Contests don’t interest me. So I have never entered a staring one. Don’t even understand what the purpose is. Unless you are a dog I am facing.
Yes, eye contact. I have to remind myself to not lock eyes with my opposite. I do look at people intently. Children are good that way. They do too. And then we smile at each other – complete strangers, and yet and yet and yet. There is an understanding. As fleeting as a thirty second encounter somewhere on the High Street may be. I love children. Of any age. And they know it.
Where were we: Eyes. And then there is body language. You may be as good an actor as … (name your favourite) but you can’t cheat what your gestures, the way you hold yourself, tell. Talking of acting: There are people in management (and possibly the ‘caring’ professions) who have been taught to “mirror”. A sort of forced empathy. Though mirroring can come natural. Many years ago the Angel pointed out to me that when I fed him I’d open my mouth as he did. Well, let’s stir away from one of my hobby horse subjects, namely that a parent’s facial expressions are ‘a mirror’ to a child’s world. The one they can’t yet make sense of. Which is why a buggy should always face the one pushing it. Feedback by another name.
Body language. Whenever someone crosses their arms my alarms not so much ring as I think: Don’t barricade. Keep an open mind.
One which amuses me no end – and so many people do it unnoticed by themselves: That nervous tick of the foot when you sit with your legs crossed (you shouldn’t cross your legs, it’s bad for your legs’ circulation, not that that stops me doing it). Yes, so a dangling foot flicking up and down being a dead give away that the other person finds you or what you are saying irritating. As you know I am nervous of irritable people. Which, the Angel said to me the other day, is rich coming from me. However, he got it wrong. I am not ‘irritable’, not at all. However, I do get irritated by certain things. Fine difference. Difference nevertheless. We then discussed semantics. I did prove my point. He conceded.
The difference between being irritable and irritated a bit like wasps. Some people (the irritable) fling their arms as a wasp buzzes around. Others (that’s me) don’t flap, but will be irritated when stung.
If you can’t follow most of the above, don’t worry. I have a reputation to uphold.
Fear rarely strikes me. Not because I am reckless. I am not. But because there is little to fear.
However. It has been brought to my attention that I tend to repeat myself, and anecdotes. That’s why my mother and I click so well. We can tell each other the same anecdotes over and over and never tire of them.
Yes, it’s Mother’s Day. In England. I don’t like the artificial. For me Mother’s Day is every day the Angel is still in one piece, preferably happy. 364 days round the year.
One Mother’s Day GG (gay guy) sent me a card. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. In the end I laughed. It’s safer.
My own mother’s first mother’s day (in the motherland it’s the second Sunday of May) was when I was three. Possibly the first poem I ever learnt, taught to me by Grandmother. So, on my dear sweet mother’s arrival back home there I was, petticoat – hair tamed, a bunch of flowers in little hands, loosely translated :
“Two hands full of flowers, two eyes full of light, a heart full of love, that’s all I can give.”
You may remember that I am hopeless at remembering rules of any card game. Other than snap. It’s frustrating. For me. And for those who have to keep explaining it to me all over again every time we play.
I have many ambitions in life. Largely neglected. One of them: I want to be the Poker player from hell. It ain’t going to happen. Even if I did manage to remember the ‘rules’, card values and what have you: My one shortcoming, and I don’t know how many people have remarked on this over my life, the Angel only the other day, that my face (well, my eyes) are too expressive. I give away sorrow and joy like some people sell warm rolls.
Thinking about it: It’s strange how some of us are naturals at certain things (like, say, playing poker with a face to match) and others are donkeys. Yes, donkeys. There is an affinity there. Better than being that The Godfather’s sawn off race horse head under the duvet.
Cards. As I related to a friend of mine yesterday: Once upon a time I came across a deck of cards strewn over an open space, face down.. I picked up four. One of them was the Ace of Spades. Even I know that – despite it being the death card – it’s the one with the HIGHEST value. Exciting.
Remind me to tell you when I went to a casino (South of Spain) for the first time. Beginner’s luck. Oh did I win. It was extraordinary. I still have one of the 1000 peseta chips. That night I had the worst food poisoning of my life. It was epic. The bathroom and I bonded for many hours. And a few more. You know what they say: “You attract into your life that which you need. ” Maybe. How I attracted FOS’s downright cruelty I don’t know. Yes, yes – Karma and all that. He had no sympathy whatsoever. Told me I only had myself to blame for ordering Steak Tartare in the South of Spain (or anywhere according to him) – and left for the pool. For all he knew I could have died. Minus the cost of my funeral. I tell you: Married life is not for ninnies. “In sickness and in health”? My foot.
I liked Monaco., Monte Carlo. The casino being like something out of Dante. The atmosphere. Sordid? I’d say glamorous and distasteful at the same time. And yes, I did smell James Bond lingering in the air. No, I didn’t play but drove down that amazing road descending, the one where Grace Kelly met her fate.
Yes, so, should any of you be up for a game of cards I am all yours. Providing you are willing to explain the rules to me. Again.
There was a time when I knew how to bone a raw chicken. Yes. Really. Without so much as ripping the chicken’s skin. It’s an art. Which I mastered in an instant. I am still in awe of myself.
Now? I don’t know. Give me a chicken. Will I have the patience to bone it? I’ll probably just roast it whole. Help yourselves. Knives and forks optional. Kitchen tissue (in lieu of linen napkins – don’t tell my mother) in plenty supply. As an aside: For some reason, other than a dearth of washing up liquid, washing powder and toilet paper, absence of kitchen tissue does make me nervous.
And then there is Chicken Kiev. A couple of days ago the Angel and I had dinner together. Not that I mentioned Chicken Kiev. Instead he mentioned Putin. And then smiled. When he heard me expound that sometimes politics or absence of hair does NOT matter. It’s where men have one over women. Not that my politics have ever mattered to anyone. but dare say if I lost my hair no amount of power would make up for my loss. Oh to be a man. Yes. Power. Such an aphrodisiac. Who’d have thought it.
Where were we: Chickens. Yes, John is getting married. To my arch rival Chris.
I don’t trust chickens. I was once attacked by one. To be fair to the chicken – a veritable Chickorous Rex to my three year old self – it was nothing personal. Just took a shine to the apple I was munching. Still. It was the first time my trust in the good in the world was shattered. Closely followed by one of the neighbours skinning a rabbit – in my line of vision. Leaving aside the beauty of the white Mink coat I recently mentioned I can’t stand fur. Obviously it does have allure. Particularly if you wear little or nothing underneath. I do remember one of my mother’s jackets. Hated it. Not that I told her. Yes, fox collar. And then there was my first teddy. I was very fond of him. But couldn’t bear the feel of his fur. So I’d grip him by one ear and drag him with me through the mud. It’s tough to be loved by the wrong person.
If I keep going it’ll be only a short matter of time till I mention tar and feathers. Yes, to be tarred and feathered. One of these days I shall extol to you the benefit and virtue (make that delight) of history, folklore and fairy tales.
Hugs and hisses,
Just came across this truly awful outlook on life. It’s so awful I don’t wish to deprive my readers:
“Life is the misery we endure between disappointments”.
Dear dog in heaven. Puts a whole new spin on death: Something to look forward to. As endurance tests go you will not be disappointed.
One wonders as one does – in between smelling the roses and cheese.
This minute, and not for the first time, I wonder how human kind evolved, indeed survived, for thousands of years, without the help of self help books. Are we little children, paw in Mama’s hand, crossing the road? Apparently so.
One of these days I’ll doctor a self help manual for those who write self help manuals.
May we all drown.
I rarely cry. Unless I am moved or my tears make up their own mind.
This minute, and please let me throw myself at your collective bosom: I am ready to kill.
There are people out there in the world who will fuck you over. Not literally. By their inane mutterings. Judgmental. To the hilt. I had three in as many minutes. If I could punch one of them this minute I would. My tongue is sharp but some people’s is blunt. And we all know which knife hurts more.
As the years pile on making you feel like I imagine a hunchback feels (buckling under the strain) some burdens lift. You lose interest. For instance: I can’t be arsed any longer with ‘tests’. Are you this, are you that or the other? I know the answer before I have so much as read the first question. Pity. I like answering questions.
Anyway – who cares what we are? As long as the basics of kindness, generosity, an open mind are procured I am sure I’ll shore up the vagaries of life.
Thus I desisted, this minute, being lured into taking a test of whether I am a procrastinator – and if so, why. I don’t need boxes to tick to know the answer. Which, unfortunately, leaves me with more time and fewer excuses to put off that which I should have done yesterday.
All you paragons of virtue (my readers): I am sure your lives are perfectly manicured. Even that of those with nasal hair.
PS: Nasal hair does serve a purpose