Awful, absolutely bloody awful

As Thursdays go this 28 August will stick with me for some time to come; not that long though since my memory is short.

I wish I wouldn’t find life so stupidly funny. Hence, nobody takes me and my woes seriously.  But, you know, there is the occasional little suffering beneath the veneer of my eternal smile. I can’t wait for all the letters of emp/sympathy pouring in; as if. In fact, what is the difference between the two? I tend to err on the side of empathy for others; though dastardly difficult to find when you need it yourself.

One of my friends has the most frustrating habit of urging me to focus. YESSSSSSSSSSSSS? So? Focus on what exactly if the tidal wave is just about to hit? Usually something that leaves me so cold it could pass as a chiller.

I know I am a bit of drama queen but, even by the most cool and detached person’s standards, today’s events would have beaten anyone into a triple whip; battle has commenced and whilst I most certainly won’t win the war I shall fight.

It can only get better, but then who wants to look at the stars when all of us might as well just meet in the gutter?

U

PS: It’s marvellous to bleed at the communal, indifferent, bosom of a blog

PPS: I love how many tags one can create out of a very short posting

Pimm’s O’Clock

Last Friday Felix had his first “proper” teenage party, at home.

And what fun it was to meet such an array of vastly different young people – the hair, the fashion, the humour, the exuberance - I was in awe. According to some of the girls I am cool (high praise indeed) and Felix (despite his earlier attempts to book me into a b&b for the night) told me that I’d blended in perfectly – not that I did show my face that much.

Thus I am reminiscing about spectacular hangovers. Mostly brought on by the fact that my bedroom is next to one of the bathrooms, and at four in the morning, just by sound of regurgitation, I knew exactly who of Felix’s friends was throwing up when. Felix came to see me at about six to relate a most astonishing discovery: “Mama, every time I throw up I feel better.” By eight o’clock he was as good as new.

Some 20 years ago I suffered the worst hangover of my whole life at the hands of a generous friend buying me cocktail after cocktail on the promenade of the harbour of Puerto Banus (think Spain, think yachts, think money, think whatever takes your fancy). Ever since I am as suspicious of cocktails (other than Martinis) as a cat circling a bowl of milk knowing full well she is just about to be poisoned. I can’t stand the stuff: It lulls you into a false sense of security; all that fruity taste whilst knocking back high % Vol.

And yes, David, you might have gone underground, and you are a wonderful guy without guile - how big is your gut now? – but revenge will be mine, one day. Make sure you’ll live long enough. Needless to say, my then husband had no sympathy for me whatsoever. In fact he offered me breakfast – to add cruelty to injury. It’s amazing what the human body can withstand.

Early this morning I fancied a little walk into town rather than taking the car. You see things you’d never be able to notice from the safety of your four wheels. Eight o’clock – two guys and a woman sitting on a bench, beer and cider cans in hand – asking me for some change. I would have liked to have helped out but I only had a card on me. I have a fairly vivid imagination but it doesn’t stretch far enough to begin to comprehend what it must be like to lead a life like that.

And, on this happy note, don’t forget the olives. And, oh yes, one of my proud claims to fame, about two and a half years ago someone created the “Ursula” for me. It is possibly one of the best drinks I have never had.

Feel free to puke into my inbox.

U

PS And who in their right mind would order a “Vicar’s Shandy” (half fino sherry, half lemonade, handful of mint)? As perversions go, this is liquid.

Window shopping

It had to happen – and it has – again.

I found my perfect outfit – A Jean Paul Gaultier stylishly kinky, yet elegant dress at a mere £1,050, complete with outrageous snakeskin knee high boots at £2,155. Throw in some lunch and a bottle of wine to recover from the expense and – three and a half thousand pounds later - the world is your visually appealing oyster.

I will run up that little number, on my own sewing machine, at a fraction of the cost (not counting my time, which I never do). Not sure about the boots since I have not dabbled in the intricacies of what a shoe maker does; and please don’t believe the Italians have it all: Go to Spain – to this day I mourn the most phantastic high heeled black patent leather peep toes, complete with yellow, red and blue inserts, I purchased there; ten years later they fell apart.

U

Forgive me

There comes an age when one shouldn’t be allowed to fuck up – comprehensively – technowise.

Mine, obviously, hasn’t come yet. Apologies to everyone that I have to use this route to tell you: Yes, I have written to you, some more than others - off line. No, I have not forgotten you - if anything the opposite. I am fighting this end – can’t send. Bear with me. I don’t suffer easily other than my current acute social and emotional embarrassment (I so love words with lots of rs and ss in them).

U

Happy

Friends, foes, foreigners and country men, I am stuck. Make that suffering from information overload.

There is Boy George on my desk, and I quote: “A lot of the men I’ve loved could be described as emotionally unavailable.” “There is a lot of game playing in relationships, particularly with men. You have two masculine, dominant energies colliding” (That’s the one which has me, woman, continually baffled: How do you two do it?). ”You can be the most intelligent, well-read human being but when it comes to matters of the heart – or the loins – we all become idiots.” Well, he is approaching 50 fast so he must know what he is talking about.

A friend of mine told me this little anecdote a few days ago: An older gay couple of his aquaintance, totally committed to each other for years other than having a bit on the side every now and then, had a god almighty row because one of their lover boys raided fridge in the middle of the night. The argument went along the lines of “He can have YOUR body but not OUR cheese”. I am still chewing on that one.

No doubt Boy George will be able to help me out or, indeed, dearest sweetest Julian Clary whose bed I promised to sprinkle with rose petals.

Felix who has a habit of passing by one of my many comps at the most inappropriate moments just said: “You make it sound as if Boy George is perching on the edge of your desk this very minute.” He is, for all I know.

Knowing my luck I will have said all the wrong things though some gays do have a sense of self depracating humour unrivalled by mere mortals. I count on you guys to spring to my defence.

As to the rest of information overload … I’ll try and shred most of it.

Mwah,

U

Jam jar opener

Next time you are invited to a wedding don’t consult the presents list or try and be original.

Wrap up an octopus instead.

U

Noises off

I dare say we all have a neurotic bee in our bonnet – and with me it’s noise. I will play music – any (other than Mrs Ritchie’s which I never listen to on principle) –  at ear drum shattering levels yet, most of the time, particularly whilst I am writing or doing my research, I avoid sound like the plague. 

One of the cats has recently taken up day time residence in an empty whicker basket stashed away at the bottom of one of my bookshelves in the study. This beautiful neutered tom, black with five white chest hairs, is far too big for the basket; so, in order to make himself comfortable, he keeps moving, rearranging his bulk – thus making the dry whicker creak incessantly.

It irritates the hell out of me; not enough to shout at Bouncer, turf him out, relocate whicker basket or buy him a sound proof larger one (you know what cats are like: As soon as you purchase anything purpose made they’ll turn up their nose and ignore your offering). Just enough for this low level irritation to keep me sufficiently wired for anything else coming my way to cause a minor explosion; not that you would know it if you got me on the phone. But it chips away at my – as we say in my mother tongue – costume of nerves; so my outfit is basically in tatters. Off now to do some mending; to the sounds of a great Spanish band – loud enough to blend out a thunderstorm (and the whicker basket). 

U

NB Bouncer has – just now – taken revenge for my above comment by plonking himself on my most prized pile of papers instead (right next to the sound system); I could kill him; luckily, in the end, even paper is unimportant, amounts to so little when faced with the living, breathing.

So, who is coming for Saturday lunch to diffuse?

On the horizon

Let’s just abolish the naming of seasons. Summer? Associate it with sunshine? Stop it now, stand in the corner, and come out again next time you see a rainbow (now there is a two second happiness for you).

Judging by some private feedback I get I should rename my blog “Moaning Minnie”. I dispute this assessment of my temperament; and those of you who know me vaguely, or even better, please ride to my rescue before I slip on a stretch of wet grass and self assassinate.

Yes, it’s weather and your serotonin levels where it’s at. You try and live in Britain and keep in high spirits; I dare you. Even Felix apologized to me yesterday that he felt need to raise most boring subject on these isles: Weather.

What I want to know, and I’d love to hear from both my Caribbean and Californian contingents, how is one supposed to sustain the all important Vitamin D levels (activated by sufficient sunshine) to keep the old dopamine at levels preventing yourself from throwing yourself underneath the next passing train?

Just to make life even more pleasant, my inbox is devoid of messages of one or two people I am hoping to hear from (one of you knows who you are); yet the poet, trying to beat me at my own game, set his alarm clock back by yet another hour, and phones me at six this morning (soon I’ll be ticking 24hrs/24hrs). Unfortunately – for him – I was already at my desk trying to meet a deadline; and, whilst I will always make time for a friend, I can’t write what I am paid for whilst playing muse to another wordsmith. 

Yes, big sigh, here I am in my lovely house, in my lovely study, in my not so lovely mind, and - whilst deadline met, text dispatched – the constant drip drip drip of the rain pelting onto the patio roof is slowly getting on my nerves. 

U

What keeps us alive

A friend called me, this morning, at 0700 BST sharp. Having been up for two hours already I was all there, alert – no problem; call me at 0300 in the morning and I am usually not short of words either.

However, how do you have and hold a half way sensible conversation with a man who is semi-conscious and basically doesn’t care “what” you say, as long as you say something? I was tempted to fall mute. Still, friends’ needs must – and, NO, I am not a social worker or a prostitute. (By way of adding to subject in hand: My oldest, bestest, sternest, most beloved and critical friend asked me a couple of nights ago whether I am in danger of shaping up into one of those women with a Florence Nightingale complex – whatever that is. I tried to convince him that I am not; but, in truth, once someone has glued themself to my heart, to extricate him/her is more difficult than shedding a tapeworm.)

Anyway, back to this morning and that man in dire need of human contact: Running out of subjects – I asked whether he had ever broken anything. Yes, he said, his heart – at least twice. I didn’t want to be pedantic and remind him that we can’t break our hearts; hearts get broken by others.

It reminded me of a recent little essay of mine where I ask why the heart (the motor in our chest) is depicted in the shape of a heart – you know, that perfect symmetrical shape with the little bottom/chest cleavage in the middle. The muscle that keeps us alive doesn’t look anything like it.

What sparked the essay? Felix had a bag of Walker’s crisps the other week (Salt and Vinegar flavour) when he came across a heart shaped one – he didn’t munch it but donated it to me, in the name of art and creativity. As crisp hearts go it’s almost perfect – a tiny little burn on the right hand side. I shall frame it.

U

Perdu

You know those Proustian questions they throw at you in the Sunday papers: Like, who you’d like to play you in the movie of your life.

Truth be told, I’d like to play myself. And please do believe everything you are told: Your childhood is your defining period. It’s the foundation on which all your believes, the way you will relate to the world in general and people in particular are cemented. Since I am open to anyone and anything, sure, I engage brain, listen to advice given by my most trusted, my most beloved, know they are right – in their own way – and still follow my own heart, judgment, destiny – just as I did as a five year old. Instinct, and instinct only; it’s served me well.

U