“Not every problem does have a simple bookkeeper’s solution based on cost.”
Which is why I sign off my current (official) correspondence with
I remain disgusted yours,
Can’t say I feel passion for the subject. Only mild annoyance.
Every so often the question pops up why men are Mr and a woman is all sorts.
Forget Miss, Mrs, Ms … in that order. What is of far more a nuisance to me is the eternal question on official forms (probably mentioned this before – if so, sorry to repeat myself but I only have one brain): Are you single, married, divorced, widowed?
Single? Married? Divorced? Widowed? It’s inane. Those who are married have it easy. They tick “Married” even if they are Liz Taylor – many times divorced and possibly (have forgotten now) widowed once or twice, currently married.
No doubt this country’s strange laws will conjure up a court order, a flogging and a fine for my ticking that which I am. Which is single. Previously divorced.
Sometimes, to brighten up some much stressed out bureaucrat’s boredom, I will tick TWO boxes (single and divorced – ain’t that the truth). But you never know. The law moves in mysterious ways and one of these days I’ll be obliged to swear an oath. Probably on the Bible. I respect the Bible but not to the extent of saving my neck. You want truth? Ask me to swear on my son’s life or my grandmother’s grave. Which wouldn’t make any difference to my marital status. Which is …
Being given to day dreaming I have nightmares.
In a recent poem, written by him and addressed to me, the Angel confirms that his mother is “an eternal optimist”, ” … a woman with her heart on her sleeve”. I am so glad he didn’t mention gun powder.
Can’t quite remember when they introduced the National Lottery in England. Early Nineties – I think. So I played. Faithfully. Once a week. At £1.00 (in words: One Pound Sterling) a shot. Six numbers. Out of 49.
A few years ago the price to stake your faith on six numbers went up to TWO Pounds Sterling. As anyone I have lent money to knows: I most certainly do not count pennies. Though even chickenfeed piles up to a veritable compost heap. Yes, so – in line with Mr Micawber – I hardly ever play the lottery any longer. Eternal optimist or not. Two pounds Sterling have – in recent years – become a veritable amount of money. For two pounds you can buy (in the UK) an ugly yet delicious head of celeriac and some other root vegetable. Who needs to starve if you can keep your nerve and NOT play the lottery?
I have upped the stakes. On a benign recent cash injection I felt (the Council not withstanding) flush. So flush I put down six numbers on a ticket. To promptly forget to hand it in on time.
There are two types of people. And I am one of them. Those who will NOT check the lottery numbers at four in the mo(u)rning and those who will. I am the latter. That comes from having read Tolstoy et al (Russians) at an impressionable age. You fling caution to the winds. You think of Hemingway.
Psychologically, it’s an interesting experiment. As you google ‘results’ your adrenaline rises. My computer being on its last leg – loading slowly – you have time to conjure up dream scenarios. You have even more time to try and second guess how you’d react if those numbers you haven’t played came up.
PS They didn’t. So glad I saved myself two pounds.
If I had to liken my life to an art form I’d say I am a sculptor. One who once more has managed to slice her thumb open whilst finally being nailed to the cross of her involuntary own making.
I am faced with a stark choice: Begging, bankruptcy, prison (or, naturally, as discussed recently, prostitution). All of them intense in their own ways. Only one an option I can stomach whilst still blushing.
The damage I can’t service this minute in one fell swoop? £1,285.48. Yes, I know. In the scheme of things it’s nothing. Nothing. But then in some countries they chop your hand off for stealing a loaf of bread. The second time round you are left without either of your tools.
Some headline tells me that we need to address the lack of female composers.
Be still my beating heart. Why don’t I just lie down and die instead? Has the world gone completely bonkers? Why do we NEED to ADDRESS the LACK of FEMALE composers?
Sweethearts, there is a reason [why women – on the whole – don’t compose]. Mainly – try not to reinvent the wheel – that men and women are different. We have to get to my life time to be told that we can, should and are all able to do the same? Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrleeeeeeeeeese!
So glad I don’t have a daughter. What would I tell her? “Address the lack of female composers, girl.” Here is a Bechstein for you. Try not to sleep with your piano teacher. And, whilst you are at it, I have also installed a glass ceiling on top so you can prepare for a time when you’ll be pushed to push through it. Try and time it so you don’t give birth at the same time and on the board room table. Men might faint. And then who will make you push? To the right beat. Who? That’s right. Your female comrade losers. The ones who can’t distinguish between a hearth and a mine.
I am sick of it. Sick of it all. Even sicker of women who tell me, WOMAN, how to live my life. If I wanted to be a man I’d go to Canada and fell trees. In the meantime can you please leave me and my inner as yet not unleashed brain surgeon in peace. Please.
What prescriptive times we live in.
Napoleon remarked (why did he make that common mistake of trying to invade Russia – in winter) that a general is NOTHING without “fortune” (French pronunciation) on his side. True. And Lady Luck is fickle. In fact if Lady Luck were so unlucky as to be my daughter I’d tell her a few home truths. The way she grants favours, or not, isn’t the way to go about it.
First of all: She has no sense of justice. None. In fact, if she was that child faced with a marshmallow she’d be out of the door before she could chew it.
I dislike many sayings. Not least the one and only: “Du bist der Schmied Deines eigenen Gluecks”. Loosely translated: Everone is master of their own luck. Bah to that. I do take responsibility for myself (and others) but don’t give me a horse’s hoof. That way you’ll limp on the home stretch.
Anyway, IT’S ALL RELATIVE. “It’s all relative” is my mantra. You can apply it to anything in life. That way (relative) happiness lies. Naturally the likes of Looney and his mind will point out to me that in order for something to be relative you need something to measure it against. True.
I measure ‘it’ against, say, fairy tales. Particularly on a Sunday afternoon. Or a particular Maupassant novella, the title I won’t name lest it’ll break your heart on reading. Yes, fairy tales, as opposed to Maupassant: You briefly, emphasis briefly, spend many an hour cleaning the castle’s hearths under the malevolent eye of your step mother. One hundred years later you either go to a ball and leave your dainty shoe behind and/or are being kissed by a prince. No wonder I only eat apples vetted by me and in the privacy of my own company. And go barefoot.
I won’t tell you which one is my favourite fairy tale. It’ll give too much away about me – even to the obtuse among you. Instead let’s settle on another one. A grim one as the Grimm Brothers go: “Von einem der auszog das Fuerchten zu lernen.” One who went out to learn fear. Not a difficult task you might say. Take it from me. It is [difficult]. Particularly if you are not afraid of the dark. Anyway he did find something he was afraid of. Lucky him. And no, it wasn’t that which we all fear, it was – nemesis of my own life: A COLD FISH.
The Angel and I can’t agree whether my dislike of the people of a (small) country amounts to rascism. He says it does, I say it doesn’t. I don’t like them, true – mainly because their faces are inscrutinable and when they smile I think it fake. But I don’t look down on them or wish them eradicated. So, I hope, that means I am not a racist. Just full of shit with regards to ………. people. Pleading mitigating circumstances: I myself don’t like my dislike. If I could un-dislike I would in a jiffy – and with relief.
One of my worst case scenarios I conjure up in idle moments when no other catastrophe to befall me comes to mind that the Angel will fall in love with a member of said country. I can see it now. I know I will be a good loving sweet mother-in-law to any of my son’s choices but please please please do spare me to test my mettle in the face of a strong and generalized dislike. Having said that: As far as I am concerned the Angel could marry an ugly snarly monster from an as yet unknown planet with charms not obvious to me and I’d trust his judgment. I just hope that his children will – both facially and temperamentally – be their father’s likeness.
And this was meant to be a most pleasant post about cats. Yes, that easily one thought of mine dislocates another.
Have not so much discovered as confirmed worst suspicion: There is a crap point in one’s life. Namely when you know – and you may deny it till you turn purple – the future is out of reach. Remember that time when it all stretched out ahead of you – everything was possible? You were invincible? Had all the time in the world to follow those butterflies of dreams down the meadow? And then, one day you not so much wake up as shake your head at your folly. I cannot believe it. The only reason I didn’t say ‘I can’t fucking believe it’ because I know some of my readers are of a delicate disposition. And who wants to piss off those who stand by you?
I should have seen it coming. But I never do. Why didn’t I become a fire fighter? That sort of last minute damage limitation seemingly fitting my temperament.
Those of you older to know better please try and tell me something useful, not the well worn. I fight my way through an avalanche of worn cliches every day. And am sick of them. Sick, sick, sick. Those of you younger than me – by a small margin – do not be disheartened. Life is great. And then it’s nearly over. Not that it matters. If there is one comfort about being dead it’s that nothing matters any longer. Trust me. Thrive all you like. It doesn’t matter – in the long run. Mind you if, as I did yesterday, do in your back by doing the most idiotic, the one so stupid I have no sympathy for the likes of me, it makes you evaluate all that’s gone before.
I am in an odd situation. And a little frightened.
Someone close to me has taken to whoring. For the wrong reasons. No shit.
On the whole I admire whores. Why? Because you must be in one desperate hell of a hell to let someone you have no connection with, no desire for, to touch you. That’s where it pays to be a man: You can avail yourself of any artifice and orifice of an unknown – and it will NOT impact on the love for the “real” woman in your life, the mother of your children. It’s one of the Creator’s big jokes. One most women (on the whole) don’t understand but should make every effort to do so.
Where was I: Admiring whores. I don’t admire the one mentioned in my first line. As I don’t admire arch manipulators. People who lie all over the place – lying not for others’ benefit but for their own ends. In fact I despise her. Not for the whoring. But for the trail of misery and slime she leaves in the wake of her never satisfied vanity, her constant need to be validated as the best. Give it another few months/a year and she’ll crash land badly. The test of her real mettle will be whether she’ll accept any parachute offered to her.
Sometimes even I find myself caught in the firing line of contradictory advice:
“Stop digging. The hole won’t get any smaller.”
To be on the safe side I do keep digging until my worst fear – the hole getting bigger – is confirmed.
Holes are conundrums. On one hand, by virtue of being a hole, there is nothing. Just a hole. Which is fine as long as you are not in it. If you want to be swallowed go to Dartmoor. Or somewhere where squelching mud will suck you down. And all you did was set a foot wrong. But at least you won’t leave a hole.
I like gardening. You dig a hole – on purpose. You plant a plant. Fill hole around plant with soil till hole is full – et voila. Come spring all you have to fight are squirrels, deer, cute bunnies, your cat, a neighbour’s dog (the swine), naturally, snails and slugs – and you wonder why you ever thought gardening and its more serious cousin, farming, were a calling rather than a curse.
You know what a vocation is? When you can’t help yourself. Vocation, a calling, is usually associated with those of a true or imagined artistic bend and those who live in a monastery, defuse landmines and or do other foolish things to keep the status quo going. I tell you, and I mean it: Scrub a floor instead. At least you can eat off it and no one – not least yourself – expects you to win a noble prize.