Not to put too fine a point on it: My father is barely older than me. On an even finer point, and my mother won’t mind me putting on the internet what is common knowledge, I was conceived – two virgins having falling in love and first time. You can’t beat it. No wonder, I am so healthy. I was born before either of them had a chance or a choice to wreck their bodies. Not that either ever did.
So it is with some dismay I have learned just now that Mick Jagger has fathered yet another child at the age of 73. I am sorry, guys. It’s disgusting. Not the fact that he shags a 29 year old. Do whatever you like. With a goat if all else fails. But FATHERING a child at any age over, say – for sake of argument – fifty? Nah. If you have to prove your manhood go fell a tree. Do time travel. Become a Viking. Invade England.
To put it another way: Just because you CAN doesn’t mean you should.
Marvel at nature. There is a reason women’s fertility shutting down before their eggs’ use by date. Jagger will go on forever. I can’t wait till he is a few years older. Kick a football with yet another son at age 100? And I am letting Rod Stewart off lightly – not because I like him but because he is short. As is Jagger – come to think of it.
There is a blogger. Let’s rephrase that. There is someone, somewhere, who blogs.
He has surpassed himself. It’s not even him being selfish. It’s him being thoughtless. Inconsiderate.
Yes, so come early December – and now he has got his “overcoat” out – he laments that December’s temperature, so far, is way above “cold”. One may say “warm”. He wants “cold”. God damnit, and if he wants cold he wants cold. Till March. May Bambi’s April showers piss on him.
Why do I even note this? Insert derisory snort. Because people like him with his beer and his whisky on tap don’t give a monkey’s thought to all those homeless, sleeping in doorways, ignored by passers-by, kicked by drunkards around midnight, who might, just might, be truly grateful that December isn’t as cold as Mr Blogger and his overcoat wish it to be. Those who can’t afford to heat the place if indeed they have a roof over their heads. Those who don’t eat because maybe it’s better to starve than to freeze. Those who don’t have a winter coat.
Plumbers are hard to come by on Christmas Eve. May Mr Blogger’s overcoat stand him in good stead. And be moth eaten next December.
Just because November has gone and I am still alive doesn’t mean the worst is over. It isn’t.
To take my mind off things I phoned my youngest sister yesterday. As I do every Sunday. You may remember that my youngest sister, think Mona Lisa, is the militant in the family. She digs in her heels at the slightest provocation. So, for years, she has broken off all contact to my father. My mother appears to be a write off too. All in the name of my youngest sister being indignant. I try and steer the boat but do not flatter myself that I can avoid her Titanic sinking before my mother snuffs it. It’s awful. Awful, awful, awful. Yes, so it’s awful, and Dog Almighty, me, the older sister, can do shit all to make it better. Rarely have I felt less helpless.
On a lighter note (please do note pun: “Lighter” as in match) my sister reported that three of her four children do smoke. And she found them out. The last bit the bad bit. If you are being found out by my sister your marching orders will be given before you know where your feet, never mind your boots, are.
I tried to convey that whilst good mothers make sure that their children’s grazed knees, bruised egos and whatever, you can make better”,bla bla bla bla, as long as they are little and run to you, there comes a time in life when you have to abdicate (with a heavy heart) and leave those well honed bodies, souls and health to be wrecked at your kids’ leisure – or not. Oddly, my/our mother knew this – instinctively. I moved out from home – one minute to the next, literally – and my mother gave me her blessing. My father went ballistic. He always does. Sometimes I think, don’t tell her, that my youngest sister and my father are so alike they should be locked in a padded room and sort it out between the two of them.
I am sure it’s marvellous to have siblings. Only surpassed by being an only.
Dearest sweetest Hearts, please absolve me from all evil as you will be absolved from your own misdemeanours. Not that it’s a bargain, neither am I mercenary.
Why? Why? Oh why, don’t ask Merkel, did this have to become public? The Orange one’s grandfather of German descent? I have never disowned anyone. But am perfectly unhappy to make an exception .
This really takes the Ginger (bread man).
For once not easily consoled, yours,
I don’t like “flimsy”. Bound to leave you freezing. Like flimsy excuses. The see through type blowing in the wind and many a hole. Worse – flimsy reasoning. Where reasoning has fled discourse before it has had a chance to get a foothold.
Despite coming from a long line of the artistically gifted indeed earning a living off their talents, I couldn’t paint you a thing to save myself from being drowned in a tube of Titanium White. However, and I am the only one surprised, the other day I came across a pile of caricatures – all done by my own fair hands ca. when I was about eighteen. OH MY GOD. The girl who, just like during her PE lessons, eschewed the marathon (ie pain staking painting) for the sprint (a pencil swift glimpse of someone how I saw them). Well, insert self indulgent sigh, nothing much has changed. Except that that pencil doesn’t draw as much as scribbles. Which, as the years march on, brings me to a neat though not welcome by others conclusion: The word is indeed mightier than the sword. Where people tend to be mildly amused at being “caricatured” in pencil, they sure don’t like it when that same pencil strings together letters, words, sentences, paragraphs – no more acerbic. Few recognize benign.
Looney, his sceptiscm and the law of probability notwithstanding – November is unfolding as I hoped it wouldn’t. Normally I rate reliability highly. Not when it comes to November. I had such high hopes for a nice surprise. November being out of character – just for once.
Yes, so lost my grip. Not metaphorically – though it can only be a matter of time before even I hang up my coat of tattered nerves; but literally. I literally lost my grip.
At times like this one wishes one lived in the “United” States of America and their sue you for damages culture.
It’s ok. I am sure I’ll mend. What I find distasteful, and always will, how people so easily go on the DEFENSIVE. Where my fall occurred it was the premises’ owner’s utter negligence. When I first reported this to his shop it was mainly to prevent the same occurring to someone else. I don’t chime in with my father’s take on humankind, namely that x % are pretty stupid. However, I will concede that some people’s reasoning will leave a lot to be desired.
Never mind. Upshot being that, in my estimate, the hassle of getting recompense for pain and loss of earnings isn’t worth the battle. Rarely do I carry utter disdain in my heart – I offered the guy a jokey and amicable “settlement”. No doing. How very short sighted of him. And I am not the vengeful kind.
Once upon a time I was a homeowner with all the responsibility that entails. Not least, in Britain, to respect the boundaries your neighbours will impose. Though not British, when in Britain, I will do (within reason) as the British do – or, at least, try not to ridicule what’s bred in their bone. And as much as the Brits’ homes are their castles (complete with a mortgage that even a drawbridge groans under) as much they do like borders.
Yes, borders. As in walls, fences. One of my more far fetched theories that the reason the British prefer dogs to cats that cats do not respect fences. If they want to climb up and jump over one they jolly well will.
So back to Trump and neighbourly etiquette. If my neighbour wants to put a fence or a hedge or whatever else round his patch of immaculate lawn thus blocking his view that’s fine. What’s not fine, indeed unacceptable, is to ask me to pay for it. That’s Trump’s plan on Mexico. The guy has no manners.
Before I take this post into a direction even I find beyond satire I’ll leave you to do your own fencing.
Don’t say I didn’t warn you. It’s November.
And on this fine 9th of the month my first words spoken out loud, the tune the Angel woke up to: “The future is orange”.
I can’t discuss Putin on these pages as the Angel has warned me that people, particularly Americans, get a bit tetchy when you give the guy the benefit of the doubt. The Angel’s interest in world politics is such that he will sit me down and make me watch (and listen to – subtitles allowing) the most tucked away Putin interviews – available on the internet if you know what you are looking for. Yes, so my long held wish which had faded over the years, namely to learn Russian so I can read Dostoewski in the original, may yet come true. After hours and hours of Putin’s Russian ringing in my ears I’ve definitely got the incantation of the language. The rest will follow.
Yes, Putin. Oh, must he be laughing (in a smirking kind of way) at this morning’s result. Like the cat who will be playing with the mouse.
On a different, a sociological note, just now I went to our nearest shop. I mentioned to the cashier that I was a little befuddled in the “aftermath”, and she asked me what had happened. WHAT HAD HAPPENED? Such innocence, such bliss. At mid day (GMT) there are still people who don’t know about a new political landscape. I don’t hold it against her. Still … Makes me wonder what planet I do live on.
Will I ever look at one of my favourite coat dresses (burnt orange with streaks of black) the same again?
PS Do you know what the two men (Putin and Trump) have in common? They both don’t drink. I wish they did.
For light relief I looked at a photo shoot of Trump’s “life in pictures”. If YOU are looking for comfort – don’t. In fact it’s pretty unsettling to see a young boy morph into the man we now know. Can’t help wondering what role his mother played in his upbringing. If any, and if she were still alive, she may care to retrace her steps and wonder where it all went wrong.
To top it all Trump is a Gemini. All the baddies populating my life (and I don’t even believe in astrology) were born, invariably, under that most duplicitous of star signs, namely the twin.
So, as the world is quaking in their boots with breath bated on the eve of the election (don’t I just hate the time divide) reason is (unasked for) pressed on me. Hillary, so I am told, is bad news. On hearing this and my eyes clouding over in disbelief (considering the alternative) I am quickly reassured that – should Trump win – he’d only be the TRUE administration’s puppet anyway. Allow me to remain sceptical. Either you are the president or you aren’t. And if he/she isn’t more than a puppet then I am really worried.
Hugs and hisses, you Americans do have a lot to answer for. Not that you appear to know the question. And for that I do not blame you.