And another week ends and nothing in particular to show for it. I could go to a comedy club and comment upon the stuff that emanates or I could just watch television and do likewise. It’s all a bit of a sham in reality. Meanwhile the new cat settles on my bed with a distinct meaning and the child eats a large plateful of something that is supposedly his dinner. I no longer comment on these large platefuls of stuff that seem to fill his days. I am back from Portugal and I stuggle to form some class of identity from it all. This is probably due to the confusion caused by a. the imminent divorce from he who demands it greatly and b. the certification of my uterous as cancerous or non cancerous. Two major doings to be considered in all honesty and then if that is all well the trip to South Africa and all that falls into that particular pool of things to be done
. So while all appears to be silently unproductive all is not what it seems. And on we shall go in an apparent cocoon of nothingness as the future bracket awaits to be formed. Meanwhile I shall attack the plan of nothingness that forms my days and bite the bigger one that forms them all. Chat soon.
The yoke says write and that is what I shall try to do. Went for the daily swim in the luxurious pool and given that my mood was generous then the swimmers were also. Likewise with the traffic and the consumers in the shop where I bought pasta which was cooked in the usual banal manner. The cat is denying the peace and calm and running around the home with an announced certitude. The outside calm merely states it’s calm until an undefying rupture takes place. I await the earth defying schadenfreude that is due. The child has finally returned to the ‘des res’ and I shall say nothing until the first signs of unrest. Probably tomorrow when I raise the subject of something to be done. The state of home rest is undeniably unrestful. The home start will start soon. It is the best of my unrest and shall happen before I leave this fucking earth. My children have taken their home rest this time too far and too long. The change will come soon – probably this week. The new pattern will disturb them greatly but they shall be dist
urbed in a pleasurable way. Alas all great things must end and new things shall effect us all. It’s time for a bit of a shake up. Chat soon.
So anyone who reads this regularly will realise that there appears to have been a bit of disruption. Why I don’t know. All I know is that on Saturday morning I sort of woke up around 2.15 in the afternoon, had some breakfast and went back to bed. I woke up at 7.15 that evening, had some tea and went back to sleep. 24 hours of my day was taken. I was not especially ill, I just slept the whole time and was not sure whether stuff was real or not. On Monday I went to the doctor who did some tests and then I went to the shops – that is all I remember. Some things got lost, like the codes to parts of my machinery and other general stuff. The rest is o.k., I think. The weather is fine and I sort of spend the day outside. I should go back to the gym I suppose, a swim would do no harm. Life will never be the same again. My stand up comedy I shall resume but again it will not be the same. Something happened in Portugal and I’m not sure what. All in all the experience was very pleasant. However I lost my earphones and the case of my glasses. Now I have to wait for the result of the medical
test and see about going to South Africa – if at all – all in good time. Meanwhile life goes on but differently. Enough said. Chat soon.
Some of us come from the land of ‘Eire long ago’ and were infected by nuns with an impoverished form of thinking that gives no joy. Joy was the undeclared ‘enemy’ of catholics everywhere and feared by our religious betters – especially in the 1960s. This was problematic for someone whose very essence appears to be a deep well of joy which bubbles up now and then when the going gets rough and whispers irreverant black humour in my ear to deliver me from an apparently unkind reality. The nuns knew I had this secret reservoir of hope and did not like it. You are more malleable without hope. When I was leaving school forever – a joyous occasion indeed – the chief nun asked my mother, in front of me, what career I was planning. My mother said I didn’t yet know and the chief nun advised her to make me do something I didn’t like because it would be good for me. “Make her do domestic science” said the chief nun. “Oh, she’d be no good at that” said my mother. “All the more reason to make her do it” replied the chief nun. I would loved to have said “I want to be an Enneagram comedian” and watch their authority seize up. Anyway it is this kind of warped thinking that now makes me think I will die soon because of unexpected and wonderful career offers winging their way towards me. It is hard to imagine a world where you get to finally do something you like doing and stay living at the same time. The nuns did their indoctrination work well. Anyway I’ll find out soon enough as I have to go to a ‘lady doctor’ on Monday for an examination of an intimate nature. Her colleague, my own doctor and a man, said he cannot do it – such is the current craze of p.c. gone bananas. Personally I couldn’t give a tupenny if it was done by ‘Mattress Mick’ at a Tesco checkout as long as somebody gives me the all clear to get on with my fabulous life. The lady doctor will do I suppose as long as she doesn’t say “can you just relax” – to which the answer is a resounding ‘no’. Although if I play my cards right I might score some intravenous valium – which was administered the last time I had a foreign object shoved into a place not suited for such invasion. Maybe I won’t take the car just in case! I think I indulge in ‘catastrophic thinking’ as the psychologists would call it. Meanwhile it’s going to be feline love and house cleaning as a distraction until then. The woman up the road is taking her two dogs for a walk and letting them shit everywhere – for some people life is actually quite simple – alas I am not one of them.
“How was the golf?” said the man in the queue for check-in at Lisbon airport and I knew then and there that the holiday was now officially over. He didn’t actually address the question to me – nobody would – the messages that I send out are loud and clear in that regard. He said it to another ’40 something success story’ who was also lugging a big bag of iron sticks to the check in desk in complete disregard to the environmental impact of his hobby. Could he not rent sticks in Portugal to hit the little balls into the little holes? And yes I do know that golfers call them ‘a set of clubs’ and they are ‘special’ and you can’t hit the little ball with just any old stick. I had just attended the International Enneagram Summit in Lisbon where I treated the masses to some comic release on the final night with my one-woman show “Nine Types of Feta”. It was a resounding success which was an enormous relief as I had never exposed my witterings to an international conference audience before and wasn’t quite sure whether offence would be taken by some of the many nationalities that I lampooned (in a tasteful and sensitive way). One of the 40 year olds had caddied (carried the iron sticks on his back) for his dad who was also very successful in business, as everyone in the long queue was made aware of. (not dealing with rubbish here was the message or ‘personal branding’ as it’s now called). Between them they knew everyone in Eire (well anyone who was big in the world of commerce and finance). Meanwhile I sat cross legged on the floor (back trouble) reading a William Trevor book that I had bought in Oxfam for 2 yoyos. Women who sit on the floor reading a book are assumed to know nobody. Although I knew how to board the aircraft with priorty boarding even though my ticket didn’t actually say that. I knew how to charm the man who took the tickets – sometimes charm is more useful than a big bag of iron sticks. I arrived home at 3 in the morning and Benny the black beauty was pleased to see me and spent the night in my bed. (he’s a cat) It’s cold and wet today which is strangely comforting as I await for transition back to the life of a housewife whose immediate needs are having the drive done and cleaning my room and making the child replace the beer that he stole during my absence. Ah sweet ordinariness,
you calm me with your clarity. And yes this is Lisbon not San Francisco. But that city also beckons this wandering minstrel. Chat soon.
There is supposed to be a storm tonight and the government have issued all sorts of coloured warnings. They’re good at that and it makes them seem like they care about the populace. A person is paid to tell them how to show they care. It seems like an easy job and I could do it because I’m creative. However I couldn’t do it because that use of creativity would not sit easy. I saw all the shiney, smiley, earnestly honest “I care about you” electoral posters face to face yesterday because I was sitting upstairs on the bus. I don’t usually sit upstairs but the local tramp was swigging a bottle of Buckfast Tonic Wine downstairs and causing having havoc with his pants down and shouting abuse at the passengers. The passengers also have rights but they probably don’t want to seem uncaring by asserting them so they suffer in silence and hope the bus journey will end soon. He’s tried to break into my garage a few times and when I told him to stop he told me that he was ‘just out of the hospital‘ and wished me bad luck. He says this to everyone including the old lady whose garage he set up home in unknown to her. He probably won’t be voting. I brought my ballgowns to the Vincent de Paul as that life is in the past and bought a top and some books there for going away. Just need to wash a few threads and I’m good to go – just need to remind myself – you don’t need a new frock, you have a frock. The thinking I need a frock is just nerves about stepping outside of my comfort zone. Although without stepping out there is no growth and we will die without knowing how much we could do this time around. Benny killed a second mouse – no one disposed of the body so I had to do it myself. We’ll all end up like dead mice in the end but not at someone’s back door I hope. I shall collect my ordered book from the library, buy some tinned beans and await storm Hannah. If the lecky is out the book will be useful. Enjoy your week-end. Chat soon.
Today Benny, the black beauty, caught his first mouse and deposited it at the child’s feet. My new baby is all grown up. So I took a train to the seaside because there was a hot sun in the sky and it often bleaches the tiny white bits appearing in my hair these days. I could wear a sun hat and look distinguished but as I get free highlights every summer from the golden ball in the sky – why not avail of nature’s largesse. As it is a bank holiday all sorts were walking the pier and if I comment on the appropriateness of certain
clothing on certain body shapes I will be vilified. But fuck that – life is far too short to be enchained by P.C. – there was this v. large young wan – circa 20 stones plus – wearing a pair of those currently trendy jeans which have lots holes in them (don’t ask why) and her jeans happened to have a large hole adjacent to the ‘crotch area’ where a large apron of her flesh hung down through the hole and flapped in the breeze. The apron of flesh was heavily tattooed – and no, I was not the only one looking at it as she queued up for ice cream. And sure if you said maybe a salad would have been a better choice you’d be crucified by the twitterati – but it would have been a better choice. Style seems to have gone from these shores and been replaced by ‘I can wear wha I fookin want’. There are stylish clothes and there are clothes that mock us. We have a choice. Chat soon.