Before you read this make sure you have some tissues or a freshly starched and absorbent handkerchief ready. For your tears, not mine. I can look after my own waterfalls.
So whatever you do, don’t say a kind word to me. Please. A kind word will, currently, have me in floods. Which, no doubt, is most welcome by our local water company replenishing its supplies but not so good for you. Keep it short and crisp.
As an aside: Have come to conclusion that ‘a shoulder’ is the most useful part of anyone’s body. Argue with that if you must: I could do with a heated discussion. Or proof to the contrary.
If I were a mole I’d now make a hill, or several. No, not on someone’s manicured lawn (I do have compassion) but somewhere in the countryside where you can still make mountains and shift plateaus without anyone calling in the pest police.
I am not sure I have got my facts right but I think moles are blind. Which is why they don’t mind living in the dark. There is an awful fairy tale, can’t remember the title this minute, where a young girl is being forced to marry a mole. Obviously it’s not the mole’s fault he is a mole but still. A girl deserves better. I think she was rescued by a swallow.
I’d just done a runner. And seek shelter under a toad stool.
Don’t say I can’t be obedient.
Last week I went for a scan (no, I am not pregnant, and don’t worry: I’ll live till I die). The doctor asked me to breathe in deeply and HOLD my breath. I did. I held it. Patiently. Remembering a time BC (Before I wore Contact lenses) when I set myself the most idiotic challanges diving and staying down for as long as possible.
I lost my interest in diving once I went myopic. Strange, but goggles and I don’t see eye to eye. Fast forward to the now: I don’t smoke, I am fit – so who needs to breathe. And anyway – if at all possible do not disobey a doctor’s command. They might become ill disposed towards you. So there I was, slowly drowning, willing myself not to breathe – when I heard him say: “Breathe in again”. What do you mean: AGAIN? I haven’t breathed out yet from the last time.
I burst out laughing. He smiled. At least we now know that my lungs still have capacity belying wear and tear. After that I tried to pay a bit more attention to his “Breathe OUT”.
Come to think of it, the breathing out brings a strangely comforting sensation with it. Maybe that’s where the expression “a sigh of relief” comes from. On the other hand, and just to prove my point: Someone will “take a deep breath”, or worse “a sharp breath”. And worst of all: A last breath. Inhale. And with your last exhale, this is me when still a little girl, your soul flies out of your mouth (to a place unknown – no forwarding address) in disgust and horror how its vessel, your body, could just close up shop. Make you homeless.
Yes, I know it’s all very comforting. But it’s only 0559 GMT. And dark.
Sweethearts, life is about logistics. Don’t tell me otherwise. I know. Not only was I once upon a time a logistics expert, I was married to one. The only time his heart sank whenever business would take him to Greece. And yes, I did all his packing at four in the morning. And drove him to the airport. Please do bring out the violins. Those were the days when women were women and ironed their men’s shirts. And folded them. Which is why it pays nowadays, for a man, to be gay. Don’t hold me to this observation as it’s plucked out of thin air.
Yes, logistics. And this is one for all fathers known to me past, present and future who – at some expense -marry off their daughters. It’s all very well you paying for her dress. Her looking ravishing. One third into the reception she will have to go the toilet. Champagne in, champagne out. It’s the natural order of things. No one ever thinks about this: Few toilet cubicles allow for meringues. I know this because my dear sweet so young sister-in-law was in despair. Luckily both her mother and I were in ‘the ladies’ at the same time. This was before you tube so no record has been made other than in our joint memory. Yes, so next time you go for a fitting take measurement of dress circumference round the hips and diameter of cubicle into account. And before any of you ask me how the Elizabethans did it, what with their long robes, I will tell you or point you to a historian who knows. Don’t expect to be thrilled.
One of the papers asks whether you are a “trend refusenik”.
If I am – fine. Bloody well hope so. By design – and on purpose.
Trends leave me cold. So, no I have never shopped in ‘Baby Gap’. I have never been a ‘member of a book group’ (I find that thought depressing). I have never ‘been on a diet’. I have never ‘owned a product made by Apple’ (which reflects more on me and my funds than Apple). I have never been ‘on Facebook’ (where do people get the time from – not to mention Twitter). I never use ‘text speak’, mainly because it takes me longer to work out abbreviations than just going the traditional spelling route. I have never ‘bought anything from Starbucks’, partly because I don’t drink coffee and even when I do their combos are too complicated for me. Bringing me out in a fluster of choice paralysis. Neither have I ever worn Uggs. Though I spied one pair which just about passes muster, is quite elegant and people would be pushed to recognize it as an Ugg.
My score being that I am asked to count how many friends I have. How that is related to the number of cans of tinned food on my shelf is beyond me. I do have a jar of anchovies (in olive oil). Please do feel free to squeeze in there. I won’t mash you to a pulp. Just bring a tin of tomatoes and some penne and we’ll talk whilst I make a divine pasta sauce.
PS I understand that Burgundy has lost currency this autumn. Cheers.
Dear dog in heaven. As some of you know I don’t do drugs. Any. Mainly because they have the opposite of the desired effect. Give me a sleeping pill and I will be awake all night. I used to roll a mean joint. But never ask me to smoke it myself. A – I hate it. B – joint and I don’t get along. Mind you, grass is one up on the sleeping pill. Sending me straight to sleep. Wasted. That’s what. How my friends tolerated me I do not know. Still, there is always one who needs to wipe brows, clean up sick and generally give feed back to a poor sod on a bad trip. Yes, that’s me. Matron. Try not to throw yourself off the roof.
However, as I confided in you before: Morphine is my drug of choice. If I had access to it I wouldn’t wish to guarantee for myself. Two years ago when they tried to reset my arm OH MY GOD they gave up and gave me morphine instead. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss. Bliss. And Bliss.
This minute, and thanks for the above diversion, I am in grip of backache I didn’t think possible. I can’t believe it. I never ever have backache. Like I never ever have headaches. Yet, there is no denying it. My back aches. Brilliant. I know I have a body. Why does my back take it upon itself to remind me?