The big question

Don’t I just love being caught clueless when someone asks me to guess their age.

There was a time when it was easy to narrow it down. Now? I don’t know what’s happened since but it ain’t easy any longer. And I have hunches like a blood hound. So bloody, that the other day a guy I’d had only just met as part of a group of unknown to me “youngish” people asked me, in a slightly coquettish way, how old I thought he was. Brilliant. I don’t like to disappoint people so I played the game. Long hair tied back into a pony tail. A looker. Pretty laid back. Positive about Brexit (and he was a “foreigner” living in England). So on that evidence and considering I’d only set eyes on him ten minutes earlier and he’d barely said anything since his two friends dominated the conversation I had to think on my feet.

There is one rule when people ask you how old you think they are: You think one thing, you take between two and four years off (when they hover around sixty or eighty five). That’s basic maths. Still, I don’t play by rules, so I say it as I see it. I gave it a little time. Looked him not so much up and down as settled on his face and demeanour. Assessing the little info garnered so far whilst he looked at me expectantly, saying “come on”. Ok, I said, 28. At which he excused himself under cover of needing to fetch himself a drink. Oh did his friends laugh. Thirty eight more like it, they sniggered, you have made his day. Though why it would make anyone’s day to be taken for younger than you are before you hit fifty is beyond me. If anything it’s an insult.

U

 

Not always what it says on the tin

A rarity so rare I feel compelled to record it for posterity: I denied someone commenting on my blog publicity.

No, not for the reasons the easily excitable blogger, the overly sensitive blogger, the ones who get annoyed at anything that doesn’t tally with their opinion, will delete a comment. Not at all. The comment was perfectly ok – if somewhat missing the point and spirit of my original post. Which made it so depressing. So depressing, so dispiriting, I can’t bear it. So I moved it. I haven’t deleted it. Just made it invisible. Invisible. And thus I have learnt, for the umpteenth time in my life, that “out of sight out of mind” doesn’t work for me. No amount of stuffing into cupboards, closing the door and never opening it again will erase the taste of an initial impact – good or bad.  I might as well stick with open shelving.

Do you employ shredders – successfully?

U

Dishing the dirt

Remember when people traded in their Rolls Royce for a new one because the ashtray was full?

I can totally relate to the sentiment. I don’t mind battle, yet, occasionally, there is only one way. That of least resistance.

Sometimes things are just disgusting. So disgusting all you want is to get rid of them. Like my keyboard. Of course, I could take the easy way out and pray. Pray that the keyboard will die, thus giving me an excellent excuse to buy a new one without having the sin of waste on my conscience. Hand me a rosary now – and I am not even Catholic.

So what do you suggest? Not least the engineers (in Silly Con Valley) among you. Why on earth, with all the magic the human mind can weave, has no one yet invented a way to prevent the crevices between the keys of a keyboard from becoming a cesspit?

U

 

Sacrifice

First you wait for a rose to blossom, the next moment three skunks turn up.

Yes, so stink is where it’s at. I’d live another life if mine didn’t throw up a conundrum when I am already working on another. Just now, the most pressing, that “something” (I can’t be more specific) needs to be aired in the public’s interest. Forget interest. … should be brought to wider attention. HA. My intention may be good, even honourable. Enter the dreaded “but”. If I did air it’d hurt many – particularly one. Now one may be a skunk but even skunks have feelings to be considered. So whilst all worthy, even amusing, is it permissible to air how clever you are at the expense of a skunk or three?

Please say no.

U

Purr

I need a reference point for reasons – in the context of this post – not important. Let’s just say that I need to put my mind to rest. Not least because my mother makes me wince every so often when she “remembers” things in my life she wasn’t even present at better than I do. Now? Now I don’t say anything any longer to correct her. Not since, about ten days ago, I sat next to a lovely lady two years my mother’s senior who was switched on, inquisitive, funny, lively – except every fifteen minutes or so she’d ask me whether I had any children. Having covered the subject of the Angel’s existence several times during our two hour wait my penny suddenly dropped. OH MY GOD. So this is how decline (ever so barely noticeable) manifests itself. No wonder my mother recently apologized to me for upsetting me profoundly. Unfortunately, what she apologized for wasn’t what I had taken offence at. WHAT the …? I left it. Thanked her for her apology. I don’t think she is interested in detail any longer. Main thing is that everything is hunky dory. “All I want is to be good with you”, she says. I do have to rejig my mind set when talking with her in future.

The reference point I need is for a period of utter chaos in my life (ca. eight/nine years or so ago). A few details a little hazy. A couple of days ago I realized that I remembered something that is, chronologically, not possible. So, anyway, and do laugh, I phoned the veterinary practice and asked whether they keep records from many years ago. Yes, they do. Great. Can you please tell me the date when my cat Bouncer (reference point) was put down?

Bloody blasted hell (and only my refined upbringing stops me from using all the swearwords I can muster to express my utter disgust at what the world of information has come to). They can’t give me the date of my OWN cat’s death over the phone because of data protection. Short of my date of birth which they didn’t request I gave the receptionist all the data she needed to conclude that I am not a Russian agent spying on myself. No doing. On top of which she kept calling me “My Lovely”. What’s wrong with the British? Emotionally stunted they proceed to call complete strangers “Love” and “Deary”.

I am now in the recovering position. Next stop on my journey through life? Extracting my own teeth.

U

No sound

Sweethearts, an hour or so ago it was half past four British Summer Time (here in Britain) and I witnessed the most amazing piece of human interaction. By body language only. Think silent movie without subtitles.

As some of you may remember my study (where my desks are) provides a room with a view. A view of a most interesting street (interesting if you are into people watching).

Yes, so three geezers in front of a pub well known (not least to tourists). When I say geezers, I mean three white guys in their, say, late forties, early fifties – pint in hand (which I only mention since four thirty is ok when you are at a wedding or a funeral yet a little early on a Wednesday, unless, of course, you need some Dutch courage). At this point difficult to gauge whether they are just a bit excitable, on edge or twitchy by nature . Down the street comes a young black guy. You know what I like about black people? Even the ones born here, the ones who have never set foot into their country of origin, have that most amazing grace when moving. They don’t even need to dance, walking will suffice to support my view. Even better that this black youngster (say, mid twenties) wore all those colours (not least yellow, red and white) that so offset contrast to their skin. Joyful comes to mind. So, yes, he was extremely well turned out – as opposed to the three white “geezers”. Anyway, all started amicably enough, if a little tense. Enter body language. I have no idea what it was about. After an initial hello it took all but two minutes to go pear shaped. Gestures were made. Fingers were pointed. Arms were folded. Slight leaning forward. The geezers that is. Black and colourful guy unmoved. Whatever ground he needed to stand he stood it. Then he walked off and away. So far so fine. Enter act two. Now the the geezers start at each other. Two clearly telling main geezer that he got it oh so wrong. Main geezer takes refuge inside pub followed by geezer two who appears to be torn as to whose side best to take to cover his own back. Geezer three remaining outside taking drags on his cigarettes as if it were his mother’s last drop of breast milk. The End. Except the sequel won’t be ending well at all.

As an aside, it’s amazing what you can observe, a couple of floors above street level, without any of the players and passers-by knowing they are being observed. No one ever looks up. Which reminds me, the other day three cars parked in front of one of the restaurants. In a no parking zone. Never mind. Rules are there to not be observed by those who can afford a hefty fine on top of their dinner. Reliably informed by the Angel that the three cars were some of the most expensive in this world (make escapes me this minute). One of their number plates read “Loser”. Loser, I ask you. There are two interpretations to this. Though only one holds water. Namely, that that guy (not least when driving down a German Autobahn with no speed restrictions) would come so close to your tail on the overtaking lane you wouldn’t be able to overlook his assessment of you. Never mind. I do not come for nothing from the country where they have means to rattle.

U