Sweethearts, I will answer your comments you so kindly left at expense of your time. I promise. Though Phil, as usual, has me in thumb screws. If only I could ask him to marry me. It would be easier. Androgoth may serve as best man. Lorna, Bella and Renee I’d honour to be my maids. Magpie might oblige to make sure the champagne is served at the right temperature. John will sacrifice Phylis (don’t ask; just make sure you eat before the feast begins).
Dear dog in heaven: Yes, it’s 29 Feb. Women are supposed to propose. The first hurdle being that I am not the marrying kind. I am immune to the altar. Being admonished for crunching apples in bed, my love of freedom got the better of me twice. I now keep a bowl of apples next to my bed at all times. Just to make sure no one comes near me.
Still, I don’t want to be a spoil sport on that four yearly window to chain yourself to the master of your destiny, and I will propose. To a dear friend of mine. He doesn’t know it yet because I haven’t pressed send for my email. He is of a fragile disposition. He also gets irritated very easily. Particularly before a live broadcast. So easily irritated that, three years ago, he broke off all contact with me. Under the understanding that I will keep my promise to him (made in the throws of our earliest courtship when he worshiped the very ground I was walking on and was all up for carrying me up Montmartre, Absinthe in hand) that I’d never ever not write to him. The swine. By keeping my promise I have fashioned myself into a backdoor stalker. I normally don’t do servant’s entrance but anything for one of the most misguided souls I ever had the privilege to meet.
Don’t get carried away with the romance: In the marriage stakes I like playing it on the safe side: So yes, he is gay. Very intelligent if emotionally somewhat stunted. I do have beef with his therapist: She gave him terrible advice. Like most compulsive obsessives he follows it to the letter.
In terms of damage limitation and health and safety regulations we are happily divided by a pond. The bargain is perfect: On signing the contract I’ll get my double barrel name, he gets a wife he doesn’t need.
Wish me luck. If he says no he’ll have to buy me a dress and/or gloves (as folklore goes) – make that an ipod, Geek that he is – and if he says yes then both of us will be in a double bind.
On my knees,
Some words need to roll off our tongues more often than they do: Like “nincompoop”.
I adore “nincompoop”. It sounds delicious. As does “Knickerbocker Glory”, a most disconcerting dessert I had when I first set foot on these isles. I only ordered it because I wanted to hear myself say it.
There is a faction of mankind which (most uncharitably) has taught me that about .. % of the world’s population is stupid.
Stupid. Nothing to do with intelligence. You may score on the Richter Scale of IQ as high as Einstein or Goethe and still qualify as stupid. Take it from me. It’s a fact. And no, no rats were harmed in the pursuit of my enlightenment.
There is a novel I keep re-reading every so often, maybe every three years – when I need to feel safe, and at home in the woods. I don’t know the politically correct term: The author’s chosen narrator ain’t a shining light how most people measure wattage. But shine he does. For me. And stupid he is not.
Maybe simple minds are easily pleased. I most certainly am constantly amused by all and sundry. I know I shouldn’t but I am. On the whole I try not to let on since, contrary to public protestations, a lot of people do have less of a sense of humour than they flatter themselves. There are people, say bloggers, who – if they knew how much they make me laugh and WHY – would call for lynching to be brought back into fashion. Or stoning. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah. Mwah.
Just came across some observations regarding all the reasons why your sleep pattern may not allow you to dream; reassuringly stating that there is a solution to every single one. Including to that of “being a new parent”. Makes me smile. Once upon a very happy time I too was a new parent. A SOLUTION to sleeping at 2.5 hrs intervals max for the first few months? What’s the idea? What’s their suggestion? Infanticide? Over my dead body.
On the right of my screen, next to my emails an advert pops up: “If you died unexpectedly could your loved ones afford the bills?” That is SO cute. Pass me a tissue to wipe a tear.
Why not let my UNloved ones foot the bill?
Think Greece: So much cheaper to just resurrect me: Two lives for the price of no funeral. What a bargain. Don’t say I don’t come without a price tag.
My affair with blogging is doing one of its usual occasional Ravine rides.
Don’t worry. I am a fantastic driver. I am. Give me Paris, give me Rome, give me Piccadilly Circus on a Friday afternoon. It’s why, on the whole, I prefer to drive and you may enjoy the scenery. All you guys out there now feeling emasculated don’t worry: Ever the optimist I will entrust myself to your capable hands. Do forgive me when (in the passenger seat and by accident) I slam on my imaginary brakes. I once saved a rabbit. It didn’t go down well with the driver (I actually grabbed his steering wheel): “Never do that again”, he hissed. I didn’t. It was only a little country road. No oncoming traffic. The worst that could have happened to us was ending up in a ditch and be late for Afternoon Tea in a Yorkshire village. What’s a thin cucumber sandwich vs roadkill?
Yes, the Ravine. Have realized that my blog fulfills one function – other than keeping you, my readers – and that is to vent spleens. Spleens need to be vented. It’s what they are for. And why we are only given one, surplus to requirements. The same goes for “appendix”. A design fault. Of some organs we have spares (say, two kidneys). I wish we’d been given two brains. One for every day, one for Sundays.
They say that when you look into a mirror you’ll see yourself differently to those who look at you. I don’t like that notion: I want to see myself as others – in their myriad varieties – do.
Should I get my head examined?
My dreams are so real, I wake up and find myself answering an email, or commenting on a blog post – neither of which exists. Am I going crazy? Last night Phil “posted” an example of a moral dilemma similar to the one I outlined recently. On waking I saw his text in front of my mind’s eye as clear as if it were on the screen. HELP! It gets worse: Some of you had already “commented” on it. Again, what any of you “said” clearly imprinted on my brain. HELP!
I recently warned my father (I’d never tell my mother – she wouldn’t like it) that I might be going mad: In my sleep I write texts, black on white, as clear as if it were daylight. So far so nothing. However, and this is where even he went quiet: After waking I bloody remember the lot, word perfect. Is this normal? Maybe it doesn’t matter whether it’s normal or not. What’s normal anyway? Still, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I have three – irrational though not unreasonable – fears: And one of them is losing my sanity. I keep telling myself that there is no need to panic: I haven’t cut off one of my ears or kissed a horse in Turin – yet.
All you visual beasts out there: Leg it over to Lorna’s
and the link for Reader’s Choice she gives therein, and cast your vote. Don’t fall for the cute blue Bird with Attitude. Or do. That’s me. No, not the photographer; the likeness. I don’t need office. I need peanuts.
PS Having checked with Lorna, as not to unduly influence her in her duty as judge (I flatter my powers), I can not divulge who I voted for. SURPRISE! And keep yours to yourselves till after the event on Wednesday after which we will – so I hope – compare notes. Snap, click and crackle.
I am not a Madam. Thus rarely pimping anyone’s ride.
Phil over at http://up2randomthoughts.wordpress.com/2012/02/11/ad-hoc-random-dinner-party/ is throwing a party. He is a most generous host. Not only does he encourage stream of consciousness of your thoughts (euphemism for failing to make an ass of yourself) you may drink as much as you like, you can partake in his fare, and you will find him in the wine cellar when he needs a breather from his guests’ high spirits. Don’t bring your own bottle since his fine choice will by far outstrip your taste, only showing you up for either a Bull’s blood drinking cheapskate, a Jaegermeister, or a bloody show off who throws money at a bottle without understanding what the label says. By way of damage limitation just bring a vat of salt in case you spill your white Merlot. And Phil, whatever you do, don’t let yourself be cornered by the good Magpie himself on the virtues of temperature/ice/cork vs screw top.
Being virtual the gamberoni will not go off, the bread not stale and the formaggio won’t walk or melt. Pazzaz is what we need. Where are all you shrinking violets? Plucking your eyebrows in anticipation of Valentine’s day? Go to Philissimo, let it all hang out, try not to find the broom cupboard unless you can afford a DNA test, don’t all avoid Totsy just because her accent will make you swoon. Neither all latch onto the crowd’s Alpha males because their muscle can hold the drink. Leave it to me and I will share the bounty.
Not even one Bellini down, I am so tempted to say something funny yet terribly unkind as one is only allowed in the haze of fog and fumes. Pity. Another loss to mankind, less for me to blush over tomorrow morning. Oh, Sweethearts, some of you don’t know how much I’d love to play with you. Some things best left to imagination. God, don’t tell me Edison has come back to haunt me.
See you there. Providing I can get myself out of the trailer.
Remind me to let you into mind blowing interior design solution to that which bugs us all. It’s so simple, so stylish, if only I were mercenary I’d patent it.
Half an hour ago I allowed myself to verbalise, on this page, and wallow in what constitutes a minor swamp in my life. Don’t worry – I’ve deleted the lot. What is my blog for if not to invent a condom for thoughts as yet not fertilized?
Turn down the light.