Displacement

In about ten hours I’ll be on train to Magistrates Court, Poole, Dorset, England, to face the music. Luckily I am tone deaf.

Postponing the inevitable I haven’t YET written a word, neither outlined budget why they can stick their fine where my monies will not stretch to.  That can wait till two hours before legging it down to the train.

However, by way of diverting anxiety as to imminent incarceration, explained earlier today to son how to work washing machine in my absence; not least to not forget to turn OFF the oven. It met with little amusement: Not because he doesn’t want to do his own washing but because he is worried that going to a cell will blow my already stretched mind (think knicker elastic ca. 1955, slightly worn by life’s joys and tribulations).

I packed into today more than most people will into their spring clean spread over weeks: Tottered to doctor, did NOT cry at his shoulder, nevertheless made it clear that after the last three years testing my patience above knicker elastic might need replacing. Him, of a kind disposition, realising that I’d react allergic to anything he might suggest by way of pharmaca handed me a tissue instead and a copious supply of Vitamin D tablets to keep – for my age – apparently borderline thin bones in shape. Brill. Have just blown all my chances with Ramana.

Staggered into town to keep various people in humoUr (depleted), queued quietly at post office; had heartbreaking conversation with son on return, eating muffins which, naturally – in attempt to keep some sort of resemblance to normal life – I had baked ca 0700 instead of writing that blasted court thing. Now, and don’t say it doesn’t pay to speed (unbeknown to me) on 20 August 2008: As displacement therapy goes I have excelled myself: Filed like the devil,  hoovered like Dyson, cleaned like Doris Day and Mr Muscle rolled into one.

With a bit of luck, tomorrow afternoon I shall return to an immaculate flat, alphabetically ordered.

Oh, shit.

U

Curriculum

No sooner had I figured out that “Whatever” and “That’s so gay” both mean nothing BHB sends me something to do with sucking. Didn’t sound so good. Sent mournful answer back to her before double checking with son.

It’s worse: Over dinner I casually asked him what ‘you suck’ means. “You are crap” that’s what. Never mind. It’s all in the sucking.

Teachers and impact they have on your life. Who is who?

Conrad straight out of where you have to sing for your measly bowl of porridge without so much as a pinch of salt. Then stand in orderly line for caneing.

BHB – dishevelled French teacher. She couldn’t care less whether you get zee lingo or not.

Jean. Not to be messed with. Neither to be feared should she find you out.

Magpie. Benign. Probably teaches Latin. Or Music.

One of my teachers smelt. Badly. Why none of his colleagues had gumption to tell him I do not know.

gaelikaa. Gym. I loved my sports teacher. Someone has to make you get into your whites.

Grannymar. Yes, good old glamorous grannymar. She is the nightmare I lived through many a sticky summer afternoon stitching my fingers to bits in misguided attempt to please. Never were more stern words spoken (and by my mother too): “Ursula, you are too ambitious.”  Ambitious? It was needle work not quantum theory.

Anyone who’d like to take role of my maths teacher do step forward. It’s not a role to be cherished. I walked out on some of his tests within five minutes. Mark me down, Herr SoandSo. I don’t care. Shows you how well you taught me.

Looney, send me straight to heaven. In an ironic type of way.

As to all other subjects on timetable, there is one person I do not wish to be taught by. I sometimes visit his blog and am immediately disgusted with myself that I did in vacant hope over experience.

No idea where Ramana fits in. Maybe he steps in as a supply. Thus not to be held responsible for end result.

Bear hugs all round,

U

Don’t shoot the messenger

Sorry to be bearer of ridiculous news to all THOSE of you who use LOL. Keep doing so. Though may the gentlemen amongst you learn that LOL (ca 1960) stood for “Little Old Lady”. How is that for a laugh?

U

Perfect

If the road to heaven is that of orderliness I am at threshold of  first chamber to hell.

I am beyond redemption. It’s awful. I mean it. You know that my very own family once despised ME for being organised? Yes, really. Now they despair at my being DISorganised. Only the mighty fall from a height. And NOT splatter on impact.

Other than that apologies to Jean who I found this morning in that blasted “to be approved” folder (my dying ca mid March in her reply to Con). I wish wordpress  wouldn’t do that to me. Just get on with it. I approve. I will stuff a mushroom but have no time for petty applications as to my “approval”. Dig, dig, dig, Con.

Other than that I have set fashion trend. It’s where the practical meet Damien Hirst – pickled not fried. gaelikaa,  take note: If you need to tie long hair out of your face look no further than the next clothes peg. It’ll do the job. Just remember to find better solution before leaving house.

U

See you later

One moment you learn Liz Taylor has died. What do people expect? Con still waiting for whatever question I am supposed to answer (and I will), emails  and dishes stacking up, unlike Ramana who, naturally, always answers and washes both in a jiffy. Myself proud that I managed to reply to cousin wondering whether I am still with it. I am not.

And then to top it all I phone doctors’ practice. Appointment was 0920 (why they are so precise considering how long one has to wait  after appointed time does NOT beg question. Only contempt. Not that I mind: Who doesn’t welcome time to think when not expected to do anything? So come 0840 I am still in state (Jean and Cynthia will know what I am talking about – rubbish) I phone surgery. They will put you on Verdi’s four seasons whilst waiting. Season four (that’s winter) you’ll finally be able to report to receptionist how very sorry you are that you will not be able to make appointment to see doctor because I am TOO ill. Don’t tell me about self pity. Congratulate me on my survival skills. Receptionist grateful as to info. I am now booked in  a week from now. Let’s hope I’ll be fit enough by then to limp it over there.

U

In transit

Dearest Consortium and grimly grinning hangers on, remind yourselves: Some of YOU laugh on account of your humoUr RIP. LOL. Unfortunately your laughter not discernible at the right intervals. And I talk – regardless.

Applause dismal – as is my failure to know when curtain should fall.

Neither does Con’s Size XL fit my dainty shoe size six (English). There is one person in this circle I should listen to when advising me whether to further air my inherent vileness. No, not BHB. She does not cast people against type.

Deep breaths (yours). Should you never hear from me again it’s not lack of my inflated wish to vent enlarged spleen but because of not remembering how to break into new, and splendidly named, blog. Where are Con and his ladder in hour of diminishing returns? First he created “Bitch on the Blog” now he is nowhere to be seen …

Good luck.

Kiss Kiss

U

Living up to reputation

Fucking hell.

Am on my back again.

What has gone wrong with me recently?

Half a century NOTHING, other than love for my son, touches me. Now I am on road to nowhere. Will keep you posted as to my demise; a place where even the ever efficient likes of Jean and Ramana will not be able to provide forwarding address.

Have just cottoned on to genius. Not mine. Though impecunious too. That is my claim to Mr Micawber (and just in case any of you don’t get it I am NOT referring to Dickens.) Will take the two names (of genius) I am referring to to my grave. Am crying as to what arseholes mankind amounts to. There on a silver platter. Genius that is. Need to insert a smiley. Or how about a LOL to  make life into what it’s not? Fancy a spot of brainstorming? Don’t excert yourselves.

My doctor’s note (many months ago) reads: “Patient suicidal. Will NOT act upon impulse on account of her son.” You can’t better diagnosis, can you? Unless you are Conrad whose blog, unfortunately, I revisited in middle of writing this. Once more he deletes me. What a true shit you have turned out to be, Con. You know something, Conrad? I did actually TRUST you. Big time. But like most people you, Conrad,  have never read a fairy tale in your life. So you take everything literal. Take your leverage somewhere else. May it stand you in good stead. Thank your heaven that my son just rang to announce his immediate arrival. I will finish with you once I have cooked son’s meal.

Don’t expect to escape lightly, Conrad. Few of you will. My swan song will be so blue –  feathers flying as you have never seen. Then Bitch on the Blog will close down. Neither do expect your hightened blood pressure making any impression on me. Fuck you, Con. How wrong can I be? Due where it’s due: I was a bad judge of character. Still: Kiss kiss to Lady Con. I like her. If you know what’s good for you, Con, hang onto the woman.

U

Let live

Conrad asked when “dying” (me, a post a day or so ago) what is a “no-no” over HERE and what isn’t.

It’s what I like about Conrad. He is CONsiderate. Well, dear Con, over here anything goes. I have no policy. It’s the number one reason I like my blog: The freedom. The exuberance. The Graffiti. The tears. Many a smile. Blue fog. Lost trains (of thought). A market place. Two for the price of none.

On Bitch on the Blog everything will be published. Everyone – including myself – is welcome to make laughing stock of themselves and me. Even WordPress, my facilitator, tags any old ecopress at bottom of my posts without asking me. I am all for recycling. Soon you might find funeral directors advertising their wares at bottom of my posts. And/or bottom of comments.

Unlike so many I do not have a “policy” as to CONduct (even the word ‘policy’ makes me splutter my coffee at the very thought). However, and not to make myself a freak, I do have principles. But they are mine. No one elses.

I dislike people laying down the law: One of the reasons I like CAPITALS. Ever since I read that CAPITALS are considered bad manners amounting to SHOUTING in emails, on blogs and their comment boxes I suffer that most unfortunate COMPULSION to do just that. Regardless. Even when mellow with nothing around worth shouting about. It’s why one should never tell anyone, or at least me, NOT to do something: It becomes irresistable. Reason why I  bought my son his first pair of Wellingtons (they were RED – children’s size 6 – he was only 11 months) BEFORE he hit his first puddle in the park.

So, Con, and by now you should know me well enough: Over here, at mine, you will always be safe, looked after. The only confines to conduct are those we ourselves are NOT prepared to take the consequences of. It sorts the ninnies from the squeamish.  So that’s my mission statement. Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, of that stupid saying that if you can’t stand the heat don’t waste space in the kitchen. Why stupid when a perfectly reasonable piece of nonsense? Because you might find yourself in a kitchen (mine), oven on, pots boiling with NOwhere to go (say, you locked yourself in – not as unlikely as it sounds).

A word of caution, even on this blog: Be careful not to mention anything to do with nuclear reactors. As much as I’d like to myself. That way others’ wrath and my troubles lie. Particularly since my address known. I don’t have a British passport however my survival instinct still intact, it’s probably better to keep mouth SHUT.  Hot tip of the day: Never be taken in by members of countries bowing to you;  a misguided attempt to be courteous. A firm handshake, offered freely, much more trustworthy.

Unrelated to above subject, Con, and David will appreciate this: When turning on laptop this morning, bleary eyed, I was hit  by some headline advising to leave BRITAIN IMMEDIATELY. My happiness at being given official permission evaporated faster than you can say “need new glasses”. On second glance it was Bahrain. That’s why it always pays to look twice before packing suitcase.

Kiss, Kiss,

U xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The one and only

Just had a thought. Which is a pity. I wish thoughts had a little control over making themselves known. But, like the Catholic Church ca 1960, they [toughts that is] have no compunction about procreating like rabbits out of control. So you lose track of them. As I just have. Doesn’t matter.

If there is one thing I have to watch big time it’s writing intros to thoughts. By the time I’ve finished intro I haven’t got the faintest idea what the thought was I am introducing.

On a side note: What is sad about the Catholic Church, pro life, anti abortion and contraception is that few people consider that you can only give so many offspring all the love and attention any of us deserve. Which is why it pays to be a FIRST child or an only. I speak with expertise. Whilst the first fruit of your loins will bear brunt of undiluted attention (not for the faint hearted) she’ll also reap all the benefits none of your siblings ever will; neither will you ever know what people mean when they call you big headed. Even my mother once asked me where I take my ‘chutzpah’ from. Come again?

Naturally, since I manage to always have the best of all worlds, I am both (as defined by the imprecise science of psychology):  An only and a first. If you were an only for more than the first four or five years in your life (which I was) you will qualify as an only (in psychological make up); the only being compounded, grandised, by becoming an eldest. Shortly after your parents (mine that is) get married, in November, and years after being an only you find yourself an ‘eldest’ . With all the hardship and heartache that entails at suddenly being lumbered with sisters and brother you grow to love to your detriment. (And I will admit to being overjoyed when my first sister was born; less so with my brother since he spoilt my nineth birthday. Will tell that story another time. Great guy. Have forgiven him.) Siblings: Talk about unpaid labour. My mother was shameless exploiting me that way. Grannymar will know what I am talking about. And not only peeling sacks of potatoes.

For years and years and years people kept wondering why I didn’t have children after point of marriage. Well. As far as I was concerned I had had my family (all three of them, didn’t I?) or so my reasoning went. To this day my mother and I, when talking about my siblings, will refer to them as “the kids”.  Which is all there is to know. So I had had “my” children early on, and enough of them, till biological instinct took over. Biggest, bestest joy of my life. Felix hung on in there against odds. Strong, healthy, on the upper centile.  Head screwed on. Heart in the right place. Of the most laid back temperament. Yet, I guess, you wouldn’t want to mess with the guy; other than at your peril.

Nineteen years later I still can’t believe my luck. Neither do I fathom why I omitted teaching him how to do the washing up. Recently I told him, and I will not forgive myself for this, one of the shittiest remarks you can make as a parent, that this abode is not a five star hotel with room service thrown in for good measure. Five? Make that six.

So I am Only, and I am an Eldest. What do you expect of me. Charity?

U

Smileys

Have to be careful here, Conrad. I have considered, at length, definitions of Jean being accused of ‘denial’  by me, her defence substituting denial by “defiance”,  you laying into her having to answer to “passive aggressive”.  Jean’s definance does not stack up to evidence. Neither do I know anything about passive aggressive.

It’ll never do to destroy a person’s perception of themselves. It amounts to murder. Of an ego’s momentary happyness. Let’s assume that when Jean received mine, later your, comment she might have put on her boots and walked round the park. Tears rolling down her face? Don’t know, Con: Not everyone takes people and their perceptions as seriously as I do. My guess is that Jean is like my father, pretending not to ever be affected by anything. Bull. But then who knows? One needs to consider as to how wrong we can be about others.

So, Jean, take heart, shed a tear or two, and regroup. Admit to the odd weakness. Graciously. As we all need to do. No shame in it.

U