Sunday 25 January 2009

How Not to Grapple

I made two New Year’s Resolutions.

To find my lost memory
To write the rest of my novel.

The problem with my New Years Resolutions is that the second is dependent upon the first. As is the first. Should I fail at the first then a cascade effect cascades in a downward manner such that all resolution is lost.

This is very much what happened.

So instead I’ve been grappling. With trees. This is what happened:

I peered out of the window to discover that a large tree-shaped blob of ivy hung where hitherto there was only a large tree-shaped blob of air. This was curious. The air had been transparent in a way the leafy protuberance wasn’t. I could no longer enjoy my view of the extensive area of weeds I had been cultivating at the bottom of my garden. I was, to say the least, disappointed.

Not being a woman to bear disappointment lightly I set forth armed with my slightly rusty trusty bow-saw (that, I assume, is its moniker as it certainly isn’t a hacksaw, a backsaw, a hammersaw, a reciprocating saw (sounds quite painful so I was particularly pleased not to be armed with that), a circular saw, a table saw or a Japanese submarine) and a deal of determination unto the offending area.

The initial felling took but a matter of minutes. Well, perhaps a bit longer as there was a batch of cutting, scary creaking noises, running away, cutting, scary creaking noises, running away, cutting, scary creaking noises, and running away.

It was disposing of the body that afforded the unexpected challenge.

You know how that’s always the problem in these detective thingies. Well those detective thingy writers are spot on. The murder is a piece of cherry cake compared to the hard crust of evidence disposal.

For a start when the victim is perpendicular they appear to take up a lot less legroom then when suddenly manoeuvred into the prone position. The addition of a great deal of covering, in this instance ivy, in other instances usually great coats or minor minks, further encumbers the whole encumbrance.

There are choices, as there always are. Chop into viable pieces and put in the boot of the car? The bin? The nearest lake? An abandoned woodland?

I chose option four. The abandoned woodland. I felt the body would blend in well there. Seeing as it was abandoned wood. The missing land bit was a quandary but I thought that the addition of the ivy would cover for any missing terrain.

And thus, after only three days of grappling, four plastered fingers and an assortment of pulled muscles I can now look out of the window to enjoy my view of the extensive area of weeds cunningly reconfigured as an abandoned woodland.

Friday 16 January 2009

Tape

I’ve been mending things. With Gaffer tape. Or actually with Duck tape. Or Gaffa tape. Or possibly Duct tape. This confusion of terminological etymology led me to look up this sticky stuff on Wikipedia. It turns out I’m in good company. Many others have led the way in the sticking things together with tape milieu.

Famous sticking incidents include:
World War II bods mending tents, aircraft and morale.
Getting to the moon by adhering bits of wandering space craft no longer able to hold on by itself.
The construction of the Brooklyn Bridge.
As a cure for warts (this is true) (occlusion therapy).
For sticking on drummers’ heads to reduce unwanted overtones.

There is little that this roll of superness cannot be used for.

I know.
Why you’re here.

So – How to tell if a man fancies you using a popular adhesive product:
Stick them to you.
Stick them to a lamppost, bollard or any upright object.
Compare and contrast.

Sorry to my actual regular readers for that but public demand demanded.


I’ve been mending things. With Gaffer tape.

There is little that this roll of superness cannot be used for.
So far I’ve mended:
The gate
The toilet
2 bras
My warts
The cat
The hole in the ceiling
My sanity
And
A troupe of spiders.

Some of the mending was more successful than others.

Tuesday 6 January 2009

Waiting, Determinism, Vodafone and a Lesser Known Russian Film Director

I’m waiting for a man.

No, it’s not him.
He’s at work and has just emailed me the following quote from Tarkovsky (a film director whom only the Unknowable Man might know about as he knows things that are generally unknowable). The quote says:

“I am categorically against entertainment in cinema - it is as degrading for the author as it is for the audience." As an author I find this is most reassuring but has little bearing on the waiting process.

I’m waiting for a man.

I’ve been waiting for this man for about as long as you’ve been waiting for me to write another blogpost. Possibly longer.

My New Year’s resolution is to find my memory. Which I mislaid somewhere in the autumn. The Autumn is a big place in which lose something. There are a lot of places to look. I’ve searched in the usual places that memories like to hide. Places like under my pillow, in the wardrobe, in seasons, out of seasons and under the cushions of the sofa. I’ve found old tissues, a dress I bought in 1976, a deal of frozen things and things I can’t remember what they are, what they might be for, or words to describe their unknowableness.

I’m waiting for a man.

This is why:
Picture the scene – New Year’s Eve, 2am, I am asleep somewhere in deepest Pembrokeshire. My phone rings.
The Physicist: I’ve….phone ….camera…(noises of nightclub)…shoes…taxi...
Me: Hello? Hello?
The Physicist: Where…can’t…(more noises of nightclub)…lost…
Me: Happy New Year!
The Physicist:…(crackle)….bad sig….

And so, on my return from deepest Pembrokeshire I began my waiting vigil. First I called the Vodafone helpline. Physicists can’t call helplines so mothers have to impersonate physicists calling helplines. Luckily, having received a lengthy explanation of the nature of Quantum and realising, through true mathematical proof, that there is no such thing as determinism, I am well qualified to impersonate physicists. And since I now know that there is no such thing as determinism and there is only probability I can resign myself, or at least probably can, to not knowing whether a real person will ever answer the Vodafone helpline.

I wait. Probably for as long as you have been waiting for me to write another blogpost. Luckily, since there is no such thing as determinism someone did answer. They asked me nothing about physics, cinema or Tarkovsky. Which was disappointing.
And now I’m waiting.
For a man.
To deliver the Physicist’s new phone.
It is as degrading for the author as it is for the audience.
I can’t remember why.