THAT IS IT: Change.
From now on I shall no longer be myself.
There are two things missing in my life: WD40 and a remote control.
And a butler. Yes. Who needs a glass of water when you could just veg out on your sofa and die of thirst? It’s one thing to have pubescent dreams of entering a cloister, another to live my life. Once upon a time I wanted to be a nun. Now I am a whore.
Don’t believe all you read.
Water. Two New Year’s Eves ago I was dying. Swine flu. Fever hovering on the brink of what the human body can take. For three days. Delirious. Hallucinations. Luckily I was on my own as I was in no fit state to keep up any facade or make conversation. In the few moments I came to all I could dream of was someone bringing me some fucking water. Still, not having water saved me from having to get up to go to the loo. The whole experience will have aged me by two minutes.
Whatever you do: Don’t get bitter. It’s not becoming and, unlike chocolate with more than 75 % cocoa solids, it’s not healthy. It’ll age you (nothing that happiness can’t revert to its former beauty) but, in the interim, you will hate people inquiring after your health. Mirrors to be clothed. Sons asked to not take after you by telling you the unvarnished truth.
See you at a Spa, say Baden Baden. In the mud bath.
I do battle with myself. Daily.
It’s entertaining. And awful.
What to say, why to say, how to say, when to say, where to say – it. The only thing certain is the WHO says it – that’s me.
What to say? That’s easy. I have plenty to say. Why? I don’t know. Maybe it needs to be said. How? Now we are running into serious difficulty. When? Not now. Where? Well …
So should I die of bowel cancer you only have yourselves to blame.
On the whole people get it wrong. Which is why it’s wonderful when someone gets it right.
The art of giving presents was brought to my attention (by another blogger) just now.
When his sense of humour was still intact – shortly after we separated – FOS presented me with a parting gift from heaven: A composting bin complete with worms. It’s all I ever wanted: A wormery. No joke. I was deliriously happy. Not so happy that I would have married him again but very very happy. I mean it. I was. Unfortunately, you need to choose your friends wisely. At that time my life was everyone’s soap opera so ‘friends’ thought he was taking the piss. Not so. He was most thoughtful. Tell your friends they’ve got it wrong: Why not shove a rock uphill instead?
Yes, so that was good. Other than worms give me flowers.
I hate being restricted. Physically. One of the reasons I don’t wear a watch. And when I did – many years ago – it was a lovely Gucci number: A bangle, not a tight wrist band.
If I need the time I either look at the computer or ask a stranger in the street. It’s a conversation opener if nothing else. People are not used any longer to being asked for the time. So you have their attention immediately. If only for the novelty value of them having to take their ear plugs out so they can hear the question. And communicate. And yes, I will try this in New York. To prove that, despite rumours to the contrary, New Yorkers too are open to new experiences (with strangers).
I do have a clock. In the lounge. Freestanding. Stylish. Wooden frame. A cube 12 cm x 12 cm. Simple face.
Before the day fills with noise there is the morning. Mornings are quiet. Other than the seagulls. Seagulls make a most frightful noise – always appearing to be in a state of alarm. Why can’t they sing like ‘normal’ birds or at least be quiet? And before you say anything, David, yes, I do know that penguins too are birds. Neither do they sing.
That clock. In the lounge. It will tick. Audibly. Relentlessly. Frightens the hell out of me – occasionally. Like now. Which is why I fled to my desk. Sometimes I think the reason people write music (particularly Beethoven) is to blend out the sound of a clock ticking. Give me a seagull any time. At least I know what the weather will be like.
This minute I am faced with a choice. To let rip or to keep schtum. By temperament I prefer to fucking let rip. The voice of reason (that’s the Angel) has told me to not say a word to those words need to be said to. OK. He is probably right. Except that in a situation so bad it couldn’t be made worse I should allow myself to let rip. Am rewriting my will. Not that, this minute – a minute which could change any minute – do I have much to leave. Except a vial of verbal venom.
Let me know what you think. Or don’t bother. I have had it up to a level taller than myself. And I am not short.
If you do come to my funeral and insist on flowers please do make them sun/paeony/gerbera. If you are hard up just pick a dandelion or a daisy down the lane. I’d be deliriously happy with either of the last two.
Float my boat and indulge me. Please. This is not a trick question, just a question:
What colour(s) is your sofa/are your sofas?
You can’t beat it: The United States of America that is. Not that I would want to. After all, most of the inhabitants stem from their forebears in Europe.
The States’ dialing code being 001. It’s quite fantastic when you think about it. Number 1.
France, being cha cha, oh dear, yes, let’s not dwell on the unadulterated (sic) treachery and jealousy, sickness by another name, of La Rottweiler (First Lady), a cool 0033. England not to be outdone by their arch enemy another double act at 0044. Whilst Germany a most charming 0049. Italy clearly distracted by stirring risotto and grating Parmesan cheese at 0039. Or maybe they just don’t want anyone to phone them. Who remembers 39? And anyway talking with your hands does not easily translate via trunks under the ocean. Naturally, one could have a friend (as do I), deceased, in Trinidad. Don’t ask.
Yes, so: What’s in a number?