This post is going to HURT. Me. Not you.
Do you actually know what it means to go out there, face your fellow men – and BEG? Don’t answer.
Yes, the season of good will. One week to go and I still haven’t procured the goose that – once upon a time – flew effortlessly, caressed by me, onto the laden table.
If anyone, ever and so smug, tells me that money doesn’t buy you happiness I’ll tell them to …
Such a happy life I believe to have led between the age of 19 and …
Now? For the last six/seven years? I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I were Virginia Woolf. I don’t mean the author. I am not given to being a writer. I love the word. I don’t need publicity. Yes, stones in your coat’s pockets and water. But, as a doctor recorded many years ago: “Won’t act on impulse on account of her son”.
Indeed. I believe all of us to be selfish to the core, yet there are limits as to what we do to others.
A fool I ain’t. The moment I committed to motherhood was the moment I realized that life wasn’t my own any more. Happy I had the guts to take the plunge.
Everything went swimmingly. Twenty four years down the line I fail. Put that into your assorted handkerchieves.
Not all, some facets of life are beginning to disenchant me.
You can’t ring someone without them knowing it’s you before they pick up the phone. There goes surprise right out of the window.
Some years (26) ago in a moment of madness, egged on by Fiona, a colleague of mine, I had my palm looked at. In a tent. Not that location matters. Same difference. Everything went swimmingly till the reader came to a particular line on my right hand. She literally threw it [my hand] back at me, looked at me – AGHAST – and, after wishing me “a good life”, showed me the exit in no uncertain terms.
I didn’t think about it at the time. I am used to drama. Most my friends are in the theatrics one way or another. Not so much exaggeration but caricature being their signature tune. In my case, and I am not on the stage, don’t take seriously now REPENT AT LEISURE.
Have come to horrible conclusion. Either send chocolate (or other currency) now or come and see me in the loon’s bin. I’d recommend the former since the latter won’t be fun – for either of us. Cro – you may send me a goose. Keep the liver.
To top it all, today I have had two telephone conversations which have confirmed all I have never wanted to know: The end is nigh.
No, I am not about to die, I am just ending.
Hugs, hisses and howls,