The Alternative Comment Box – Interval 2

On good news, this afternoon I was briefly reminded of the joys of my childhood’s snow: We haven’t had this much in one day, here at the South Coast of England, in years. It’s lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely. What is, obviously, not so lovely that the English tend to go into siege mentality, a type of hysteria. Cubic meters of the white stuff other countries conquer easily make some English go into melt(!)down.

Anyway, minimalists and all those of you lumbered with people difficult to give presents to because they have everything money can buy and afflicted by that certain ennui that comes with saturation, here is your perfect dinner party gift for the host with most except nothing:

Just before arrival at and on said host’s doorstep, you gather as much snow as possible, preferably the kind that sticks together to allow you to sculpt it into, say, a snowball. Make it round. Perfectly round. Hand it to your host/ess who, naturally, will shrink away from it but reconsider in a second since it’s impolite to refuse a gift. Fast forward to dessert, nay, after dinner coffee: Your present will have melted. Gently. Leaving little trace other than a tiny puddle of water. Genius or what?

U

 

The Alternative Comment Box, 4 – Update

Catch up:

For those of  you barely able to contain yourself  in anticipation of the next instalment of my misadventures with Ms Misery (“Joy” for short), Demented Sculptor and John (Hansel to my Gretel): My post of 6 Feb, namely “Crash Landing”, briefly withdrawn for refurbishment, has once more been made available to the public eye under the enviable flag of

bitchontheblog.wordpress.com/2018/02/06/crash-landing/

For the uninitiated: “Crash Landing” kicked off, unnoticed by its main players, that which, a couple of weeks or so later, morphed into “The Alternative Comment Box” – a continuing saga. One which I gather the main players take much pleasure in unfolding as Ms Misery aka Joy, Demented Sculptor and John aka Hansel like nothing better than being given strokes to even out assorted dents in their egos. This is almost pathological in both Miserable Joy’s and Demented Sculptor’s case; and whilst Demented Sculptor occasionally torments John’s Hansel for being “needy” (his word not mine), at least John’s Hansel craves them (strokes) for understandable primal reasons as some, though not all of us, do.

So, yes, all is marvellous in wonderland. If, for light relief, you want white stuff, the romance of it, the inspiration of it, you’ll find it round the corner just like any self respecting and perfectly formed snowball, dispatched with perfect timing, will.

U

The Alternative Comment Box, Interval 1 – Know your onions

Whilst giving forces who think they are [forces] a chance to regroup let me shed a tear over onions.

One of these days I will calculate how many onions I have chopped over a life lived so far. What is remarkable about chopping onions: Unlike when, say, playing the guitar you grow callouses to render your fingertips without feeling (one of the reasons I don’t play the guitar), your eyes will never ever grow used to an onion’s onslaught. You cried over your first onion you’ll cry over your last onion. That’s about it. Scant comfort, unlike with many other deals in life, you know where you stand. And smell.

Secondly, short of the rather irritating, coming at you unasked,  cakes in the motherland and trifles in the fatherland, virtually any dish worth its salt will start with an onion. Onions are ritual. One of these days, when I am about one hundred and twenty and Ms Misery will have died a not so miserable death (I hope) and in order to keep me occupied in her absence, I shall ponder what would actually happen to our palate’s concern, sensibilities and sensitivities if the onion was shown the door and never grown again.

I can see it now: My first memoir and self help book, titled “Life without an onion”. If that won’t make you cry little else will.

U

Antidote

I haven’t yet done all the quizzes newspapers bombard us with at the end of year; neither have I looked at compilations of “Best of 2017”, yet. I’ll keep that till a time when I should be doing something else. Which brings us, neatly, tidily, annoyingly, to New Year’s resolutions and how to divest ourselves from old, and form new habits.

Needless to say that I don’t make NY resolutions because I tend to avoid setting myself up for failure. I’d rather decide on February, 30th, what needs to be tweaked. Why make resolutions for the “better”? We’d all be far more successful at keeping resolutions if they appealed to the worse in us.

In which spirit I wish you a 2018 to top all 2018s – may you come out the other end as you entered it … with hope in your heart.

Ursula

 

Dashed hope

The notion doesn’t just belong to Christmas. Though I did come across the subject in the context of it. Presents. Or should that read “expectations”?

What would you have liked to be given at any time, at any occasion, at any stage of your life – but didn’t? Worse, what were you given though you didn’t want it? Whilst you mull over both those questions so will I.

U

Treasure

Unleashing my inner archiver (as opposed to archivist).

Taking an inventory is a close relative of making lists. My desire for order being the other side of my coin. Some years ago I lost a great deal (not least my dignity) since when I have become not obsessed by but fond of knowing what’s what where. Why doesn’t come into it. And it’s always the “how” that has potential to trip me up.

Do you have (physical) objects in your life that give you joy every time you happen to gaze upon them; every time you touch them? What would you hate to “lose”?

Whilst you think about it I’ll wipe a tear or two such an emotional subject it is to me.

U