I have just dropped a glass. By accident. It doesn’t work if you do it on purpose.
I am not superstitious – which doesn’t stop me from being quietly, satisfyingly, pleased every time I break a plate. Where there are shards, in my book, there is luck. Am now on tenterhooks. Not impatiently so. Just confident a loose roof tile will NOT fall onto my head.
In 1982 I broke a mirror. It wasn’t by design. I was incensed. And the mirror (large) was the first to come to hand between my fury and the object of my desire. A few months later we got married. They say breaking a mirror signifies seven years of bad luck ahead. Don’t believe a word of it. We lasted 13.
Sweet and Sour Hearts, we live in dangerous times. I am on the warpath. Pen poised. Paper in place. Yes, RESOLUTIONS.
There is always a first time for everything – a worrying thought – and this year I shall march resolutely across the threshold of an old to a new year with my banner of that which will NOT fail firmly in place. No, but thanks for asking, the banner is not blank. It’s crowded. It’s so crowded that the odd resolution falling by the wayside will not be noticed.
Good luck to you too.
Hugs and kisses,
Just had startling thought. Will now have to rethink blossoming career as a crime writer. It’s annoying.
Why would anyone murder anyone?
Let the thought melt. Let its aftertaste linger. Before you jump in with an answer.
It doesn’t make sense. Leaving aside crimes of passion, heat of the moment, perversions, why would I risk execution or sitting my days out in the claustrophobia of a cell because someone has evoked my wrath?
It amounts to that trite, yet true, “cutting off your nose to spite your face/ shooting oneself in the foot.” The person who might hope to be killed by my own fairly strong hands does not exist. Do I look stupid or something? Why would I give YOU the satisfaction?
Yes, I know it’s Christmas. And my Ode to the Tree, as yet not written, will be forthcoming. However, you can’t blame my brain for fermenting the most profound whilst making pastry.
Back to Bach.
I don’t like myself any longer. Lost my favourite scarf. Considering that, apparently, “loss” is a major theme in my life I should not be surprised. However, it caught me unawares. I had not planned for that particular scarf to be lost.
Yesterday I nearly lost my life – or at least my spine. No bull. No sooner had I remarked, in passing, to one of the Angel’s friends that one of these days I shall meet a truck – two hours later I was a nano second away from being scraped off the tarmac. So don’t say I am not lucky. And never, as we say in the motherland, paint the devil on the wall. Or you may meet hell. First antechamber. Until you get promoted.
The Angel doesn’t find my musings funny in the least. Neither do I.
“Wile E. Coyote runs off the cliff and fails to fall because it does not occur to him to look down.”
Brilliant. I knew there was something an ostrich, Wile E. Coyote and I have in common.
12 hours on – I am still badly shaken. Hope it’ll wear off.
Pride comes before the fall? Sure. I am proud – as I believe most people are and should be. Yesterday, I was humiliated. Utterly. To my very core. That in itself not remarkable. It happens. However, in this case there was no need for it. Easy target. I could cry. Not so much about being humiliated or being kicked but how very much I misjudged someone. I cannot believe it. I CAN NOT believe it. It’s one of those landmarks I know will be burning its mark into the fabric of my life.
You do know, of course, that the most powerful and baffling of the seasoned who, where, when and how is the mighty WHY? Why – the element of mystery and speculation.
Will now go and torture myself,
Like the rest of you, will write soppy Christmas post soon – with a bit of luck before Christmas.
In the meantime I would like to reassure my readers that my sloppily, spur of moment, throwing any thought of mine on the blogging page is no mark of disrespect [for you, the reader]. It’s a mark of trust.
If, like most of you or so it appears, I put forethought, chiselling my words, editing and all manner of perfectionism into it, you’d never see a word of me. Why? Because I am a perfectionist. It’s all or nothing.
So this blog is nothing. Otherwise it wouldn’t exist.
Sweethearts, I’ve lost it.
There is so much I’d like to say, convey. It’s all too much. Spoilt for choice. So let’s just stick with the base.
By no stretch of the imagination do I think I have seen it all. I don’t want to see it all. I like to keep some innocence, some wonderment, the chance of a surprise, intact. You will be caught unawares: On recommendation of a trusted source I dived into the blog of a big arsehole (you may take this in its literal meaning). Though by all his accounts he does give good head too. I am not particularly interested in what use people put orifices to: Do what you must, spare me the detail. Though will always pass you a roll of toilet paper should you run out. So far so boring. Butt (!), and here is the twist, he is bi-sexual yes, really. Talk about a pain in the …., only doubled. An expert. Sweet.
What’s so awful, and please do not spare me your feedback, I can feel urge rising to puncture that guy’s balloon – badly. And I mean badly. The way he waxes lyrically wants me to punch him. Naturally, and clinging to remnants of civilized behaviour, I will “internalise” this into one of those many dialogues I hold in my head. Should I ever combust I will have proven my theory that it’s better to let it all hang out than keep it in. Not that I am a candidate for bowel cancer (yet).
Totsy, Phil, if the last sentence leaves you baffled as to its hidden meaning I am more than happy to expand.