your brow and fallen asleep over their freshly shaken Martini (one olive): Write vignettes. Usually on a Friday which is convenient for me since it reminds me of the Consortium.
Vignettes are stylish. And gay guys – on the whole – are stylish. I had to delete some of what I just wrote after my last sentence. Gays are sensitive. As an aside: It’s awful – considering state of my hand – how much I write and then delete. Such a waste. Anyway I can do vignettes too even when my credentials are not gay. Oddly, and I reflect on this rarely, Lesbians never make a pass at me. Maybe I frighten them. Maybe they think I was a MAN in a previous life. Or maybe they are just kind and recognize that a Lesbian making a pass at me would startle me.
Odder, and this might be of interest to Jean and Ramana, I had my cards (Tarrot) read in the foolish days before concentrating on being a mother. On recommendation of whacky friend (what do you expect of someone called Fiona working in financial services BEFORE the whole pension disaster blew up) I visited this woman. She was old then. Probably dead now. According to her I was a MAN in my previous life. English. Living in London. Spending my nights writing. Working in some dour job during the day (that’s Kafka), but enjoying ballet and the arts in general. (I guess I did not have a housekeeper).
The woman was amazing. She knew things about me no one could have known. She had me right there and then when she named the YEAR my grandmother (most important woman in my life) had died. No one knows when my grandmother died (other than me and her children). So, yes, spooky. No matter. I am not sceptical. I trust. Life comes in my stride. And if someone knows when my grandmother died I will take them by their word. But, and some of you who have pondered on the subject of REINCARNATION, what is it to me that I was once a man (for all I know with a starving cat) spending his spare cash on the theatre and going to see the ballet?
Nothing. Because I can’t remember.
U
Boy oh boy oh boy. Have just read most savage review. Both the subject of the review and the reviewer bear some semblance to me. Both women. My god. Am I empty of admiration or full of disgust – for either? Disgust I guess. Names do not matter since they won’t mean anything to my last 1.5 remaining American readers; and my one loyal follower of English descent will only shake his head at such folly; India ticking to its own beat.
Can’t say I particularly like the reviewed. Have “known” her for years. Feel ambiguous about her. As I do about the feisty reviewer. Though do bow before the latter. She is good. No doubt about it.
There are people you do not wish to meet in a dark alley after midnight (the reviewer being one of them). That’s why it’s most important to carry your key in a strategically important position. I will tell you more next time you attend class I hold in self defense: Be prepared at all times. Paranoia is vital in this context.The gift of the gab usually more important than the power of muscle. I have proven this several times in my life. However a key - and I can’t emphasise this enough – is even more vital for survival, particularly when you have laryngitis and CAN’T talk even if apple of your eye’s life depended on it. Keys also assume importance when you have to break back into your own abode with your landlord swinging it across the Pacific.
I have a truly magnificent dead old key in my possession. Why I keep it – considering that I am a straight descendent of the De Clutteurs I do not know. It serves no purpose other than that I like the look of it and wonder where the bloody door is it might unlock.
Have you noticed the role keys play in fairy tales? Next time you read the 1001 nights, Brothers Grimm and/or Christian Andersen watch out. You might need it [the key that is].
Good night.
U
It’s three in the morning and I have just woken. Yes, I KNOW it’s the sort of newsworthy stuff that should go on Twitter and leave your friends yawning.
However, and before I answer three excellent comments to my last mind-blowingly profound post, I have to divest myself of what I have just learnt (source BBC): Lack of sleep has potential to shorten your life. Which is regrettable since I like living. Neither can I pass on to my mother – who has a knack for sleeping unrivalled - that more than nine hours might contribute to her premature demise. She wouldn’t like it and probably toss and turn all night worrying. Worry, naturally, no doubt, also contributing to going to an early grave. You can’t win, can you? One way or another the old tosser will get you. It’s like playing chess with someone you know is most likely to make your king abdicate (two hours in): You’ll still agree to play, indeed give it your best shot instead of conceding defeat immediately; anyway, you do want to give those pawns chance to fulfill their destiny by being mowed down serving their queen.
That’s what’s so great about lack of sleep: Clarity is lost. You start on one subject, the next you are talking about chess. Then like Hansel and Gretel trying to find their way out of the woods all the breadcrumbs have gone. Wouldn’t have happened to clever Ariadne.
The upshot being: Whether sleeping too little or too much, living really is a minefield. As my father once observed (at a time when I was still easily impressed): “Life is dangerous. It usually ends by snuffing it.”
U
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