Short

Sweethearts, let me throw myself at your collective bosom to bring me comfort: Yesterday I was sinking, today I am SHRINKING.

Had bone density scan this morning as part of which they measure your height. Make that shrinkage. Last time I measured my height, circa 1975, I am sure I stood 166 cm tall (that’s 5 ft 6) or at least that’s what I told the passport office.

Today I am 5 ft 4.5 in (163 cm). I ask you: When did those 3 cm slink off, unnoticed? I can only comfort myself with fact that doctor taking measurement was shorther than me and probably didn’t do it right, or maybe she wasn’t wearing her glasses.  I wonder how soon I’ll be Gulliver in the land of giants. Not that height matters to me. Particularly as, for reasons I don’t hazard to guess, people always think me much taller than I am; particularly when I am sat down.

U

PS Don’t worry about the bones. Rays revealed that I am pretty dense.

PPS   And how SHORT are you? I can see the line up now. Dear god in heaven: Con will be towering above the rest of the herd with GM deliberately sagging at her knees to make herself shorter than U (that’s me). BHB will plead need for wheelchair to beat us all or, if in contrary mood, she might climb on a chair to trump Con. In which case Jean will climb up a ladder. Daphne will fly off to the nearest branch to get a better view. Looney cops out by offering to take group photograph. And Ramana will strike a pose.

The chattering classes

One of these days I will take Daphne by the hand and totter off with him – into the sunset… far far away from bloggers’ world.

I am battling my impulses, believe me: I do. Maybe Con will stoop so low as to carry my case. And, the Titanic leaving my harbour, GM will be good enough to serenade me to the tune: “May you sink”. Grannymar, your wish is my command: I am sinking faster than you can say “stop behaving like a three year old not yet in charge of your destiny”. I am sorry. I am not three, neither am I in charge of destiny, neither do I resist urge to stamp my feet every so often (in the dark).

What to say? As little as possible that’s what. A few hours into the day, going about my business, and accessing many a random blogwriters’ output glum has descended on me like a mushroom over Nagasaki. Whatever you may say,  BHB: Before Con set me on path of  Bitch on the Blog I was perfectly happy to just make a nuisance of myself, like your good self, in the comment boxes of other people. Now I am part of a village buried by avalanche.

What do I learn:

There is one thing not so good about me: I am so damn critical it’s ballast. I do NOT believe how much rubbish is out there. So what, some of you might say.  And you are right. So bloody what? But it gets (remember, Jean?) my goat. If I could find that gene in the back of my hypothalaMUSH that has made me thus I’d stamp on it and descend into similar oblivion as all those wannabe writers out there are already in. “Tragedy ….” Remember that song? Neither do I.

Why is there so much ambition in the world? If you want to write: WRITE. Don’t make yourself into the next bloody Tolstoy. Why not become Proust instead? You will stay in bed most your life, pampered by your mother and no one will finish reading your novel because it’s too long. I have to be careful now since there are things I could say which would make me an outcast – once more. But, as Con has so rightly observed, in his own obscure way: I toy with delight being an outcast. Let’s see the wordcount: 413

U

PS And leave adverbs to procreate amongst themselves rather than using them for your own purposes

Vanitas vanitatum (Futility)

One of these days I will declare war on the ADVERB. Just came across “rather pleased”. Forget rather: Either you are pleased or you are not.

I am NOT pleased. Deep down I knew that I am not of this internet world. I just went onto my ‘dashboard’, courtesy of wordpress. Rarely do I go there. Who needs dashboards and their graphs?

However I am gutted, like one of my sardines, to find lots of comments I need to “approve” before published. Why? People can say what they like on my blog. So am lumbered with a graveyard of favourable comments of many months. Which is a pity. How to revive the dead?

Magpie, no, make that Daphne, drew my attention to “vanity”  (not mine, just generally). Naturally, all the most stylish of my loyal readership will claim that NONE of you are “vain” – vain NOT being nice. Don’t believe yourselves. Of course you are vain. How many mirrors do you have in your home? How many times do you glance sideways at yourself when passing a gleaming shop window? How many times (please do not count) do you preen yourself when in company? And no, I am not addressing my own gender: I am addressing both of you. And remember nasal hair.

Vanity only evaporates when you are in grip of poverty, depression or both and can’t be bothered to wash your hair;  or you are Miss Haversham straight out of Dickens with lots of spider webs to keep you and your miserable memories company; or you neglected to pay your electricity bill. Don’t be hasty: I am NOT depressed, I do wash my hair, neither does my den feature spider webs (mainly because there aren’t any spiders) and I have paid my electricity bill. Claim on electricity bill  having made my nose grow by 0.000001 mm.

Dashboard: According to one of those long ignored I am “good value”. Good value: I’d rather be a banker. And if I had a twin you’d get two for thrice the price.

I am on a mission now: Dashboards. Best ignored.  How do you think I get speeding tickets? Some bloggers appear obsessive: You will find people recording on the side columns of their blog (in public) the time their visitors have made their entrance: Southampton, United Kingdom 1 minute ago.  Port-of-Spain 5 minutes ago. Yes………….? Come again. So what?

Being of a generous dispostion, I take my hat off to bloggers freely admitting to obsessively checking their statistics every few minutes. Are they ok? How do they do it? I keep being told that we live in ‘stressed-out’ and ‘time-poor’ times.  I don’t. Neither do I keep an eye on the inconsequential.

Maybe those people who qualify on the Richter Scale of their blogs statistics need to be constantly reaffirmed that they exist. I know I exist: I only need to look at my kitchen this minute, my to-do list, the mirror, comments I leave. And generally kick myself.

Keeping it brief as not to stretch attention span of your average blog dung beetle. Word count 529.. You can tell I am in  a good mood, can’t you?

Happy Sunday.

U

Banana skins

Anyone of a squeamish disposition do look away now.

I used up potatoes last night to make soup – just for myself; would never offer experiments on the squeamish or anyone else. It was awful. In fact, it was so awful I am now considering starting a blog on cooking never to embark on. Don’t know what went wrong but splutter I did. In the privacy of my own company.

That’s neither here nor there. Mistakes happen. My motto: Live for a long time and repent at leisure.

However, NOW I am left with a rather large quantity of very liquidy inedible soup to be decanted into a plastic bin bag. I have lived long enough to know that that bag will leak on its way down to the waste disposal. Please don’t tell me to use a lot of (un)read newspaper print as a base: None around. Being of my disposition this causes me anxiety; not because I mind mopping up spillage on my way back up  the stairs –  having already just now cleaned bathroom to my usual high standards – but because I do not wish to be found mopping by either neighbours or son returning any moment soon. Other people get so very easily embarrassed. Inconvenient to ME to say the least. Normally I’d just let fester that which goes wrong till it solidifies; thus so much easier to dispose off, unnoticed: Unfortunately I need that particular pan to make a cheese sauce. NOW. Wish me luck. Should you never hear from me again it’s because I slipped on the remains of what was meant to be a divine potato soup. Please do bring cheese at my funeral.

U

Smiley (mouth turned upward)

Am so happy: The Sun is shining. Our den is flooded with light even on a dank day. But when the sun shines the place is positively gleaming. I can never marvel enough how much difference sunshine makes to life’s pleasures.

Please do sit down first: Conrad left me a comment this morning (Closing Down 10 Feb). Am I chuffed?

I am chuffed. I am chuffed. I am delighted (chuffed- Brit. delighted). I could kiss him. Is there anything better than a hand outstretched? No there isn’t. I so pride myself on my self sufficiency, needing no one – yet, in truth, we do [need others]. See delusions.

I latched onto the consortium and hangers-on by a fluke. Lucky accident? Don’t know. Most of you are dear to me (for different reasons). It’s where GM’s and my paths part: She said, and I can’t get over it, that I should go away and find another playground. Is it really that simple?  How? You find yourself somewhere: Might be a new school, a new neighbourhood. You join the playground. Now yours too. You work at it. Hard. To be shown the way to the exit before you’ve even had a chance? No. Definitely not .

So yes, Con’s so warm hearted response made my day. Funny how he refers to feeling guilty when all his life currently does is to take over his time, promptly followed by my feeling guilty for giving him a hard time.

As they say on a stage in Stratford-upon-Avon: All is well that ends well. Let’s hope it’s true.

U

Sidetracked

You know you are heading the wrong way when first thing you wake up (say 0530 GMT), after having attended to abolutions (is that how you spell brushing your teeth, having a shower etc.? Doesn’t seem to figure in the Paperback version of the Oxford dictionary – that’s English for you: For all you know you might be on the wrong page) you head for Ramana’s blog. He recommends a book recommended to him by Jean. You then find yourself reading forgettable reviews on Amazon. Now when I say “first thing” I do not wish to give Ramana a position in my life above his station. It’s just that he is reliable and with time zones in my mind I know he has been up and running for a while before I’ve towled my hair. I also know that Jean and BHB – though will have to verify this on my world map – are now getting ready for land of snooze. It really is all a bit much to keep track of.

Obviously Daphne is just round the corner, so I don’t need to bend my brain there. The one person timeless to me is – who else – Conrad. Con is the joker in my pack. His card either falls on the floor – unnoticed and searched for – or he pops up at the wrong moment. Try playing poker with no joker.

Not that I play poker. Since – as often observed by those who love and detest me – my face is a dead give away (I light up at a full house and look down in the mouth when I can’t work out what hand exactly I am holding) poker is not the game for me. You need to be poker faced to play poker. I bet Jean makes a good poker player if she were so inclined. Daphne – I don’t know. He might lead you up a gently winding path to surprise you. BHB is hopeless – as a poker player. Even worse than me. I don’t need to consider GM’s abilities in that sphere since she wouldn’t cut a pack with me anyway. Ashok, with a little discipline, will be an excellent poker player – as befits lawyers. Ramana is too kind to even entertain such diversion. Hope he’ll tell me otherwise. Looney – difficult. Have to reflect on him. Though have feeling he has a grip on his emotions. Which is all you need – apart from a pack of cards

Yes, sidetracked. Thanks for doing that which doesn’t come easy to me (inserting links), BHB. I do get sidetracked all the time. In fact it’s quite awful how many promises I make which I can’t follow through. I am basically all over the place. The sofa which I have now been marooned on for months and surroundings speak for themselves. I wake up in a sea of print, open books, loose pages of the Paperback Oxford English flying around, the phone running on empty batteries, and – worst case scenario – my son looking at me: “Are you alright, Mama?” Or offering me a slice of pizza.

Talking about spelling – and Daphne might be sympathetic: When FOS (father of son) and I decided to call it a day – and we both have stamina – he didn’t just give me a wormery. He actually – since I had the car that day – lugged home “The New Shorter Oxford”, Two Volumes, my birthday present. According to my kitchen scales have just verified each volume weighs at least 3 kgs. My scales will not stretch further than 3 kilos. So can’t be sure. At least that got me off the sofa.

U

Bike Hike Babe

Not a day will go by without BHB adding joy to my inbox. And when she (or rather her computer) is incapacitated I suffer. I worry. Mainly about hips. Or whether she is partaking in her daughter’s sauna in Sweden. Don’t. It’s not good for you. Whatever Swedes, Fins and Norwegians tell you. As to Danes – only enjoy their butter and cheese, and Kopenhagen.

A day or so ago BHB sent theeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee most ludicrous cartoon, on cyber warfare. Will insert link in a minute. Naturally when she gets annoyed with me, which is rarely, like earlier today, I suffer even more. Whatever Cynthia says, she is a people pleaser. Make that a No. 2 on J’s eannogram. Which doesn’t mean BHB is not anything else. We all are more than meets the instant eye.

From BHB it’s only a short flight to Daphne. Daphne is my sidekick. He understands how to cut a dash. Jean understands full stop. And no, Jean, I will not go this minute where I shouldn’t. Cross my heart and hope they’ll not dye. After all, green doesn’t suit everyone.

U

14 Feb

Dearest sweetest Hearts,

Today is that day when we melt. Prescribed by the innoncent Saint Valentine. If he had known what legacy he’d leave to the greeting cards industry he’d had his name changed. Alas, we are victims of circumstance.

So, Happy Valentine to all you lost, found, lonely and celebrating hearts. Can I please have some browny points and/or a star in my booklet for good behaviour? Just wrote and then DELETED ghastly comment on GM and her red hot toyboys. I was kind to Con. Still, one cannot not be too careful so deleted him as well.

Other than that I clasp Daphne to my bosom. Closely followed by Looney, Jean and BHB. Hope my arm will stretch far enough to encircle Ramana’ s considerable waist. Ashok, like a monkey, may sit on my shoulder. Try and keep a balance, Ashok. Nick – well, for the moment I’ll keep him at arm’s length. Though he does have redeeming factors. gaelikaa – dear to my heart – is too far away. So that’s me flattened by Valentine. All I need now is a bottle of Dolce & Gabbana.

As you know, and veering off the heart for a moment, my sisters (and my brother) are given to naming their children at length. Apart from the Italians I can count a Sebastian and a Christopher amongst my nephews, and a Konstantin (yes, really). Julius had to make do with just six letters as did Chiara.  And then there is Valentin. Valentin is my youngest nephew. My youngest sister’s youngest son. The story how he came about is long, though not tedious. My mother assisted the birth. He is now, I don’t know, let’s say six or seven. How do people arrive at names? Why would you call your son Valentin? We never discuss names in the wider family now. Not since my father escaped near heart attack at one of his grandsons being christened ‘Benito’.  And before you Americans and English say anything: He is not shortened to Ben. In my country of origin we do not shorten. He is Benito. Basta. Hope my sisters won’t google anything that could lead them to me. I am dead to them already. But I’d be even deader. And never be deceived: Like gaelikaa, my youngest sister Cornelia looks like butter would most definitely melt in her sweet mouth. She is tough. Can’t believe it. Remembering that sweet little girl in my care.

Yes, so that’s Valentine. Don’t drop tears into your sushi tonight.

U

Finale

This comes from enforced idleness: Too much time to think. And believe me – I try to sleep in between.

I am pissed off  big time. I say this one more time and then – following advice from Jean and BHB – I will let it rest. No, wrong, I’ll let it fester. Because that’s what I do. No wonder FOS (father of son) gave me a wormery as a parting present. Not only did I love the wormery – short of naming the worms – I thought it such a marvellous thoughtful gift. He summed me up within one wormery. A fine moment. If he hadn’t been married again already I’d had him back there and then. Briefly.

Worms. They digest rubbish their own body weight I don’t know how many times a day. They work hard.

Where was I? Pissed off. Despite not wanting to use crude language any more. Never mind. As Scarlett O’Hara said: Tomorrow is another day. It’s only 2324 hours GMT so I have a few more minutes.

Yes, Conrad and Grannymar. This goes to you. The two of you are the pits – as far as I am concerned. No doubt you’ll be lovely people in other spheres of your lives. You know what the two of you do? You piss on someone like me. You say things, yet will not enter any discussion, any discourse. Nada. Nothing. Silence. Yet, so backhanded. I hate you for that Conrad. And you GM, I despise you for your silence. Have guts, some gumption. Don’t dish out THAT WOMAN no name on someone else’s blog if you can’t stand the heat of mine. How many times have I left perfectly ‘nice’ comments on your blog only to be blocked by you? There is no forgiveness within you, is there, Grannymar? So stop playing that nice woman you pretend to be. You are not. Still, must remember Jean. And Cynthia. Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.

I’ll let it go. What choice do I have. But the two of you – Con and GM – and it’s only a few minutes till Cinderella will lose her slipper – are shits if ever there were any. Think about it. Before you next publish one of your self satisfied posts.

U

Piglets

Am in shock.

Son came home briefly for pit stop before heading out again. He briefly mentioned argument he had last night with Lawrence (do people still christen their children Lawrence/Laurence? Whatever).

I don’t know what Laurentio is on but it should be withdrawn from the market this minute. Hence the argument. Lawrence tried to sell to my son that the only way forward is to PROCREATE. Think about this, Ashok, before you do. Thus, apparently, you leave your mark to posterity. Bull. Bull. And more bull. Luckily son is not stupid. Hence the argument with Lawrence.

Is this what the world has come to? You shoot sperm in some as yet to be specified direction and become a FATHER to make your mark? Go and chisel. Son being son of his mother would have none of it. And Lawrence better not show up here any time soon – till I have forgotten all about it. Told son to tell Lawrence, not of Arabia, to pen a poem, write a piece of music, or if need be a novel if he wants to leave a mark. Bloody hell. Lawrence is 19 years old.  Wiping my brow.

U