Sweethearts, cry with me.
Just found some old school reports in quest to bring order to chaos.
Whilst ‘behaviour’ was consistently marked as “Very Good”, ‘participation during lesson time’ as “interested, but too quiet”. You wouldn’t believe it, would you? I know when to hold horses and unleash dogs.
My low point no doubt the year which shall remain unnumbered when I scored so low in English and Physics even I find it hard to believe: “Her efforts in English are barely noticeable”. Fahrenheit plummeting. The same year the sky was my limit in Latin. For my sins I have spent most my adult life in England, not in ancient Rome.
You can’t beat it. Someone just asked me what the last word of the Old Testament is.
What do I know? By gut instinct I thought ‘curse’. But that’s unkind. So I opted for ‘Amen’.
My father sometimes lamented that his eldest daughter had absurd need to reinvent the wheel.
I didn’t/I don’t. But do know what he means. Anyway, have come up with most marvellous business idea. Sub title: How to go the way of least resistance.
Don’t sneer. There is no point climbing a mountain unless you know about abseiling.
The way of least resistance is smooth, and slippery. Sweethearts, wish me luck. May your ice cream not melt in anticipation.
Sometimes I find myself like a cat wishing to spit. I have never seen a cat spit. So can only take anyone’s word for it.
My spitting taking the form of a parallel conversation (in my head, and on paper). Oh, dear Sweethearts. If you could see the vault of what I really think you and many others would shoot me into outer orbit.
I am no photographer but know, or rather have learnt, all about perspective. Perspective to either keep your mouth shut, amuse yourself with thoughts never to see the limelight, meanwhile chiselling one’s responses as not to bruise tender egos.
Yes, the tender ego. Luckily my upbringing was such that egos were encouraged. Tender? No. Definitely not. Bruising? Most definitely not. Limp if you must. But don’t let on. Keep your mind’s hatchet in its shield.
The shocking fall out of the above: I live a double life. Not in a deceitful way. If you are my friend you are my friend. Even if you are not my friend I won’t ignore you. But fact is: When I put pen to paper, finger to keyboard I sure do have to curb myself.
In about thirty, fourty years’ time (faculties permitting) I shall open that treasure trove of mine. I can already predict who will be amused and who won’t.
Hugs and hisses,
I never wish I had tuberculosis. But a stint in a sanatorium in Davos/Switzerland wouldn’t go amiss. No, forget the sanatorium. A hotel will do. Make that a chalet.
Now I know the English think mentioning one’s nerves pretentious. Never mind. I am not English. And my nerves are so frazzled round the edges I don’t need all that bloody sea air around me. I need a mountain. Drawback being that one has to climb a mountain. Which is fine. It’s the coming down at the zenith. Consolation being cheese fondue or Raclette awaiting you back in the valley. And Kirsch.
Which reminds me, apropos nerves: I once smashed a five star bathroom basin in a hotel overlooking Lake Geneva which inspired Deep Purple (I think) to write their “Smoke on water”. It wasn’t murder, not even manslaughter. It was self defence. My weapon being my amazingly loaded vanity case. I didn’t call it ‘vanity case’ at the time. But it sure was. And thus I learned that a tonne of vanity and anger combined leaves you with a smashed washbasin. No one could have been more surprised than myself.
By the time we came back from dinner on the terrace the hotel had replaced the wash basin. That’s the Swiss for you.
Yes, nerves. Let’s hope I’ll keep mine till the next delivery.
I am no fag hag. Or whatever they are called. Yet gay men fascinate me. Maybe some sort of defense mechanism to keep the straights at arm’s length.
As I have cried at your assorted shoulders before not that long ago a man (gay, naturally) wooed me. A woman likes to be wooed. Indeed I, woman, will woo a man. One. Anyway, it all went pearshaped with gay guy and I wasn’t so much put onto the compost heap as landfill.
Where was I? In our local co-op (cornershop) yesterday evening. The city I live in being a university town, the air wafting with young blood.
I don’t stare. Or gawp. Yesterday I gawped and stared. Sometimes you come across, I don’t know, ‘beauty’? No, it wasn’t beauty. A sort of ethereal quality – so artificial as not to be defined. Medium long blond – clearly dyed – hair, make up to the hilt, trousers even I wouldn’t wear in public. A vision. For those of my readers excitable: There was nothing sexual about my wonderment. The guy could have been my son. I don’t mean MY son but age wise.
Yes, beauty strikes where it strikes.
Anyway, on return home – son assuming I’d gone awol (absent without leave) – I related the encounter. Asked him, since the Angel is more streetwise than me. Questions like that will get you all the disdain you deserve. “What do you think, Mama? Of course he is gay.”
OK. Yet another loss to womankind.
I shall knit this into another thought – about beauty. In both the heterosexual and gay man. With and without mascara and eyeliner. And trousers to die for. Think Saville Row.
What fairy land did I live many years ago? Why does everything come to my attention NOW?
I am in wonderment of how humans do connect, don’t connect.
I don’t detest anyone – not really. But there is one person, and I remember the first time I heard his voice after having set foot into Britain. My god. As you know I do go by gut instinct. That voice (and I haven’t heard it for ages) echoes in my ears. I cannot claim to understand the ins and outs of his politics. For that I am too far removed. Yet I do smell a rat when I hear one.
It’s odd. And I can’t say I like myself for it but do have strong urge to punch the guy in the face.
I leave it to you (not that it is that interesting) to work out who, currently in the news and under scrutiny, has brought out the less desirable in me.
Do you know the way how people in your life make you groan (I nearly wrote grown – that’s English for you; you mean one thing, you spell it like the other – no wonder the nation is going to the dogs. Make mine a cat. Stirred not shaken.)
Yes, other people making me groan (inwardly). If I had to dissect anyone close and of remote interest to me I could list and describe a rainbow of their usual gripes, woes and happiness. And how they express them. A bit like a fingerprint of their soul (or should that be sole? Leather or fish?).
It’s endearing. Familiarity most certainly – in my eyes – does not breed contempt. Familiarity envelopes you like a favourite blanket, whether cashmere or sackcloth.
I make MYSELF groan in joyful recognition of yet another of MY recognizable footprints in either the written or the spoken word. Hell’s Bells. The hunchback of Notre Dame has nothing on me.
As long as I don’t go deaf on myself I am yours, predictably, reliably, the odd crack and cold water notwithstanding,