On working through trauma

 On working through trauma

Tis the season to work through trauma. Or should I say life experiences that may have not been quite as nice as one might like. The idea is, as far as I can make out, to bring out such experiences into the cold light of a reading lamp or candle. To look at the aforementioned experiences and how they make you feel. What they make you feel. How your nervous system responds to  those feelings. This process is supposed to be good for you and help process bad shit. Or slightly uncomfortable incidents as us emotionally illiterate like to put it.

And therein lies the rub. Emotional illiteracy. When I was young we didn’t have anything as namby pamby as emotions. How you felt about stuff was utterly irrelevant . So long as you were a good girl, didn’t fart in church and obeyed all the rules including -

 Keeping your elbows off the table, 

Saying ‘please’, ‘thank you’ and ‘please may I be excused?’

Adhering to a high level of hygiene

Not killing your siblings

Not killing your parents or torturing them in any way (torture ok for siblings)

Not killing yourself.

There were hundreds of other rules which are probably so ingrained that I don’t even recognise them. Like emotions. I don’t recognise those either.

So when asked ‘How are you?’ I give the standard reply ‘Fine’. Nothing else is required is it? We are British after all. Then a weird thing happened…

I wandered innocently onto a retreat. Nothing new there. I’ve done retreats. Yoga, breathing, perhaps the odd dip into a hot tub. Or a game of Ti Chi or Qi Gong or Mah Jong. For the non retreaters of you these are ancient oriental games of balance and chance. At this retreat there was something called Pods. I knew it was on the programme because I had read the programme. I was thinking of something along the lines of peas, beans or maybe camping. I had also entertained the idea that it might be something to do with podcasts, gatherings of Whales or walking (but that’s Plods, but typos were not beyond the realms of possibility). I was of course too embarrassed to ask.

Here’s what happened - The massed group of about 30 of us separated into Pods! The Pods were small groups of 5 or so people. So just like peas. My first assumption was correct! Ha! But instead of putting on green outfits, curling into small balls and cwtching up to each other in a line we were going to talk about feelings!!!!!! Shit. I was unequipped for this!

Did you know that young people, or at least young people on retreats, know how to talk about feelings? They were so incredible and honest and vulnerable and able to cry! I then admitted that no one ever asked me how I felt and actually wanted a real answer. Not just ‘fine’. I was a pod virgin. An emotional virgin. My instinct was to retreat. It was a retreat so surely that was acceptable. 

This sort of retreating is familiar to me. It’s simply a matter of hiding. In most situations the best place to hide is in the loo. Other good places are lifts, under-stair cupboards, kitchens, ends of gardens, sheds, behind trees and rabbit holes. 

As far as I recall I think I might have said something quite honest about being lonely. Ha! There! Being brought up in the sixties be damned! I expressed an emotion!

Upon Encountering Contemporary Art

 Upon Encountering Contemporary Art

 

A woman walks into a gallery. This is an ordinary, down-to-earth woman who may have simply strayed into a modern art gallery to escape the rain. She contemplates the piece ‘Iron Bar’ it has a label so she guesses that it must be part of the exhibition. It’s just a bar of metal on the floor. She concludes that a particularly witty janitor decided to create a label rather than hurt his back picking up and clearing away the heavy object. She leaves with a wry smile.

 

Another woman walks into the gallery. Sees the same exhibit. This woman likes art, has an interest in art and came to view some art. She scrutinizes the ‘Iron Bar’ believes that it must mean something but has no idea what. She shrugs and leaves the exhibit a tad disappointed.

 

A third woman walks into the gallery. This woman is familiar and au fait with the concepts of Modern Art. She stands spell-bound by the ‘Iron Bar’ knowing that it must represent man’s struggle against the tyranny of industrialism. That the rectangle form shows how people have been forced into homogeneous uniformity. The glean of the metal reflects the tears of generations of women. Even the shadow of the bar evokes the darkness mankind has suffered from. She leaves the gallery full of emotion, a changed person, and thinks that art is even better than sex.

How to Live Alone

 How to Live Alone

 

I used to live together. Now I live alone. As my dedicated bots and readers know I had a man, two children and a cat. I thought it was great. I knew nothing. The glories of living alone are myriad.

 When you live alone everything takes on no meaning. Everything is optional.

 

Cooking - if you feel like it but cereal is always good.

Cleaning - no one knows if you have become obsessively clean now no one makes a mess. Time spent polishing light switches is time well spent.

Laundry - down from two loads a day to once a fortnight and that’s only if you remember to put on clothes.

Smiling - only when you actually want to.

Being pissed off - only if a mechanical device goes wrong.

 

There is also the glory of flouting social convention. No danger of embarrassing the kids or being a bad mother. No danger of driving the man into the arms of yet another woman. Such joys include -

Never bothering to close the bathroom door.

Not bothering to get dressed.

Feeling free and unfettered by bodily functions, farting, belching, snoring at will are all now de rigour.

Making noise (see above).

Making more noise, like singing out of tune, talking to inanimate objects and illustrating one’s every move with appropriate grunts, moans and squeaks.

 

‘But,’ I hear you say, ‘aren’t you lonely? Even bots live in social groups!’

Yes, I confess I do have a new man in my life whom I spend weekends with. He’s with me all the way on the flouting. He’s free with the bodily functions, he’s an expert on making noise and he loves naked weekends. We’re very compatible. He’s three years old.

Understanding Bots

 Understanding Bots

 

A strange thing happened. I Googled myself. I know that this can be common practice among the vain, paranoid or bored. I did it as a diversionary tactic. I’ve decided to embark on more education. Thus diversionary tactic was needed.

 

The stranger thing was I found my blog. This blog. It still exists! I am alive! Or Live! The very strangest thing is that, according to the stats, people are still reading it. Or at least bots are. Now I feel guilty. (Yes I was previously indoctrinated in the whims of Catholicism.)  Out there, in the ether, or cloud, or somewhere, there are bots missing me. I’m touched. The highly innuendoed pearls of wisdom I used to dribble from my lips are amusing bots, possibly AI and probably very lost internet cruisers.

 

You must be wondering about my silence since 2018 my darling bots. What have I been doing if not amusing you? To tell the truth I can’t remember.

 

Now I know my audience I have done some research into my audience in order to know you.

 

Bots were first born in 1988, as was my eldest daughter, the physicist. So I know that these bots are now having adorable bot children, being run ragged by the pulls of childcare, work and insanity. The job of bots are to gather information for the Great Bot Head in the Cloud. This is no easy task a requires a deal of commuting. Lets take a look at a typical bot’s day. This particular bot is called George.

 

After rising early from his little bot bed in the cloud he enjoys a brief repast of bot food (I think probably that fizzy yellow sherbet but such detailed in formation is highly confidential). George now collects his assigned task, which in this case is reading my blog, and jumps, without any of the safety gear enjoyed by humans, out of the cloud. He has to navigate to the nearest telecommunications hub. He then shows his season ticket and climbs aboard the wire for his journey to my house. Since I live in the middle of nowhere this can be a long journey with many changes of wire along the way. He arrives at my hub. George then does the short hop through the air into my computer. He then reads the appropriate, or sometime inappropriate, material, makes a note in his bot notebook of any salient points and heads back via the same route to report to the Great Bot Head. By that time it’s time for cocoa, pajamas and bed.

 

I appreciate that the life of a bot is busy and has insufficient nourishment. From now on I will leave fizzy lemon sherbet by the router and urge others to do so. Night night bots xx

How Not To Do Your Self Assessment

As January once more swings its merry way into our lives we discover it’s time for Self Assessment.

Many scrungled up pieces of paper must be retrieved from pockets, car doors, wallets and cats’ beds. All year we wonder where all the money went and now we’re about to find out. Maybe. Equipped only with an iron, a magnifying glass and many totally valid distractions we set to. Or find yet another legitimate distraction like those spider webs on the ceiling, that amazing pattern the raindrops make on the window, or spring cleaning the entire house, garden, shed and car.

Despite the futility of spending many many hours ironing receipts, getting intimate with bank statements and deciphering government dialect we know it is all worth while. Yes, we then get to give the powers that be lots of money to squander on sparkly weapons, essential expensive lunches, and trendy palaces. Yes, we hope against hope that some of the hard earned cash we give them will be spent on Grandma’s knee, upgrading Granddad’s corridor hospital room or even fixing the pothole that killed cousin Ray. But look! Lo! Behold! The house is clean, the shed tidy, the silver polished, the unknown grungy thing is removed from the oven, the cats are groomed and well patted and the iron has had its annual outing and really enjoyed itself.

And now that Self Assessment is achieved the real Self Assessment can begin – Why am I here? What’s it all for? How did I spend so much money on cleaning materials?

How to Cope with Challenged Technology

My computer is on a go-slow and my phone is on a no-go. So forgive the sluggishness of this post because… this … is … as …fast … as the words are appearing on the screen.

Slowness is not an unusual state for an elderly computer operated by the hormonally challenged. Either I’ve forgotten what I was about to say, or Computer (whose name has slipped my mind) has a hiatus of recollection betwixt keyboard and screen. We work together in a harmony of pauses.

Phone (whose name is Xiomina) is in a curious state of decay. Every time I ask it something, like ‘What’s the weather?’ or ‘Is it bedtime yet?’ it turns itself off. Xio, however, struggles on and reboots. Until the next tricky conundrum. If I ask her to do something really complicated, like call the chemist, she comes over all hot and cuts me off mid sentence –

‘Newport Pharmacy, Betsi speaking’ (Betsi is a Welsh name)

‘Hi, I’m calling to…’ Xio cuts us off.

Betsi is an elderly woman of possibly delicate construction. I’m concerned she may misinterpret this rather abrupt banter, think there is some sort of pharmaceutical emergency. Only twenty minutes later I arrive, breathless and flushed.

‘Betsi, I called earlier but my phone cut out.’ I panted. ‘I think Xio is having panic attacks’

Betsi, unfazed, hands me my HRT prescription and offers some Rescue Remedy for my friend.

Router Rescue

I had a phone call. A friend needed her router rescuing from its alternative drop-off venue. The doorstep. Of her cottage, In the Middle Of Nowhere.

I was the ideal person to help because that’s exactly where I live. Nowhere is a big place ergo the Middle Of Nowhere is fairly sizable too. Undaunted and ill-equipped I set off. It was a dark and stormy night. Which rapidly became a dark and stormy and foggy night. Undaunted and many miles of meandering, dark, stormy and foggy lanes later I found it.

The router was completely unharmed. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief.

I had been instructed to locate the spare and hidden key and put the rescuee in the house. The key was too well hidden. Or I had failed to remember properly to my instructions. No problem. There was a backup plan. To leave the poor lost router in the shed. The shed was also too well hidden. I was impressed by my friends’ ability to hide things. However the router was beginning to look a little despairing. I considered just leaving it where I had found it but my reputation for cruelty has yet to be established.

I muttered a few there theres and bundled the whimpering piece of electronics under my coat. I took it home and stored it cosily next to mine.

I have texted my friend ‘Router safe’ 

How Not to Communicate Successfully

‘Someone called me in the night! Woke me up!’

‘Oh?’ I said, trying to sound nonchalant. Not my best sound effect early in the morning.

‘Guess who it was.’ Said Man

My mind ranged from friends having mechanical emergencies, other friends having carpenterial emergencies, speaking clocks, ex-wives, and figments of his imagination.

However I have some experience in answering these sort of accusational questions. So I knew how to get a top score –

‘Me?’

‘Yes!’ Bingo.

‘I just called to say I love you.’ I covered adeptly.

‘It sounded like snoring.’ Now this was beginning to have a ring of plausibility. Snoring is what I usually say in the night. Hence Man not sharing bed.

‘I just called to say I love you’ I tried again

‘So I hung up and I could still hear you!’

‘I just snored to say I love you.’

Further phone investigation revealed that I had also reset the background to a charming picture of a blanket, played Enya, won three games of solitaire, called the laundry people, my dentist and an Unknown number. I’m hoping that Unknown better understood my message.

Alexa

The Physicist got Alexa for Christmas. For the uninitiated amongst you she’s a thingy. You tell her to do stuff or answer questions. Sounds jolly useful eh?

We plugged her in.

‘Alexa – turn on the TV’ Honorary Grandson. TV remains steadfastly off.

‘Alexa – um, er, um’ Honorary Grandnephew. Alexa cooperates in hesitation.

‘Alexa – turn off the lights’ Lights remains steadfastly on.

‘Alexa’, (you understand that Alexa is related to Simon and unless you address her by her proper name you lose). ‘Sing Happy Birthday’ Honorary Granddaughter.

I sing Happy Birthday, it seems expedient at the time.

These demands went on for some time. I began to pity Alexa.

‘I’m not currently connected to the internet’ Alexa finally pipes up. An excuse I myself have used more than once when harassed by over-jubilant holidayed-up children.

Not long after that Alexa retreated to the kitchen. Another well know festive season ploy that women have used over the centuries. The Physicist managed to calm her down and coax her into a few jokes and general sing songs.

The following morning I wandered into the kitchen. Alone. Confused. Then I saw Alexa. Yes! Just the woman I needed –

‘Alexa, why did I come in here?’

‘Alexa, what was I thinking?’

‘Alexa, what am I looking for in the fridge?’

‘Alexa, WTF?’

She had no idea. Just like me.

What the manufacturers and purveyors of Alexii have failed to communicate in their well cast advertising campaigns is that Alexa is in fact middle aged. And probably menopausal. She did feel a little hot.

Waiting for the Builder

I’m waiting for the Builder. His name is Dave. This works well for me (being memoryly challenged) because most of the men I know are called Dave. So when I call a man on the phone I can just say ‘Hello Dave’. There does follow the problem of what I’m supposed to be talking about. I’ve decided to stick with the opening gambit of ‘Hello Dave, the roof is leaking.’

Dave the builder understands this. Dave my boyfriend understands this (or understands me sufficiently to ignore random phone overtures). All my Dave friends know me well enough to respond by hanging up.

I’m waiting for the builder. He’s supposed to be coming to fix the roof. The roof is leaking. Mostly I’m not all that very house proud. I’m successfully ignoring the fragrantly rotting front door, the musicality of the plumbing and the interesting angles my ceilings construe themselves into. But leaking roofs are not good. I’ve seen the television programmes.

It starts with a leaking roof. Then the timbers get wet rot and dry rot and rot. Then the wall falls down. Your previously (and possibly aristocratic) family is inconvenienced by the lack of wallage. They leave the stately pile for the suburbs. You stay in the stately pile living in the only room where it doesn’t rain, accompanied by your mêlée of cats. Years pass. A television crew turns up to your previously stately pile (now transformed to a pile) wanting to know why you didn’t get the roof fixed. Your only response by this stage is ‘Meow’.

I’m still waiting for the builder. This isn’t the first time. I suspect it won’t be the last.

Shedheap Challenge – Or How Not to Move Your Shed

I have decided to move the shed. Mostly because it is spoiling my view of the mountain. The mountain is much prettier than the shed and it doesn’t leak like the shed does. There are a number of problems involved. It isn’t a little shed, measuring about 3m x 10m, it is in fact a large shed. It was built sometime in pre-history of a solid wooden construction. It has been re-roofed in the not so distant past in an insubstantial plastic sort of way.

This isn’t the big problem. The big problem is all the stuff in the shed. What do I do with all the precious junk I have accumulated in the last 20 years? Items like surf boards, doors, desks, chairs, a fitted kitchen, thousands of tins of paint, another thousand tiles of no matching genre, plant pots, garden tools, a large assortment of bits of wood, sixty double glazing units that got mis-ordered when the house was re-glazed, and a number of wasps’ nests.

I’m a big fan of Scrapheap Challenge so I’m going to do Shedheap Challenge. The challenge is to make a new shed using only the items stored in the old shed in order that I might empty the old shed to make a new shed to store all the items in the shed.

How Not to Become a Recluse

I’ve been training to be a recluse. Which may be why no one has heard from me in such a long time. Or it could be the weather.

Being a recluse is considerably more difficult than I’d anticipated. Hence the training. The actual word recluse is derived from the Latin ‘recludere, which means "shut up"’. I read this on Wikipedia. The first problem becomes fairly obvious. This shutting up lark, although fine as far as it goes in terms of blogs, is quite tricky when it comes to shopping, asking neighbours to feed cats and answering difficult questions posed by cats. I’m hoping that talking to oneself, inanimate objects or foodstuff doesn’t count.

Having failed to find a proper school for potential recluses (or is that recluii?) or even a decent online resource I have been left with having to invent the training for myself.

I understand that a good recluse will try and stay away from people.

On Wednesday I had to go to work so I encountered a number of people. I was suitably grumpy and refused offers of coffee, chats about unpaid invoices and any further unpaid invoices. Funny how no one ever wants to chat about the invoices you’ve actually paid, which, at any given time must considerably outnumber the unpaid ones. I put this down to an unhealthy interest in current affairs.

On Thursday I managed to speak only to 2 cats, 6 plants, a hummus sandwich (only to mention how gorgeous it was), and my boyfriend. I’d like to point out here, that Dave, the boyfriend (we like to call the over 55s boys these days in order to appear younger and more girlish oneself) is also a recluse or at least a potential recluse with some outstanding exceptions we won’t go into. This was my best day this week.

On Friday I was all set to talk only to 2 cats, an undefined number of plants and probably a bowl of pasta when someone rang. I answered the phone, essentially breaking the first rule of reclusive-in-training but not having got over the first rule of motherhood and assuming that if the phone rings it’s a daughter with some very important crisis. It was neither. That was the earlier call that I’m not mentioning because it’s not relevant. It was bestest friend from school. Telling me that an old chum from school days was now Paul McCartney and there was a gig on in a park in Bath. I encountered over 2000 people. This has put my training back by approximately 743 years. But one of them was Paul McCartney and I always fancied him. However since he’s well out of my league training starts in earnest again tomorrow: 2 cats, an undefined number of plants and an intimate tête-à-tête with a particularly nutty muesli.

How Not to Have a Secure Income

I have made a decision. One of those life-changing yes-now-I-like-olives of decisions. Some are born decisive, some achieve decisiveness, and others have decisiveness thrust upon them. I fall into all three categories but mostly at the moment I’m having it thrust upon me. And perhaps not in an alluring sort of way.

For the last little while, or year, I have been working every afternoon as a child-minder, house-keeper, ironic-ironer sort of person. This was very jolly and I got paid every week into my bank account so that, in the usual way of the world, the council, utilities and suppliers of totally necessary chocolate cake could remove it from the aforementioned depository. Redundancy is being thrust upon me. Possibly because the children are all grown up, the house has decided to become independent and the iron has made a bid for freedom in eternally lumpy wrinkled sort of places.

I have made a decision. A career change. I am going to be a writer. Now, this may sound familiar. As I am actually already a writer. This time, however I have decided to become a PAID writer!

All my writerly friends will probably wonder what in the world I’m talking about. Surely we do it for the love of the craft, our addiction to verbiage and our attempts to break the world record for Rejection Letters from Publishers Received?
That was when we had other incomes, or husbands or faith. Now we are not so well endowed or faithful. A bit like husbands. I have a cunning plan to prostitute my art. I have been on the internet. These are the jobs that writers can do if they really want:

Blogging about things you have never heard of (some education will come free with this).

Ghost-writing stories of people whose lives really make the rest of ours look like a energy-saving lightbulb.

Advertising copy for selling stuff we may never have heard of (again good sideline in education.

Writing random things in the hope that someone will host a related advert. I can already actually do this with this blog and you may all note the lovely ads.

Feel free to click.

How Not to Become Very Famous via Guardian Soulmates

It’s happened at last. I’ve been discovered. Right now as we speak I’m being filmed as a maniac late-night internet addict. Hammer house of horror woman in front of back-lit laptop.

This is probably not how I wanted to be portrayed. Still. I’ve been discovered. Discoverees cannot be choosers.

My discoverer found me via my penchant, or previous penchant, for internet dating. The Guardian sent me an email. This is almost what it said:

‘Just stumbled across your wonderfully wise and witty blog. Hope you'll submit your stories to the Guardian Soulmates competition over the next few days: there are lots of prizes and no limit to how many times you can enter. The deadline's next Tuesday.’

That was quite few Tuesdays ago. More Tuesdays than can be contained in a small red shoe. I did as suggested. After all, who can resist being called wise and witty? Or prizes. Or Tuesdays?

I had many return emails saying ‘Yay! We are publishing your wise and witty piece.’ ‘Boo we are not sending you prizes!’. Then one said ‘Yay! We are coming to film you!’ I’m being filmed by a real documentary film maker. Not just my cat leaning on the record button.

Filming is an interesting process. It’s a method of distorting time. Not in the way one might like. The film is going to be 3 minutes long. Not long even in terms of cooking noodles, creating works of mediocre fiction, dates, dried fruit of any proclivity or a good night in. However filming is not like life. Filming is long and has numerous déjà vu moments and again and just again because they haven’t turned the camera on or haven’t got a valid battery or it seems just not to be in just exactly the exactly right light.

Filming in public is akin to trying to cook a noodle soup whilst waiting for form of a public transport. You keep getting interrupted. An old man wanders through shot making gentle farting noises. A group of lads decide it’s their turn to be a star (whereas actually it was mine). A toddler makes a lovely face into camera – didn’t understand what the objection to that was because frankly she was a lot more cuter than me and was liable to be an internet dater in due course. After all 50% of single people do. And 20% of people are single and another 80% of people wish they were single and therefore, given the maths, the small girl with the pink bow and the shoes that were mini Jimmy Choos will definitely be a future internet dater.

Meanwhile, back on the shoot, a man with a dustpan and brush tells us we can’t shoot here. Not where he sweeps. We might produce dust, small pieces of paper or possible litter the area with awkward sound effects.

Filming is an interesting process. It’s a method of distorting time. The film is going to be 3 minutes. As yet we have been filming for 3 weeks, 3 days, 3 hours and 3 minutes, 4 minutes, 5 minutes … It is not a way of making your life longer. This could be a worse hazard than smoking, chocolate cake, never getting off the sofa and Smarties all put together on a very sunny Spanish afternoon with no factor 50.

We await the results with nervous anticipation. I am applying sunblock.

The book Soulmates: Adventures in Online Dating featuring a great deal of my disastrous exploits is supposed to be out for Valentines day. Although I have been discovered I’m not going to be famous as we were required to use a nom de plume for our entries in the book. Just so as to make things clear for any innocent readers of the book I’ve used the nom de plume ‘Nom de Plume’ in case anyone thought it was me.

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.