Rubbish

As the casting director of my life’s drama, this minute I am lying prostrate on my own couch. Sweethearts, loosen my corset, pass me some smelling salts, and a script.

In the wake of rich Nick pickings, and truly generous replies from the rest of you on my beef with censorship,  my fields are now lying bracken. Maybe Captain Tom could get his Wuenschelrute out and find me a fecund source of oil. As an aside: That’s the trouble with script writing: One moment you dream of riding on a hand granade, the next, with a mind of its own, the dialogue becomes all slippery. Was it Eddie Fisher who let his hand hang out of a gondola only to find himself that which Venice’s waterways were full of?

I rarely visit my blog’s dashboard since I don’t need statistics to sustain my happyness. However, whilst contemplating how best to deal with mounting back blog, I idled over there and what do I find under today’s four Top Searches: “Men with heaving bollocks”. No bull. Am resolved that, from now on, I will venture over to dashboard at short intervals. It’ll stop me mid stream, if not mid scream.

Whilst my inner Drama Queen is trying to regain some sort of exposure to the natural world, I have gone all Bambi when he first meets Feline. Bashful. My tongue is tied. Why not write my acceptance speech, as to your  “praise” heaped on me, first? Rough draft.

Ignoring the trophe handed to me I shall thank my mother for not having aborted me. I will thank Phil and consorts for many things as yet to be detailed, and now Angola lusts after me. The Goth giving me a leg up. My reputation upheld, my wit shot to bits, caustic and all other acid supplies running low, my well in need of refilling, my status as head of mind nunnery in jeopardy.

In Magnus Magnussum’s spirit I have started, not that that”ll finish me. Where there is fire there will be ashes to rise out of.

Talking of which, and to give the star of this week’s show first billing, never trust a man who will not only drop commentators but litter. I am outraged. Pet hate, John Gray? Make that my Hound of Baskerville: http://nickhereandnow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dishonesty.html.

Nick, I ask you: You, the always upright citizen, dropping litter because there are NO recepticles about and you can’t be arsed to take your garbage back home? Let me ask you a question: Who, the fuck, do you think is going to clear up after you? And if you are going to tell me that that is what you pay council tax for I’ll never talk to you again. Come on. I dare you.

U

Censorship

I don’t like people who show no grace in their communication with others, no willingness to enter any attempt at trying to reconcile differences. Those who will ignore an outstretched hand, erase someone’s comment instead of letting it stand, for all the world to see. Two commenters, unaware of their sins, so bad that they had to be shown the blogger’s door.

Nick, if you had any decency at all, any tact, any grace, you’d also delete your disparaging assessment aimed at Hippo aka Tom and myself. Wipe the slate clean as it were. Tidy that particular post’s comment box instead of leaving smears.

You deleted Tom’s apology when first you took us to task. Any attempt of mine to explain you keep deleting. Is it really ok to NOT give someone, the accused, a chance to “clear” their name?  Oh the irony, considering your post’s original subject. Think about it, Nick. But then you don’t do irony well, do you? It’s lost on you. Which in itself doesn’t matter whatsoever. What matters is how you deal with that which is beyond or below you.

I respect that you are of a sensitive disposition. So sensitive that you have no scruples whatsoever to malign Hippo’s and my name on your blog. Without – and I am repeating myself here – giving either of us a chance. Well, Nick, if that is what communicating means to you please do count me out. Since Tom addressed me and I replied to him and neither of us felt there was anything “snide” in our exchange why were you unable to just accept that and let it stand? Or were we stealing the limelight? Some bloggers don’t care, some rather do and some encourage diversity in their comment boxes.

I value the opinions of people who comment on my blog. Not in a million years would I ever delete anything other than what compromises a third party’s right to privacy. I am not a bloody prison warden, a control freak.  Spoiler alert: And yes, this is a bit mean and below the belt, aimed at you, Nick, and others: The little Hitlers so empowered by their territory, namely their “blog”, in need of their ego to be fed. Well, you fed it. Now let the dog off the leash, and delete YOUR own continued comments in relation  to that storm in an Irish teacup.

As you delete so I will publish. I see that you have wiped out Hippo aka Tom completely; not one smidgen of the man left. I suppose better than a fist fight. You may get hurt. The first two rather funny exchanges between Tom and me, the ones which led to your peculiar reaction, I do have no record of. The rest I do.

I implicitly trust the judgment of all those who regularly comment on this blog. So, should any of you, my readers, take the time and an interest in that fruitless exchange, please do enlighten me, if and where I went wrong. I will take it to heart – AND, stand by to be amazed, Nick:  LEARN FROM IT. Rarely is there a need to chuck the baby out with the bathwater. Unless the water is on fire. As you know I don’t bullshit. Neither, and there may be a lesson in it for you, Nick, will any of my readers’ criticism of me and my conduct make any difference in how I much I appreciate them, any difference in my affection for them. None whatsoever. Quite the opposite. Give me a bit of honesty. Don’t shilly shally; say it how you see it: None of us are infallible. If friends can’t give us feedback who can? Forgive me for this “snide” remark (after all, mustn’t short change you by not matching your expectation of me): You may try and get that pea out from under your mattress. You will bruise less easily. Now, there, there, let’s kiss it all better.

When Tom apologized to you he corrected my choice of word ‘pathetic’ at your reaction, suggesting to me that “regrettable” might be more applicable. Initially I agreed with him. However, considering your conduct since, I quite happily stick with the original “pathetic”. Considering the Latin scholar you are shall we compare notes first? Let’s see: ‘pathetic’ adj. arousing pity. Origin; Greek pathetikos ‘sensitive’. What did I say, Nick? Sensitive. Try and thicken your cutis (Latin ‘skin’).

Hugs and kisses, here goes:

Nick, the gentleman he is, first:

Hippo and Ursula, I have deleted your latest comments. Yes, it’s my blog and I can do what I like with it. If  you want to have a snide private conversation, go and have it somewhere else.

Hippo Tom’s Reply:

Sorry Nick, I do not know who Ursula is but I did find her witty, rather than snide (I certainly took no offence and hope she didn’t either) but I did realise that your post was of a very serious nature which was why I suggested that Ursula and I should take it over to my blog.

Once again, my aplogies.

Ursula’s pound’s worth:

Good on you, Hippo, that you are so forgiving. I am not. I think it’s pathetic, Nick, that you took down two perfectly good, well intenioned, comments. No doubt, you’ll take this down too. Your loss.

Or maybe, you’ll think again, and do a U turn. Aren’t an awful lot of blogs currently carrying the banner “No censorship”? Well, you could have fooled me.

U

Nick in his tireless attempt to stamp out the undesirable:

I have deleted another three comments from Hippo and Ursula. None of them had anything to do with the subject of the post.

Other bona fide commenters are welcome as usual.

Ursula, now wishing she had more than one head to scratch:

Nick, I don’t understand.

You’ve always struck me as a reasonable guy. I therefore hope that you will allow me to put the record straight. If only to be fair to Tom aka Hippo and myself, and not tarnish Tom’s reputation. Let’s remember that he even apologized to you. Though what for he clearly was baffled about. As am I.

Let’s remind ourselves that Tom took the time to address my being “indignant” at being passed over with my very first, and valid, comment. I thought his reply to me funny, original. I took his, as perceived by me, friendly bait by replying in a similar, slightly mocking style.I knew I’d hit it off with this newcomer to your blog, and new to me. And he took it in the same spirit as he had delivered to me. Which is great. More the pity that you didn’t. For which I still don’t apologize but join Tom in his rather better choice of word than my own, namely that the outcome is “regrettable”. Indeed.

Some of the best solid blogging friendships are forged in comment boxes. And some of the best blogs I visit (I visit few) are those who, generously, allow a natural flow of conversation rather than just appreciative small talk.

One last point, Nick: Do you actually know what you are saying with your “Other bona fide commenters are welcome as usual”?

“Bona fide” means “genuine, real”, Latin “with good faith”. Are you implying that not only are we not welcome anymore but suggesting that we didn’t come to your blog genuine, real and in good faith? If so, it’s an insult. See how easy it is to offend, Nick? Oh, the irony of it.

U

PS Let’s just blame John Gray. He started it. With his, and what I thought a deliciously smart, comment.

Nick who hereby confirms what I have suspected for a while, best glossed over:

Ursula – Your insult to me (in yet another comment) I shall ignore – of course I know what bona fide means, I have an O Level in Latin. Your insult to John Gray I shan’t ignore. He started nothing, he simply made a slightly cryptic comment that you chose to interpret in a bizarre way he never intended.

At this point I wished I’d THREE heads to scratch:

Nick, please do give me a break.

What insult to you, to John Gray? My PS was meant funny, trying to defuse whatever tension has crept into our exchange

There was little bizarre in my interpretation of John Gray’s comment. And even if: One of my two offerings was spot on, confirmed by him. The other was a sincere heartfelt of what I would have done in that woman’s situation. There is suffering that is tempting to cut short. What use is it to her to being vindicated after 25 years of heartache of having not just lost one son but the rest of friends and family too? As an aside: Some family.

I suppose it’s best if we just leave it. You do not appear to be willing to see my side, you will not even afford me the courtesy to let your other readers see my response. You will not concede anything. I have said it twice before and I say it again: I thought John Gray’s comment extremely astute. It was original, which no doubt led to some of you being confused by it.

If you find my comment bizarre then there is clearly a wavelength on which we can’t communicate. Neither did I find any of what Tom said to me to be a snide remark. And vice versa.

At risk of you finding fault with me once more: What’s your having attained an O’level in Latin got to do with understanding an expression? If this is about “mine is bigger than yours” I am sorry to say that I studied Latin to a higher grade and with distinction. I even studied Classic Greek. I communicate in a tongue which is not my mother’s.  So what? Doesn’t make me superior to anyone, neither does it mean that, unlike you, I will not admit to misinterpreting or using expressions sometimes rather too loosely. What I find so astonishing that I indicate, indeed ask you, what the meaning of your bona fide comment was. You do not enlighten. You just ignore that which doesn’t suit. But then you are the blog’s “owner”.

U

PS Just caught up with your last comment. You say you are “distressed”. There is no reason. Blogs are not one-way-streets. They are about communication. And sometimes communication will go wrong. Misunderstandings, misinterpretation. It’s life, Nick, not the end of the world. So let’s pick up pieces.

U

Guess what, dear Readers, yup, you got it in one.

The original post: http://nickhereandnow.blogspot.com/2012/01/under-cloud.html , undone at the seams by its master, hence many a hole. Last comment check: 1611 GMT.

U

PS Those of you who read this may ask: What’s the purpose of this exercise, Ursula? Other than wasting my, your, our time? Trust me: There is method. Let’s call Nick’s a case study, an example of some of that I think questionable in the world of blogging.

Let’s call it a strike against censorship, against unfairness. Let’s call it many things. And this minute I call: Roger Over and Out.

Sunshine

If you want witty please do change channel now.

Two and a half hours ago it was that time of the day (1754 GMT) when – the last two or three days –  dark thoughts descend on me. I don’t like it. Play me the blues to cheer me up, lift the cloud.

I wake up in the morning like the proverbial bird which has already caught her worm only to be chased by that hapless cat all day.  Come evening and I am less than enchanted with my harvest. Never mind. Mustn’t whinge. Americans like their glass half full even when half empty but then what’s a girl to do when a whole nation calls itself Pollyanna? It’s been, scientifically, verified – not that I couldn’t  have told you that for nothing – that ENFORCED optimism is not all it’s cracked up to be. My optimism is not enforced. It comes natural. Which means they figure that I am up there in the echelons of the deluded who think they are the bees’ knees, the milk’s cream or at least buttermilk.

Thus, before you see the bottom of your glass (or never put it to your lips – savers, stingers) please do not contemplate how full it is but its contents, and I paraphrase: “… water, Cider, a 19 something vintage Bordeaux, Gin and flat tonic,  hemlock”. Take your pick and don’t pollyanna me.

Cheers,

U

Russian Roulette

I don’t think I am given to masochism more than your average me. Remember that scab? Don’t.

Do you play the lottery? I rarely do. Not because I don’t want to. But because I forget and miss the deadline. Like tonight. It was more important to me to fill the hole in my son’s stomach than winning millions.  Anyway, he does not approve of my gambling. What do you mean? Gamble? It’s hardly Monte Carlo, is it, marking six boxes, handing over a pound for a little hope and adrenaline in exchange? In fact, and as an aside, my mother has this down to a fine art: She’ll play and, for days on end, wont’ check the numbers, thus extending her pleasure of hope.

What would you do? You had that hunch. You tried to get on the lottery’s website two minutes before deadline. You abandon mission for good reason (see above): Do you later check the numbers? Do you? Would you?

If you are me you will [check those unplayed numbers]. To do so you need nerves of steel. There must have been three times in my life when, by way of inverse perversion, hyperventilating, I wished with all my heart that my intended numbers would NOT come up. Because if they had what’s the choice? Shoot myself? Better men than me have shot themselves over less. Not given to suicide I wouldn’t know what to do with myself. It’s beyond the limits of my imagination: What does one do when, instead of putting on the water for pasta, you could have placed those numbers? I don’t know. I do not wish to know. And I hope I’ll never find out.

What’s your favourite number? I’ll play it. Please don’t say Zero, Looney. It’s got to be 1-49. If we get it right what a party that’ll be.

U

Lucky me

Sweethearts, yes, you Androgoth, too, please do not feel neglected by my not leaving specks of wit in your comment boxes. I multitask with the best of Hydra’s eight heads. Yet, unless I clone a twin of mine, I too am limited by those blasted 24 hours of the day. Imagine we’d only have twelve. We might as well just let it all wash over us. Or focus.

Being Saturday morning, vacuum cleaner in hand (it just broke which is why I am on the blog), I had occasion to reflect on dirt. More precisely: How much of it we produce. Involuntarily. Blending out that which I know (like how many grams of dead skin we shed a day – no doubt someone in the food chain, say, dust mites, delighted) I am disgusted. DIS gus TED. Not by the debris. Give me dirt I’ll deal with it. Only two New Years Eve ago it only took me the whole of the evening to unblock the toilet. That’s fine. That’s life. Tells you all you need to know about next year’s shithole. What I bemoan is: The DESIGN fault. If I were god I’d hang my head in shame, go back to the drawing board, have a Eureka and tell all of us: It could have turned out so much worse.

Touche.

Hugs and kisses,

U

High Noon

It’s hardly news that I have beef with blogs (in general).

Which is why I am hoping for a takeover.

Or a shoot out. Should you have any ammunition, preferably not wet, and surplus to your own requirements I’ll take it off your hands –  for a pittance. Because you are worth it.

U

Inconducive

Totsy, and quite rightly so, laments that no one appears to have noticed her having washed out her mouth with soap, keeping her copy as clean as a Swiss cheesemaker’s floor. Lorna, tartly, logically, comments that she never notices swearing – by its absence. If it’s any comfort, Totsy, I did notice but decided to let sleeping Totsies lie by not mentioning your omission(s).

I was brought up in the belief that swearing is only permissible if you are a man and a hammer hits your thumb whilst trying to nail something.

Life has since taught me that a bit of judiciously applied swearing adds gravitas to our sentiments; affords us light relief with little effort and energy. Which is why I allow myself – and only in earshot of the Angel, the now dead cats and myself – the odd and most sublimely heartfelt missive.

I am in awe of people who intuitively, subtly, manage to hold a whole conversation in which every other word is of the f…ing variety. As only recently witnessed by me from the comfort of my own living room, middle of the night, middle of the road. It was too dark to make out who exactly was involved. I’d say three parties. All as eloquent as each other. It pains me to say that the female voice was the worst, peppering her rather limited vocabulary. Bringing shame on my gender. I now know why people say that “effing is blinding” because I went deaf not three minutes in. Which proves that overuse of anything will blunt the desired effect. I resisted the urge to open the window and shout down: “Shut the fuck up, will you?”

U

Smalls

Let’s turn to that in life which we appreciate only by their absence:

Toilet paper to name but one. And the flush.

I don’t classify myself as anal yet am fascinated by how people survived the olden days, and at their considerable inconvenience.  Even Charles Dickens didn’t venture where horse manure mingled with chamber pots emptied through first floor windows. I don’t think they did second floors in those days. More is the pity. Because matter might have dispersed on the way down.

If ever there was the perfect age for the mini skirt they missed it. Instead of which ladies’ coy hems would sweep up – on leaving and returning from market – that which superfluous to our bodies. Unlike upper class Indians (and Madonna) all of whom I believe to be carried door to door, by minions, then, and Madonna now, without ever setting foot into that which unites us all: Shit.

U

Meandering

Can someone please help me to stop living my life as if it were going to go on forever?

U

PC – polite company

Always run with one who is just that little faster than you are. They will pull you along. Making you excel yourself. At grammar school, 100 meter short distance, we ran in pairs. A very fast runner myself (to this day, meep, meep) I always tried to be teamed up with Susanne (her of the extra long legs). She was as fast as the wind, ambitious too, a quality I am sadly lacking. I quickly recognized that her speed, always just that tiny bit ahead of me, pulled me along and, whilst she always won, resulting in ever fewer seconds for me to reach the finishing line. Loved it.

Yes, so Totsy (see my https://bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/2012/01/12/feeds-and-facts/ currently pulling me along and covering a subject, so dear to my despairing linguistic heart, of PC, political correctness. If I weren’t such a talker, I’d shut up – in public. Use of language has become a mind field. Please NOTE: I did not say minE field, I said minD field. The former leaving you limbless, the latter mutilated.

My father, sometime back in the Sixties, brought me a toy, plastic, much loved, black, called “Gollywog”? Dare I mention this – now – in polite company? Will I be tarred and feathered (ending up looking like Gollywog, only feathered)?

The Angel, always good for an anecdote, age four, Heathrow Airport departure lounge, points at another passenger and, audible to all, with wonderment in his voice: “Mama, that Lady is black”. Yes, indeed. She is. Undisputably so. I whisper to him (not sure of my facts): “That’s not the thing to say.” “But, Mama, she IS black.” Yes, yes, yes, and yes. What am I trying to teach my child here? To pull wool over dreadlocks? Blacklisted myself that moment.

A neighbour of ours has a baby. It’s adorable. As chocolate babies are. The Angel is appalled. My formidable mentor is “chocolate” too. OK, son, let’s make this conversation a return match (16 years on). Me:  “I am sorry, Angel, it is chocolate. Just as his mother is white. Undisputably so.” The Angel let it pass. He is not conformist either, just worries about his mother being lynched when not chaperoned.

With another wink to one of Totsy’s remarks: Yesterday I give the Angel some lunch to take into work – in a plastic box. He shows some reluctance accepting this token of motherly love and care: “Oh, Mama, that’s so GAY”. Since I am generally short fused I raise my voice: “For … ‘s sake, what’s gay about a lunch box?” He observed that he is so glad that no one can overhear some of our inane conversations. I wouldn’t bank on it. Walls are thin. Paranoia is rife. And 1984 was written well before Big Brother arrived.

Go and read Totsy http://writinginflow.blogspot.com/2012/01/dear-sirmadam-political-correctness-ive.html#idc-container

U