Balls and undertakings

You might think life is hard and then you die. As indeed do I.

Just now I was gliding along on the warm sunny shores of minding my own business, tending to my thoughts and admiring the bush of paeonies shooting into bloom.

Paeonies emerge as perfectly formed balls before they burst into flower. Watching them appear holds a similar thrill for me as does snooker to Felix. Considerate son that he is he announced hours beforehand that on no account was he to be disturbed in his viewing of some snooker final on TV last night. I muttered something about “men and their balls” (which he ticked off as so rude a comment) and a most interesting discussion ensued.

One thing a woman can’t learn early enough is not to ask a man/a boy “Why chase after a ball” or, worse, “Why watch someone stabbing some coloured ball hard in order to get it into a hole”. But then, for my sins, I do not live for nothing in the land of spoilt walks (golf).

Back to Feng Shui, as reminded of this morning. Luckily it’s not a religion but worrying nevertheless. I have to reconsider the colour of the front door and dread to think what it might mean to live opposite an undertaker. Keeping life in a healthy perspective?

To be continued…

U

Another nail in the coffin

I have been trying hard to keep a lid on.

I didn’t jump straight on here. I showed remarkable restraint by not rushing to cry on my preferred, patient and well worn shoulder via email. Neither did I pick up the phone as a shortcut. I let it simmer, went to bed hoping it would go away, and now it’s overcooked.

Yesterday afternoon, by accident, I came across a blog to end them all. Or at least mine. Maybe I am particularly unforgiving when it comes to my own sex but women really can take it out of me. You would have to pay me – and even then I wouldn’t take the money – to be remotely friendly with this person. All you seasoned, experienced bloggers and surfers out there will shrug your shoulders and say: “Shit – as you perceive it – happens. So what?” And no doubt you are right, and I shouldn’t feel discouraged, depressed and dejected, except I do. I wish I was Marge (Homer Simpson’s wife). Obviously I don’t want to be married to him, but being able to put my feelings as succinctly as only she can would come as welcome relief this very minute.

Since I am at it, may I also say that the hours of British Summer Time between, say, 4 to 8 am are complete buggers. My European contingent is either asleep or in the shower, my overseas one is getting ready for bed. And everyone else is fed up with asking me why I am always up.

U