Day 183
It was book club this week, but I won't bore you with my thoughts on this month's choice as I wasn't that impressed. We did have a really good discussion about a local van that someone had seen though. It advertised - of all things - 'Mobile Fanny Piercing', which made us all feel old and out of touch and very glad to be so.
God! Can you imagine that being parked outside your house for every curtain twitcher to witness? And though the lady who told us about this didn't remember the fella's name, (it not being one she had any reason or desire to remember, obviously), she did note that it was a man. I don't know about you but I prefer a nurse to do my downstairs check-ups - someone who could feel my pain, so to speak.
I don't think I'm being sexist - I know there are many male gynecologists as well as female, but they at least all started out as doctors. Whereas this fella, well, I just think that any man who spends all day basically looking up girls fannys would need to be about 105 years old not to look pervy. And can you imagine if he was your new boyfriend and you took him home to meet your folks for the first time. The subject of occupation is going to be the first thing asked. What kind of parents think he's a catch and can't wait to introduce him to Granny? I just don't know what to think.
Perhaps he has nothing whatsoever to do with piercing any body parts. Perhaps he's a misogynist who takes money from bitter ex-husbands, cleaned out by divorce, to park outside the ex-wife's place until she comes out and pays him more to go away. That would be a nice little earner, and he could deliver groceries at the same time (you see, I've thought about this - let no-one call me lazy minded).
So Bath has it's own local pube puncturer on wheels. What is the place coming to! As another of the book club girls said, "If I'd seen it in Midsummer Norton, I wouldn't have blinked an eye", (and it definitely says something about the times we live in, that it is more acceptable to let everybody on the school run know that you are having your clit pop-riveted, than to be seen with last seasons handbag and no perma-tan).
The yuckiness of the whole idea was more interesting, and elicited more concordance of opinion than the book we were supposed to be discussing had. Suddenly, having a united front, we became the Bath Grumpy Old Women massive, with Bombay Mix and biscuits. Can't wait for next month.
Saturday 27 March 2010
Monday 22 March 2010
In limbo, but no dancing queen
Day 178
Everything is on hold until we find out whether Steve has definitely got this audit job in Antwerp or not. Initially it was supposed to start today, but things keep delaying it and changing the parameters, so we don't know if anything is going to happen or not.
I find myself waiting to make my plans as they are dependant upon the outcome. This may not make sense to people who live a more normal life than I do - indeed it probably sounds totally 1950's housewife in a pinny - but in terms physical, financial, and emotional, what Steve does with his time affects me too.
For one thing, we cannot afford to change our lifestyle at the moment because of financial constraints, by which I mean the dole. I love that I live in a country where we take care of those who are out of work, and know how lucky I am to have that, but........ I do think there is a difference between just scraping by and living.
For example - there are a lot of things I cannot do to help my health at the moment because we simply don't have the funds for it. A major one is food - healthy food of the particularly constrained and dietarily restricted nature that I need is bloody expensive. As are all the supplements I should be taking that have been prescribed for me by a nutritionist, and on which I feel a lot better, (at the moment I am even ekeing out the hormone cream that keeps me relatively sane to last as long as possible - I never put on as much as I actually need). So our financial state can make a big difference to what I do, just with food alone.
Hey ho. Such is life. And so I sit here waiting for Steve to move on with his work so that I can make other plans too. In the meantime, I have been very good doing the pruning in the garden, as that is not dependant upon money (yay!). Well, when I say good, I mean over-efficient - had a rough hormone day recently, after another grotty night, but the sun was sort of shining and I thought that if I got up and did something I might feel better. It sometimes works, sometimes not, but if I have the energy I always like to give it a try.
So I went out to look at the rose and honeysuckle tangle on the arch over the front steps. This is a rented house with a similarly rented garden, and as anybody in this position knows, tenants don't make great gardeners - it is rarely in their interest. I really love it ( when I get a window of energy), and always like to leave a garden better than I found it if I can. This rose had gone long and leggy and been badly pruned (at best) for some time, and the honeysuckle was worse and choking all the light from the rose. Time for a bit of Bev and some long handled snippy things, I thought.
Now I'm sure I've mentioned that having a rotten memory is one of the symptoms of my illness - you would be shocked at how much it changes overnight, according to which day of my month it is. But the fact of having a bad memory is actually hard to remember if you have a bad memory, ok, so I always forget that I do. This means I often forget other things as well, but don't do a very necessary double-check - because by now I have forgotten that I have a bad memory........... you see how this goes?
So I forgot that doing anything remotely skillful or important is crucial for me to LEAVE ALONE when I have days like that, as it always ends in tears (I am not kidding). I am, as a rule, a pretty ruthless pruner, as it seems to do the trick with things that have been left too long. However, I may have strayed way beyond ruthless, bypassed torturous, and gone straight into mass murder with barely a twitch.
When I hit the point where I mistook the main stem of the rose for an elongated bit of honeysuckle and chopped straight through, I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten and raced in to Steve at the computer yelling "Why didn't you stop me?". To say it now has plenty of light and room to grow is an understatement. By the time I had finished we had four car loads of green stuff to take to the tip. (And I haven't done all the other pruning yet.)
When Steve has a job and we have a bit of spare dosh again, I can make good the damage and actually weed the garden too. There is no point doing it now because without bark chippings to stop re-growth, or new plants to put in, the weeds will just fill the spaces again, healthier than ever.( I do actually save weeding for hormonal days though, because ruthless and above is what is generally required.)
So here I am, waiting for the good news to come about his job because then I can eat properly, take care of my body better, get out in the fresh air more, and get some exercise gardening which will help me too. You see how this fits now?
Don't you just wish you were me!
Everything is on hold until we find out whether Steve has definitely got this audit job in Antwerp or not. Initially it was supposed to start today, but things keep delaying it and changing the parameters, so we don't know if anything is going to happen or not.
I find myself waiting to make my plans as they are dependant upon the outcome. This may not make sense to people who live a more normal life than I do - indeed it probably sounds totally 1950's housewife in a pinny - but in terms physical, financial, and emotional, what Steve does with his time affects me too.
For one thing, we cannot afford to change our lifestyle at the moment because of financial constraints, by which I mean the dole. I love that I live in a country where we take care of those who are out of work, and know how lucky I am to have that, but........ I do think there is a difference between just scraping by and living.
For example - there are a lot of things I cannot do to help my health at the moment because we simply don't have the funds for it. A major one is food - healthy food of the particularly constrained and dietarily restricted nature that I need is bloody expensive. As are all the supplements I should be taking that have been prescribed for me by a nutritionist, and on which I feel a lot better, (at the moment I am even ekeing out the hormone cream that keeps me relatively sane to last as long as possible - I never put on as much as I actually need). So our financial state can make a big difference to what I do, just with food alone.
Hey ho. Such is life. And so I sit here waiting for Steve to move on with his work so that I can make other plans too. In the meantime, I have been very good doing the pruning in the garden, as that is not dependant upon money (yay!). Well, when I say good, I mean over-efficient - had a rough hormone day recently, after another grotty night, but the sun was sort of shining and I thought that if I got up and did something I might feel better. It sometimes works, sometimes not, but if I have the energy I always like to give it a try.
So I went out to look at the rose and honeysuckle tangle on the arch over the front steps. This is a rented house with a similarly rented garden, and as anybody in this position knows, tenants don't make great gardeners - it is rarely in their interest. I really love it ( when I get a window of energy), and always like to leave a garden better than I found it if I can. This rose had gone long and leggy and been badly pruned (at best) for some time, and the honeysuckle was worse and choking all the light from the rose. Time for a bit of Bev and some long handled snippy things, I thought.
Now I'm sure I've mentioned that having a rotten memory is one of the symptoms of my illness - you would be shocked at how much it changes overnight, according to which day of my month it is. But the fact of having a bad memory is actually hard to remember if you have a bad memory, ok, so I always forget that I do. This means I often forget other things as well, but don't do a very necessary double-check - because by now I have forgotten that I have a bad memory........... you see how this goes?
So I forgot that doing anything remotely skillful or important is crucial for me to LEAVE ALONE when I have days like that, as it always ends in tears (I am not kidding). I am, as a rule, a pretty ruthless pruner, as it seems to do the trick with things that have been left too long. However, I may have strayed way beyond ruthless, bypassed torturous, and gone straight into mass murder with barely a twitch.
When I hit the point where I mistook the main stem of the rose for an elongated bit of honeysuckle and chopped straight through, I suddenly remembered what I had forgotten and raced in to Steve at the computer yelling "Why didn't you stop me?". To say it now has plenty of light and room to grow is an understatement. By the time I had finished we had four car loads of green stuff to take to the tip. (And I haven't done all the other pruning yet.)
When Steve has a job and we have a bit of spare dosh again, I can make good the damage and actually weed the garden too. There is no point doing it now because without bark chippings to stop re-growth, or new plants to put in, the weeds will just fill the spaces again, healthier than ever.( I do actually save weeding for hormonal days though, because ruthless and above is what is generally required.)
So here I am, waiting for the good news to come about his job because then I can eat properly, take care of my body better, get out in the fresh air more, and get some exercise gardening which will help me too. You see how this fits now?
Don't you just wish you were me!
Friday 19 March 2010
Cogito ergo sum, or not, as the case may be
Day 175
I don't know who I am today. This happens sometimes. I have learnt to live with it until I recognise the woman in the glass again.
I look at my feet and wonder who they belong to, for it cannot be me. My feet carry me wherever I want to go, they walk for hours, setting a rhythm then automatically following it, past any muscle pain or weariness. These things on the end of my legs, that make me gasp each time I put weight on them, and leave me weak with tears after only half an hour's walk - these are not my feet.
These are not my hands, either. My hands are deft and precise. Working woman's hands, with hard skin on the tops of the fingers where I play the guitar each night. They are efficient, not beautiful, but I like them and their strong capability. These hands have no strength, they are swollen and clumsy. They make many mistakes and drop things too frequently. These are not hands that I trust.
My body sleeps well and works hard. If I want to do something, then the hour of the day is not important. I paint my walls at two in the morning. I cook at dawn. I am not highly toned or ultra supple, but I can do anything I want without looking foolish. I am enthusiastic rather than skillful at yoga, dancing, badminton, running. I stay the same weight. I look good enough. My clothes fit. I am happy.
This physical space covered in skin that connects these alien feet with those stranger's hands - this body belongs to somebody else, surely. It bloats up five pounds and six waist inches between morning and night. My clothes fit for only two hours. It does not bend - there is no elasticity or stretch anywhere in it, as if the tendons are all made of leather. My back is strong and straight but these shoulders stoop.
It fires random pains at me for no rational reason, through the ankles, down deep in the thumbs, behind the eyes. Dull, constant aches in these thighs or its back come for weeks at a time. It has no strength or stamina - it cannot do anything for more than minutes sometimes, before it is dizzy, or puffed out, or tearful with the strain. Each place I touch on this body usually hurts, so I avoid the touching, there are so many places to feel pain that I never knew could.
Perhaps my real brain is being frequently lent out, like a book from a library. My brain is sharp and positive, quick and curious. I find it hard to be bored, there is so much I want to do. I start too many things that I never finish because my grasshopper mind has moved onto something else. People must be borrowing this brain and leaving me with a poor replacement, one that gets confused and can't make decisions. This other brain doesn't start anything at all, and it is over sensitive and grumpy. This is not a good match for my real brain - why has not anyone noticed?
This person I see in the mirror today tried really hard to be me, but it was never going to work - I cannot be so easily fooled. I went out to the garden to finish the pruning but the first cut left me weak and drained, breathless and exhausted. I don't leave jobs half-finished, I work until they are done, putting on loud pop music and drinking wine as I work, before falling into bed at four in the morning, knowing I will wake to the loveliness of the finished thing. This strange person leaves things poorly started and half-done for days, weeks, even months. This is unfathomable to me. I blot it out.
I search for myself in the dent of my bed, the eyes in the mirror, the sound of this voice. I wonder how to recognise myself again, what it will take, what to do, where to look.
I don't know who I am today. If you have seen me about somewhere, send me home - I am missed.
I don't know who I am today. This happens sometimes. I have learnt to live with it until I recognise the woman in the glass again.
I look at my feet and wonder who they belong to, for it cannot be me. My feet carry me wherever I want to go, they walk for hours, setting a rhythm then automatically following it, past any muscle pain or weariness. These things on the end of my legs, that make me gasp each time I put weight on them, and leave me weak with tears after only half an hour's walk - these are not my feet.
These are not my hands, either. My hands are deft and precise. Working woman's hands, with hard skin on the tops of the fingers where I play the guitar each night. They are efficient, not beautiful, but I like them and their strong capability. These hands have no strength, they are swollen and clumsy. They make many mistakes and drop things too frequently. These are not hands that I trust.
My body sleeps well and works hard. If I want to do something, then the hour of the day is not important. I paint my walls at two in the morning. I cook at dawn. I am not highly toned or ultra supple, but I can do anything I want without looking foolish. I am enthusiastic rather than skillful at yoga, dancing, badminton, running. I stay the same weight. I look good enough. My clothes fit. I am happy.
This physical space covered in skin that connects these alien feet with those stranger's hands - this body belongs to somebody else, surely. It bloats up five pounds and six waist inches between morning and night. My clothes fit for only two hours. It does not bend - there is no elasticity or stretch anywhere in it, as if the tendons are all made of leather. My back is strong and straight but these shoulders stoop.
It fires random pains at me for no rational reason, through the ankles, down deep in the thumbs, behind the eyes. Dull, constant aches in these thighs or its back come for weeks at a time. It has no strength or stamina - it cannot do anything for more than minutes sometimes, before it is dizzy, or puffed out, or tearful with the strain. Each place I touch on this body usually hurts, so I avoid the touching, there are so many places to feel pain that I never knew could.
Perhaps my real brain is being frequently lent out, like a book from a library. My brain is sharp and positive, quick and curious. I find it hard to be bored, there is so much I want to do. I start too many things that I never finish because my grasshopper mind has moved onto something else. People must be borrowing this brain and leaving me with a poor replacement, one that gets confused and can't make decisions. This other brain doesn't start anything at all, and it is over sensitive and grumpy. This is not a good match for my real brain - why has not anyone noticed?
This person I see in the mirror today tried really hard to be me, but it was never going to work - I cannot be so easily fooled. I went out to the garden to finish the pruning but the first cut left me weak and drained, breathless and exhausted. I don't leave jobs half-finished, I work until they are done, putting on loud pop music and drinking wine as I work, before falling into bed at four in the morning, knowing I will wake to the loveliness of the finished thing. This strange person leaves things poorly started and half-done for days, weeks, even months. This is unfathomable to me. I blot it out.
I search for myself in the dent of my bed, the eyes in the mirror, the sound of this voice. I wonder how to recognise myself again, what it will take, what to do, where to look.
I don't know who I am today. If you have seen me about somewhere, send me home - I am missed.
Monday 15 March 2010
Bit dark, this one
Day 181
It was Mother's Day yesterday. This is always a bit of a two-edged sword, as I have a lot of guilt about the kind of mother I was forced into being because of my illness.
Normally I don't do guilt as I find it a waste of time and a bit of an indulgence. My viewpoint is that if one is truly sorry about something, then one simply doesn't repeat that behaviour ever again, and does what one can to make up for the consequences of one's previous actions. I've noticed that some people use guilt as a way of self-punishing, ("if I feel really bad and suffer about this, then it's ok, and no one has the right to be really angry with me"), and then carry on the repeating the same behaviour. Nuts to that.
However, I do feel guilty about this and I think it's because it was always SO important to me. I started off ok - I was even a foster parent at one point. When one comes from an abused background, one is usually determined to do everything differently, and I did and it was great. But when I got ill after Sam was born, all my nightmares came true and I turned into a bunny-boiler version of the rotten mother that I had endured. This is the worst kind of hell because it is one you cannot escape.
It's taken years to recover and get my brain back to normal, and in that time I have done many things I am ashamed of but could not help doing. I wish I could feel more compassion for myself. I know that it wasn't my fault, and that I would be much more understanding of somebody else going through the same thing. It's just that, my kids only had one childhood, and it most certainly wasn't the one I wanted for them. I can't turn the clock back on this, and I find that hard to bear sometimes.
So along comes Mother's Day, and I go into a whole spin about feeling dreadful about the past, doubting totally whether the boys love me, and at the same time wanting them to prove that they do by how much they gush over me for the day. Talk about issues!!! I let Steve in on what was going on and he was really supportive, but hopefully the boys had no idea. This is my shit to deal with, not theirs.
So it didn't start well. I ended up cleaning windows and doing the laundry while waiting for the boys to turn up, and getting grumpier and more self-pitying the longer they took. Steve was wisely getting on with his essay and leaving me to work through this at my own pace. Finally, at about noon, Sam phoned and said he'd be along soon, but an hour and a half later he still hadn't showed and my sorry-for-myself dramas were going into overdrive.
Eventually he met me at the garden centre, where he gave me a choice of choosing a plant or having a cream tea, which is our thing. As soon as I saw his beautiful, open, smiling face coming towards me on the garden centre steps, all my stupidity evaporated. Love does that - cuts straight through the shit.
Of course he loves me - I'm his mum, good or bad, and he's knows I will always, always be there for him. The past has certainly influenced how he grew up, but the present is more affirming than anything that went before, and I would do well to remember that. I love him more than life - how can that not show or be as important as the past? What an idiot I am sometimes.
We spent a happy hour picking some flowers to pot out, finally deciding on some flame-coloured miniature Tulips, a deep pink Primrose and a sunshine yellow Ranuncula, and bought a pot of whipping cream to go with a cherry tart later. We came home and spent the day tidying his bedroom from top to bottom, as it had gone beyond hope and even he was avoiding it.
When Joe turned up later with, of all things, cold, heart-shaped mini omelettes he'd made for me (?), we all got together and roasted a chicken, then watched some terrible dance programme for sport relief. Steve whipped the cream with such enthusiasm it turned into butter, but who cares! It was perfect - relaxed, comfortable, no great shakes. Really, what more could any mother want?
It was Mother's Day yesterday. This is always a bit of a two-edged sword, as I have a lot of guilt about the kind of mother I was forced into being because of my illness.
Normally I don't do guilt as I find it a waste of time and a bit of an indulgence. My viewpoint is that if one is truly sorry about something, then one simply doesn't repeat that behaviour ever again, and does what one can to make up for the consequences of one's previous actions. I've noticed that some people use guilt as a way of self-punishing, ("if I feel really bad and suffer about this, then it's ok, and no one has the right to be really angry with me"), and then carry on the repeating the same behaviour. Nuts to that.
However, I do feel guilty about this and I think it's because it was always SO important to me. I started off ok - I was even a foster parent at one point. When one comes from an abused background, one is usually determined to do everything differently, and I did and it was great. But when I got ill after Sam was born, all my nightmares came true and I turned into a bunny-boiler version of the rotten mother that I had endured. This is the worst kind of hell because it is one you cannot escape.
It's taken years to recover and get my brain back to normal, and in that time I have done many things I am ashamed of but could not help doing. I wish I could feel more compassion for myself. I know that it wasn't my fault, and that I would be much more understanding of somebody else going through the same thing. It's just that, my kids only had one childhood, and it most certainly wasn't the one I wanted for them. I can't turn the clock back on this, and I find that hard to bear sometimes.
So along comes Mother's Day, and I go into a whole spin about feeling dreadful about the past, doubting totally whether the boys love me, and at the same time wanting them to prove that they do by how much they gush over me for the day. Talk about issues!!! I let Steve in on what was going on and he was really supportive, but hopefully the boys had no idea. This is my shit to deal with, not theirs.
So it didn't start well. I ended up cleaning windows and doing the laundry while waiting for the boys to turn up, and getting grumpier and more self-pitying the longer they took. Steve was wisely getting on with his essay and leaving me to work through this at my own pace. Finally, at about noon, Sam phoned and said he'd be along soon, but an hour and a half later he still hadn't showed and my sorry-for-myself dramas were going into overdrive.
Eventually he met me at the garden centre, where he gave me a choice of choosing a plant or having a cream tea, which is our thing. As soon as I saw his beautiful, open, smiling face coming towards me on the garden centre steps, all my stupidity evaporated. Love does that - cuts straight through the shit.
Of course he loves me - I'm his mum, good or bad, and he's knows I will always, always be there for him. The past has certainly influenced how he grew up, but the present is more affirming than anything that went before, and I would do well to remember that. I love him more than life - how can that not show or be as important as the past? What an idiot I am sometimes.
We spent a happy hour picking some flowers to pot out, finally deciding on some flame-coloured miniature Tulips, a deep pink Primrose and a sunshine yellow Ranuncula, and bought a pot of whipping cream to go with a cherry tart later. We came home and spent the day tidying his bedroom from top to bottom, as it had gone beyond hope and even he was avoiding it.
When Joe turned up later with, of all things, cold, heart-shaped mini omelettes he'd made for me (?), we all got together and roasted a chicken, then watched some terrible dance programme for sport relief. Steve whipped the cream with such enthusiasm it turned into butter, but who cares! It was perfect - relaxed, comfortable, no great shakes. Really, what more could any mother want?
Thursday 11 March 2010
Just time for a quickie
Day 177
I have only a moment. Steve is starting his college essay so I will not get more than a glimpse of this keyboard for some time. Another night of insomnia, so when I woke this morning I was hormonal and starving hungry. Let it be known, that in a house with no food whatsoever, a crisp and coleslaw sandwich actually does the trick.
Am very excited at the moment, and busy reading books lent to me by my friend Bex. In theory, we may write a book together, and are starting to thrash out ideas and concepts with each other. My only concern is not how different our writing styles are, because they are not so dissimilar as to make it unworkable, but that the type of book we might each want to write could be polar opposites of each other.
She has already written a kids book which languishes in a drawer, and I have 60% of one in hand, and that is our best work. Perhaps that is where we should be headed as it would appear to be our strong suit. However, the books she is lending me are from quite different genres.
One was a glorious piece of chick lit (which I never read) called 'Twenties Girl' by the woman who did 'Confessions of shopaholic' (can't remember her name), and I loved it (will actually look for more like that). Would be very happy to write that but I'm nowhere near good enough.
The other is about thirty to forty something women with kids, on holiday together, and it's ok, but I wouldn't want to read it again (not like 'The Great Gatsby', for instance), and I would definitely bore myself rigid if I tried to write it.
This whole episode has renewed my interest in getting on with my half done kids book though. I had put it aside while I concentrated on the picture books, but as they're not moving at the moment, I might as well put them on hold and crack on with this instead. It will give me something meatier (and harder) than this blog to practice on, while Bex and I decide on our novel.
Small matter of needing to be able to get at the computer though, (sigh).
I have only a moment. Steve is starting his college essay so I will not get more than a glimpse of this keyboard for some time. Another night of insomnia, so when I woke this morning I was hormonal and starving hungry. Let it be known, that in a house with no food whatsoever, a crisp and coleslaw sandwich actually does the trick.
Am very excited at the moment, and busy reading books lent to me by my friend Bex. In theory, we may write a book together, and are starting to thrash out ideas and concepts with each other. My only concern is not how different our writing styles are, because they are not so dissimilar as to make it unworkable, but that the type of book we might each want to write could be polar opposites of each other.
She has already written a kids book which languishes in a drawer, and I have 60% of one in hand, and that is our best work. Perhaps that is where we should be headed as it would appear to be our strong suit. However, the books she is lending me are from quite different genres.
One was a glorious piece of chick lit (which I never read) called 'Twenties Girl' by the woman who did 'Confessions of shopaholic' (can't remember her name), and I loved it (will actually look for more like that). Would be very happy to write that but I'm nowhere near good enough.
The other is about thirty to forty something women with kids, on holiday together, and it's ok, but I wouldn't want to read it again (not like 'The Great Gatsby', for instance), and I would definitely bore myself rigid if I tried to write it.
This whole episode has renewed my interest in getting on with my half done kids book though. I had put it aside while I concentrated on the picture books, but as they're not moving at the moment, I might as well put them on hold and crack on with this instead. It will give me something meatier (and harder) than this blog to practice on, while Bex and I decide on our novel.
Small matter of needing to be able to get at the computer though, (sigh).
Monday 8 March 2010
Wedding do's (and don'ts)
Day 174
For those who know my recent history with celebrations and all things alcohol related, (see 'Perfect parties and pity parties'), I can report that I didn't get into any trouble at the wedding on Saturday. Well, almost none...
I had learnt my lesson drink-wise and only had one glass of wine, one glass of champagne, and a gin and tonic ALL DAY! I also took the precaution of wearing VERY opaque navy blue tights, and a below the knee length frock so I thought I'd covered all the bases.
The church was beautiful, the groom looked suitably glazed, the bride was drop-dead stunning, I hadn't cried so much my make-up was smudged, and it was all good. The choir, weirdly, were singing different words to the hymns than those printed on our Orders of Service, but after much stumbling and some long silences we all got past that, and it was all going swimmingly.
The vicar started his sermon which was funny and witty and full of helpful common sense. "It's all about communication" he said, "and there are things we do that get in the way. We get too tired, too busy, too proud to be the first to say sorry" etc., etc., you get the gist.
Now I don't know about you, but if a figure of respect and authority, such as a vicar, asks a direct question, I generally like to answer it honestly and immediately. So when he said "we're all very busy nowadays, aren't we? Hands up anybody who isn't busy all the time in their daily life?" I thought "well no, I'm not" and I stuck my hand up, because I was in a church and God was watching, after all.
He spotted me and said in a tone of some surprise "Oh - there's one", and everybody turned around to look at me, ( I couldn't believe I was the only one), and it seemed to throw him a bit. After a moment he regrouped with "Well you'll have to let me know your secret - but to get back to what I was saying...." by which time my brother and his wife were edging further along the pew away from me. Not my fault - he shouldn't have asked. Apart from that, I really behaved - honestly!
The best man's speech contained a little gem - when reading out the messages from people who hadn't been able to attend he came across one from Thailand. "Why you no write no more?" it said. Brilliant!
On Sunday, my friend Bex ran the Bath half marathon, which I wouldn't even be able to walk, so all kudos to her. Thinking about it, I wouldn't manage to cycle it either, and even driving it would leave me rather in need of a bit of a lie down, so triple kudos to her, actually!
I do so admire people who get up and train for things like this, in all weathers, because they want to be of service in the world. Bex is not some driven, fitness fanatic - she's just an ordinary, lovely person, who gets on with it and does what she can do. Her husband did it last year and she did it the year before that. Fantastic. Isn't the world a wonderful place sometimes?
Sadly, the corner that my most gorgeous friend J lives in has been anything but wonderful recently, so I'm sending her all my love and care and thoughts. Hang on in there baby.
My guinea pig Roger has just come back from the vets so I'm going to go give him a cuddle (probably the last thing he wants, but that's by the by), and then I'm going to crash out on the sofa - it's been a long few days, and Chronic Fatigue doesn't take weddings and travelling in it's stride. Besides, I have a hot date with my Sky plus box planned - Lost, Glee, Heroes, American Idol.......
If he saw me now, the vicar would totally understand why I put my hand up, wouldn't he.
For those who know my recent history with celebrations and all things alcohol related, (see 'Perfect parties and pity parties'), I can report that I didn't get into any trouble at the wedding on Saturday. Well, almost none...
I had learnt my lesson drink-wise and only had one glass of wine, one glass of champagne, and a gin and tonic ALL DAY! I also took the precaution of wearing VERY opaque navy blue tights, and a below the knee length frock so I thought I'd covered all the bases.
The church was beautiful, the groom looked suitably glazed, the bride was drop-dead stunning, I hadn't cried so much my make-up was smudged, and it was all good. The choir, weirdly, were singing different words to the hymns than those printed on our Orders of Service, but after much stumbling and some long silences we all got past that, and it was all going swimmingly.
The vicar started his sermon which was funny and witty and full of helpful common sense. "It's all about communication" he said, "and there are things we do that get in the way. We get too tired, too busy, too proud to be the first to say sorry" etc., etc., you get the gist.
Now I don't know about you, but if a figure of respect and authority, such as a vicar, asks a direct question, I generally like to answer it honestly and immediately. So when he said "we're all very busy nowadays, aren't we? Hands up anybody who isn't busy all the time in their daily life?" I thought "well no, I'm not" and I stuck my hand up, because I was in a church and God was watching, after all.
He spotted me and said in a tone of some surprise "Oh - there's one", and everybody turned around to look at me, ( I couldn't believe I was the only one), and it seemed to throw him a bit. After a moment he regrouped with "Well you'll have to let me know your secret - but to get back to what I was saying...." by which time my brother and his wife were edging further along the pew away from me. Not my fault - he shouldn't have asked. Apart from that, I really behaved - honestly!
The best man's speech contained a little gem - when reading out the messages from people who hadn't been able to attend he came across one from Thailand. "Why you no write no more?" it said. Brilliant!
On Sunday, my friend Bex ran the Bath half marathon, which I wouldn't even be able to walk, so all kudos to her. Thinking about it, I wouldn't manage to cycle it either, and even driving it would leave me rather in need of a bit of a lie down, so triple kudos to her, actually!
I do so admire people who get up and train for things like this, in all weathers, because they want to be of service in the world. Bex is not some driven, fitness fanatic - she's just an ordinary, lovely person, who gets on with it and does what she can do. Her husband did it last year and she did it the year before that. Fantastic. Isn't the world a wonderful place sometimes?
Sadly, the corner that my most gorgeous friend J lives in has been anything but wonderful recently, so I'm sending her all my love and care and thoughts. Hang on in there baby.
My guinea pig Roger has just come back from the vets so I'm going to go give him a cuddle (probably the last thing he wants, but that's by the by), and then I'm going to crash out on the sofa - it's been a long few days, and Chronic Fatigue doesn't take weddings and travelling in it's stride. Besides, I have a hot date with my Sky plus box planned - Lost, Glee, Heroes, American Idol.......
If he saw me now, the vicar would totally understand why I put my hand up, wouldn't he.
Thursday 4 March 2010
This way to the zombie apocalypse
Day 170
We were driving up the motorway today, as I'm off to visit and do some work for my lovely sister in law, and we kept passing signs which said "think bike" in big, angry, authoritative, red letters. Think bike - on a motorway? Isn't that against the law? And what special kind of idiot would you have to be to decide that next time you travel along here the best form of transport would be one that doubles as a suicide mission?
Perhaps I'm just behind the times, because I was passing by one of the local theatres yesterday and my eye was caught by a poster advertising 'How to survive a Zombie Apocalypse', (which has now become one of my favourite play titles ever). However, what really got me was the critics quote at the top - "zombie improv at it's very best" it declared. Now I know I'm only a small town girl, but when did 'zombie improv' become a recognised genre? Does that preclude 'Shaun of the dead' because it was scripted? Apart from the hands outstretched shambling walk thing, what else is there to improvise about zombies with? If anyone knows, please tell me, I can't sleep for worrying.
I'm at my brother's house, as I said, to re-cover a chair for my niece Robyn, (the pink one), so have arrived with a sewing machine, an overlocker, a vast tool kit of cotton and bobbins and scissors etc., and enough clothes to cover me for the wedding we're going to on Saturday. In the past I have moved house with less equipment. I could invade a small country with all the hardware. I could survive a shipwreck with all the clothes and on-my-diet foods.
When did I stop travelling light? Was it when I had children and suddenly truck loads of buggies and blankets, rockers, slings, bottles and ten changes of clothing were required to get you through the afternoon? Now they are grown, sadly, I still find I pack lots of don't-turn-into-a-prune shit for my face, all my pairs of glasses, a chemists worth of vitamin supplements, and my pillows.
Looking back to when I was 13, I remember my cousin Sue coming to visit us. She was 17 and unspeakably cool. She carried all her belongings in one tiny purple string bag. You could see everything and I was fascinated to note that her underwear matched both her clothes and the bag. She may even have hitch-hiked!!!!! I never knew anyone I wanted to be more than her that day.
Roll forward a few years and Madonna has just made her first film - 'Desperately seeking Susan', (there's a theme here, can you tell?). In it she carries around a hat box containing all her worldly goods, which being Madonna include a tutu, lace gloves, and lots of bling. This was the lifestyle I aspired to - a capsule wardrobe of utterly edgy and chic proportions, a motorbike to speed off into the unknown with, a packing system that took all of two minutes and then you're gone.
When did I become so high maintenance? Is this just an age thing? Do sore backs and feet make weary travellers? Does vanity hold too much sway? I could wear the same pair of jeans and take only three funky t-shirts and a hairbrush, and still look fab when I was 22. At fifty it would take the creative might of Gok Wan and a lot of airbrushing to achieve the same carefree, casual glamour, (and a very dark night).
Ah well, so be it. I console myself with the fact that I travel light in my heart. An unknown road is always an adventure waiting to happen. All new places offer new people, new sights, and new opportunities for living out to my edges. Treading lightly, with excitement and interest, is perhaps the only way to travel after all. Poop poop, as Toad would say.
We were driving up the motorway today, as I'm off to visit and do some work for my lovely sister in law, and we kept passing signs which said "think bike" in big, angry, authoritative, red letters. Think bike - on a motorway? Isn't that against the law? And what special kind of idiot would you have to be to decide that next time you travel along here the best form of transport would be one that doubles as a suicide mission?
Perhaps I'm just behind the times, because I was passing by one of the local theatres yesterday and my eye was caught by a poster advertising 'How to survive a Zombie Apocalypse', (which has now become one of my favourite play titles ever). However, what really got me was the critics quote at the top - "zombie improv at it's very best" it declared. Now I know I'm only a small town girl, but when did 'zombie improv' become a recognised genre? Does that preclude 'Shaun of the dead' because it was scripted? Apart from the hands outstretched shambling walk thing, what else is there to improvise about zombies with? If anyone knows, please tell me, I can't sleep for worrying.
I'm at my brother's house, as I said, to re-cover a chair for my niece Robyn, (the pink one), so have arrived with a sewing machine, an overlocker, a vast tool kit of cotton and bobbins and scissors etc., and enough clothes to cover me for the wedding we're going to on Saturday. In the past I have moved house with less equipment. I could invade a small country with all the hardware. I could survive a shipwreck with all the clothes and on-my-diet foods.
When did I stop travelling light? Was it when I had children and suddenly truck loads of buggies and blankets, rockers, slings, bottles and ten changes of clothing were required to get you through the afternoon? Now they are grown, sadly, I still find I pack lots of don't-turn-into-a-prune shit for my face, all my pairs of glasses, a chemists worth of vitamin supplements, and my pillows.
Looking back to when I was 13, I remember my cousin Sue coming to visit us. She was 17 and unspeakably cool. She carried all her belongings in one tiny purple string bag. You could see everything and I was fascinated to note that her underwear matched both her clothes and the bag. She may even have hitch-hiked!!!!! I never knew anyone I wanted to be more than her that day.
Roll forward a few years and Madonna has just made her first film - 'Desperately seeking Susan', (there's a theme here, can you tell?). In it she carries around a hat box containing all her worldly goods, which being Madonna include a tutu, lace gloves, and lots of bling. This was the lifestyle I aspired to - a capsule wardrobe of utterly edgy and chic proportions, a motorbike to speed off into the unknown with, a packing system that took all of two minutes and then you're gone.
When did I become so high maintenance? Is this just an age thing? Do sore backs and feet make weary travellers? Does vanity hold too much sway? I could wear the same pair of jeans and take only three funky t-shirts and a hairbrush, and still look fab when I was 22. At fifty it would take the creative might of Gok Wan and a lot of airbrushing to achieve the same carefree, casual glamour, (and a very dark night).
Ah well, so be it. I console myself with the fact that I travel light in my heart. An unknown road is always an adventure waiting to happen. All new places offer new people, new sights, and new opportunities for living out to my edges. Treading lightly, with excitement and interest, is perhaps the only way to travel after all. Poop poop, as Toad would say.
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