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

Hope

This is what the Angel wrote on Thursday, the eve of the election, on the social media he uses. I feel compelled to publish this here for many reasons – most of which I’ll probably best keep to myself. Please do me, or rather the Angel  the courtesy to read this properly. Yes, you too, Cro. Don’t just skim it. This is written from the heart, from reason, on the spur of the moment, unadulterated. With hope in my heart, here goes the Angel (he is twenty five):

“It’s time to vote with hope, hope for a more equal and compassionate society – not a society which marches mindlessly to the drum of austerity and uses it as an excuse for endless cuts and heartlessness affecting the most vulnerable.

I want to vote for a country which isn’t the 2nd biggest arms dealer in the world funding terrorism and war through Saudi Arabia whilst claiming to promote peace. One which confronts the corporate elite and clamps down on corporate tax evasion, protects the NHS and doesn’t push people into poverty and 1 million people to foodbanks.

The tories would have you believe that this is the best we as a country are capable of and that all of the injustice and inequality is inevitable and can’t be helped. They’ll have you believe we should go forward without hoping for better, but without hope there is nothing. I believe regardless of what happens tomorrow the momentum and awareness Corbyn has gathered will only continue to grow stronger.

Cheers!”

 

U

Compliments

Sweethearts, the time has come to come clean. I am not who and what you think I am.

What I am is a Witch. Before you mutter to yourself “I knew it” – you are not alone. About two hours ago I passed two little boys (say about four years old), in a nearby park,  when one of them asked me, in that most trusting way only children are capable of: “Are you a witch?” As career options go I might consider it. Mind you. I’ll need to go crowd funding first to source that most indispensible of all accessories. Namely, a broom.

Being caught on the hob – or is it hop, I smiled: “No, I am not”. On a nano second’s reflection, and not being the kind to dash other people’s hope (within reason). “Do I look like one?” Apparently, I do. “Witch, Witch, Witch”, they chanted.

By the time I came back from town, having forgotten all about my elevated status, they caught up with me again. “Look, the witch is back”. It’s nice to be delighted in. Unless you are the devil.

U

Jackson Pollock

Cheerful Monk aka Jean, a woman I respect for a number of reasons, asserted the following in her last post:

“I know some people who think life just happens, they don’t have much say in the matter. That attitude seems to work for them, but it’s against my nature to be that passive. … It’s more fun to be the painter than the paint.

…

If you want your story to be magnificent, begin by realizing you are the author, and every day is a new page

This last one points out how incorrigible I am, that at the age of 76, I still think I’m a creator in my life.

For me it’s a lot more fun than just being the paint.”

 

To which I replied in her comment box, and such is my purpose and sorrow that I vent same what I feel this moment on my own blog:

“My dear Jean, if only it were so easy. Yesterday (Sunday) evening, in a moment of misguided optimism and hope, I, the author of my life as you put it, took an initiative and “painted” and what did I end up with? A lot of paint on my face. So much paint on my face it will take a lot of resolve and tears to wash it off.

Say what you like: Sometimes we are at the mercy of others. And when we are at the mercy of someone else, you – the supposed editor of your life’s story – may take time off and go home early. Yes, I hit a brick wall. Hard.

I am devastated. Wish I could “re-write” that chapter of my life (into the future) but I can’t. Why? Because no man is an island. There are occasions, maybe few but nevertheless, where we are entirely dependent on someone else’s ability and willingness to communicate. And if that will isn’t there you may as well (metaphorically speaking) fill your coat pockets with stones and wade into water.”

U

Vive La Lady

Napoleon remarked (why did he make that common mistake of trying to invade Russia – in winter) that a general is NOTHING without “fortune” (French pronunciation) on his side. True. And Lady Luck is fickle. In fact if Lady Luck were so unlucky as to be my daughter I’d tell her a few home truths. The way she grants favours, or not, isn’t the way to go about it.

First of all: She has no sense of justice. None. In fact, if she was that child faced with a marshmallow she’d be out of the door before she could chew it.

I dislike many sayings. Not least the one and only: “Du bist der Schmied Deines eigenen Gluecks”. Loosely translated: Everone is master of their own luck. Bah to that. I do take responsibility for myself (and others) but don’t give me a horse’s hoof. That way you’ll limp on the home stretch.

Anyway, IT’S ALL RELATIVE. “It’s all relative” is my mantra. You can apply it to anything in life. That way (relative) happiness lies. Naturally the likes of Looney and his mind will point out to me that in order for something to be relative you need something to measure it against. True.

I measure ‘it’ against, say, fairy tales. Particularly on a Sunday afternoon. Or a particular Maupassant novella, the title I won’t name lest it’ll break your heart on reading. Yes, fairy tales, as opposed to Maupassant: You briefly, emphasis briefly, spend many an hour cleaning the castle’s hearths under the malevolent eye of your step mother. One hundred years later you either go to a ball and leave your dainty shoe behind and/or are being kissed by a prince. No wonder I only eat apples vetted by me and in the privacy of my own company. And go barefoot.

I won’t tell you which one is my favourite fairy tale. It’ll give too much away about me – even to the obtuse among you. Instead let’s settle on another one. A grim one as the Grimm Brothers go: “Von einem der auszog das Fuerchten zu lernen.” One who went out to learn fear. Not a difficult task you might say. Take it from me. It is [difficult]. Particularly if you are not afraid of the dark. Anyway he did find something he was afraid of. Lucky him. And no, it wasn’t that which we all fear, it was – nemesis of my own life: A COLD FISH.

U

Dream on: I have started so I’ll finish

Take it from me, Sweethearts, and I am the expert in falling into holes: Some projects are best never started.

Why? Because to finish them is the devil’s own job. One moment you amble along happily, the next I get a bee in my bonnet. When I, full of the zealot’s zeal, tell the Angel that I am on a “roll” he is happy. Two weeks later he asks me why I appear to be stuck in the jungle. I don’t know. Let’s leave aside that my eyesight is now so shit it’s like wading through fog. Let’s leave aside that I inherited (from my father) that most unfortunate trait of things having to be just so. Ever since part of my life and believes collapsed a few years ago I tell the Angel (correction, I tell myself by way of mantra and to soothe shattered nerves) that before order there is chaos. And it’s true. I have proven it so many times I’d qualify as something … a chaos expert. God. The Universe. Before it all went pear shape in paradise.

Back to “best never start anything”, particularly if you intend to bring it to a satisfactory end. I remember my great grandmother (paternal side). She was tiny even before she shrunk in her old age. To the last she was independent (she lived well into her nineties). She was the wife of a painter (my great grand father). He died early, and her daughter (a portrait paint) lived with her. My great aunt a person full of mystique. When I was young they lived in a mansion, rambling. An Aladin’s Cave for the very young me. Circumstances reduced them to move to a much smaller house. Yes, how to cram a quart into a pint pot. Have been there, done that. So, to my then, say, ten year old self, their abode right on the shore of the sea became even more of an Aladin’s Cave. Treasure (and cobwebs) wherever I nosed about. It was brilliant. It was phantastic. Then my aunt died, some years later my great grandmother. Enter my own father. Oh, my god. I still haven’t forgiven him – and we are talking decades. He ordered a skip. And made order out of chaos as only he can. Unfortunately, at that time I was freshly married and marooned in England, under my husband’s watchful thumb. So I couldn’t intervene. A shocker if ever there was one. Never mind. I am having the same conversation with my father now that, sooner or later, he’ll be on  his way out. I besiege him not to throw away all his files and folders of  “intellectual property”. Forget it. I know exactly what I’ll find: Zilch. He’ll probably scrub and desinfect the place before he takes his last breath.

Where was I: My own shambles. I need people, say,  a secretary, an IT wizzard, my sister-in-law (if ever there was Ms Efficiency no barrels held it’s her), a cold compress, and most of all, and dearest sweetest hearts, count your blessings if you have it: SPACE. Apart from time,  SPACE is the ultimate luxury.  The less space the more organized you need to be, the less forgiving daily life is.

To be continued … If you can find me that is.

No hugs today, only a hiss from underneath the mountain,

U

Throbbing

Since I don’t do twitter I have to keep you in the irrelevant minutiae of my life this way.

Am rather excited: A molar, top left hand side, last in line, has made itself known. On a Friday evening. Brill. Excellent. You can’t beat it for entertainment value. Not least reminding me that I am still alive.

Hope you are looking forward to your weekend too.

U

Lost

I don’t want to steal Magpie’s thunder: We are to be treated by him to a session in decluttering.

Despite appearances to the opposite I like order, at least as interludes in between chaos, and my mind suffers if I don’t know where to find things. The last few days have been turmoil. Nearly thirty years ago I bought a Bambi; no, not the little orphaned deer but a tiny stapler. It’s red (I refuse to refer to it in the past). It is now nowhere to be found. Unfortunately I have tendency to become obsessive and will not give up – though I know full well that whilst wading through three years’ worth of paper cuttings in the last few weeks little Bambi will – no doubt – have fallen into waste paper basket – contents now disposed of. Can I leave it be? Is it possible to go and buy, at 2.99, another Bambi (different shape and grey)? No, I can’t and yes it is. Instead of which I have turned our flat inside out; I even took the sofa apart (which made me vacuum the hidden parts). I found many things alas no Bambi. Let’s assume – for sake of argument – that I (since I don’t like my LARGE stapler) go and buy a new, if grey, Bambi and I bet my bottom Dollar that no sooner will I have ripped package open (red) Bambi will reappear.

One can build a whole philosophy and outlook on life on the above if one were so inclined. Instead of which I keep looking and decluttering as I go along.

Other than that am in stinking foul mood as to the obscene idiocy of my fellow human beings. There is not a bucket large enough to catch my tears. Am now in two minds what to do. Shall I turn my worst critical self towards the uncomprehending or enjoy the hermit’s nest? This is where you have to hand to teachers: Hope over the elusive. Let’s leave it there lest I make further enemies.

That’s why I love our den (top floor with a view).

U

Make mine an Indian

Sweethearts, for some of you this TIP OF THE DAY may come too late.

A few days ago, wiping my brow in the midst of chaos, I succumbed to that which I only do when I have no time for cooking yet 18year old(s) in urgent need to be fed:  Ordering a take away. Naturally it took me longer to explore the menu than if I had ground my Garam Masala from scratch but at least the place is an award winner and the chef I spoke to on the phone a paragon of patience. He talked me through the intricacies of Tikka Dansak and Tikka Pathia and everything else on the menu (what do I know about Indian food? Not a lot).

So bad, so good. On delivery I got into minor tangle with lid of the Prawn Madras which had taken Apple of my Eye only 2 seconds to decide on; sauce spilling all over my favourite denim skirt. The Empire has a lot to answer for. I know where disaster lies: One is beetroot juice, the other is turmeric. Immediately soaked skirt in cold water, consulted beloved and best of all reference books on stain removal in my usual misguided optimism only to find: ” Most stains can be removed unless it’s TURMERIC”.  It’s the sort of news on a par when people tell you that you are dead.  However, luckily my heart rarely sinks before all routes are explored. Since it was middle of the night Indian time I did not send SOS to gaelikaa and Ramana as was my first impulse but searched, as one does, the internet, and lo and behold all you need to do is very LITTLE. Rinse garment, leave it out in the sun to dry and the stain will vanish. It’s magic if ever there was one. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. IT WORKED.  If anyone can work their magic on beetroot stains please do reciprocate.

U

PS The food and its taste was to die for!