That time of the year

Remember the saying that “things can’t get worse”?

Believe me they can. WORSE is a bottomless pit.

To save time I permit myself to lift this from an email I wrote on 25 November:

“In terms of luck, health, wealth and happiness – November is not my month. Notwithstanding that my parents got married – some years ago – on the 7th with my good four year old self being bridesmaid in attendance or the fact that I met Felix’s father on some French friend’s wedding at the end of the month (can’t say I regret it – though divorced for 13 years we still shout at each other as and when occasion calls for it). Actually, come to think of it, we split the same day we met (25 Nov) with a 17 year interlude. Please don’t tell me it’s the 25th today. It is, isn’t it? Oh well. More on the joys of November another time. Each one brings its own surprises. Should I die in a November I shall be seriously pissed off.” End of quoting myself.

After having endured Nov 2008 delivering, virtually daily, nasty surprises and having shivered through a whole week without central heating and hot water (how did people survive in the olden days) and looking forward to the start of advent, in the early hours of 28 Nov I got kicked ass so badly I don’t know whether to laugh or to cry. After initial shock I am still laughing. Mainly because I am in denial.

I rarely wish for Mondays. But, please, roll on 1 December and absolve me from all my sins.

U

PS: Keep signing everything with 2009; as some kind soul pointed out, I am in fast forward mode and wishful thinking is mine.

Hormones

A couple of days ago a friend of mine stated, matter of factly: “You are a woman”. As assessments go it came as a shock.

The conversation took place over the phone and, whilst he might have been exasperated with me (he was), his inflection was neutral. His statement in terms of enlightenment as to my standing in the world roughly on par with my then gynocologist’s assessment that I have higher testosterone levels than your average female. I was only 21 at the time – what did I know about testosterone? Generous man, probably dead by now. And no, I am not hairy or particularly aggressive.

Which neatly brings me, my friend and all of you to question how to suss out people – not that I ever do because futile and who wants to stuff anyone into the dreaded pigeon hole anyway?

Stupidly, mostly because mesmerised by his voice, I ventured that I don’t “generalise” when, of course, I should have said that, hand on heart, I never prejudice.

Saintly yours,

U

Whom the cock crows

Judas Iscariot, kissing Jesus Christ for the benefit of 30 pieces of silver, never, even when little, struck me as the villain of the piece.

Definition of the ultimate betrayal is Peter’s denial.

And no, this is not about the Bible.

U

Cutting edge

Sometimes life is most disappointing.

I have three staplers: a tiny red (Bambi) being my dead hot favourite (have had it for donkeys’ years and is still going strong), your usual boring office strength medium size, and one large enough to reach places (like the middle of A3) I hardly ever wish to visit.

There is a hole punch adjustable to any size, a reliable guillotine, masses of pencils (HB2 Staedtler Noris) plus sharpener, lip salve, handcream, erasers, tippex, nail varnish and other not necessary to be specified paraphernalia on my desk (special mention to staple extractor).

Before you go to sleep at my inventory: I am theeeee most unfortunate owner of FOUR pairs of paper scissors (all with blue handles). They do this most marvellous vanishing act or maybe they are just lazy and don’t want to do the job they are employed for.

It’s a nightmare. There must be a Bermuda scissor quadrangle in this house. Tonight I’ll have to resort to using my poultry shears to take paper cuttings (all other kitchen scissors in dishwasher) - No joke.

Sharply

U

Bangers

All you dear innocents out there, it’s British Sausage Week.

What now? Get your fill for the rest of the year? I immediately crave anything but.

Still, looking at it from a historical point of view, you might say that, considering the large proportion of German blood pulsating through the Royal Family’s veins, the Brits’ love of the sausage is bred in the bone, genetically as it were. All these isles now need is to appreciate the delicious Sauerkraut – let’s sex it up by calling it ‘choucroute’ (cheap and nutrious into the bargain; in these crunchy times supplying an awful lot of Vitamin C to keep the dreaded scurvy at bay).

Trust me, there are more ways than one to make the doux chou palatable. Recipes on request.

U

Blink

Fellow sufferers of the human condition, this is totally inconsequential, other than using my blog as a sick bag – I knew it’d come in useful one day.

Just phoned eye clinic since my right eye is giving me grief. I normally ignore any ills in other parts of my body (eventually pain gets bored and goes away) but I don’t mess with my eyes. If there is one horror I envisage – usually at three in the morning – it’s that my beautiful neck and its unblemished unlined skin belying my age will be defiled by neck surgery – throat cancer or some such; would serve me right. Those are the times you start believing in God and making deals with the devil.

Where was I? Eyes. Of course, if I had to choose between my neckline and my eyes I dare say I’d hang onto my vision. Much more useful. So just spoke to most charming, yet not interested in the female other than as a strange species, consultant. He told me, aggrieved, that it’s been a whole two years since I last graced his precision fingers to sort out my vision. It appears I have lost all sense of time on top of the plot.

You know where to find me tomorrow morning 9 am sharp.

U