One opiate down... Did I really see the pidgeon riding shotgun on the white van at 7.30 am? I did! I KNOW I did. Was is a real pidgeon? Or was it a pretend pidgeon? You know those wonderful refuse operatives who drive the big, noisy trucks at silly o'clock in the morning and collect the garbage we don't know what to do with...? Well I notice that each wagon appears to have some sort of toy attached to its radiator. A monkey here; a parrot there, and, horror of horrors! a teddy bear too! I assume that it is a sign; a badge, a form of communication between members of a specific profession. Bit like the Freemasons perhaps? Maybe White Van Man (or Woman) has borrowed the communication tool.
Ah ha! The postman has arrived!!!! Shall I pray fervently BEFORE I open the door or after I have inspected the postbox? Both methinks. Hmmmm. Now, there's interesting. Postie, who is a chum of the Estranged One, sent me to Coventry several weeks ago. He went from years of friendly exchanges of mutual greetings and enquiries after each other's health to studiously avoiding even setting eyes on me through my Hive window. For a while, I was outraged, hurt and bewildered. Being a literal bean I tend to believe you if you are friendly. Equally I tend to accept it when you indicate you can't stand the sight nor sound of me. Shit happens. People don't always like other people. But what I do struggle with is when you change attitudes without explanation. Like a maggot feasting on a wound, the thought chews away: 'Why? What did I do? How shall I deal with this? What's been said? Shall I face him down? Shall I leave a note?' No. I do what I always do, eventually, bewail the unfairness of it all into the ever patient ear of my BF. No wonder she has tinnitus! In the end I decide I actually don't give a flying flicker after all. His problem not mine.
Anyroadup, today I WAVED AT POSTIE even though he was avoiding my fisog. Breakthrough!!! A wave returned with the merest hint of a lopsided smile. That'll do thank you. Delivery? and breathe. Seed catalogue trying to lure non existent pennies from my purse and begging letter on behalf of the birds. Now all I have to do is worry about the 'phone ringing ...
Spoke with my lovely Sister in Law: We share two connections, apart from my Baby Brother. We both work in education and suffer the slings and arrows of living in a goldfish bowl being tested to death. We both suffer back problems. L's are significantly worse than mine - although pain comparisons are a complete waste of time; your pain is your pain and my pain is my pain. She is recovering from a mammoth operation to try and repair the damage done by the previous mammoth operation. The second surgeon shared with her the awful reality of what he had found and we thank God! for the timely intervention. For those 'colleagues' of hers who bitched about her being seen shopping in town the weekend prior to the 6 hour operation, thereby attempting to diminish her suffering and her bravery, I reserve my most vitriolic words. I confess to white hot anger on her behalf and I counselled, as fiercely as I know how, that she should only ever take notice of the opinions of those she values and disregard the rest. Sometimes I hate members of my tribe.
Last night's TV surprised me. I spend an inordinate amount of time on tinternet/laptop and blogging and stuff. But I try to make myself spend time in the other rooms of the Cottage, to justify their existence really. So, I usually close down anytime between 7.30 and 10.00 pm depending on how humorous or interesting the intercourse is with Framily and Chums. Early close down saw me retreating to the den to do 'something else'. The choices: continue creating the blanket I am making for my BF (which should have been completed in February); read the newspaper I bought on a whim, or poke the fire and watch the telly. Settled for the third option as the first two required less pain plus the power of concentration. Four and a half channels now means that sometimes I am just stuck with what there is. And, sorry JM, not matter how wonderful you think Professor Brian Cox is (Professor? professor? For God's sake he doesn't even look old enough to have left the Upper Sixth yet!) I cannot get beyond the boyish good looks and sharpened cheekbones. I wish I could! Then I might come across as 'telligent.
So to Eastenders then - hey! you there! yeah! you! the one sneering in the corner: it's known as a distraction technique! I don't always remember the names of the actors or actresses (yes I DO insist on referring to the feminine as an actress - I refuse to be utterly cowed by what is supposed to be free speech). The scene between the characters Kat and Jean were worthy of a repeat watch and perhaps should form part of a training package for 'professional carers'. Each actress captured the nuances of depression and mental illness perfectly. The tenderness with which Jean gently wiped the much fought tears coursing down the over made up face of Kat was breathtaking and believable. The damaged trying to heal the damaged. I'm not suggesting that all therapists should be damaged before they are released to help others but my goodness, unless you have been there ... Kat's portrayal of absolute hollowness and bewilderment at her lot was perfectly pitched. I know it's not fashionable to praise the script writers of 'soaps' but sometimes, just sometimes, they hit the spot. Funny enough, apropos no connection at all, a professor type chap was being interviewed on Today and talking about his book this morning in which he confirms that happiness, after a brief visit to you as a small child, actually avoids you again until you reach old age. Within the discussion he referred to mild and severe depression: he said that if you could describe your severe depression you didn't actually have it. Spot on Prof!
Hairy Bikers! Oh my! THE Hairy Bikers! I am not a foodie; it's fair to say that actually, food and I have a, shall we say, difficult relationship at the best of time. Didn't used to be the case. I could eat as much as me Dad. These days I guess less physical activity means less expenditure of energy ergo, less fuel required. It also doesn't help that one of my multiple medical matters relates to the entire digestive system. But the Hairy Bikers. I fell over them acidentally a week or two ago and was mesmerised by them. They laugh! They have long hair! They are clearly well fed! Their carefully choregraphed chaos beguiles me. No Nouvelle Cuisine from this pair thank goodness! No three blobs of brown stuff artfully draped over a teaspoon of raw fish dressed with a single grape carved into a rose these two! Oh no! Lovely, home made, proper food treated with reverence and care. Last night's sausage casserole receipe confirmed the benefits of good home cooking from scratch with no scientific babble. The Hairy Bikers come across as real. From the brushing of the hair away from the face, to the little accidents, to swatting the flies - real people preparing real food for real people to eat. Magic! Sorry Heston; sorry Gordon, sorry Jamie. I know you each have your place and welcome to it you are but if I ever get rich enough again, I want to attend a live presentation of the Hairy Bikers.
Time to stop being self indulgent: although I have managed some chores today, I have had to indulge in more respite time between chores hence the waffle of words above. Looking forward to trying me Chili Con Carne Hotpotch I made from scratch, adding the left overs from the fridge, this morning - inspired by the Hairy Bikers.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
No comments:
Post a Comment