How Tupperware is Seldom the Solution

I have a room dubbed ‘office’. Not a complete misnomer as the all three of us that run our corporate empire (the size of a small Caribbean island on a miniature globe seen through the wrong end of a telescope) forgather here. It was a tad chilly.
I turned up the radiator.
It started raining.

I have another room above the aforementioned room dubbed ‘bedroom’. Being a woman of logic I assumed that the rain was originating from bedroom. I lifted many a floorboard to discover a faulty pipe stop valve. I put a small Tupperware container in place.

Being a woman of logic I realised that this was not a long-term solution. Tupperware seldom is. So in due course I embarked upon a voyage of fixing. This is what happened:

In order to drain the heating system I had to open the back door.
In order to open the back door I had to apply a small hammer.
The room became chillier.
I drained the system.
The whole house became chillier.
I removed the valve and fiddled with pipe connections.
I refilled the system.
The one rain became two.
I placed two small Tupperware containers.

Tupperware escalation is not good.
I drained the system.
The whole house became chillier.
I fiddled with pipe connections.
I refilled the system.
I removed the Tupperware.

The next morning the house remained chillier. No radiators were working.
With a wandering Tupperware I removed air.
The house became warmer. Except the office.
I turned up the radiator.

The True-ish Confessions of a Guardian Soulmater

It’s time to fess up. It’s tidier than fessing down. Although cunningly disguised as a friend of a friend of a person quite likely to be a friend, I met him on the internet.

I know.

But everyone’s doing it. All the friends of friends of people one is quite likely to know. It has real advantages over real life. Things like:

We all know why we’re here.

It’s possible to talk to his/her photograph without ever having had the painful experience of having a photograph given to you as a token of love and then just being left with the token when the photographee has wandered off.

We can pretend to be better/wittier/saner/realer/less menopausal people without the real better/wittier/saner/realer people actually finding out that you’re sitting there having a hot flush.

There is no one to ask if you are really better/wittier/saner/realer. (Soulmates haven’t cottoned on to the whole reference thing which is the usual requirement of the matchmaker) (aside from being in those cute slidy boxes)

It’s nothing to do with one’s mother’s conception of who a nice boy/girl would be.

It’s possible to judge people on purely spurious basises like –
the quality of their punctuation,
whether they’re capable of making it through an entire form-filling process,
and how they look in a photograph obviously taken in a moment of desperation as they came to the bit in the form when asked to upload a photo (hence the lion-king pyjamas).
Their fondness for orange vegetables.

There is a great deal of interest in the subject of Guardian Soulmates. I have just designated myself in the role of spurious Soulmate expert. Experts, after all, are only people who know stuff that is basically unknowable. Questions like why? How? What? And most of all with whom? All of these, and probably many more questions, I might address in forthcoming posts. Next exciting episode, coming to a screen near you – First Contact – what really happened, what might have happened, and carrot soup.

How Not to Send a Valentine

So it’s nearly Valentines Day. Which, as many things do, led me to wonder what’s it all about? No, this is not a philosophical question, which of course would read WHAT’s it all about? We may move onto that later. Now I’m asking in a more historical way. We may move on to the hysterical later.

The story goes:
‘Saint Valentine, who upon rejection by his mistress was so heartbroken that he took a knife to his chest and sent her his still-beating heart as a token of his undying love for her. Hence, heart-shaped cards are now sent as a tribute to his overwhelming passion and suffering.’

Impressive stuff eh? No wonder the man was a bloody saint. Literally I guess too. Imagine the scene:

Valentine: I love you
Mistress: Fuck off
(this was all done by text)
(then in real life) (or at least in the same room)
Valentine: My heart is broken.
Heart: Don’t I know it?
Valentine: Well you’re no bloody good to me now.
Heart: I’m still beating aren’t I?
Valentine: That gives me an idea.
Heart: This brown paper is not as comfortable as your squishy squashy lungs.
Valentine: Don’t worry, you’re a token.
Heart: That’s ok then, just don’t tie the string too tight.

A few days later:
Mistress: Ah! A parcel. I wonder if it’s my Amazon order.
Heart: Erg squidge pitter-pat.
Mistress: Oh, quelle disappointment it’s just the butcher using a different wrapping from usual.
Heart: I’m a token.
Mistress: With peas and carrots then.
Heart: WHAT’s it all about?

So, as you send your card just think a little more carefully about true love and what veg might go well with that.

How Not to Cure a Broken Foot

I’ve been to have my foot scanned.

They were looking for something starting with a neur.

You may remember the age-old story of my purple foot, what not to do in the sauna and why metatarsal slippers are sexy. This is the continuation.

This is what happened:

After many years of waiting I arrived at the hospital.
After not so long of waiting I was ushered into the ultrasound room.
The ultrasound operative was not there but there was a kindly sort of nurse sort of woman who was folding pieces of paper towel in two. An important job I could see.

We had an in-depth conversation about ultrasound which mostly consisted of reminiscing about the days of pre-natal examinations and the pain of the full bladders. I was glad it was only my foot and not my foetus that was being ultrasounded considering the fact that the ultrasound operative was still AWOL and if I had been in a pre-natal pre-urinatal state during such a wait I would have been very much not pissing myself. As was required.

We continued to reminisce about daughters, universities, and the nature of holidays. We wiled away the time in that sort of way that hospital time works. Finally much to my excitement the ultrasound operative arrived. She was wearing a stripy jumper.

Dutifully she put the goo on my foot. Painfully (to me) (she didn’t appear to be in pain but on the other hand who am I to judge?) (her previous absence may, for all I know, have been to do with pain) (or maybe lunch) (which we hope isn’t the same at all) she applied her ultrasoundy thingy to my foot. The left. It’s always been the left.

She said that my foot was very easy to scan due to its slender nature. Was that a compliment? I took it as one. And compliments to a minor degree can assuage pain. To a minor degree. She reported that if there was a thing beginning with a neur then she would find it due to the apparent transparency of my foot. In ultrasound terms.

It looked remarkably like an alien landscape. Much as it feels really.

She didn’t find the thing beginning with a neur. But she did find an anomaly. Hope was on the horizon.

In a moment of technical wizardry, or witchery, (if that’s the feminine equivalent) she compared the ultrasound to the previously achieved x-rays.

It turns out I had broken my foot some time in the past.

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.

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.

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.