To Hare is Human

Wile E. Coyote runs off the cliff and FAILS to fall because it doesn’t occur to him to look down.

U

Yellow green

This morning whilst waiting, patiently, for a sign from hell or heaven a seagull shat on the crown of my head. It was only the second time in my life. Cooling. And why the crown? Why not soil your dress, shoulder or whatever else stands in the way of a seagull’s toileting? Don’t say seagulls aren’t considerate. It’s cheaper to wash your hair than take your jacket to the dry cleaners.

My consolation – in recovery not so much from humiliation as disgust  – I remembered that folklore has it that a bird relieving itself on top of you amounts to good luck. And what do you know – it did.

Before all of you rush out to be pooed on by birds – forget it. Per chance can’t be forced.

U

May the Best Man not win

Today, Friday 24 Aug 2018, the Angel attends a wedding (the ceremony starting in about fifteen minutes). One of his closest friends getting married. The Angel being one of three best men. Why anyone needs three best men to carry him to the altar I do not know – but maybe the groom was torn between longest standing friend, brother and, well, the Angel. That’s indecision for you.

In the motherland they don’t do “best man”. Bridesmaids, yes, but men? No. Neither does her father walk the bride down the aisle (in the motherland). Ridiculous. My father didn’t own me all my life; so why would he “give me away”?

Anyway, the English do have their ways in any given social setting and are most particular about it. If you’d like me to expand I will. I have more anecdotes (not least on hats) than I care to remember – though all of them, moderately, funny.

Be that as it may, before the Angel set off earlier he related to me what I had not known. Every time someone relates something to me I don’t know I am surprised (the older I get the more surprised I am at all that indeed I have not known, do not know and never will). So, apparently in an age long gone (don’t hold me to detail) the best man’s duty was not to ship the groom to the altar in time. Not at all. It’s so bad it’s worse.

Cast yourself back to a time when you had to negotiate Robin Hood and other daylight robbery in dark forests on the way to your destiny. Say you got slain. It happens. Then, please dear Readers, do sit down and reach for the smelling salts, the best man had to stand in for the groom. Yes, really. When a wedding was called it had to take place. Never mind about love and stuff. An understudy will do.

The Angel, being of an orderly mind, asked today’s groom (last night) why then he had appointed THREE best men. Were they supposed to battle it out between them should shit happen between departure and destination? Let’s just say that, as incentives go, the Angel was determined to get the groom to the altar in one piece. Not because the bride isn’t lovely. She is. But the Angel  knows he’d win the fight and does have other plans.

Yes, in slightly nostalgic mode; last couple of days letting all the weddings I have attended (not least my parents’ when I was four) pass by my inner eye.

Any memories of your own or others’ weddings you’d like to indulge me with?

U

Barely there yet irritating

Since some members of blog land currently appear to be in “ain’t it and OTHER people awful” mode, some habitually – those ones usually the ones who, naturally, are the exception and paragons of virtue, let me tell you what IS awful.

Those sewn-in-labels inside of a garment, at the back of your neck. They scratch, they itch, they irritate my skin. It happens, occasionally – even when the label bears the name of a designer whose reputation  far outshines the garment itself.  It’s in the rough thread stitching. So far so nothing. Here is the remarkable bit: It took me about TWELVE years to pinpoint a minor irritation I feel every time I wear that “thing” (it’s a top falling to mid thigh, made in India, indeed Indian  – shame on you, Ramana) which is beautifully cut, airy as befits this weather and suits my overall colouring (think golden girl).

Great, isn’t: At the point of it falling apart (I now only wear it indoors) it occurs to me to do something about that minor irritation at the back of my neck. Yes, just now, with no intention to write a blog post, I turned that bit of the collar over and put a paper clip (!) on it to keep it in place. It’s lovely. My world is, once more, free from that worst of irritations, namely the almost imperceptible one.

U

 

Backside

Here is a turn up for the books, and please smile as I did: No sooner do I publicly toast John for his part in restoring relations, no sooner some “Georgia” pops up and declares that I “lick ass”. Well, “Georgia”, I don’t think you are cut out for a job in world diplomacy; brokering and supporting peace clearly not your strong point. However, I note your robust language. Maybe a job on a building site more your thing. You could always whistle when I walk past.

What I’d like to know what possessed you to link back to my blog. There is a certain finesse to it; though at half past three in the morning it’s somewhat startling when I clicked on “Georgia” to find myself staring at Bitch on the Blog’s homepage. Obviously it’s a marvellous blog – so I am sure temptation to publish under my name is rife.

Maybe some of my readers could do me a favour and test how this works by leaving me a message, say “testing testing” or something suitably rude, but do put my blogname down in the box where it asks for yours. Can’t wait.

Anyway “Georgia” whoever you are, I hope you are happy that you have caught my attention. Quite a little risk taker, aren’t you, considering that I might come to lick your ass too.

U

 

 

Tribute to a blogger

As of 4 September content of the original post having been made irrelevant, indeed the original intent now seeming rather silly and misguided, I have taken liberty to take it down.

No Echo

This minute I am upset. What better shoulder to throw myself on than that of the collective blogging community?

Before you read on please do remember: I have the patience of a saint. I do bear with call center  staff, making allowances for the shit jobs they do, realizing that they are only mouthpieces of company policies.

But there are limits. And my limit was (nearly) exhausted.

Call center staff have their scripts. I appreciate that. Neither are they nor I robots. How many times do you actually have to plead with them to not read you the same shite again and again. Reminding them of what we covered yesterday and today, and then some. Suggesting a way forward. No, no. Not at all. Let’s go back over the past. I nearly lost it. Which is not my style. In the end I asked to end the conversation as it was going nowhere, resume same conversation later today when I’ll have regained my composure and, maybe, they will have taken time to think (outside their box).

There is something so dehumanizing, impersonal, about the world we now live in it has power to condense me into despair.

U

Limitations of google

Let me put a tiny grief of mine at your doorstep.

Every so often I go somewhere, say a shop where the music is so awful you flee the place; alternatively, as happened earlier, there is one [song] which you’d completely forgotten about. You like it. You  have no idea what it’s called. No idea about the band’s name. But you catch just enough of the lyrics to kid yourself you may be able to google and track it down.

Unfortunately, back home I now have the tune in my head, forgotten about the lyrics. Strange, don’t you think – maybe the last bastion – you can’t google the memory of a song just by its tune. Luckily I am easy going; otherwise I’d be really pissed off this minute (with myself). Which reminds me: One of my friends, a painter who actually lives off his art, also a stickler for detail, once reminded us (we were only in our late teens) of how many brain cells we lose every day. Compounded by any vices. My inner, as yet to be unleashed, accountant didn’t think much of it at the time. Live off your capital. Now I am not so sure. I try and ignore that occasionally my memory will take time over retrieving something so idiotic my only excuse is that it’s so idiotic it’s not worth retrieving. Yeah, well, it’s not easy to deceive myself.

Any holes in your tissue?

U

Evolution and the chair

Here is the bad news and I quote:

“Bottoms are not designed to be sat on”. Depending on your command of English there are various interpretations to this: I most certainly don’t wish my bottom to be sat on. By no one. On the other hand how do I sit down without my bottom having a role to play? Can’t wait for Ramana to suggest I might stand on my head instead. Stand on my head? GET OFF.

U

Evocative

My mother and I, over the span of the life she and I have shared, sometimes talk about the “senses”. Which one either of us wouldn’t mind to lose as much an other. Try it. You’ll soon come unstuck.

Today, smell came to mind. Yes, smell. I bought a melon. My intention was a WATER melon since it’s the coolest thing when it’s hot but their weight made me buy a small Galia instead. What distinguishes a watermelon from a Galia?  A whole, as yet not cut open, watermelon smells of nothing. A Galia? Oh my god. Nectar of the gods.

Smell is evocative. Be it a perfume, be it an aftershave, be it a flower, be it musty. One whiff – in passing, on the high street, at a party – and what do you know: Bingo. Transported to another time, another place.

What are your smell(y) memories? Do they make you smile, weepy, long for, or full of disgust?

U