Sweethearts, am close to retreating into my shell. Press freedom? Sure.
Freedom to speak? Give me a break.
Left minor, and I mean minor, criticism (could have phrased it far more sharply) addressing a columnist in one of our major broadsheets (recent addition to their stable). They call it moderation. Insert me snorting. Moderation? Gagging more like it.
Am hugely annoyed. Not because my witty words of wisdom were erased by people – most likely – less educated.. But because I hold the press in huge esteem. Yet, what do you know. Freedom? Yes, press freedom. One law for you, another for the reader turned commentator. Normally I let things rest. This one? They’ll have another thing coming. And that’s a promise.
Some of us may live in ‘austere’ times. Most of you will need to add an extra hole to your belt.
Where we all stand united, and it gives me no pleasure to tell you: Dust, dirt, debris. You may run out of money you will never run out of shedding yourself. I have put many design faults at the creator’s door step but this one really does take elbow grease.
A chunk of my life’s studies has been on death. The inevitability of death is awesome. I understand the deal: You are born, you will die. Not much of a deal but better than not being born.
What I’d like to know, and I am dead serious here: Why oh why oh why do people bother with embalming (a question hardly ever asked but brought, once more, to my attention just this minute)? I have stipulated in my will and testament, and told the Angel – poor sausage who will have to clear up after me – that I want to be discarded asap, not be drained and then pumped full with formaldehyde. The idea fills me with disgust. Once I am dead leave me alone. Please. Cardboard box. Lid on top. End of story.
To be continued….
How difficult can it be?
When I left the hospital 36 hours after the Angel and I decided to part for the first time (his birth) I was declared a natural by all midwives who had attended to us and observed subsequent latching on.
FOS (Father of Son) bd and pd (before and post divorce) was so satisfied with my mothering skills he declared he’d not only take my lead in matters parental but leave it all to me. Which was good. And no doubt resulted in the laid back, balanced and emotionally astute human being this twenty two year old is, and always has been.
However, whilst the Angel will put the lid down on the loo, wash his hands after, and before putting food in his mouth, makes sure the front door is locked if he is the last one in, turns off all lights and generally makes sure that I am alright, I have failed him miserably. He has a toilet roll bypass. I occasionally – though not yet forcefully – have mentioned that it is a matter of courtesy to replenish tissue when you have used the last. This has not filtered through. Bear in mind: The Angel is one of the most observant people ever. He is one of those people who watch a film and tell you that, in the same scene, one minute the clock showed it’s high noon, the next it’s ten past three. So where did I go wrong with the empty toilet roll?
Whatever you say in reply please do let me down gently.
Some countries do have a sense of humour. There is one (and if you have already heard – my apologies) which hanged a man for carrying a ‘substance’. Though pronounced dead the mortuary guy, just before handing the body over to the family, noticed that the corpse was still alive. They rushed him to hospital. He is now being nursed back to health. Because, apparently, the country’s law decrees that you have to be of sound body to be hanged. For a second time. Talk about deja vu.
Fate too has a sense of irony: A small plane nose dived into a field in Belgium. All eleven on board dead. The passengers were parachutists.
May your Sunday pan out without getting bored.
Some of you know, at cost, that I have a thing about pride. I am a very proud person. But I do not pride myself on anything bred in the bone. As a lot of people do. Sorry, Sweethearts, whether it’s yourself or your offspring – a lot of what you pride yourselves on has nothing, nada, zilch, to do with merit. It’s just who you are. End of story. So stop preening yourselves.
This lamentable superfluous first paragraph was brought on by an email I came across earlier today sent from me to GG (gay guy), and a long time ago. A response never received.
“Just one point – and will you please, just for once, acknowledge that even a straight person (that’s me) is trying to understand: Why, oh why oh why (have forgotten his name now) would anyone declare himself (on your blog) as “proud” to be gay? Why? The whole thing is a mystery to me. I don’t declare myself ‘proud’ to be heterosexual. I just am hetero. Nothing to do with me. How can any of us – and please do give this some thought – be ‘proud’ of something we have no control over?”
Yup. And that’s about it. Think about it, gay guys and guyesses. Don’t fucking take the moral high ground with people like me.
I come from a long line of honest fishermen.
I do not wish to single out one animal in particular yet bulls (by virtue of their size) do produce a lot of shit. As do horses. And bloggers.
Rule number one: Try to be consistent. Otherwise you will be found out as the lying bastard you are.
Rule number two: Don’t embellish. That catfish you caught was full of grit and half your size.
Rule number three: Don’t balloon. You may burst. No one likes other people’s shit on their face.
Rule number four: Do not outwit yourself. You’ll never catch up.
Rule number five: Hold on to your skeleton. It might come useful one day. If only to put flesh on it.
Rule number six: Always start at the end. That way you know you’ll finish.
Rule number seven: If you need to bore bore deep.
Hugs and kisses,
Before I answer my last four commentators on that ghastly “Leftovers” post of mine – now congealed – let me make myself even less popular.
I am stricken, Sweethearts. Stricken. On many a front. I don’t want condolences, sympathy, or anything. Not even your attention. I am not yet ready to phone the Samaritans and even if, I’d only speak to the one and only John. Largely comparing notes on geese and goat herds. As I fritter my life on the inconsequential, instead of concentrating on the essential, thus doing what LOS (longest standing friend – he who speaks his truth unvarnished, and you will recoil when he does) once told me: “You (that’s me) are sabotaging yourself. ” At the time I didn’t take much notice of it. However, 16 years on, I think he might have been onto something. Can’t say I like Scarlet O’Hara much – not least because I have taken on board her last words: “Tomorrow is another day.”
This minute I need to eat. I don’t feel like it. I am not hungry. Till I have nailed it. Pass me the hammer.