Botch Job

As holidays go this one has been cut short. Words want to spill and so they shall.

A new acquaintance of mine, and Paul please don’t laugh or say ‘Told you so’, has asked me why I feel the urge to comment on blogs (including his own) and has told me in no uncertain terms that all further contact with the men in my life (other than those related to me by blood) will be severed once we get together. Fat chance – of either; particularly since he already has declared me mad. And we know what happens to mad women, don’t we? They get locked away. As I like to give people the benefit of the doubt let’s just say – it’s a cultural thing; we are talking continents here (Eastern promise). All I can hope for now is that he never finds out about this – my – blog or I’ll be dead. That’s what professional poets do in their spare time – they kill you, not so gently.

Talking about death – despite the fact that this British summer is abysmally short of sunshine the mosquito, the fly, the wasp and the moth will still find their way into our house. Felix and I deal with the nuisance in different ways: Felix mostly shouting “Mama, there is wildlife … do something”, and me either defending an innocent life or – as last night – taking the short cut. Which has left me with a ghastly smudge right above this particular laptop (white wall – what else?).

I am under no illusion what I’ll come back as in my next life – all I am hoping for is that I’ll find myself squashed in a prominent spot on the wall of the dasher of my hopes for him to be reminded of his evil deed.

U