Blow the cushion

I am vaguely irritated in that slightly grumpy way which often befalls me on a Sunday afternoon.

It doesn’t help (JT, take note) to read the blasted Sunday papers. Since I have to wean myself off a number of things, and people, at the moment anyway (no wonder, my mood is slightly temperamental) I thought I might as well go the whole hog and not buy ALL the broadsheets. Forget it. If anything, by concentrating on one publication, my pains are magnified. 

Under headline of trite ”Cushion the blow”, when, in truth, the headline writer should be fired since “Blow the cushion” would have made so much more sense considering the lean times we live in, we learn that you can buy a cable knit blanket for a mere £132.00 (saffron yellow) courtesy of Terence Conran and his empire. Excellent. Bloody marvellous. Can’t wait to get my knitting needles out. No doubt, now that no one can afford gas or electricity any more, designer hot water bottles will sell like the proverbial cakes – with a price to match.

In order to maximise profits, I have decided to take road of least resistence and take a leaf out of the 1920/30s US prohibition and establish public places (say, pubs) where people are allowed to smoke INDOORS. It might re-ignate more than the cigarette industry. In fact, it might start a revolution.

And before any of you come down on me like a ton of bricks: No, I myself do not smoke though I wish I did – and have done so recently, forced upon me by one of Felix’s more militant friends – he doesn’t take no for an answer – whilst discussing the intricacies of life how only seventeen year olds can. Talk about time travel.

U

Blog Standard

Sometimes I think I’d rather walk a field full of randomly strewn land mines than the wonderous world of the weblog.

A few months ago I was commissioned to do in-depth research on blogs, blogging and bloggers. As assignments go it’s money hard earned. Whilst I am patient with fellow humans, and persistent to the point of possibly being pathological, my boredom threshold is low.

Vanity and vacuity are the riches in the world of virtual verbosity.

And then there are the “rules”. What is one blogger’s cherished comment is another one’s deleted faster than he can say: Fuck off – true meaning: “Don’t question anything I say.” 

Two published poets I unhappily stumbled across in my research cut  commentors not so much down as shred them. Guys, let me tell you one thing: We are all a little  tortured in our souls – not only those of us who put feelings into rhyme if  little reason.  How did AJ, the Irish voice in my life, summon it up yesterday,  sparingly: ”Prima Donnas”. Comments welcome, DJB? Do make me laugh.

Blogiquette has yet to be underwritten. If my dear good John Morgan, fastidious to the point of fatigue, had not seen fit to commit suicide before his time he’d have included in his “Debrett’s Guide to Good Manners” a chapter on how to blog and, more importantly, how to  treat those who have the courtesy to respond and comment on a blogger’s musings.

Note to self: Do not tread on freshly pedicured and nail varnished toes of self importance.

Dear god in heaven, I have just remembered I am writing on my own blog. Benevolence, vengence, vehemence, vitriolity, venom and vulnerability are mine!  The virtual word is my sharp edged and fresh oyster! Repeat after me:  In the confines of the padded cell of our blog idiocies  may bounce. If only others let us bounce within theirs what fun we’d have on the playground of many an opinion.

And some of you are most generous. I salute you  for being open minded, warm hearted, kind, intelligent and man/woman enough to take the rough with the smooth.

Vanity fair of the virtual world: My dear Thackeray, what you missed by being born too early to be able to record what makes tbe mind bloggle you’ll, luckily, never know. Becky Sharp would have had a field day.

Wonder when the bidet to the virtual bog and its world will be invented.

U

Beam

Have you ever – in the dark – hunted down that elusive misplaced torch you know is somewhere in the house?

Puts whole new perspective on life and that which is right under your nose.

U

Nomad

Cue French accent, and I quote Hercule Poirot: “It’s not a tragedy that I was born on the wrong side of the channel.”

Indeed it isn’t - However, Borough Council of my hometown recently dropped bombshell that, after having lived and worked in this country for 26 years, Home Office has to provide evidence that I (an EU national – who by definition does) have right to remain on these shores. Has the world and its civil servant gone mad? It only took me five days to get through to a living soul at the other end of the line at said Home Office. Guess what, and you thought Italian, German, Swiss, French and Spanish bureaucracies were painful: After much form filling it will take the Home Office six months to come up with the goods.

Can someone please pinch me and wake me up from my life becoming a continued living nightmare. We are not even in November any longer. I truly need a break – and no, not from the person who is coming to see me this afternoon (she issued threats to my physical safety the other day as in “I have friends”).

Dear god in heaven, if there is one piece of advice I’d like to give: Never try and reason with a person who is stupid. It won’t work. There is no subtlety, no nothing – just a cow staring at you blankly. It’s quite disheartening.

I love Hercule Poirot (as epitomised by David Suchet) and his little grey cells. Such a fastidious man, never deceived by human nature and its deviations, yet always sweet, kind, benevolent and with a twinkle in his eye. I wish I were his niece. We could have tea at the Ritz, Dinner at the Savoy – so civilized. And stuff the Local Borough Council.

Let’s forget the formalities, they can be dealt with and are. But, emotionally, I find it most upsetting that after having spent virtually all my adult life in this country, having procreated here, that I suddenly need to “prove” my existence and why I am here. I don’t cry easily. But cry I did – briefly.

Wish me luck.

U

Compromised

Sweethearts, twittering is growing on me. So here a brief update:

Over the painful course of several hours on the phone I have made two new friends today. They both work for Virgin Media, have most gorgeous accents (Canada? plus that certain je-ne-sais-quoi), with the patience of saints, the equilibrium of angels, and the powers of god.

Yes, I am back in business – for the moment. How many computer geeks have you ever charmed and engaged in private conversation whilst letting them get on with the job? Well, I did and I am proud. The second one was most gratified when I shrieked with joy (yes, I know it was undignified) the moment his many commands yielded a result. Even the immovable can’t help but laugh when you tell them you could kiss them out of sheer gratitude. Sweet dreams, Liam. (And yes, sorry, I forgot all conversations are recorded – no doubt, you won’t live it down in a hurry).

So that was a win win. Now to the losers. 

U

Modem times

Friends, foes, foreigners and countrymen, please ignore this post as best you can. No, not you, Vernon: I need your help.

Is there anything that might go right for me any time soon? Even bad luck gets boring after a while. Wrote a ton and a mile of emails on other computer only to find can’t send since beset by error messages. I have plugged, unplugged, contorted myself, been sent from pillar to post by various helplines – it’s all totally incomprehensible. One guy tells you its Norton, another the wireless router – to no avail; my guess it’s me and bad Feng Shui. Better repaint front door a different colour.

Still, on the upside, you have to hand to these guys on the other end of a helpline. As I just said to one of them: I don’t know how they do it, where they get the patience from. I wish I were a man!

VOASF, I know you are not on speaking terms with me at the moment, but please tell me what to do. And please don’t take Felix’s line. There is only so much a not so sane woman can take.

Laughing whilst I can, though not much longer. Still, guys and guyesses, look on the bright side: Whilst I currently can’t send emails, I can still receive them. How is that for shutting me up and myself being at the receiving end for a change?

Why, oh why, oh why, was I not born at a time when one had a footman to carry little handwritten notes across town? Mind you they didn’t have hot showers then. Couldn’t live without those.

U