To Hare is Human

Wile E. Coyote runs off the cliff and FAILS to fall because it doesn’t occur to him to look down.

U

Yellow green

This morning whilst waiting, patiently, for a sign from hell or heaven a seagull shat on the crown of my head. It was only the second time in my life. Cooling. And why the crown? Why not soil your dress, shoulder or whatever else stands in the way of a seagull’s toileting? Don’t say seagulls aren’t considerate. It’s cheaper to wash your hair than take your jacket to the dry cleaners.

My consolation – in recovery not so much from humiliation as disgust  – I remembered that folklore has it that a bird relieving itself on top of you amounts to good luck. And what do you know – it did.

Before all of you rush out to be pooed on by birds – forget it. Per chance can’t be forced.

U

May the Best Man not win

Today, Friday 24 Aug 2018, the Angel attends a wedding (the ceremony starting in about fifteen minutes). One of his closest friends getting married. The Angel being one of three best men. Why anyone needs three best men to carry him to the altar I do not know – but maybe the groom was torn between longest standing friend, brother and, well, the Angel. That’s indecision for you.

In the motherland they don’t do “best man”. Bridesmaids, yes, but men? No. Neither does her father walk the bride down the aisle (in the motherland). Ridiculous. My father didn’t own me all my life; so why would he “give me away”?

Anyway, the English do have their ways in any given social setting and are most particular about it. If you’d like me to expand I will. I have more anecdotes (not least on hats) than I care to remember – though all of them, moderately, funny.

Be that as it may, before the Angel set off earlier he related to me what I had not known. Every time someone relates something to me I don’t know I am surprised (the older I get the more surprised I am at all that indeed I have not known, do not know and never will). So, apparently in an age long gone (don’t hold me to detail) the best man’s duty was not to ship the groom to the altar in time. Not at all. It’s so bad it’s worse.

Cast yourself back to a time when you had to negotiate Robin Hood and other daylight robbery in dark forests on the way to your destiny. Say you got slain. It happens. Then, please dear Readers, do sit down and reach for the smelling salts, the best man had to stand in for the groom. Yes, really. When a wedding was called it had to take place. Never mind about love and stuff. An understudy will do.

The Angel, being of an orderly mind, asked today’s groom (last night) why then he had appointed THREE best men. Were they supposed to battle it out between them should shit happen between departure and destination? Let’s just say that, as incentives go, the Angel was determined to get the groom to the altar in one piece. Not because the bride isn’t lovely. She is. But the Angel  knows he’d win the fight and does have other plans.

Yes, in slightly nostalgic mode; last couple of days letting all the weddings I have attended (not least my parents’ when I was four) pass by my inner eye.

Any memories of your own or others’ weddings you’d like to indulge me with?

U

Barely there yet irritating

Since some members of blog land currently appear to be in “ain’t it and OTHER people awful” mode, some habitually – those ones usually the ones who, naturally, are the exception and paragons of virtue, let me tell you what IS awful.

Those sewn-in-labels inside of a garment, at the back of your neck. They scratch, they itch, they irritate my skin. It happens, occasionally – even when the label bears the name of a designer whose reputation  far outshines the garment itself.  It’s in the rough thread stitching. So far so nothing. Here is the remarkable bit: It took me about TWELVE years to pinpoint a minor irritation I feel every time I wear that “thing” (it’s a top falling to mid thigh, made in India, indeed Indian  – shame on you, Ramana) which is beautifully cut, airy as befits this weather and suits my overall colouring (think golden girl).

Great, isn’t: At the point of it falling apart (I now only wear it indoors) it occurs to me to do something about that minor irritation at the back of my neck. Yes, just now, with no intention to write a blog post, I turned that bit of the collar over and put a paper clip (!) on it to keep it in place. It’s lovely. My world is, once more, free from that worst of irritations, namely the almost imperceptible one.

U

 

Backside

Here is a turn up for the books, and please smile as I did: No sooner do I publicly toast John for his part in restoring relations, no sooner some “Georgia” pops up and declares that I “lick ass”. Well, “Georgia”, I don’t think you are cut out for a job in world diplomacy; brokering and supporting peace clearly not your strong point. However, I note your robust language. Maybe a job on a building site more your thing. You could always whistle when I walk past.

What I’d like to know what possessed you to link back to my blog. There is a certain finesse to it; though at half past three in the morning it’s somewhat startling when I clicked on “Georgia” to find myself staring at Bitch on the Blog’s homepage. Obviously it’s a marvellous blog – so I am sure temptation to publish under my name is rife.

Maybe some of my readers could do me a favour and test how this works by leaving me a message, say “testing testing” or something suitably rude, but do put my blogname down in the box where it asks for yours. Can’t wait.

Anyway “Georgia” whoever you are, I hope you are happy that you have caught my attention. Quite a little risk taker, aren’t you, considering that I might come to lick your ass too.

U

 

 

Testing Times

Searching the internet for info is great. Unless you search for any symptom, even the mildest. Essentially, what you do – after a few minutes, that’s all it takes – wonder why you are still alive. Or ever lived. Yes, Google, the Reaper. The taker away of peace of mind. I have to hand it to certain American websites who should definitely be avoided. Say, you have had some vague symptom for a little while; not given to hypochondria and/or panic you (that’s me) will be quite happy and certain that it’s nothing.

NOTHING? American websites will tell you to see a doctor IMMEDIATELY lest dire damage will maim you for life, death not necessarily imminent but don’t bank on it. Which is a great pity (the “immediately” bit) when you have already had that teensy weensy symptom for some days. So, as if that isn’t bad enough, you can now (ca 2022 hrs BST – no surgery other than A&E open for business) add another worry to the worrying symptom. The prospect of GUILT. That most sinister invention to mess with the human psyche (animals don’t feel guilt – unless they are dogs and even then I doubt it perturbs them much even when put in the doghouse for minor dismeanour).

GUILT at the fact you were NEGLIGENT. Short of apologizing to yourself, hoping you won’t see fit to sue yourself for damages, you swear yourself to secrecy. No one, not even your closest and dearest (particularly not them), must know that you should have gone to the doctor YESTERDAY. Not even your doctor. “No, no, doctor, I came running to you straight away just in case.” In case of what? Well, in case I should have  come to you earlier and now I (I in bold letter) AM to blame for my imminent misery – misery as yet undiagnosed (other than by google).  So not only are you down the route of guilt, you have little choice but lie – just a little. No, lets not call it lying (mustn’t add to aforementioned GUILT); let’s call it white. Self defense.

What brought on this post? Latent hysteria, possibly. And, naturally, google.

I read a blog entry, and it was very informative and most certainly well intended, but I came away wondering whether I’d still be alive in five weeks’ time. Why? Because some conditions don’t even carry symptoms till it’s too late. Well, at least I won’t need to blame myself for that which I didn’t know needs to be investigated. All is good. I’ll be dead guilt free.

Don’t worry, don’t send chocolate, sunflowers will do to keep me happy (whilst alive – later they won’t make any difference),

U

 

Art

Don’t ask where what follows comes from. Am I the keeper of my thoughts?

There are several types of people when it comes to tattoos. Those who scorn them, those who (like me) enjoy their art as a spectator sport – and there are some beauties out there, and those who actually get them and then have them. Emphasis on “have”. Forever.

That’s grand. Have. Forever. Particularly if you can live with your mistakes and your aging skin wrinkling your tattoo as you march to your final destination.

In the motherland they say that the CLEVER person prepares. I agree. Forethought will let you scrape out of many a hole before you have fallen into it completely. Yet how do you know that you won’t take up a life in crime AFTER a prominent tattoo seemed a good idea? No bull. If I were a man (working  under the assumption that most not law abiding and with few scruples humans are men) one thing I’d never do is give myself an identifier. Doesn’t pay. I know this because recently I went through a spot of binge watching a lot of noir (our new neighbours having turned night into day and sleep hard to come by during its normal hours) .  I particularly liked the Spanish one. One tattoo and several episodes later the baddie’s own mother killed him. Not because of the tattoo but because she realized her son was one hell of a fucker and nothing but death would stop him from killing other people.  And yes, such are the sacrifices mothers make, she killed herself too in the process. Details on request.

Leaving your fingertips aside do you have any distinguishing features which would prevent you to take up a life of crime unless you are homeless and need a roof over your head (prison)?

U

Mad dogs, Englishmen, Sun

I live in a green city. Very green. Parks. Huge, weathered, amazing trees – their trunks  and canopy making you feel secure, giving you happiness and shelter should you seek it. Those parks’ existence and maintenance – and most charming bobbies on the beat – the main reason I am reconciled to paying an ouch amount of council tax.

The other day, walking back from town, a stone throw – depending how far you can throw – from where I live I came across someone I vaguely know. Nice lady. Probably in her mid sixties. Smokes whilst wheezing but then all of us are heading exit by various means if only age or accident. On approach I thought she may have lost the plot because it appeared as if she was talking to one of our stylish black metal with golden inscriptions municipal park bins. As it turned out she’d taken her daughter’s tortoise for a walk. Think beautiful tabby cat, only in a hard shell.

“I can’t understand why she [the tortoise] keeps seeking out the bin”,  she said. Well, one reason, not that I said it out loud, that that bin’s vicinity offered the only shade on a hot summer’s midday. It’s all sorts of things – sad, funny, ridiculous, ludicrous, outrageous, who cares – it ain’t easy to put people right on their misconceptions. She thought the tortoise craved sun. By all evidence it didn’t. Never mind. Sometimes one has to weigh voicing common sense against upsetting someone by showing them the errors of their ways. Yes, poor tortoise. A victim of polite society.

U

 

The Sculptor – One

I quote a useful reminder to myself:

“It is a bad allocation of intelligence, resources and money.”

Let’s leave money out of it since I haven’t spent any. The resource, badly allocated, is my time. Maybe even emotion better allocated to those who can read a heart. Intelligence? Well, I don’t mind throwing it about with abandon. It’s an infinite resource. Time isn’t. So, I’ll waste a bit more and then lay some wasters to rest.

Yes, we are back to the Alternative Comment Box.

Where to start the narrative since there are so many options? My mental health? So generously speculated about by one Sculptor, and one John who only a couple of days ago advocated that mental health should NOT bear stigma. My question why “mental health” is then, so often, all over blogland, is used as an insult, a personal attack, a way of shaming someone into shutting up? Naturally, no answer was forthcoming. It happens when people run out of rhyme and reason to justify their limitations. And I quote the Sculptor aka Tom:

“John. Why do you tolerate that ghastly woman Ursula? Because she has mental issues you think you can help with?”

No, let’s start somewhere else to make the narrative a little more tense.

I question a commentator on the Sculptor’s blog. It’s, as far as I know, an elderly lady – though why I even mention that I don’t know. Mitigating circumstances?

Sa(i)d old lady, let’s call her J, wishes some wastrels dead. So I reply

“How charitable to wish on anyone “being hit by a bus”. I suppose you are also in favour of the death penalty, wish Trump dead whilst priding yourself on your Christian “values”, ethics and morals. I take it you are American?”

This made me, on two blogs, not only “that disgusting woman” but also “that ghastly woman” (don’t say the Sculptor doesn’t use his Thesaurus to vary his disgust at me).

John who took Tom’s batton (always doing the Svengali’s bidding) says that “J is one of life’s sweet people….everyone knows that”.

To which I replied:

“Yes, John, Joanne may be one of life’s sweet people. However, even the sweetest can, occasionally, put a foot wrong, are not above criticism.

I didn’t “attack” Joanne. I thought her comment out of order. You can’t go round wishing for people to die. Sorry, but that’s way off my moral compass. And I said so.

As to “bitter and personal ATTACKS” [Tom accuses me of] – well, Tom, you are the expert. And when you can’t think of anything else to admonish me with you resort to questioning my mental health. Truly inspired as reasoning goes.

Greetings from that “disgusting” woman,
U”

And before you ask: Yes, my comment was deleted. Again. Tom’s calling me disgusting was let to be stand. Yes, Sweethearts, that’s the justice of this world, that’s balance, fairness.

So I am disgusting and off my trolley because I question a sweet old lady calling for someone to die in revenge for the poor Sculptor having to do his sculpting in a metal container in the middle of a UK heat wave (!). That’s right. Let them swing for it. Mind you, having said that, a friend of mine (American), also a very sweet Lady albeit not an old one, also wishes someone dead (Trump). Maybe that’s how it’s done in the States. Hang them. Shoot them. Take a short cut.

To be continued …

U

Schwarz Rot Gold

Never let it be said that I can’t make a complete ass of myself.

I walked into the lounge as chips were down in equal measure for both Sweden and Germany, and said: “I take it the ones in white black are the Germans.”

“Yes”.  You know the sort of yesssss (?) you get when people question whether you are still with it, if you ever were.

So far so fine. My intelligence doesn’t take easy offence at being questioned.

“The Swedish look like Ikea”, I offered. You know, blue and yellow.

The Angel who has known his mother from the word go didn’t flinch: “You, Mama, could be straight out of American Dad – or any program”. Then reminded me that blue and yellow are the colours of the Swedish flag. Ikea. As I said.

U