Fortissimo

Some headline tells me that we need to address the lack of female composers.

Be still my beating heart. Why don’t I just lie down and die instead? Has the world gone completely bonkers? Why do we NEED to ADDRESS the LACK of FEMALE composers?

Sweethearts, there is a reason [why women – on the whole – don’t compose]. Mainly – try not to reinvent the wheel – that men and women are different. We have to get to my life time to be told that we can, should and are all able to do the same? Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrleeeeeeeeeese!

So glad I don’t have a daughter. What would I tell her? “Address the lack of female composers, girl.” Here is a Bechstein for you. Try not to sleep with your piano teacher. And, whilst you are at it, I have also installed a glass ceiling on top so you can prepare for a time when you’ll be pushed to push through it. Try and time it so you don’t give birth at the same time and on the board room table. Men might faint. And then who will make you push? To the right beat. Who? That’s right. Your female comrade losers. The ones who can’t distinguish between a hearth and a mine.

I am sick of it. Sick of it all. Even sicker of women who tell me, WOMAN, how to live my life. If I wanted to be a man I’d go to Canada and fell trees. In the meantime can you please leave me and my inner as yet not unleashed brain surgeon in peace. Please.

What prescriptive times we live in.

U

Gondola

Have to do my blog name justice once in a while. Forgot it was all about bitching.

Yes, that dress. Forget it. Clooney may buy you a £460,000 engagement ring, a £22,000 wedding ring (does marriage come cheaper than a promise?)  but, by golly, whilst I think money brings  you contentment it sure can’t buy you taste.

Yes, taste. That most elusive yet so stylish accessory in the armoury of  life. The bride steps out (remember she is not a five year old flower girl) as what can only be described as a tulip on two long pins (her legs). Pathetic. I do hope, as my mother advised when I was three and wore short skirts, that she was wearing matching underpants. Not that it is particularly windy in Venice. And what’s with the flowers down the front? Giambattista Valli (designer of dress), shame on you. You are Italian. You should know how to dress a “tough lawyer”.

To put the icing on the cake Clooney was (allegedly) nervous to cut, his father-in-law declared the wedding as “more than perfect”. Either something is perfect or it isn’t.

U

Richard Gere

Now for something else: Fashion. No, forget fashion. Style. Style. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.

I love orange – which, by all accounts, is currently de rigeur. Particularly in places where there is little choice. I have a coat dress orange and black. If I were fat I could go to a fancy dress ball in it and pass as a pumpkin.

You cannot open so much as a paper (no, not a magazine, a paper) without being given some rules. Today, guys, it’s your turn. To wear or not to wear that is the question when meeting your destiny.

Vests are for wife beaters. Apparently. That’s fair enough. Beating your wife is hard work and one needs to keep well ventilated. Unfortunately, the only thing that springs to my mind when I hear ‘vest’ is the rather gorgeous Marlon Brando in “A Streetcar named desire”. I shan’t tell you that my father is a Brando look-a-like since you might get the wrong idea. Particularly those Freuds among you.

What else? The other 24 tips are rubbish. Wear whatever when going swimming. I won’t judge you. Hats are good. Though polo shirts – not sure about them. In my book they can look a little naff. Linen suits are good only if you are Klaus Maria Brandauer in “Out of Africa”.

There is one sin and it is cardinal, unforgivable and your feet should be chopped off by no one lesser than Anna Wintour: Socks and sandals. Socks and sandals are as sexy as, I don’t know, let me think, what’s less sexy than socks and sandals? Give me time. I might come up with an idea.

U

Desire and the pursuit of the whole

If I had to sell the number one benefit of getting older it would be: You don’t care any longer what anyone thinks about you. My son considers this a pity; however, as long as I wear my leather jacket and my black and white gipsy skirt he  insists on taking me to some club somewhere in Southampton. Not that I can hear a word anyone is saying. A smile and a nod go a long way.

My parents too are less than convinced that this, my latest notion, is the way forward. Forward is not necessarily the direction best advised. You are more likely to bump into something by reversing. Sideways, like crabs, will also add to the sodding drama your life will be if only you’d let it. Most people – being control freaks – don’t let their life go up that Sisyphean slope. They nestle at the bottom of the mountain hoping that nothing – not even a tiny little rock – will dislodge itself and fall into their well maintained Schornstein. What’s Schornstein in English? Chimney. When did you last see a working chimney sweep? No wonder the world and its bride are falling apart. Should you get the chance please do watch “The Water Babies” (with the truly evil Alan Bates). The book is good; but for once the film is better. Sunday afternoon being the most suitable slot for such soppiness.

How did I get here? BHB sent me something about women. I couldn’t agree more apart from the whiskey – a bit of a lame end. Every man needs a woman. Particularly if he is gay. Someone to keep him on the strait and narrow.  A shoulder to soak. Tell that one of the more recent loves of my life. If he applied to be a loss leader he’d be in with a chance. Gays – by definition – have a narcisstic streak. They are good at keeping house and the kitchen clean and all that, and they smell good and are clean shaven; I dimly remember a black and white film in which a gay guy helps some hapless unmarried pregnant girl (back in the fifties) to keep her baby, but on the whole, and I have to include even my beloved Truman Capote and Tennessee Williams, many others, not least that so admired by me bastard Gore Vidal (Americans: No, not Vidal Gore), they do have capacity to get on your nerves – big time. Or they just won’t talk to you any more. First they make verbal love to you  then you utter the slightest  disapproving nothing and you are out on your ear. My very first gay friend (to my knowledge), with a sweet temper and an equilibrium unrivalled by any of his successors, was – performing to stereotype – a hairdresser. No joke. True. The guy was divine. Tall, blond and blue eyed, finely boned. He was gorgeousness personified, and a dress sense to match. Naturally, my then boyfriend who later became father of my son, had nothing but disdain for this creation out of God’s picture book. Oh, how I loved going out with him on a Saturday night. People would take us for a couple. So no one hit on me, though occasionally I had to let him trail off into the night. Once back home he’d knock at the one wall our flats were sharing. Peter, sweet Peter. Wonder what’s become of him. His main love interest at the time a policeman – bike, leather and all. Never be deceived by a macho exterior.

Well, wish I could tell you about the loss leader. Alas he is in the public eye – and whilst his vanity has let me down big time my upbringing has taught me the importance of being discreet. Hope he’ll remember that when he starts writing his memoirs.

High kinks,

U

28 Dec

If you don’t like a spot of feeling VERY sorry for myself go away now.

Am not afflicted like Ramana. Don’t have a double chin to conveniently disguise in oversized collar. However, at 0410 I find myself curled up in foetal position. gaelikaa may save her breath: I am not a case for the Samaritans. I am ready to be carted off to the looney bin. No not yours, Looney. Even if you did find me there I wouldn’t take up much space. Take note, gaelikaa, losing weight as you desire is, when getting older, not all it’s cracked up to be. Shows in your face – of all places. Wish they’d bring veils back into fashion.

Am a wreck. Which is befitting since I live round the corner of the Titanic’s shipping office. I am in so much pain I not only could cry, I do cry. That comes from refusing to subsidize profit of Bayer and Pfitzer. Am now convinced that I will lose my left arm by amputation. Had accident 6 Nov. Let’s leave aside that I have lost two months; K-wires were drawn two weeks ago; new plaster cast applied. That cast is so tight it drives me up the wall.

Have warned Son that I’ll be rubbish at getting older. How BHB copes with three hip replacements is beyond me. My supply of patience would dwindle faster than you can say: “Move”. On the other hand I might be reincarnated as one of Conrad’s dung beetles. Gender as yet undecided.

Where was I? Worrying about Magpie who appears to be hibernating. Did you know, Jean, that there is a charity for hedgehogs? The BBC being such  hive of information I learnt this two days go off their website. Am fond of hedgehogs: Prickly on top, soft underbelly, full of fleas.

Added anxiety: Hope I am not repeating myself.

Once I am out of current shithole will devise and patent the FIVE finger blind typing system. Just don’t expect speed.

Also have cough worthy of a Swiss sanatorium catering for tuberculose poets (say, Rilke). Luckily, with son being away for a couple of days, I can cough to my lungs’ desire without immediately being asked to limp to doctor’s surgery.

You haven’t even heard  third of that which bugs me this minute. So don’t say there is no good side to being one handed.

Miffed yours

U

Ode to the clog

A few days ago we established that gaelikaa does not wear tights and Bike Hike Babe does not wear stockings. So far I have not had word on the subject from Jean, Magpie and Looney – maybe all three of them just wear belts and braces.  Nick is busy NOT to beat his woman into submission so he may be excused. As to the ever silent GM and Conrad I can only make an educated guess which – since bitching is off the menu for the time being – I shall keep to myself. Ramana – evidenced by recent photos –  does not need to wear anything underneath his stylish outfits. Ashok is exempted from my assessment as, unlike Grannymar, I am not a cradle snatcher. Anyway, I guess he is a snappy dresser – come sock, sandal or high water.

Instead let’s talk wood. It does not pay to buy the Sunday papers allowing them to cut down trees to print such rubbish: One fashion editor has just slagged off my finest which apparently has finally made it to the British fashion scene. I love clogs as do the Dutch, the Swiss, the Germans, the Austrians, the Swedish – and any other nation which knows how to carve a spoon from scratch has done for time immemorial.

Clogs are great. They give you a firm solid connection with the earth you are walking on. People can hear you approaching well before you have reached their front door – thus giving them a chance to prepare for your unexpected arrival. Neither will you ever be lonely or frightened whilst listening to  the noise of crunching gravel down the alleyway. Clogs make you feel homely,  in a sort of Little Heidi on the Alm with Peter milking the goats and Grandfather carving large chunks of bread and cheese type of way. Which reminds me: When was the last time any of you smelt hay, indeed made hay?

Clink, clogging away,

U

PS and just in case: Clogs are best worn barefoot.

Addendum and responsible citizen that I am: Whatever you do DO NOT drive a car in any type of wooden footwear. Thus disaster lies.