Like many who enter a marriage of convenience (in this case ‘blogging’) I am disenchanted. Not that I expected much in the first place. The upside being that I have made friends (at least in my own mind) with people who will pass my litmus test, the ultimate. What’s the litmus test? One of you knows the others may sleep well. Don’t worry your pretty little heads.
I read few blogs, I “follow” even fewer. Quality over quantity any time. However: Just like an itch you need to scratch or that scab on your knee, when your ten year old self fell off the bike, wants to be picked to prolongue the healing process, there are bloggers who I visit because they irritate the hell out of me. Say, two or three. They don’t know it. Yes, I know when to keep shtum.
Today I dedicate my thoughts to, and reserve my venom for one who has me not so much in the first antechambre of hell as quietly roasting her on my spit. She is exquisite in her art. And the most foul mouthed woman I have ever come across. It’s as much her trademark as is Lorna’s way to sublimate her life’s experiences into the divine.
So far SO WHAT? So nothing. A friend of mine who is hot on labelling everything and totally uncalled for, will mark her as “passive aggressive”. Since, when necessary, I prefer to be aggressive and not passive I am not quite sure what the term means. I can only guess that it’s attacking others without actually “coming out”. Now I know that I can be pretty vague but when I really have to say something to someone’s face I say it. Not leave my scent mark and then slink off into the night and groom my whiskers.
A long intro to a simple question:
What makes us engage with another person? Intrigues us? Why do we like? Why do we dislike? Don’t ask me. I have few ideas on what is a fascinating subject. Reminds me of chemistry lessons. Try and make water and oil into an emulsion. A lot of oil may just about be able to absorb a drop of water. A lot of water will always show up those little pearls of oil on the top. No, this is not a cookery class. This is wondering how and why people click. Or not.
Have realised that I am my father’s daughter and my son is my son: Our happy go lucky smiley optimistic selves will propel themselves forward till the camel’s back breaks and can go no further through the eye of the needle.
Cue irritation, shortly followed by sense of heightened potential for irritability.
One of the, untimely departed, cats (the one who was a dog in a previous life) was sensitive to a sudden dip in temperature (my mood). She’d bolt through the cat flap before I’d said a word. This minute I am so annoyed a stampede of wildebeests would look for a different route to bypass me.
I already pity my son, due back any minute, being subjected to my disenchantment with lack of hot water. I am trying to finish the washing up. And yes, I’ve checked the fuse.
Before my American readers, no doubt in full possession of a state of the heart Smeg fridge freezer (metallic finish), will utter so much as the word “dishwasher”: Don’t. My dishwasher (best of German engineering, unrivalled) and I were cruely separated on account of lack of space in new den’s kitchen. I don’t mind returning to the ancient art of washing dishes by hand. I have got Marigold gloves. Industrial strength. But I need HOT water.
Don’t send bucket. I prefer running.
PS Where are rats when your ship is sinking?
PPS Naturally, it’s Saturday. A bit like a toothache.
Am in repose (a state of calm and peace).
Have decided that I live in the wrong time. It’s all very well not to be plagued by cow pox after Jenner squashed them. I have missed my boat. Just contemplated Virginia Woolf and the stones in her pocket before she entered the stream. And no, I am not suicidal. You do have to admire the woman’s forethought. Imagine she’d changed her mind half way into the river – minus the rocks. That would have been me: Result: Zilch. I’d still be alive. Only wet. With a lot of explaining to do.
I hate water. Always have. Not water you wash yourself and surroundings with. Just water. Deep. Swim across a lake. Don’t know what’s lurking down there. Try and think of other things – like the shore. Try not to think that you will have to swim back across same lake. Why do you do this? To please your grandfather, and anyway a sense of adventure (yes, I know I said it yesterday) bred in my bone. In truth I wish I lived in Victorian times, with a corset stringing me up so tightly the slightest (e)motion would make me faint. Smelling salts. Gently lifted onto the sofa. Everyone (mainly the paid to do so) fawning to my every sigh and whim.
There is an author whose heroine I could have been and made him even greater than he already is. Yes, Dickens too, Though he is not my first choice. But he’d have loved me. As much as he loved any of his characters. I wish I were Dickens myself. His output. And that was before typewriters. Instead of which I am … in repose. Neither is my phone working. I can receive calls, but can’t call out. Post tele philosophy. Have added to my will that I wish to be buried (not burnt, buried) with a phone – surely someone will keep my credit topped up.