Magnets

Sweethearts, no I haven’t gone on an extended honeymoon or saved one single donkey since I last wrote.

What I have done is fallen off my chair.  I read that “men are more attracted to women who look like them”. Really?  Stay clear off me. All of you. I don’t want to look like ANY of you. And yes, that includes you too. Even if I love you, and or like you (two emotions not always going hand in hand). Don’t dismiss those brackets: I was once told that someone loved me but didn’t like me. Forget loving me, like me instead. Or neither. Just enjoy my company. As I will yours.

I grew up in the belief that – when still in our fertile years – men and women are attracted to each other, oh so mysteriously, by their genetic compatibility. Which is why you shouldn’t have babies with a sibling because, as my mother once put it so delicately with regards to some unfortunate neighbours of ours: “Why do you think inbreeding gives us a village idiot?” My mother is good like that. She calls a spade a spade. And will hand you a fork if you want your soup running through the gaps.

Forgetting genes, the other theory is that we choose someone roughly as ATTRACTIVE as WE are. Hmm. Yes. I have to say: Even at age five my first boyfriend was handsome indeed. Very. Nothing has changed. It may be a fluke of my life, and a very lucky one at that: I have always found magical combinations – charm, looks, wit, intelligence, indeed eloquence, sharpness of mind, honesty, openess. And that’s just my friends. As they say: You attract into your life what you need. Good. So apart from a bit manure I attract the fair and beautiful of both soul and exterior. Even my cats – until they died – were faultless.

So when you go home tonight don’t look at the one you swore yourself to in the light of your own likeness; don’t go down the pub to meet your friends only to realize that you are looking at the mirror behind the bottles across the bar; don’t expect your children to look like you unless you are their mother. Fathers, by necessity, are gamblers. I could now say something else my mother said some years ago but it might result in a law suit. Not brought on by either her or me but one of my nephews. Because one of his cousins looks more like my nephew’s father than he does. Work that one out if you can.

Hugs and kisses,

U

My fate in your hands

Am in state of panic. Well, as much as I ever panic, which is not a lot. In fact, come to think of it: I never panic. Which, sometimes, is part of the problem – not the solution.

Yes, so my horror scope has just informed me that (contrary to my innate character) I should say “yes” to everything that comes my way this week. Even if I can’t see the point. Doors will open. Yeah, well, we all know what happened when Bluebeard went out and forbade one of his many brides to open one particular door. To test her (and maybe her intelligence) he made the challenge so much harder by leaving the key with her. Would she, wouldn’t she? Well, curiosity got many of those little kittens. I am not risk averse but I weigh risk carefully. And mostly I do engage brain.

Anyway the upshot being that I hope during this coming week no one will suggest anything to me. Or, if you do, please do make sure it’s something that I would have said ‘yes’ to anyway. Regardless of the stars.

Thank you.

U

Every which way

Hot tip of the day and please do not take this lightly:

Just because you know that that thundering road round your every day corner is a ONE way street doesn’t mean every one else does. Always look both ways. Right and left. Left and right. Step back. Look again. Cross.

U

Horses for courses

As both Renee and my diary brought to my attention – yesterday was another Friday, 13th. Which is why it’s a good job that the “Grand National”, the horse betting event for the Great British Masses, is always run on a Saturday. This year’s taking place today.

I don’t know anything about horse racing, I don’t think about the ethics of it. It’s years since I last bet on anything. So time for a touch of reckless abandon. The amount I set on six horses so small you may wonder why I bothered. Well, you know: It’s not how much you win, it’s the thrill of the race. And if you wish to receive any insider tips on how to spot a winner do look no further:

Forget the intricacies of past performance, odds and predictions. There is only one foolproof way, and that is to go by name. Preferably with all the odds (say 200:1) stacked against you. Forget track records. Believe in the outsider.

The horses I have chosen and please do draw your own conclusions as to my current disposition:

- BECAUSE I COULDN’T SEE

- ON HIS OWN

- ORGANISED CONFUSION

- POSTMASTER

- SEABASS

- and in honour of my son and his long locks (just don’t tell him I put a bet or he’ll raise a brow) VIKING BLOND.

I checked the papers as to odds about 9 am this morning. Annoyingly, by the time I put my stake on, just after midday, the odds for Postmaster had fallen from 150/1 to 80/1. Organised Confusion which was 18/1 is now at a reassuring 20/1. Fish clearly in plenty supply this morning ‘Seabass’ has gone from 20-1 to 9-1. Wish I could say the same for my fishmonger’s prices.

With Viking Blond at a continued and unrealistic 100/1 worst case scenario I will be up £3.00 on my whole stake. and at best I’ll be £94 better off.

And yes, I did bet ‘one way’, no return. Go the whole hog.

Before you condemn me for squandering money better employed buying toilet paper let me remind you that we all need a thrill every so often. And at £6.00 that’s cheap compared to say … I don’t know, what?

Two hours to kick off and my adrenaline is heading for the starter box.

U

Knuckle ride

Should you never hear from me again it’s because I have murder in my heart. Do bring grapes (chilled) and postcards should you be so inclined as to visit me in prison. Do not answer this. Next time you’ll hear from me is when it’s either too late or later tonight.

U

Russian Roulette

I don’t think I am given to masochism more than your average me. Remember that scab? Don’t.

Do you play the lottery? I rarely do. Not because I don’t want to. But because I forget and miss the deadline. Like tonight. It was more important to me to fill the hole in my son’s stomach than winning millions.  Anyway, he does not approve of my gambling. What do you mean? Gamble? It’s hardly Monte Carlo, is it, marking six boxes, handing over a pound for a little hope and adrenaline in exchange? In fact, and as an aside, my mother has this down to a fine art: She’ll play and, for days on end, wont’ check the numbers, thus extending her pleasure of hope.

What would you do? You had that hunch. You tried to get on the lottery’s website two minutes before deadline. You abandon mission for good reason (see above): Do you later check the numbers? Do you? Would you?

If you are me you will [check those unplayed numbers]. To do so you need nerves of steel. There must have been three times in my life when, by way of inverse perversion, hyperventilating, I wished with all my heart that my intended numbers would NOT come up. Because if they had what’s the choice? Shoot myself? Better men than me have shot themselves over less. Not given to suicide I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. It’s beyond the limits of my imagination: What does one do when, instead of putting on the water for pasta, you could have placed those numbers? I don’t know. I do not wish to know. And I hope I’ll never find out.

What’s your favourite number? I’ll play it. Please don’t say Zero, Looney. It’s got to be 1-49. If we get it right what a party that’ll be.

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

Docked

Depending on how much my welfare is close to you heart here are the good/bad news: I am NOT being detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Such are my charms (make that total incompetence in this case) that fine was reduced to a third (£220) payable in £5.00 instalments per week. I did offer to do community service instead to clear debt in one go, but they don’t do that round here.

It was all quite impressive, and VERY formal. On arrival a jovial warrant officer, Mr Pepper (of all names), granted me court bail – free of charge because I was already there. How glamorous is that? BAIL. And why being given bail when already in their claws? That’s drama, and I like a bit of drama, particularly when your stomach is already churning.  Trust the English to make you smile when in despair. Later a motherly type (the usher) will invite you into court room before the magistrates enter. She will lull you into sense of security with aa tissue box at the ready. Apparently women in the dock cry, men get ANGRY. I didn’t cry, I most certainly wasn’t angry. Just embarrassed because in answer to certain questions I had to repeatedly reply that I had no recollection whatsoever. I didn’t even know which years they were referring to. Was I deep frozen at the time? Their file shows that I was one of the CHOSEN in police clampdown on traffic offenders (Feb 2009). However, they were not able to tell me what the original offence was; only that I had defaulted on a police fine. They could have told me I’d eaten my grandmother I’d probably believed them. Anyway, clearly well disposed towards what the tide had swept into their dock they were lenient. And to think of all the contingency plans I’d put into place back here at the ranch. It is just so typical: On one hand I never believe things will go wrong ; on the other I always prepare for worst case scenario like stock piling millions of rolls of toiletpaper in case we run out of trees – that sort of thing. And, after my mad displacement the day before, I then – again typical and as so often proving an unnecessary expenditure of energy - spent a lot of my night mulling over how to talk them out of destroying the last strands of my sanity. I should have just slept instead.

I was sworn in. How cool is that? In my case not on the bible. Seriously, usher asked me whether I adhere to any religious beliefs. That question, with all its philosophical implications, threw me off course for a moment. No. So there was no book. Just the “I hereby solemnly swear ….” Oh, the melodic beauty of those words. All of them.  And as you know I love “the truth and nothing but the truth”. And then there was “Court Rise” on entry of those our happiness depends upon. The magistrates (three) sit down; luckily I was compos mentis enough NOT to sit down too – defendants do STAND.

However, for those of you who’d have liked to see me swing from a tree: All is not lost. On my way to court I kissed the tarmac. Indeed, I fell – flat on my face. How I do it I do not know; but do it I do. Sad result that I don’t trust my feet any longer (or my glasses, come to think of it) . So, yes, Sweethearts, as they say in the motherland: The bird twittering with high hope in the morning will be the cat’s dinner (roughly translated). Pain started kicking in about two hours later just as my case was called. Made wincing noise every so often which added music to proceedings. Had to explain that I didn’t do it for effect but that yes, indeed, I had had – in all likelihood - just broken my arm (same one, second time in a row).

Makes one ponder. Not just on luck. No sooner healed and mended no sooner broken. Considering that for the first fifty years of my life I was NOT a walking disaster area there must be a lesson in there somewhere. And think of the lingo when you translate the literal to the symbolic: Broke. Fallen. Stumbling through life. Pride comes before the fall. Flat on your face. Take it on the chin. Omelettes and broken eggs. Wood and sawdust. Anyway, so morning in court, made it back to Southampton on train – heroically considering  but wanting to be back on home turf ; afternoon and evening in Accident & Emergency. Am pumped full with pain killers which is what allows me to keep you up to date. Still, at least my wrist held up; elbow not so. I can see it now when they dig me up in 500 years. I just hope they won’t draw too many conclusion about the world 2011 when disecting my skeleton. On a side note (there is always one): I don’t like skeletons, never have. They look so mangy, so boney, and they grin, in a smug type of way. Seriously.

Yes, so upshot being, and confirming one of my views on life, that particularly when standing tall you will take the odd tumble. Son observed on my return, quite rightly, how irritating that good news (my not being shackled) immediately overshadowed by NOT so good news (ie my being shattered once more). Still, that’s life and if that is all that is blighting mine then I am a very lucky person indeed.

Everlastingly yours,

U

No laughing matter

Sweethearts, thank you so very much for your concerns. Each one in their own way.

Have been off radar for the last week – bloody laptop not picking up wifi. With son being away in the motherland at critical moment, I also managed to do in my back with all the heavy lifting, legging around cartons full of books. The rest of my adventures this week you won’t believe. It’s actually rather irritating that people think I make up cock and bull stories just because they [that's people] live sedate lives. My life has never been sedate. I fly by the seat of my pants (which are now in shreds).

Talking about the spine and lifting: I cannot believe how one’s body can let you down because you are a few years older than recently. I am as strong as an ox. Yet, all the exertion has rendered my vital limbs as stiff as I don’t know what (some dry and brittle wood I guess which, come to think of it, is good for burning). Whatever. Self pity must be kept at bay at all times, though is most invigorating in moments of privacy.

I think life is all the wrong way round. We should be bourn with R’s hindsight, the wisdom and experience we acquire over a life’s time and then work backwards to our childhood. Naturally that would do therapists out of a job but be so much better for the rest of us.

Wish me luck as I am shuffling deck chairs on the Titanic at the rate of knots.

Greetings from down under, as ever yours,

Ursula

The missing link

Magpie recently observed (in his comment on my “Disparity”) and I quote: “… I think we tend to laugh at that which embarrasses us. Like slipping on a banana skin, that is so embarrassing.”

His, to me, puzzling observation kept following me around like a stray dog and I have now found him [the dog] a new home: It’s probably a character defect that I don’t laugh at people’s apple peel or banana skins. Worse, I myself am NOT easily embarrassed. I have been in situations that would make normal people want to crawl underneath the next available stone or be swallowed up by that platitudinous hole in the ground. Yet, to me it’s nothing. No doubt a psychologist would have a field day. Or maybe I was a rhino in a previous life.

If and when I make an ass of myself which I do often, fine, so be it. I don’t mind. Which is not the same as saying that I don’t kick myself frequently for having done so.

There is only one occasion in my life when I fled a place in horror, embarrassed beyond belief.  Embarrassed not so much because of what had happened to ME but how people reacted to it. I don’t mind telling the full story but then I might embarrass some of YOU. And that wouldn’t be a laughing matter, would it?

Seriously, what embarrasses any of you – other than, say, nasal hair?

U