Disappointed and angry

For the benefit of those readers who have the patience and interest to engage with me I will stop recording my ongoing exasperation in blogland soon. I don’t wish to bore you. But the remnants of what is left of a recent saga I will play out. If it costs me. After all, what is blogging if not playing out in public?

In the wake of my last post John has nothing to say other than (left on Nick’s blog):

“Ursula , it’s time to grow up. You’ve been told to leave. You were not invited.
Grow up and stop this persecution complex.” John is great on telling people what to do, what not to do. His kids are lucky that he didn’t have them.

I’ll come back to you, John. It won’t make pleasant reading.

So, I have “a persecution complex”, do I, (among all my other mental health issues prescribed to me by some of John’s circle)?  And you, NICK, have the fucking nerve to let that stand underneath a post in which you lament people in blogland being “psychologized”? Are you actually with it? You THANK him??????????????

Anyway, I take it, in good news, your mother hasn’t died yet. Which is great. Not least because you’ll be able to use that same punchline you used on me AGAIN – on someone else.

If I weren’t such a forgiving person I could kick myself, from here to the next water cooler, that I didn’t stop when I knew I was connecting with a couple of losers. Yes, Nick, as you say, whilst I wouldn’t call myself obtuse, you are right (“Some people are obtuse to the point of idiocy”), I certainly have proven myself to be an idiot by engaging with you (and John). Bloody hell. Never mind. We all have a hall of shame. Mine is pretty empty. So thanks, Nick and John for filling a void.

You, John, you’ll have something to look forward to. In another post. You know, the one when I bow to your command. Who “the fuck (John lingo)” do you think you are, John, to talk to me like that?

U

 

 

 

The Alternative Comment Box, 6 – Priorities

As I named my last post Nick, I could have named this post JOHN. Not least because it is an open letter to John. But, as he is unable to get his priorities right, I named the post Priorities. So far so nothing.

Just as I thought the dust was settling despite spineless Nick’s intervention I left this comment on John’s blog. For readers to understand: John has had a bladder infection which I commented on, a comment which, jippee, was allowed to stand. He is now back among the living and I left him, subsequently under another of his posts, this little morsel of hope by way of ancedote:

“Such is your presence in blogland that I find it vaguely unsettling when there are longer than usual intervals as to updates of your daily travails. You doing a Hippo (three years) would be unthinkable, nay unbearable, to your loyal (make that addicted) readers.

My insight as follows of no useful interest to you; however, just like you, once upon a time I too knew, and was never further away than a sprint, all public loos in the vicinity. No, I didn’t have a bladder infection. I was pregnant (and deliriously happy because of it). During the first three months the as yet barely noticeable does press on your bladder; during the next three months bladder and baby find some accommodation so false sense of security will descend on you; then (and the Angel was growing big time) during the last trimester overpopulation, density and duress issues wrestling for limited space were battling it out. Not that you would ever guess looking at the Vanity Fair issue of Demi Moore on the cover (August 1991). We were gone as far as each other. Wonderful photo.

Good luck, John; wishing you speedy recovery and no repercussions.

U”

Heartfelt comment. Personal comment. Giving an insight into  dear moments of my life. Not to be pissed on one would have thought. Pissed on it will.

What do I find a few hours later? Let no one be the judge but the judges

John’s Blog

Ursula5:30 pm

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   John Gray8:47 pm

   I have just read your comments about nick. I am therefore deleting your posts here

    

   For which spineless Nick duly did say “Thank you”. The way you look out for each other so touching.

Dear John, what the hell does my comment to YOU have to do with Nick? Spineless Nick who, from nowhere, has conjured up all sorts of commentators (in your blog’s comment boxes) supporting his whining about me – oddly none of them having a traceable blog of their own.

You then leave me a comment under my post “Nick” : “Like I said Ursula I am worried about your obsession with being crossed , it’s unhelpful and inappropriate.”

No need to worry about ME. Worry about YOUR priorities, John.

Nick comes first. You push me over the cliff. Fine. I make my mistakes, you make your mistakes, Nick made a mistake, and let’s hope that other people are wiser than the three of us.

Spineless Nick and I have been in correspondence for years. Suddenly it occurs to him that I am a pain. And uses your blog to tell all and sundry about the fact that he is a piece of jelly I never gave up trying to nail to his cross. His sudden grief over me helped not just by you but by untraceable commentators. Wow. What a man. Or is he?

Talking of men. Please do pass on to Nick (he won’t like it – or maybe he’ll thank you again) that you, John, are far more MAN than his spineless graceless Nickness. At least you keep communication open (let’s forget your trigger happy deleting my comments as if I were a kid sent to the naughty step), addressing me directly.

I am not sure what your expression “crossed” means. Crossed as in double crossed? Sure. You say MY “obsession” is “unhelpful and inappropriate”. I’d say Rachel’s, the Sculptor’s, yours and Nick’s obsession with me is, I don’t know, … something? An obsession? “Unhelpful and inappropriate”? Why do the four of you need a punching bag? United you stand, eh? Heroes. Safety in numbers. As punching bags go you should have chosen more wisely. But, yes, to give you some satisfaction and not let your combined efforts go in vain, you did manage to make me a little tearful. Just once. A little. Not much. No water was wasted. Salt of the Earth.

You, John, You John, you of all people making yourself a mouthpiece for shitters who can’t wipe their own arses. What a pity and a waste of energy and good will.

Well, in the words of someone dear to me, the most gorgeous gay guy of all time, who once feared I was writing him a “Dear John” letter (I wasn’t) …

Ursula

Punctured

Who’d have thunk it? My blogging tyre is flat. Not because I can’t think of anything to say. Quite the opposite. I always fire on all cylinders – yet, the desire to press “publish” momentarily eludes me. “Delete” does me fine.

The joy has gone.

Why? Most certainly not on account of bloggers who cheerfully “follow” me even if they don’t comment. Most certainly not on account of those who comment here – with unfailing wit, perception, occasional mockery, always thoughtful.

However, and I don’t like admitting to what I perceive a weakness, there have been forces out in the blogging world which have achieved the unthinkable – namely, my, the unsinkable’s, reluctance to put myself into the public arena any further.

Looking back over my life, I have never been bullied. I am not the type. Yet there is one blogger, ably supported by a weak cast, who has shown me the vile side of life on the playground which constitutes blogging.

I am torn. I could name him and shame him. But then I’d be playing HIS game. Makes you think, doesn’t it, how someone else’s maliciousness tempts you to repay in kind. It is to my utter, total, most heartfelt regret that I have decided not to fall for that ruse – as much pleasure as it would give me to tear the guy and his accomplices apart. He hasn’t got a leg, or any other appendage, to stand on. Still, I’d rather not be a facilitator.

Yes, so my joy communicating on the page has momentarily been stifled. Please don’t send chocolate or other sweet condolences. A lime will suffice.

U

Chemistry

Don’t think me mad. I am not. Or no madder than to be expected once you have left the relative safety of your mother’s womb.

I don’t know why, and this is why I am throwing myself at your collective shoulder, I do have a distinct horror of curdled milk. A fine cheese maker I’d have made.

In decades I haven’t curdled milk but this minute I did.  And before Looney and any scientists among you say anything, I know it’s NOT me who curdled the milk. The milk curdled all by itself.  Shows you what an awful position to be in when you are the middleman. The facilitator. The one with the pan. The milk. And the means to heat it.

Gravely and in grieving, yours,

U

All agony aunts and uncles to the rescue

Oh Wise Ones (that’s you, Sweethearts, in case you don’t recognize yourselves),

I need advice. Conundrum is as follows. For reasons not important this minute, though urgent as they are, I need to make contact with someone. A friend. Her husband has made it clear years ago that such contact is not to take place under any circumstances.

Naturally, initially I didn’t take his dictum seriously. After all, in my opinion, couples don’t come as parcels. Free will and all that. So I suggested to her a “clandestine” meeting (coffee). She replied she couldn’t. Because they have “no secrets” from each other. Well, all I can say her husband sure has done a good job at brainwashing. Brilliant, don’t you think, spouses being appendages to each other? What next? Mind police in the marital drawing room?

Anyway, that’s some time ago. Yet, god damn it, I need to make contact with her. However, and this is where Catch 22 chases its own tail, if I do [make contact with her], indeed my subterfuge in my professional capacity catching her out as a business contact, a potential client, will she still “report” me back to sa(i)d husband and all hell will break loose? Again?

What is it with some people that they can’t stand their ground? And before you ask, she herself has pleaded with him many times. No doing.

So, now what? And trust me. This is not airy fairy funny. It’s serious, it’s complicated and it needs to be resolved.

U

Lights off

“Just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t after you”.

I am not paranoid – and whoever recently tried to razor me down can go and stuff themselves in their chamber of horrors. However, and remember, both Orwell and Huxley are my shining lights in the way older brothers are, I can’t help feeling uneasy at times. It’s one of the reasons I prefer paying by cash. That way no one can trace the purchase of a sachet of cinnamon back to ME. Though, naturally, the person, any person, buying anything, will have been caught on CCTV. Yes, CCTV … What actual purpose does CCTV serve other than making you feel watched, uneasily, in the most innocent of pursuits?

In the line of duty I recently had the pleasure of talking to many a security guy working in retail. Being the affable me that I am I have been told things no one should know. And few will.

Upshot being – these days there is little hiding; not even under cover of the night. Think about that next time you do something you wouldn’t do in public. It really is the pits. Cat burglars take note. You will set off the alarm. As indeed I did last Sunday morning. All I wanted was some fresh air – walking round our nearby park at eight in the morning. Then – in misguided notion of doing my civic duty – I got caught up in a bit of a nightmare. Deafening alarm relentlessly doing what alarms do. Not that anyone showed up. Not at all. I could have cleared out the place and made a profit. Instead of which … Let’s hope that those of you who believe in Karma (as does the Angel) are right.

Those of you who are astute enough to point out some of the contradictions in what I wrote: I am well aware of them. Which makes the whole thing even more ironic. And not in a good way.

U