“One hundred and one (101) uses for a dead cat.” I can’t think of even one. Other than burying it and planting some catnip on top of it. Where my imagination leaves to be desired you might come up trumps. Please. As long as you don’t stuff it.
I wouldn’t describe myself as squeamish. Give me a worm. I threaded it on a fisherman’s rod at the tender age of four (me, not the worm or the rod). My son’s cats (when still alive) put horrendous gifts of love at my feet, half dead. I will give you the kiss of life even if you have just been sick. I could give you many more credentials as how NOT squeamish I am. Don’t want to spoil your appetite. Where I draw the line is rabbit. But only because their skinned body reminds me of that of a cat. I was once given a (skinned) rabbit, put it in a lidded dish, shoved it into the fridge for safe keeping. Some weeks later, I disposed of the dish without so much as lifting the lid. I am not a fool. It was a favourite vessel of mine. But needs must. And my need was that I did not want to traumatize myself with a neglected carcass.
The long and short of it: Skype and its camera I can’t cope with. I CAN NOT. Call me a ninny. Give me a land mine. I don’t care. Just don’t ask me to go on a web cam.
No kisses today,
I pride myself, and am glad, that I am not competitive or given to jealousy.
Don’t talk too soon.
There is more than one out there whose female readership keeps my blood on a gentle simmer. Where I just smile they pull lascivious faces. Bending backwards. If you want to bend backwards take up gymnastics.
Some of you labour under the misapprehension that I don’t like quotes. I do. What I don’t like is when people take the lazy way out. Instead of fashioning their own ideas into words taking the shortcut by using someone else’s.
So, Sweethearts, as not to be outdone by all you quoters today’s smorgasbord is (and where I do have the source I will give it):
“Anyone can get the goods, the hard part is getting away”. This roughly describes my life. Wouldn’t be surprised if one of the Great British Train Robbers said it. Or Jeremy Clarkson being stuck with May and The Hamster somewhere in Africa.
This is sad though we all have walked a beach (barefoot) “… my line in the sand”. Pass me a tissue.
A hit between the eyes: “Sooner or later we must give up all hope of a better yesterday.” How brilliant is that?
Even better: “I have skeletons in my cupboard but I don’t open the door.” David Suchet of Hercule Poirot fame, March 2012.
Pretty damning: “He is a follower not a leader”.
Most amusing, and I do not wish to discourage all those of you who aspire to become published writers: “… falls stillborn from the press”, Hume (18th century Scottish philosopher).
See? I can quote with the best of you. Not that I have quoted the BEST. Yet.
Hugs and kisses,
On a point of housekeeping: Just came across one of my decipherable handwritten notes –
12 May 1959. If this date means anything to you please do let me know. Will send card next year.
Who’d have thought that today’s offering delivered by a crocodile?
Correction: Crocodiles do what crocodiles do. A young man does NOT have to swim across a known to be infested by crocodiles swamp. He is dead now so he can’t hang his head in shame at taking a foolish risk.
I am not being funny here, or cute, or coquettish. I NEED HELP.
Today 30 people have looked at my ‘About Me’. It’s awful. Why can’t people just read what I write? Anyway, can’t let the side down further than it has already sunk.
I will now delete the lot and do what we all do at the beginning of September (ask the ever entertaining Charles bronxboy55 who has life sussed to an extent I don’t even begin to aspire to), pencils sharpened, a new leaf, a new life, the future is mine.
No self respecting pupil/student will not glean from those sitting next to us. Which was why teachers would put a lot of space between us. Come to think of it … doesn’t matter. That thought can wait till any grandchildren you may entertain have grown up. Mustn’t mess with the innocent.
And before you jump to conclusions: My self esteem so inflated I NEVER (it’s true) cheated. If I really didn’t have a clue I’d just leave. One memorable occasion in Maths I put my pen down, left the page blank, left the room, left that Rumpelstilzkin of a teacher incandescent and generally left – till called to see the headmistress. Not my finest hour. But an enjoyable hour.
Let me know what you think I should put in that most dastardly, inhibiting and generally superfluous section of a blog. I always wanted to delegate. Why do a job when someone else does it better?
Technical problem (and it’s not even Sunday afternoon): How does one edit the boring (as in people) out of one’s life?
I am not particularly precious about my time. Talk to me I’ll listen. It’s not your fault that I squander myself all over the place. I can make up for day time by working through the night. Cost/benefit analysis never enters my equation. Who needs sleep? However, as the years, not least days, press on maybe I should be a little bit more brutal. Particularly with myself. Still, I suppose, pregnant pause filled with a big sigh: Doesn’t matter really, does it? The older I get the more I adopt: “WHATEVER. Bring it on.”
Occasionally it’s mildly irritating when you speak more than one language fluently.
A saying will pop into your mind which does NOT translate well. Came across this little gem and I know how the author feels: “I can’t eat as much as I want to throw up.” Sounds lame, doesn’t it? However, the original: “Ich kann nicht so viel fressen wie ich kotzen moechte” somewhat more impressive.
I have appropriated it and now face the world with “I can’t throw up as much as I’d like to eat”. If you think that doesn’t make sense it’s because it doesn’t make sense. Trust yourselves a bit more.
A serious question. Do I want an answer?
Why is it often the smallest injuries which hurt the most? Yes, just nibbed myself. Obviously, not having had gangrene, not even gout, no one has yet felt obliged to chop off one of my legs. So I have little to compare anything to.
Once upon a time I went to A&E by taxi, another time BY BUS (one can’t drive with two broken arms – not even with one broken arm). Which reminds me. Here is one for you, John: The time with two broken wrists and arms (can one sue potholes on a British pedestrian walkway on a sunny Sunday morning?) I slept on the whole thing. Hoping it would go away. It didn’t. Next morning I got myself a taxi minus shoes. Didn’t have strength of put them on. Neither could I find flip flops. I delivered myself barefoot. One would hope for sympathy, keep the tea. Oh no, I got a mega bollocking no sooner had I set foot into hospital. Not so much because they thought my nakedness would contaminate anyone else. But that I might “pick up” something. Calm down, dear. It’s only two broken arms. I’ll live with the rest of the fall out.
As I have remarked once before (please do indulge my fears for a moment) there are only three things (apart from anything befalling the Angel) which terrify me: I have had a close shave with one, I have had a taste of another, the third looming large. HELP!
The taster being my wrists. I was incredulous. One is bad. Two is not only careless but will reduce you to pointless tears. There was nothing I could do. Serves me right. Since I am a doer. Best that can be said that I had plenty of time to revisit all those Bette Davis movies. Which nearly led to me taking up smoking again. She did it so well. As did Lauren Bacall. Yes, wrists. It’s why I am glad I don’t live in a country where they chop off your hand should you steal a loaf of bread. I don’t actually believe it’s humanly possible to chop a hungry person’s hand off. Not least because the damage is irreversible. Talk about a life sentence. No doubt one of the reasons I often bake my own bread.
Anyway, Sweethearts, think about what is indispensable to you. And thank every day you are intact.
Correction: Thank every day you are intact. DO NOT think about what is indispensable to you. It’ll give you the collywobbles.