On the off chance

Ramana informs me that Conrad is stubborn.

I don’t need my opinions confirmed but this once I take comfort. If I may give Con some advice: The more rigid you are the more likely you are to break. And NO,  the witch is not casting an evil spell on him.

Which reminds me of a subject NOT dear to my heart: Superstition. Being my father’s daughter I, naturally, never ever walk underneath a  ladder or any scaffolding. Nothing to do with the bad luck it’s supposed to bring more to do with probability of some loose roof tile or brick dropping on my head.

Neither are chimney sweeps what they once were. The last time I had one round I couldn’t believe it. No black face (anyone remember the book “Water babies”?),  just a clean overall and ultra efficient tools. A bit of a let down with a bill to match.

One of the most rational people I know is superstitious about sugar. He once spilled a lot of it by accident and wouldn’t clear it up himself since apparently that way bad luck lies.  He wasn’t joking either; complete horror on his face.

Recently a friend of mine refused to look after our black cat for a couple of weeks because she is convinced black cats are bad news. Not even my explanation that Bounce is, technically, a tabby and not a BLACK cat, indeed even has five endearing white chest hairs did not sway her. Made me rethink my whole outlook on more than just life in general.

They say it’s GOOD luck when you – accidentally – come across a bride. Despite not being particularly enamoured with the state of holy matrimony (no reflection on Bridget Jones) I get excited seeing brides in their hour of hope triumphing over whatever the future may hold. Quite close to where I live is the magnificent Priory of Christchurch/Dorset; so when in need of a spot of luck I pop down there on a Saturday late morning/early afternoon to catch a glimpse of a meringue. Does it work? How do I know?

I most definitely subscribe to throwing salt over my (I think it’s the left) shoulder every so often. Just in case. Sometimes, in despair, I even manage to drop a plate.

Any other suggestions?

U

Decluttering

Moving house is a marvellous excuse to declutter. If only. Mainly I scratch my head over what on earth I was thinking  of years ago.

Example:  Just discharged book on Feng Shui. I don’t know how many times I have repainted the front door with zilch results. Also don’t ever believe all you read whether  you are an oxen, a pig, a rooster, a goat or anything else in the Chinese Year HORROR scope. Lastly, and is hasn’t worked in years, if you want to put a porcelain frog with a coin in its open mouth into your money corner please do – BUT do not expect any results. Just enjoy the sight of the frog. Every time you’ll see it it will give you a minute of contemplation as to how hollow promises of wealth are. Alternatively you could flog mortgages or life insurance  to the innocent and feel awful ever after for the fraud you are.  Be a hedge fund manager instead. Nothing better than to sell hot air in brown paper bags (the latter coming in useful when having a panic attack).

Back to task in hand. Any moral support (as just offered by Looney) will be gratefully received.

U

Alive, kicking and screaming

Am really annoyed and disenchanted with myself this minute. Have to meet bloody deadline (four hours). Haven’t written one word yet. Instead of which I surf the blogs of my near and not so dear, leaving clever comments. I think it’s called  ‘displacement’. I call it, amongst many worse things,  ‘warm up’  and, more accurately, ‘procrastination’. I recently, Cheerful Monk and Marianna take note, read a book on procrastination. Whilst illuminating, and a fine way of losing the best part of an afternoon, I realised that ALL I was doing was procrastinating that which demanded urgent attention.

That’s the power of books. They keep you rooted to the spot.

U

Dead

The U in the much demanded (by some members of the consortium) humoUr has clearly got the better of me. Following last night’s little dig at Grannymar (in my defense – she isn’t actually that old yet) I can’t help myself noting – with considerable amusement –  some of  the comments to her offering yesterday:

Ramana says:
“For me, you have been the MOST alive person that I have known in my long and eventful life. Don’t ever change.”

I think only the brain dead need explaining what he is saying. And  WHO will attend GM’s funeral should she ever ‘change’?

Luckily, to restore my sanity, though I fear the subtlety of his comment might be lost on some of its readers, Nick observes:
“But am I really alive? Ah yes, I read Grannymar, therefore I am.”

As to TechUnsavy’s contribution (watch it, he/she is a new philosopher in the making):
“Life is about being alive. The point of life is the mere act of living.”  Try and tell that a spider whose skull you have just smashed in with the sole of the next shoe to hand.

U

Dead meat

Before any of you admonish me for what is to come: I never asked to write a blog – and now that I do, and just as predicted by me, it’s turning out to be like a puppy in need of potty training.

Still, what I start I finish. I sometimes wish I wouldn’t have to live up to the name I adopted in the wake of Conradgate but  such are the powers of suggestion and an adopted identity: Needs must, as do bitches.  Conrad turns out to be good value for my pains. And I quote him addressing Grannymar: “For some reason, you are suddenly SPAM and I see nothing different in your entries.”

Oh, Conrad. It’s brilliant – from whichever angle I look at it. It’s 0310 BST and I can’t stop laughing. Not that I have ever bought spam; but on my travails down the aisles of my supermarket I won’t pass the shelf with that pink stuff inside a can without a big grin on my face.

Bon appetit.

U

Das Wort zum Sonntag

What’s the world coming to? First  Catholic frocks molesting choir boys make the headlines.  Yes? So? What’s new?

Now the Pope is embroiled in some kerfuffle over condoms in Britian. Purleeeeese. Leave the man alone. He is in his eighties. And despite the fact that his name is Ratzinger (when he was still a Cardinal) – which, even in the ears of someone well versed in the guttural of the North and the East of Europe, does sound a bit rough (think “Rottweiler”) it is totally unfair to hold him responsible for the sins of his underlings. Soon his own church will nail him. And then there is the pressing question of John Paul being sanctified (apparently, the sooner the better before the true extent of JP’s covering up erupts in print). I wonder what God makes of all of it. Presumably he has better things to do, like writing his memoirs.

Benedict is a fine example of why one should think twice before going into management: You yourself might be as unblemished as the driven snow but the buck will stop with you. Actually no, the buck stops with God since the Pope is only his representative. The one thing I envy God (Ashok, take note) is that he is so elusive that even if he were served a court summons no one would be able to locate him, address unknown.

U

PS I shall not tag this since it is of utmost importance NOT to draw attention to yourself on matters religious. Those who preach “love thy neighbour” are most likely to crucify you when you dare ask questions. Needless to say that the early ‘doubting’ Thomas is close to my heart.

Circuit breaker

Sweethearts, as much as it pains me, here is the GOOD news: For the second time in my life I managed to nearly electrocute myself just now (whose bosom better to throw yourself at than that of the indifferent blogging folk out there – in one’s hour of need).

The bad news is that I haven’t – as yet –  finished the job.

U

Silence

How does that absurd Victorian saying go? “When you don’t have anything NICE  to say, say nothing at all.” Fair enough. If you are so inclined DO bite your tongue – and those of your children; to bleeding point if necessary.

I prescribe to “If you have something to say, say it”. Not for the first time in recent months have I been silenced by a crowd of self congratulatory blogging hypocrites (and other authors), the likes of which will sooner or later make my warrior of truth seek refuge in a quiet desert devoid of personal blogs; grounding my Robin Hood, resting his sword instead of fighting the middle class smug who wouldn’t know what real hardship is if it hit them right into the stomach, the heart or between the eyes. I am in despair over ignorance; our world being condensed into soundbites of  communication.  And before any of you say anything: There is nothing wrong  with being in despair. It’s as much part of the human condition as are rainbows. Of one thing all of you can be certain: Whenever I resurface from the sticks I am  so much happier than pedlars of permanent luke warm happiness ever will be.

This is not a personal attack on anyone. It is an attempt to bring reason to those of you who protest TOO much.  And my god, PROTEST you do. And I do have a strong stomach – as you know.

Nick, on his blog, drew my attention to the assertions of a French scribbler on whose shrine half of Europe appears to worship. I nearly puked after reading a critique of his book in The Times. I cannot believe it, in fact I am furious at how self centered we have become as society: This guy, forgotten his name already, seriously recommends that we “choose” friends according to “how happy” they are. Is this guy a lunatic? He’d be dead happy, wouldn’t he, following his own advice, if all his friends – in the desperate pursuit of their own measly happiness – would drop him should he ever slip up and be down in the dumps. Has the world gone mad? Have I gone mad? Happiness is a by-product of our existence, to be cherished as and when it arises; whether it lasts as short as a day, or as long as a moment. Not an aim in itself. It’s like saying we should never feel hungry. What bollocks.

If  I were Beethoven, which luckily I am not since my main interest does not lie in putting music  on paper, I’d write “My fury over the happiness industry having lost the plot” set to his “Die Wut ueber den verlorenen Groschen”. 

I am so disenchanted I could cry. In fact, I am crying. As good for the soul as is laughter.

I have had it.

Has it ever occurred to any of those who relentlessly go on and on and on about about THEIR marvellous outlook on life  and pursuit of happiness how you might UNDERMINE those who are in the grip of some grief or other? Of course not. Mustn’t rock the rosy boats of your self delusion.

If any of the above sounds bitter: IT IS. I am sick and tired of people using pastels on the canvas of life when stark colours would be so much more honest – and life enhancing. May all of you dust yourselves down and brush off all that is wrong with the world as long as it does NOT touch you – PERSONALLY.

Remember when, as a child, you were afraid of the dark? How grateful you were when a kind adult left on the light in the corridor and your bedroom door ajar? What if the fuse blew and the light went out anyway? 

The trick to life is to remember where the torch is and not to worry whether the battery will last till dawn breaks once more.

U

Mentoring

Sweethearts, somewhat belatedly, two minutes ago I have had some printed endorsement I did NOT ask for. Even the one person I can rely on loving me, by virtue of being his mother, told me a couple of  nights ago, and rather disenchanted he was too: “You know it ALL anyway”.  If ever there was an indictment. Since there is no greater sin than to disappoint one’s own child I did not have the heart to tell him that I don’t know anything.

Still, even bastards like me need a little back slapping to keep their confidence upright and in good working order, so I was gratified to find this little gem the gist of which is that  in order to be a successful bitch you need to be “a truth warrior”. I can confidently, indeed proudly, tick this box since I can’t help scraping the bottom of anyone’s barrel, particularly my own. Which is no doubt why I am so popular.

Apparently, and again I will underwrite this in blood drawn from your stones, NOT being intense and NOT telling the truth makes you “party to other people’s crimes against themselves, but is also a prescription for mediocrity and delusion.”  Would I let any of you slum it by your being mediocre and deluded? Of course not.

U

Cooking up a storm

As my fan club, on either side of the divide, knows: I am critical. Never more so than when I myself am in the dock.

A surfeit of Easter and its attending culinary delights has led me to sad conclusion that whilst generous to a fault – no wonder I am broke, which at my age is a disgrace if ever there was one – I am mean in one area of my life.

I do not know why this should be so. But it is. I’ll stand by it despite the fact that some of my recent acquaintances of consortium fame seem to be shining lights in the face of adversity and all shortcomings of humanity, holding up their heads above water whilst, by law of physics, they too should be close to drowning at times. So, yes, you are  putting me to shame by virtue of your VIRTUE. Long may you maintain strength to  keep polishing your brass to gleaming point.

I stand by my bag full of flaws. I don’t even try to disguise them. Which is a flaw in itself.

Today’s insight into my workings, and I am NOT proud of it: I do not like sharing recipes of dishes I cook with astounding success. Why would I? So people can recreate them in the privacy of their own aga and bask in a glory which is not theirs? No. Absolutely not. A few days ago I discovered the secret of … Don’t ask. I am in rapture. And the only person I will bequeath my culinary insights to is my son. Just shows you: It pays to be my son.

Well, all you fountains of perfect human beings that you are, if you want to come for lunch or dinner please do. Be my guest. Just don’t expect to walk away with my secrets.

U