Joker in the Pack

A few days ago Conrad tells me that I am the “highest maintenance person” he knows. Don’t know what it means. Sounds grand.

Some minutes ago I receive from him (in response to my “On the Narrow”):

“To cut the topic to the bone, I think that abuse doesn’t particularly bother you, I think that people not paying attention to you does.

Is yours a derivative personality? Does your well-being, your substance, require our presence?”

Yes, Conrad, let’s employ the boning knife:

Over the last eighteen months or so you, Conrad, have accused me of many things. Not least that I am liar. A liar. Whatever you say, Conrad. Whatever you say. You have also diagnosed me as borderline psychotic. Whatever you say.

Let’s concentrate on your last pronouncement: “Abuse does not bother you”. No, Con, it doesn’t. Keep going, Conrad. Put it to the test.

“I think that people not paying attention to you does [bother you].” Apply leverage here, Con: People ARE paying attention to me. Wonder why. Don’t you? It’s whyI am laughing all the way home to my EGO bank, isn’t it, Con? And no, it doesn’t bother me in the least if someone doesn’t [pay me attention] since, all my life, I have had more than my fill. Question: Why do YOU [pay attention to me]?

“Is yours a derivative personality?” Conrad, I can’t answer your question. I do not know what a ‘derivative personality” is.

You ask: “Does your well-being, your substance, require our presence?” No, it doesn’t.

U

Use by date

As one does I have realised a nmber of things – unrelated.

Firstly: Con is no fun. If he were a piece of cinder he’d burn just fine. If he were my brother I’d put a certain question to my mother.

Secondly: Don’t flatter yourself, Con. You and Ramana swapping places? What is this? Ramana may have shortcomings but he doesn’t shake people off as one does pesky flies. No doubt, you, Con, will have one of those fly zappers (plastic) on hand at all times. One of my brother’s-in-law does too, being an OXEN – albeit of a sweet temperament. Until he spots a fly.

Thirdly: Got so lost on Con, have now forgotten. This is what the Cons of this world do to you: One moment you have a brilliant thought the next you are conned (what BHB calls “A senior moment” – I am too young for senior moments so don’t know what my excuse is). Let’s fly over to storm ridden States and hope – as I write – that Jean is unwrapping those bones. Don’t know what I am talking about? That comes from not paying attention.

Talking of which BHB has sent me a colour test to see where on the scale of the dreaded Alzheimer I am. I refuse to do that test. Haven’t even looked at it. I don’t want to know. I am falling apart as it is without it needing to be confirmed. Even my mother (three weeks older than BHB) mentioned Alzheimers last Sunday. My parents are the least likely of everyone I know to succumb. They won’t. Which didn’t stop her from making an impassioned argument why Alzheimer is a reason to top yourself . Naturally, I pointed out to her that by the time it’s set in you’ll be the only one NOT to recognize it for what it is. She, as only she can, insisted that she’d know before crossing the borderline. Brilliant. Whatever. Keep doing Soduko or whatever people of a certain age do.

It’s still not come back to me what was to constitute the center piece of this post. Never mind. At least we have established that Con is no fun. Sorry, Carol. There is ONE question on my mind. It’s so awful even I can’t mouth or commit it to ‘paper’. What’s the question? What did I tell my mother? Before they’ll be Alzheimered I’ll be down six foot under.

Hugs, kisses, before it’s too late and I won’t recognize any of you; if I need nursing please do volunteer GM for the job. She’ll enjoy it.

U

On the narrow

As the Jewish say: “Let’s talk Tacheles.” No need to google: It means “Let’s talk STRAIGHT”. Got it?

Having set the tone I don’t need to tell you that I am PISSED off, BIG time. Oh yes.

Mainly with myself – having let myself been drawn into some of the most vacuous of discourses on various blogs – take your p(r)ick.

By thy blog you will know thee. Some of you I wish I’d never met. Still, you can’t choose time your tyre goes flat. Oh, yes.

Blogging akin to tiny Monaco. Think Grace Kelly, head scarve, open top, race course, Casino. Gamble. Beginner’s luck. Eventually you’ll crash. Particularly if you wind your way down that  road every day.

I like people with integrity. GM has shown none. Beyond contempt. Other than mine.

You, Conrad: Remember the desert island metaphor I sometimes use? I’d rather starve on my own.

Same goes for you, Ramana. You will talk the talk but do you actually ever WALK the plank?

Ursula

Leprechaun

As Sunday afternoons go yesterday’s was averagely awful.

In the morning my mother tells me that I am going to the dogs. Which, for reasons I can’t quite fathom, I do not find particularly funny.  And she doesn’t even know about Ramana (or the Ringbearer). Then there is my honour to be defended (where is David aka Daphne when I  need him? Probably at Moss Bros trying on top hats for size).

Choose wisely. Fending off the Ringbearer (Ward B, hit the wall) the Betrothed himself  now mentions “Erotomania” to me or, as he calls it, ‘de Clerambault Syndrome’. Had to look it up. Doesn’t make pretty reading. The only person I truly love apart from the Angel is myself. Which probably amounts to Automania.

Never mind. Images will be lived up and down to. Think Italy. Winding. Or Corsica. Even Napoleon ended up there. Where were we? Honour. So Ramana does me the honour, despite himself and his “self imposed” rule, to comment on my blog (11 May whilst I was “Wafting”). In a spot of what can only be interpreted as thinly veiled jealousy he reminds me that Con is hitched and Ram is not. Pass me the smelling salts before I faint. I may hate ‘rules’, and in general try and defy them, but I do have PRINCIPLES. One of them, never broken, that I do NOT steal another woman’s (or man’s) love interest. So both you, Ramana, and the Invisible One can sleep in peace (day and night). Lady Con, if you want me to take leverage off your back I am afraid I am currrently not in the market though will help carry your load.

Which reminds me apropos of the ever present nothing: Con is an ox. Don’t blame me. Blame his mother. Or his father. Or both. What were they thinking of at the time? Or blame Magpie aka David aka Josephine aka Daphne for bringing up the subject in the first place. The dog.

Ox. It was on the cards. I knew it. If there are any millstones round my life’s neck, giving me more grief than their fair share, it’s oxens. One fathered me, the other is my sister. And that’s only for starters. GG (gay guy) for mains. I also once found myself in a field with a bull. Don’t ask. I was only about nine years of age. But I know red hot when I see it. Luckily I am a fast runner. Imagine if that bull had got me: I wouldn’t be here to waste your space.

Bulls are not oxens. As was explained to me early on. So you will find oxtail soup on the menu; bull usually constituting the steak. Unless you have goat, lamb, rooster, rabbit or (heaven forbid) dog instead. At a banquet in Hong Kong (14 courses – and they will eat anything that moves) I was once faced with pigeon floating in liquid. FOS suddenly had to make urgent call and left the table; us being the hosts, leaving me  smiling at the innocent. I am not particularly squeemish but lines are there to be drawn: I can’t cook rabbit myself because their skinned shape reminds me of cat. I can’t eat small birds because I can’t. I’d rather burst out into tears. And what the Italians are thinking about serving up sparrows I do not know, neither do I wish to. Pigeons to me represent only one thing – such is the power of mind: Health hazard. And they are. I love watching them doing what pigeons do. Just don’t put the poor blighters on my plate.

Do you know what to do with freshly harvested snails destined for another culinary disaster? If you don’t ask me.

Why are there no snails on the Chinese Zodiac horizon? Leaving a trail of slime so very useful to trace them.

U Bin Liner, The Ark, Southampton Harbour, England, challenged, over and out

Between a Dock and a HARD place

If you think I am getting slapped round the face on your or my own blog you have seen nothing. Curtains. Don’t look behind. Am in slammer. Choose your friends and family at random.  Nothing new there. Will build an extension. Planning permission – courtesy of Con – permitting.

U, round the corner from Canute Chambers (Titanic’s Shipping Office), Southampton, England. Please don’t stalk me. I might turn round.

Running on empty

Am very angry this moment. By thy response (or NONE) you shall know thee. My god. “The thrill has gone”.  No, NOTHING to do with Con. Give me Con any day. Whatever Con’s mindset, he will not shirk if occasionally/momentarily shrink.

Am livid. Never mind. I’ll walk. But not the mountain.

Fuck’s sake.

U

Pardon?

If you know Sod’s law you won’t need me.

Sod – when he is has got a spare minute – is devoted to me and will follow my every foot step. As the fucker did about an hour ago: There I was in my “finest”. All I was doing was taking the rubbish out whilst cooking pasta and tomato sauce for the any moment to be  expected Angel. I should  be so lucky. Naturally (we are talking bin liners here – ca 2215 GMT ie DARK)  on my way down the stairs I bump into the one and only I’d rather not see me in an apron and worn down slippers (my landlord). Still, since he is Italian he appreciates women in  MAMA mode.  Do I look like an idiot? In wake of recent break-in he asks “Do you have all the keys?” I showed him my apron pockets. Yes, I do have ALL the keys. Anyway I wasn’t going out to paint the town red, was I? I was taking down that which will contribute to landfill. One second later HIM who needs to be nourished turns up. “Mama, do you have the keys?” Don’t you start.

U

Blunt

Only got a minute. Brief thought for the next 90 seconds:

If you want to go into something akin to hypnotic and zen like (minus the buzzer in your paradise) DO SHARPEN PENCILS. I can’t recommend it enough; particularly as a displacement activity on a Monday morning.

Tranquility will descend on you. If you only have ONE or two pencils in the house forget it. You need at least 20 – 30 (call me obsessive) found all round the house,  lovingly gathered. Then you’ll lose yourself by working that little stainless steel wonder called a pencil sharpener.

Make mine – and all several dozens of them are: STAEDTLER Noris HB 2, Made in Germany – hence unbreakable and come to think of it, bloody hell, never noticed this in many decades until just – as I write – glancing at one of my beloved specimens: Rot Schwarz Gold  (red, black, golden). Those into colours of flags, stars and stripes and all that, will know what I am referring to. I personally prefer the rubber tip version (top end) which then replaces the red  and lets you RUB OUT that which should never have been committed – to paper.

U, with plenty of shavings in my bin liner, England

Snort

We have many roles in life.

And as long as I manage to hang to smitherns of  Co & Co (that’s Consortium and cosies) I shall do my best to confirm that I am  that which is what your little community expects of me: A vile lying sniffling man eater in a pot of acid according to THE MASTER. So, yes, let’s switch into Bitch on the Blog mode. Find the ring and make me invisible.

To get my vile juices going I usually go and visit GM’s blog. She can be relied upon.  Today she is a pig. Before you say anything, Jean: She said so – herself. She is a pig. Lovely and rosy. No doubt nurturing a spider or maybe it was the other way round  (part of a heart rending story “Charlotte’s Web, the play of which I took my son to ca 997, Poole Theatre). Will find ticket stubs in a minute so Con can verify that I and the Angel actually went as we did. Maybe he’d like a little CCTV footage just in case I am making this up too. In fact, come to think of it: If Con were in charge of my mental ward Id soon wonder whether I actually exist at all.

What’s fascinating about people relating their HORROR scope – in this case GM’s Chinese Zodiac’s snout, that they will ONLY ever relate everything that is so WONDERFUL about them. Not just GM. Most will.

I myself just seek out the vile out of my own  sign – not least to keep people away from me. But then I am exceptional, aren’t I? I know, don’t tell me: Last line, as usual, totally lost on most of you. Tip of the day: Dehydrate, oil your humoUr valves, and descend from zodiac heaven.  Come to think of it, “The Universe” this week proved a full hit, didn’t it? Commentators hiding in their droves. GM’s contribution (no bull, I mean it) and her sheep were sweet. Could relate to that. I particularly like the stone wall photo where she points out that those holes are there for a reason rather than shoddy workmanship: The holes let air through so the wall won’t fall over. Not many people know that. I had never even thought about it. And then I did. So thanks where it’s due, Grannymar.

Anyway before GM and I fall into each other’s arms and swear each other undying love till the end of our knitting needles, let’s return to heaven and the Zodiac:

See above: To ram message home I will repeat myself: As expected Grannymar comes out of the mud as clean as a baby’s bottom. And she is not alone. Few people will admit – as I do – that they are not faultless; even that what I just said amounts to a spot of self preening: “Look I am so great I can admit to be an absolute swine”.  (For the dense: The last sentence was NOT addressed at GM, it was addressed to my wonderful self). And no, I am not a pig. What is it with you lot that everything needs to spelt out at least twice lest you might get wrong idea?

Truth be told I do have a book on the Chinese Zodiac combining with our own starsigns,  can’t lay my hands on it this minute; it gives it to you straight (from all angles): Warts, frogs and dungbeetles. All in one broth. Enjoy. Once you have finished you will wish you were a barnacle . Which reminds me: What sign do all the NASTIES in the world reside under? An umbrella on an island in the Pacific Ocean? Will look up various people now just to prove my point and don’t switch off yet.

We have established Ram is a goat which is  befitting considering his name, and I will not dwell on it. My beloved BHB is a whatever.  MAINLY she is her own good SELF. As is Magpie who couldn’t give a fig one way or another. Sod the stars. And Jean is a dog (no, not in real life, in a previous life).

A herd of animals. Which reminds me: Con is NOT a gentleman. I laboured under impression that he is only ONE year older than me. Don’t believe it. Neither did he bother to correct my misconception. Not that there is anything wrong with older men. Like a good wine they will get to their best once laid down. Unless they cork.

Yes, so go back to your respective caves, grazing area or cloud cuckoosland or wherever you reside up there in the stars.

Hugs and kisses,

U Bin Liners, In the Kitchen, England

Surplus

Sweethearts, I should write letters to those who actually care about me. Insert smiley. Instead I throw myself once more at the mercy of the world’s court. Not least Ireland.

Apart from our shared interest in needlecraft, every morning GM and I both vainly wish for ONE thing: Ursula Bin Liner, error message, South of England, has NOT said anything. Yeah, well, we both should be so lucky.

I wake with a start. No, make that startled. Memory loss. Revisiting blogs: I hope I did NOT say ANYTHING.

A wish rarely fulfilled but just now I am happy because I didn’t find myself. The relief akin to an apple, a slice of cheese and a cup of cocoa.

Going over to Con’s now to see what cuckoo I laid in his nest.

U