One of the less palatable facts of life (apart from death, obviously) how, at times, to cope with the whole caboodle. I have found myself at points which didn’t bring me so much to breaking as having to take some deep breaths, thank my lucky stars that it’s too far and damp to walk to the next cliff, and then regroup. It pays to have shoulders. And brings to mind camels and backs, and straws that break the camel’s back, and taking water from the well till the vessel cracks, you name it there will be an image for it.
Which reminds me, apropos of nothing, and one Looney may have the patience to answer: What’s it with camels, wells and donkeys? And going through the eye of a needle? That camels feature large is, geographically speaking, not a surprise. Still. Wait till a Llama spits at you, not out of spite – just because that is what Llamas do, and you look at life, as only a five year old can, through a heightened lens.
That’s how animosity starts. One moment you are meandering through your own overgrown backyard, the next someone offers you to borrow their lawn mower. Obviously the latter never happens but as an idea it works.
So, what do you do? Accept that your neighbour lends you their lawn mower not because you don’t have one but because they don’t want to be seen living to someone who is perfectly happy to walk among daisies? Or do you mow that meadow of yours to keep the peace?
Let me know. Not that I do have any land, overgrown or mowed, at the moment.
Apart from the pleasure that communicating with others give me, my blogs and those of others have been and are an education.
An education not least how and when to keep my lips zipped, my keyboard locked and generally being “nice” [make the latter not say anything at all – which is the hardest].
I could (and, in due course, no doubt will) mention many an example where and when bloggers (including myself) could do with a lesson.
A lesson. Just now I happened onto a post (I think posted 12 August) of a blogger who is a harpy. And I mean a harpy. Her harpy always but always complains. Not least about her commentators. Mainly because they are American. In her eyes Americans have nothing to say. Other than “nice”. Which is fine. We all have a bone to bury and then dig up. In her case it’s Americans who are hooked on her. Gratitude? Don’t make me laugh. Disdain is her default mode. Does she lap up the adulation? Of course she does. Even if she spits on it. So far so fine. Whatever sinks your boat.
What I don’t like – and maybe she’d like to think about it – that she allows comments yet never answers any of them. That’s not communication. That’s not discourse. Most certainly it’s not discussion. It’s “Come to my court”, and be dismissed.
As not to be misunderstood, I quite like her. Yet, truth be told, she is hard work as I have rarely encountered.
So, what got my wrath just now, reading her last post? She is a saint. A saint. Let’s leave it there before she recognizes herself as the saint she is.
It’s not good. And it’s getting worse.
I don’t know what my life expectancy is. I am modest. So don’t expect much. But, for sake of maths forgetting genes and taking my doubt into account, let’s say I have another thirty years. If I keep going like I have the last few weeks I won’t need my book shelves so much as a garden. I am fed up with print. Absolutely totally fed up. Let’s be fair. Maybe not so much print as content. Yes, so I’d like to have a garden again. It is so maddening that I don’t know where. Which country. People say the world is my oyster. HA. My oyster has shut up, clammed up. Where there is too much choice indecision will set in. Like mould. The only anchor in flying sand round my ears is the Angel. One does need a reference point in life. Purpose.
In the meantime I might preserve lemons. I like lemons. They are yellow (my favourite colour), they are friendly (as am I) and they smile (as I do at you). And they taste good. Talk about win win.
I wish I had a cat. They are good at giving you feedback without suffocating you. The only reason I didn’t get another cat because cats are wild at heart and you can’t keep them in an inner city flat. Amounts to cruelty. Back in the early Eighties a friend of mine kept a Siamese in his apartment. The apartment being next door to mine. At night he’d send me little Morse code signals through our joint adjoining walls (he was gay – and a hairdresser; probably dead now). His cat was bonkers. The most neurotic being I have ever encountered. Other than a particular blogger who is so bonkers the Angel is questioning my sanity as to why I even bother to read her stuff. Well, there is such a thing as “morbid fascination”.
Big sigh. I wish I could dig over a garden. Plant seeds. And bulbs. Chase squirrels digging up same bulbs. Curse cats doing what cats do – namely, digging up – without malice – that which you had hoped will become a flower rather than a toilet. Give a beer bath to the ever encrouching army of slugs and snails. They are good at lacing all your greenery. And then there are Nasturtiums. Edible flowers in other words. I don’t know how restaurants do it. All my Nasturtiums were always infested (in biblical proportions) with blackfly. Disgusting.
I like doing battle with nature. Mainly because I am a meadow person. I don’t mind weeds. Nothing manicured for me. But god damn it: Can’t one expect at least one radish for one’s efforts? It’s why I like courgettes/zucchini. They grow and grow and grow and grow. Unperturbed. In any old condition. In the meantime they spout beautiful yellow flowers (see above reference lemon) which you can stuff to great effect. No blackfly in sight.
I am sickening for something.
“You reap what you sow”.
Don’t believe it. Complete nonsense – why do you think gardeners and farmers are usually down in the mouth?
Go to Ireland and you will learn more about potato blight than you ever wished to know. Ask me about snails and I show you a mass murderer. In fact I have got it down to a fine art, and don’t say I am not kind: Beer traps work wonders – slugs and snails being attracted to yeast, then drowning themselves and MY sorrows. I console myself that they will have died a happy death.
Since research is in my blood (undiluted) I just looked up snails in Larousse Gastronomique which is a doorstopper of a heavyweight of a book: The amount of preparation that needs to go into preparing a snail for human consumption makes you not so much wonder whether it’s worth it: It kills your appetite. It’s mainly to do with cleaning out their digestive tract by putting them on a ten day detox (also known as fasting/starvation diet). However “do not remove the liver and other inner organs which amount to a quarter of the weight of a snail and are the most delicious and nutritious part”.
Apart from setting beer traps the only other way to stay on top of the snail problem in your garden is to get up early (say 5 in the morning; dress code morning gown) when it’s still all damp and they are out there by their dozens. You pick them live and then hope that one of your visitors that day will take a bag off you. No joke.
Spring appears to be on its way considering that my thoughts are turning to terrestial gastropod molluscs.
PS For the historians amongst us: There was a bit of a loss of culinary interest in snails in the 17th century; revived by Talleyrand (!) who had them prepared, by Careme, for a dinner he gave for the Tsar of Russia.