Americans, please do look away NOW. Columbus has not yet “discovered” your continent, the Mayflower not left harboUr, the cucumber sandwiches for the Boston Tea Party not even conceived; neither has the potato been exported to become one of Europe’s much beloved staple foods.
I wished someone a happy 1213 (in words: Twelve thirteen).
Observed, to the Angel’s feigned delight, that if life were a business proposition few would invest – and your accountant and his bottom line would be in despair. The calculation does not add up. What, in the end, do you get for your continued efforts, and despite swallowing the whole of a Vitamin B capsule to smooth the ride? NOTHING. That’s what.
Just had revolutionary thought.
We are defined by those who like us. Most certainly we are defined by those WE like.
Ha, get your brain round that one whilst cleaning the bathroom and before writing your next novel. I am in bloody awe of myself. On the strength of that thought alone I am sure Nietzsche would have accepted me as his apprentice. Not because he’d agreed with my notion but because he’d have known that I would have saved that horse in Turin on his behalf.
Have decided to change career. I currently do not have a garden which will not stop me from becoming a witch. At age twelve I had romantic notion of becoming a nun. Now I have found my true vocation: Fling a frog or two into the cauldron. Stand by. Wait for explosion. Keep stirring. Don’t get distracted. Think Risotto. Risotto needs close attention. Which is why I prefer anything with a lid on, that can be shoved into the oven without consequence. Slowly falling off the bone.
All I need now is a broom and some flying lessons. And a new wardrobe. I shall be the Vivienne Westwood of witches, sprinkled with a little Zandra Rhodes: No black for me. Orange will be fine. If any of you have kittens you consider drowning please do let me know. One will do. Colour immaterial as long as it’s not white.
What else to put on my wish list? Apart from the elusive? An eye patch. Be careful what you wish for.
You’ll find me where it says: “Zee trespassing of wizards and fellow witches always welcome. Hansel and Gretel keep out!”
Sweethearts in varying degrees, some of you negligible, do you know the link between codeine and bananas? No, it’s not potassium.
A postcard will not suffice. Send me a long letter.
Hugs and kisses,
Having established that paranoia is mine (will follow this up in my next post which I have, uncharacteristically, already written – just in case) I find myself rifling through the last two drawers in my kitchen not having been attended to in detail for the last two years.
I am so glad I am not a man. There are many a nail, a bolt, a nut and a screw. Spares. For what? Who knows. Probably for shelves and appliances long rusting in a landfill coming to haunt generations to come. So, yes, since I am not a man who will lovingly hoard screws/shrews in case they come in ‘handy’ some time in a future he will not live, I have binned all of them. Nails (all sizes) I keep because I have got a hammer.
Two minutes ago I nearly fell apart and tried not to think about who I REALLY am when I came across a little pouch, labelled (yes, labelled) by me, saying: “Half dead batteries”. Make of that what you will.
Sweethearts, I know some of you write blogs with hope in your hearts that a publisher will instruct his editors to ignore the slush pile and pounce on your talent. Without delay.
Do not give up that hope. It happens.
However, and let me tell you this in my capacity as a reader: If you can’t write THE END leaving the reader either saturated or bereft, wanting more, then don’t even start your first sentence.
The last two nights I had a fantastic read. Guess what: As so often the closer I came to the end the weaker the plot. It just fizzled out like a bottle of champagne: Flat in the morning. After the last page I felt like flinging the book into a corner. Since I don’t throw things I didn’t. What I did do was lovingly scan some of my bookshelves, cosseting old friends. Those whose talent is not just devising a fantastic plot but bringing it to a satisfying climax. More, more, more …
“Can you love someone who stinks?”
And before you give me credit for asking a pertinent question – DON’T. I picked it up like one does a penny on the pavement.
Am slightly unnerved by myself.
I find it hard to leave things alone. Like spelling mistakes. The only reason I sometimes will – with cold sweat on my feverish forehead – let one stand because I was told that to make a mistake is what makes us human and other people love you. As comforts go it’s a great one: Which human doesn’t want to be considered human? Being loved? Let’s get back to that another time. Instead I bleed. Not least because I am the daughter of a perfectionist. OH MY GOD. And to make matters worse I don’t use a spell checker (as you, Cynthia, no doubt, will remember). It’s a matter of pride. If I don’t know how to spell something I will consult my dictionary and ignore all American spelling suggested to me: Where there is colour there is a ‘U’. And that’s that. You don’t swot a sizeable chunk of your life learning the intracacies of English spelling only to then realize that Americans have taken the German route chucking out all that is superfluous.
Hugs and kisses,
I am hungry yet have no appetite.