The older I get the more difficult I find it to voice my voice.
I know this flies in the face of wisdom, namely that the older you get the freer you feel to voice your voice.
I believe that when you are young you can get away with saying anything that springs into your mind and pops out of your mouth. Later? Later you reflect on what you have said. And even later you (try to) think before you speak. If this keeps going the pace it currently is you, Sweethearts my dear readers, will be so (un)happy to know that where once there was a merrily spouting well this mountain spring is drying up.
“Caution” is the word that comes to my mind more and more often. Translated into real Ursula speak “Forget it, leave it, it’s not worth it, say all you like won’t change a thing, save your breath, don’t waste time”. Disappointing. I know. Who’d have thought it? Me of all people. Shutting up shop.
From a lay woman’s view. and please don’t slaughter me, we have one option.
And one only. What (for sake of argument) you lack in looks you have to make up by personality. Be it wit, charm, intelligence, warmth, empathy, generousity (of heart and mind). Anything redeeming like, say, being able to tell a good story. If push comes to shove, cook up a storm.
Yes, so you have to make up for your shortcomings. Not least when you are a man. It’s one thing to be short. It’s another to be Dustin Hoffman, Danny de Vito, Woody Allen (I particularly like the woody bit), Al Pacino, and even Robert Redford I don’t imagine to be tall.
I won’t mention names because people get arrested on fewer charges but there is one currently in the limelight on the world’s stage who is undesirable on every imaginable count. I don’t WATCH the news, mainly because I am no voyeur, find them tedious and drawn out where the written front page is concise and you can scan those news at a pace you are comfortable with. But even not watching the news will not allow me escape THE VISAGE. Someone somewhere today suggested that he who shall remain unnamed wears a mask. To be pulled off. Chance being a fine thing. Some people actually do look how they look. And that’s before we measure a hand span.
Wait till you are at his feet.
You have to hand it to Britain: DIVIDED they stand.
This is personal, I make little claim on rhyme, reason or rationale. For that I am too upset. A snapshot in my time.
Having stocked up on an hour’s sleep before British voting closing at ten o’clock BST I turned on the TV (BBC1) at five minutes to ten. Big Ben makes me quite emotional at the best of times. So when it chimed as voting booths closed I welled up a bit. Now? Now, my tears are rolling. Involuntarily. They just keep coming. They say there are five stages to grieving. Denial (in this case) was relatively short. Shock features majestically. Acceptance (the last stage)? I guess that will be a long time waiting.
After the future father of son proposed to me 26 March 1982 in Paris, I arrived in England 4 April 1982 for good. I have always been a foreigner – albeit a “well integrated” one. FOS saw to that. I couldn’t so much as open my mouth before he corrected any mistake my early shaky English made. And that includes apostrophes. Might sound harsh to some of you. It wasn’t. I am hugely grateful to him for his relentless pursuit of perfecting my English. Don’t laugh, and as an aside, it’s probably why I miss him most when – to this day – I have a question on where to insert a comma or what the plural of bonus is.
Where was I? Yes, a foreigner. Now? Now I am a true foreigner. An alien. For those of you musically inclined listen to Sting’s “An Englishman in New York”. A legal alien. The melody alone conveys all there is to know. And before any of you point this out to me: Yes, I am perfectly aware that here, in this post and in my heart, there is a soupcon of self pity. Not least because someone recommended to me (in a national newspaper), and as I don’t hold a British passport, to return to “whence you come from”. Sweet. Thirty four yours on.
Never mind. I will regain composure.
The result of this vote has opened a massive a can of worms too cramped to not spill. Whilst – to some extent – I do feel sorry for Cameron having to resign in such an undignified way, what he needs to ask himself why the hell he did authorize this referendum. So terribly terribly shortsighted.
Yes, I promised you a snapshot. And that why I’ll stop now. Otherwise this post will become an oversized oil painting. No, make that a bewildered Jackson Pollock. Not that I deaden any pain with whiskey.
Desperately worried what’s happening in the motherland. And the Angel getting right stuck in the middle of it all. Still, at least he has a passport.
“Interesting times”? Give me uninteresting times any time.