Sweethearts, it’s one o’clock in the morning. Earlier this evening I managed to lock the elusive mouse in the bathroom – and myself out. The latter being a bit of an inconvenience to say the least. I NEED THE LOO.
The Angel often remarks that life with me is a bit like a comedy programme (albeit with occasionally tragic undertones). Well, yes, but where is his or any other manly strong shoulder to dislodge that blasted door now firmly stuck and glued to its frame? All the restaurants in the street are closed at this ghastly hour so I can’t use their facilities either. And I really can’t psyche myself up to go downstairs and relieve myself outside in a dark corner. That’s what men do. Lucky bastards. Yes, so tonight is going to be an exercise in bladder control. I wish I were six months old wearing a nappy. Then, when it’s wet, I could cry to alert my mother or grandmother and hand the problem over to them. That’s what I love about being an adult. Suddenly you are your own responsibility.
The bird was brought up to say to itself: “Man soll den Morgen nicht vor dem Abend loben.” Roughly translated: “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” True. Better translation: “The bird that sings in the morning may be caught by the cat before sun sets”. Emphasis on “may”. So don’t get dispirited before dusk.
Yes, the mouse. Which I keep spelling when typing as ‘mouth’. Such are the joys of the English language. You hear one thing it’s spelled another.
Ever heard of Gas Lighting? The film? Well, Sweethearts, I am not given to paranoia but if someone told me I was being had in this mouth/mouse saga I’d believe you.
It’s all gone quiet. Or maybe I am so exhausted I sleep through it. Or maybe the mouse has died. Like where? There is no exit from that room. Not even the tiniest gap a mouse could squeeze through and under. Bring on Monsieur Poirot, Miss Marple, even the Danish and their gutturals. This is true mind messing stuff (see gas lighting).
In the meantime I am making do (in the study) with a fruit fly.
You know what this whole mouse saga has confirmed to me once more?
I have the patience of a fucking saint. The extent of my patience is so extraordinary I am in awe of myself. If I were someone else I wouldn’t stand for some of the shit coming my way. But there you go. By way of example, and I had only asked a stranger a perfectly innocent question, I was told this morning “You ARE taking the piss.” This was not improved on by him repeating it. I wasn’t taking anything, most certainly not piss. I remained that what I so admire in the heroines of Jane Austen novels: Calm DESPITE of it. Even charming. Even smiling. I came away from that encounter distinctly feeling that he wasn’t mothered properly.
Yes, so the mouse in the house. My nights are those of intermittent sleep – what with all the scratching. No, not scratching – mice need, emphasis on need, to chew hard stuff to keep their teeth growing too long. Yes, live and let live. I just wish it would die without my intervention.
If it were more than one mouse I’d call pest control (my landlord) but it’s only one. A lost soul. If this is going to go on much longer we’ll be friends. However, how can you be friends with the elusive? And elusive a mouse is. You never see it, you only hear it. At night. And yes, it’s still in the lounge. Where? I don’t know. I have turned the place over. Hoovered in unlikely places and generally gone ship shape. Tonight, I am sorry to say, is that little creature’s last chance. If that bloody – intermittent – scratching starts again, tomorrow I shall fork out real money for the dreaded trap (Rentokil – their website leaving you perplexed and grateful how many pests I have escaped in my life, also giving you a bewildering choice as to methods to kill).
Yes, so greetings from the soft touch,
If any of you do mouse woodoo please do let me know. As long as it doesn’t involve blood and dead bodies.
It couldn’t have come at a better time to distract me from business in hand and whilst the Angel is away: A mouse in the house. Since I do count my blessings at least it’s not a rat. It’s a mouse.
From first hand experience and before I googled this hazard I now do know that they are extremely fast, nay furtive, and they need to chew something, anything, mainly at night.
LSF (longest standing friend), a man you can rely on – not least to put your mind at unrest, has painted me a nightmare scenario (on the phone) what with mice breeding like rabbits – only more so. Maybe. But I do know for a fact it’s only ONE mouse. Even mice can’t breed by themselves. On the other hand, knowing my current luck, it was already pregnant before breaking and entering. It’s trapped in my lounge. With no access to food. Oh dear, I can see it know: I’ll die (on the sofa. natural causes – say shock) and in about four weeks’ time the Angel returns home to find his half eaten mother in a state of decay with a big fat mouse holding vigil. The Angel had a great childhood and youth. But it’s never too late to traumatize your children.
By way of comfort and Google I now know that a mouse can’t survive for more than two days without food. It’s nonsense. That mouse is on a wood diet.
If I were of a fragile mind I’d think this is designed to make me crack.
Sweethearts, the older my mother gets the more I cannot cope. She is fine. Though excitable. Even for my taste.
She also goes into amazing detail.
Anyway today she relates how she swallowed some cold fruit tea and got stung by a wasp at entry point to her gullet. Brill. Can’t beat it. Particularly when my mother is involved. Sarah Bernard and Liz Taylor have nothing on her.
What does she do? By way of first aid? And this is where my mother and I part ways and explains why we are so different. She first swallows some high Vat liquor, then she makes herself a boiling hot cup of tea. You may ask why? It appears her first concern was not so much about herself, with anaphylactic shock in the wings, as revenge. REVENGE! On the wasp. Which was already half way down on the way of no return.
You can’t but marvel how people’s minds work. If that had been me … – but we’ll get to my superior measures in a minute. Yes, so swallowing alcohol followed by a hot brew which scalded her throat she killed a wasp. The wasp which had stung her. Now, and this is act four before the curtain falls and you have to hand it to her: She managed to regurgitate a now dead wasp. Only then did she alert her husband, my father, for him verify that indeed she had taken her revenge.
Naturally, and because I am to the point, I couldn’t help venturing in response that it might have been more sensible to swallow lots of cold water, suck an ice cube and generally keep a level head. Not so – as far as my mother is concerned. Three days on the wasp is still dead and she talks with a rasping voice.
To those of you who answered my last post: Thank you for rushing to comfort me in your own ways. I am touched. And hope to respond to your comments one by one. It’ll take time. This is not a subject to be taken lightly.
Alas my dilemma has resolved itself. Whilst, in theory, I was “perfect” for the job in question since I am judged a “people magnet”, the offer was withdrawn. Shrewd move by one of the HR (Human Resources) guys. I am NOT a poker player for nothing. My face/body language does give unambiguous signs at pleasure/displeasure, doubts, the whole gamut of emotions not easily tempered by rationale.
I have read your answers carefully and ponder on them. The consensus among you appears that “needs must”. True. But at what cost? Picking up on Looney’s point: Where do you draw the line between your conscience and survival?
Fact is you have to draw the line somewhere. By way of stark and exaggerated example: If I were put in position of pulling the lever to gas a chamber full of people they’d have to whip me to death and I still wouldn’t pull that lever. The only time I know I’d pull a trigger to kill someone on purpose is – admittedly – my son’s life being at stake. Might even use a knife. Though that is worst case scenario.
Ethics are difficult. And yes, I do understand those of you who mention “the pyramid of needs”. But at what cost? There are times you need to put yourself last.
Anyway, reading backward, I think I have missed my true vocation. Namely that of a martyr. Joke.
As some of you know, others just guessing and studiously ignoring it, I have been in the shit hole of all shit holes (financially) for some time. It’s the fucking old devil’s job to climb out of that hole you make when you find yourself having fallen from a great height. People who once champagne danced on your floor at your expense will turn their backs. It’s quite fantastic. Has shattered my view of the world. I am not a leper. Not being in the money is not contagious.
Yes, insert sigh, so limping on pennies from day to day is a disgrace. Particularly at my age. That comes from not securing a “bread winner”, instead preferring to struggle on, on my own, in the wake of a divorce twenty years ago. Dear dog in heaven will you pay for relinquishing “rights” in the divorce court. My solicitor told me at the time I was making a big mistake. Never mind. That was my choice. Optimist, those for whom the future will “be fine” (my mantra) pay through their nose. Do you actually know how expensive it is to be poor? You don’t. Don’t try it. It’s an experience. But one of those experiences which (best case scenario) serve to make you more compassionate but can do without.
Long intro.Today’s question is about an aspect of a subject dear to my heart: Ethics/morals.
I need to earn money – big time. Not much but urgently. I have got about ten days before this ship sinks. What do you do – and this is a serious question: Accept a job that you think stinks to high heaven (ethically) or suspend all moral sensibilities and do it regardless?
I can tell you the answer for me now. I CANNOT do it. I rather starve. On the other hand I don’t want my son to witness his mother being made homeless.
Great stuff, ain’t it?
Truth be told: In the wake of the turn my last post took I feel shite.
I have never done this before. So here is a first: BHB aka Cynthia I’d be grateful if you didn’t darken my blog’s door again. If you want to have it out with, say, Jean, do. On your terms. In your own space. Not mine. What a crap comment the last you leave to my previous post. You “love” Jean. Great. If that is love I’d hate to be loved by you.
Do you have it in your heart to apologize to Jean – in public? The same public you attacked her in?
You are my mother’s age (you being three weeks younger than her). Whilst I respect my “elders” there are limits. The mark of which both of you tend to overstep.
And, Cynthia, flattery doesn’t get anyone anywhere with me.
“When floor is full please use bins”
Occasionally life should be played in ‘fast backward’. You know: When, magically and at a touch of a button, all the vomit you have just relieved yourself off goes up stream again.
Right Sweethearts, this is not so much my Swan song as waling at what I never thought possible.
Yes. I am getting older. OUTSIDE. Once called beautiful. Now? I cannot believe it.
Obviously I do look in the mirror every day but mirrors deceive. However, do have your passport photo taken – as I did about an hour ago – and your world falls apart. I look like shit. How I am going to sell this to my parents who I haven’t seen for years I do not know. They are (always have been) easily disappointed. Dear dog in heaven. HELP. I can hear my mother now: “Ja, wie siehst Du denn aus?” (Loosely translated, not that she ever uses swearwords, but does convey disapproval in subtle and far more hurtful ways: “What the fuck do you look like?”). Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Lets’ go back to the beginning of my five year old cute self.
Don’t get me wrong. My face is (relatively) remarkably unlined. My neck so smooth is the envy of many a twenty five year old. But, by golly, there is something in that photo – well, I don’t know. Old. I suppose. Shit. Shit. And Shit. Not exactly helped by passport requirement of “neutral expression”, “no smile”. My smile is my USP (unique selling point). Whatever. Doesn’t matter. As long as it gets me in and out of the country (my passport expired two years ago, making me – effectively – a person non grata, in no man’s land, a prisoner on these isles) vanity is not important.
And don’t all of you rally around telling me that all of our passport photos look as if we were on death row, just about to be shipped out to Alcatraz. Though that is true too.
Once the Angel materializes back from his travels I will ask him to shoot me. With his camera. To give me perspective. Oh my god. Dear dog in heaven. Who’d have thunk it?