The last blog may have given the impression that I couldn't care less about the Royal Wedding - I tried really, really hard to foster that belief in the reader. Don't care! Won't care! I insisted I was uninterested and I was! Then James Naughty (deliberate spelling following his infamous slip up) came on the radio and I just couldn't bear listening to him. However I was curious enough to have a little peek and tuned in the BBC News Channel.
I found it hard to conjure up excitement when listening to Huw Edwards (I think) reporting on outfits. It may have been that his voice displays an obvious lack of enthusiasm or indeed it could have been the scarcity of real information being fed to him. Instead I took pleasure in checking out the outfits for my ownself. Strangely I will start with the Groom and the Best Man: what splendid uniforms!!!! My goodness all that scrambled egg and vividness - worthy of a Vivienne Westwood creation surely? I was struck by the broadness of Harry's shoulders. He really has developed into a fine specimen of manhood and I just love the fact that his hair appears to disobey him at every turn. Not sure why but William reminded me both of the Royal family in Monaco and Ruritania - I am not being discourteous when I write that - it's just, well just, what came to mind.
The other thing that struck me was the obvious closeness between the two princes and the fact that just underneath the pomp and ceremony there lurked a couple of lads having a ball! I believe the affection between them to be real and I cannot help but feel that this is as a direct result of Diana's influence.
When it came to the outfits worn by the laydees my overwhelming feeling was one of simplicity; straight lines, tailored coats and frou frous saved only for the fascinators! It is often the case that the Bride's mother tends to favour duck egg blue; all frills and froth without the slightest hint of embarrassment. This Bride's mother looked stunning. Her elegant outfit complementing rather than competing with the Bride and the colour was an inspired choice. The Duchess of Cornwall's outfit was also stunning and her advisers are to be praised for their reinvention of the woman who has travelled from hateful interloper to accepted matriarch. I wish her no ill but I still blame her.
The worst thing any female can do is upstage the Bride and I did not spot one possible outfit that tried to do that. In fact some almost appeared to be dressed down deliberately. It's difficult in these challenging times to balance the need for restraint against the need for showing orf! To the Bride herself: exquisite - beautifully cut gown that flattered and enhanced her assets adorned with a simple veil and lace. And the Matron of Honour? Her gown was simply gorgeous and flattering.
As the Bride and Groom, Best Man and Father of the Bride stood before the altar there were two examples of the humanity within the pageantry: Harry, William and Katherine looked for a while as though they shared a naughty secret and were struggling to repress the laughter that lay just under the surface. The second example was the Father of the Bride mopping sweat from his brow just before the ceremony commenced. Poor chap! It will be some time methinks before he will react to the call to 'stand at ease!'
And soon the Nation will return to it's usual state: but not before the newlyweds have played their part in bolstering our spirits for a little longer. It's hard to be churlish so I won't be. Despite being alone here in my cottage, I have not been able to deny the smile on my face or the pleasure in seeing two hooman beans smiling with joy and I am happy for the world to bask in the fairytale. May God bless and protect them.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
p.s. what's the betting that there is a chorus of 'my feet are killing me' and 'where can I have a ciggie?' as the guests return to the palace?
Where the beauty and the humour hide ...
Friday 29 April 2011
Thursday 28 April 2011
Deference: Where did it go....?
I really am not sure how I feel about the upcoming nuptials of Miss Katherine Thingie and Prince William of Wotsit. I am mindful that 30 years ago I was caught up in the wave of emotion and happiness of the Prince's Mother and Father's own nuptials. So much so that I encouraged Beloved Son and Heir - aged 6 - in his wish to marry his then girlfriend, Lavinia, in a charming ceremony in our council flat in Shepherds Bush where we had our own royal wedding party. I have the picture somewhere buried in one of my photograph albums.
I also got swept up in the horror, sentimentality, and sheer grief at the death of Prince William's mother. Coincidentally we were enjoying a party at our house in Hertfordshire and the party goers, across the generations (with one infamous exception) watched in stunned silence save for the pouring of tears and gentle sobs of disbelief. How on earth was this possible? Someone so beautiful, so kind, so popular wiped out in such mundane circumstances. I don't know that we ever foresaw any suitable death for Diana, indeed most of us with gentle hearts did indeed hope she would go into exile somewhere where she would be appreciated - the States perhaps - or even Paris maybe? As it was her fate was to end up being killed by the curiosity that haunted her. We were all responsible. Not just the reptiles who pursued her with their long lenses but we, the Great British Public and beyond who vicariously enjoyed every snippet, every piece of filthy tittle tattle - true or false - was consumed as we greedily asked for more.
Some of you will say 'Pah!': she played her own media game and indeed she did. Anyone who has ever been bullied, and yes I have, will try at least once to appease the bully; ingratiate themselves by playing the same game but alas the only way to deal with any bully is to say as loudly, as publicly and as often as necessary 'Piss Off!' Or as Princess Anne would have had it 'Piss Orf'. I minded to recall that 30 years ago when Diana, walked down the aisle to meet the Prince of Wales she was a 19 year old girl in love with her prince. An innocent; an ingenue thrust into the centre of a rarefied society she had only ever experienced on the fringes. Any of us who have ever experienced being the 'new girl (or boy!)' knows that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach when you start a new project or job or join a new society. Experience also tells me that in any new venture you need a good six months to get your head around the technical aspects, the politics - both big p and little p - the rules, the unwritten rules, the social structure - who's grooming whom in the tribe or pack, and, to identify your allies and your nenamies. Imagine that magnified with the aid of fishbowl lenses and the knowledge that every aspect of your self presentation is scrutinised by blemish, by error or by success. What an awful bloody life!!! I get irritable when people drive past and insist on looking in through my Hive window!
Then there came the funeral: my heart ached as I watched the two young Princes walking somberly behind her coffin; their floral tribute reduced me to uncontrollable sobs and I rallied with fierce admiration when her brother gave his extraordinary speech from the lectern and then, oh my goodness! there was clapping from the congregation and the onlookers. Never before had our masters and betters witnessed such defiant yet honourable salutation. Gradually the grief lessened and turned to white hot anger, particularly when the reptiles, gossip mongers, liars and the wretched Paul Burrell milked her corpse. They continued to pursue her beyond the veil. That is when the deference within me, that which had been force fed to me with my mother's milk, died.
As I have aged I have become less and less deferential of my elders and betters: they know no more or no less than I do; they have the same bodily functions as I have and I no longer feel the need to tug my forelock in the presence of grandness.
As for Kate and Wills? Well I wish them no harm whatsoever. I am utterly bored to death with the hype the forced joviality, the attempt to dissuade me from the harsh realities of my world as it is today. I wish them only joy, happiness and most of all I wish them strength because they are going to bloody well need it!!! Good luck to them!
Take care of each other
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I also got swept up in the horror, sentimentality, and sheer grief at the death of Prince William's mother. Coincidentally we were enjoying a party at our house in Hertfordshire and the party goers, across the generations (with one infamous exception) watched in stunned silence save for the pouring of tears and gentle sobs of disbelief. How on earth was this possible? Someone so beautiful, so kind, so popular wiped out in such mundane circumstances. I don't know that we ever foresaw any suitable death for Diana, indeed most of us with gentle hearts did indeed hope she would go into exile somewhere where she would be appreciated - the States perhaps - or even Paris maybe? As it was her fate was to end up being killed by the curiosity that haunted her. We were all responsible. Not just the reptiles who pursued her with their long lenses but we, the Great British Public and beyond who vicariously enjoyed every snippet, every piece of filthy tittle tattle - true or false - was consumed as we greedily asked for more.
Some of you will say 'Pah!': she played her own media game and indeed she did. Anyone who has ever been bullied, and yes I have, will try at least once to appease the bully; ingratiate themselves by playing the same game but alas the only way to deal with any bully is to say as loudly, as publicly and as often as necessary 'Piss Off!' Or as Princess Anne would have had it 'Piss Orf'. I minded to recall that 30 years ago when Diana, walked down the aisle to meet the Prince of Wales she was a 19 year old girl in love with her prince. An innocent; an ingenue thrust into the centre of a rarefied society she had only ever experienced on the fringes. Any of us who have ever experienced being the 'new girl (or boy!)' knows that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach when you start a new project or job or join a new society. Experience also tells me that in any new venture you need a good six months to get your head around the technical aspects, the politics - both big p and little p - the rules, the unwritten rules, the social structure - who's grooming whom in the tribe or pack, and, to identify your allies and your nenamies. Imagine that magnified with the aid of fishbowl lenses and the knowledge that every aspect of your self presentation is scrutinised by blemish, by error or by success. What an awful bloody life!!! I get irritable when people drive past and insist on looking in through my Hive window!
Then there came the funeral: my heart ached as I watched the two young Princes walking somberly behind her coffin; their floral tribute reduced me to uncontrollable sobs and I rallied with fierce admiration when her brother gave his extraordinary speech from the lectern and then, oh my goodness! there was clapping from the congregation and the onlookers. Never before had our masters and betters witnessed such defiant yet honourable salutation. Gradually the grief lessened and turned to white hot anger, particularly when the reptiles, gossip mongers, liars and the wretched Paul Burrell milked her corpse. They continued to pursue her beyond the veil. That is when the deference within me, that which had been force fed to me with my mother's milk, died.
As I have aged I have become less and less deferential of my elders and betters: they know no more or no less than I do; they have the same bodily functions as I have and I no longer feel the need to tug my forelock in the presence of grandness.
As for Kate and Wills? Well I wish them no harm whatsoever. I am utterly bored to death with the hype the forced joviality, the attempt to dissuade me from the harsh realities of my world as it is today. I wish them only joy, happiness and most of all I wish them strength because they are going to bloody well need it!!! Good luck to them!
Take care of each other
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Thursday 14 April 2011
Fibbers, Manipulators and Spins Doctors.
Yesterday I heard my first cuckoo of the season. Oh yes I did! Oi! You at the back! I DID hear my first cuckoo call of the Spring. For once the morning was silent as Radio 4 had been bypassed in my hurry to attend to an urgent matter. ('You're not going to tell them are you?' asked Ed incredulously) Further explanation not available.
I really had intended to continue taking care of business but am suffering the side effects of starting to do so. I am, therefore attempting to distract myself from the dead left foot, the aching back and the overwhelming need to go to sleep. There is another hour before I can have more meds so.... to what the messenger brings.
Mr Cuckoo, because it is only he who sings that unique song, acted as the herald for Madam Spring yesterday. It is a sound I love to hear. The sound brings a lifting of the heart, an anticipation of the pleasures to come and each note promises warmer, kinder days. And then I went to the garden centre with my lovely friend J and her equally lovely daughter B. Mr Cuckoo Sir! You are a fibber! Your promises were overwhelmed by a bitter, bone cutting wind and stremities had to be revived. I note, wryly, that you sing not a note today. Harrumph!
Yesterday, despite the cold, saw your Scribe admiring J's garden; offering advice (groan. Ed) , spotting treasures, snaffling a stunningly beautiful purple geranium - oh joy! and rescuing an accident Clematis cutting - butterfingers J! Then we went to the garden centre. Now there are a number of establishments wherein I could bankrupt myself: would take oh! less than half an hour. They are: chemist, garden centre, Lush, Ikea, Greek restaurant, Indian restaurant and any store that sells decent malt whiskey. But. Harken! One of the joys of being penniless, poor, potless, is that you can look,admire and drool and then encourage your companion to spend far more than she might have intended. I keep my fingers crossed that her purchases thrive.
This morning I've been pondering on being manipulated. As a child, I was manipulated by fear, threats and worse. As I grew into a defiant, scared of nothing teenager of 15 I was manipulated by hollow promises. I have written already of the broken promises of authorities, the false horizon painted if only you do ...... such and such. But there is a positive form of manipulation that we oft times ignore. We hooman beans, of course, tend to focus on the negative of our interactions, our memories usually because those are the things ingrained in our entire bodies.
I recall the first time my Beloved Son and Heir manipulated me. Mother Nature is no slouch when it comes to providing the vulnerable with the wherewithal to be protected. Part of her tool kit is the way she designed the young of most species. Take a pair of big brown (insert colour) eyes, add a dash of a smile and bind together with a chirruping giggle. Instant! Nothing beats that on the attention stakes. He was about 18 months old and showed a love for the female of the species which he retains to this day. Big women, little women, black women, white women, fat women, thin women, six months to sixty years - no matter - they were female and he showed great skill at bending them to his will. I was cross with him for some minor infringement and was telling him off in that pretend, fierce way you use with toddlers. He hiccuped and turned to me having enlarged those big brown eyes so they almost filled his face, quivered his bottom lip and wailed 'But I Lurb You!' V was one of the last letters he mastered. Hopeless. I was defenceless! It was a bit like I imagine it would be if Omar Sharif were to ride up to you on his camel in a cloud of dust; fix you with those limpid deep brown pools and insist he was taking you for his Queen.
On the news I heard about a fabulously beautiful, famous film star had released the information that she had been treated for bipolar. Initially I thought 'how brave! how refreshing that we have another advocate for one of the last taboos'. Those of us who have admitted to others, not just ourselves, the presence of the Black Dog, as Churchill described his depression, need all the advocates we can get. On the surface here is a woman who has everything: beauty, health, wealth, a doting famous husband, beautiful children and a stunning career. What on earth has she to be miserable about? Apart from the fact that the piranhas have been feasting on her since she appeared in the perfick television programme; that her husband has survived cancer, that her life is lived under the glare of the telescopic lenses. Trying to maintain a front, a coolness, a calmness, never letting the perfect mask slip is hard enough for the average nondescript, un-newsworthy individual let alone a stunning beauty such as her.
Then I remembered the nasty little court case in London. The one where some celebrity magazine was being sued over unwarranted, and it has to be said not entirely flattering, pictures of the couples wedding. Part of her evidence in chief was that to her and her husband, £1m was an insignificant amount of money. Pause for effect. It was a little while before the less well off in the Country released the out breath. Remember my old friend Perception? Well Perception told us that she had forgotten; her tectonic plates had completed shifted; she had moved up the social ladder not just by one notch but by many. Now she was perched above us looking down pityingly at our paltry incomes. Unfair? Yep! Unlikely? What do you think?
Then I got to wondering whether the announcement was a spoiler: that some red top rag had a story, or worse still, a grainy picture, of her being escorted unceremoniously into a clinic and was going to run it over the weekend. Maybe her publicist advised her to beat them to it to get her version of events in print first. To deflect attention so that it is focused in sympathy with her rather than in condemnation of her. In a way I hope so. I am tired of being manipulated by the press. The ring in my nose no longer supports the weight of an editor's fingers as (s)he insists I see things from her/his point of view. I have learned that Frank Carson was right: 'It's the way I tell 'em'.
So I end with a little prayer: 'Lord, make me less cynical, but please just not yet!'
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
I really had intended to continue taking care of business but am suffering the side effects of starting to do so. I am, therefore attempting to distract myself from the dead left foot, the aching back and the overwhelming need to go to sleep. There is another hour before I can have more meds so.... to what the messenger brings.
Mr Cuckoo, because it is only he who sings that unique song, acted as the herald for Madam Spring yesterday. It is a sound I love to hear. The sound brings a lifting of the heart, an anticipation of the pleasures to come and each note promises warmer, kinder days. And then I went to the garden centre with my lovely friend J and her equally lovely daughter B. Mr Cuckoo Sir! You are a fibber! Your promises were overwhelmed by a bitter, bone cutting wind and stremities had to be revived. I note, wryly, that you sing not a note today. Harrumph!
Yesterday, despite the cold, saw your Scribe admiring J's garden; offering advice (groan. Ed) , spotting treasures, snaffling a stunningly beautiful purple geranium - oh joy! and rescuing an accident Clematis cutting - butterfingers J! Then we went to the garden centre. Now there are a number of establishments wherein I could bankrupt myself: would take oh! less than half an hour. They are: chemist, garden centre, Lush, Ikea, Greek restaurant, Indian restaurant and any store that sells decent malt whiskey. But. Harken! One of the joys of being penniless, poor, potless, is that you can look,admire and drool and then encourage your companion to spend far more than she might have intended. I keep my fingers crossed that her purchases thrive.
This morning I've been pondering on being manipulated. As a child, I was manipulated by fear, threats and worse. As I grew into a defiant, scared of nothing teenager of 15 I was manipulated by hollow promises. I have written already of the broken promises of authorities, the false horizon painted if only you do ...... such and such. But there is a positive form of manipulation that we oft times ignore. We hooman beans, of course, tend to focus on the negative of our interactions, our memories usually because those are the things ingrained in our entire bodies.
I recall the first time my Beloved Son and Heir manipulated me. Mother Nature is no slouch when it comes to providing the vulnerable with the wherewithal to be protected. Part of her tool kit is the way she designed the young of most species. Take a pair of big brown (insert colour) eyes, add a dash of a smile and bind together with a chirruping giggle. Instant! Nothing beats that on the attention stakes. He was about 18 months old and showed a love for the female of the species which he retains to this day. Big women, little women, black women, white women, fat women, thin women, six months to sixty years - no matter - they were female and he showed great skill at bending them to his will. I was cross with him for some minor infringement and was telling him off in that pretend, fierce way you use with toddlers. He hiccuped and turned to me having enlarged those big brown eyes so they almost filled his face, quivered his bottom lip and wailed 'But I Lurb You!' V was one of the last letters he mastered. Hopeless. I was defenceless! It was a bit like I imagine it would be if Omar Sharif were to ride up to you on his camel in a cloud of dust; fix you with those limpid deep brown pools and insist he was taking you for his Queen.
On the news I heard about a fabulously beautiful, famous film star had released the information that she had been treated for bipolar. Initially I thought 'how brave! how refreshing that we have another advocate for one of the last taboos'. Those of us who have admitted to others, not just ourselves, the presence of the Black Dog, as Churchill described his depression, need all the advocates we can get. On the surface here is a woman who has everything: beauty, health, wealth, a doting famous husband, beautiful children and a stunning career. What on earth has she to be miserable about? Apart from the fact that the piranhas have been feasting on her since she appeared in the perfick television programme; that her husband has survived cancer, that her life is lived under the glare of the telescopic lenses. Trying to maintain a front, a coolness, a calmness, never letting the perfect mask slip is hard enough for the average nondescript, un-newsworthy individual let alone a stunning beauty such as her.
Then I remembered the nasty little court case in London. The one where some celebrity magazine was being sued over unwarranted, and it has to be said not entirely flattering, pictures of the couples wedding. Part of her evidence in chief was that to her and her husband, £1m was an insignificant amount of money. Pause for effect. It was a little while before the less well off in the Country released the out breath. Remember my old friend Perception? Well Perception told us that she had forgotten; her tectonic plates had completed shifted; she had moved up the social ladder not just by one notch but by many. Now she was perched above us looking down pityingly at our paltry incomes. Unfair? Yep! Unlikely? What do you think?
Then I got to wondering whether the announcement was a spoiler: that some red top rag had a story, or worse still, a grainy picture, of her being escorted unceremoniously into a clinic and was going to run it over the weekend. Maybe her publicist advised her to beat them to it to get her version of events in print first. To deflect attention so that it is focused in sympathy with her rather than in condemnation of her. In a way I hope so. I am tired of being manipulated by the press. The ring in my nose no longer supports the weight of an editor's fingers as (s)he insists I see things from her/his point of view. I have learned that Frank Carson was right: 'It's the way I tell 'em'.
So I end with a little prayer: 'Lord, make me less cynical, but please just not yet!'
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Monday 11 April 2011
Mini-Muddles to Middle-Sized Muddles
Oh! Eckky Thump! By the Great God Entwhistle (famous old Yorkshire God - didn't you know?!). I had crafted this blog today about money and how it muddles me cos I don't speak it's language. I had even referred to the two pages of correspondence I had received from the Tax Man(Manette) explaining to me, in a language I am unable to decipher, that he/she has adjusted my tax code by making it smaller and that, should, I have earned £37,000 ish during the past year then I must understand that I shall be paying tax at 20%, and, 40% at anything else above that figure. My perplelexedness comes from the fact that the authorities know everything there is to know about me: medically, mentally and monetarily. So what idiot thinks it is likely that in the period of the one year past I am likely to have earned £37,000 or above? And!!! If I was likely to earn above and beyond that figure, that I would, er... actually be on benefits......? Ho hum.
So I had written several paragraphs that went on to talk about medieval-ness and bartering and general chitter chatter when I went to edit some mistake. Yep! Wiped the flipping lot! every word, 'cept the word that I had just edited. Couldn't find the blog anywhere. So here we are then with fresh one. Clearly the Blog Fairy thought the previous version was a little too, how shall we say, open?
Despite having retired early last evening, I awoke very tired this morning and remained so. In fact, it is fair to say that I could have gone back to sleep after the first cup of tea. But I didn't. I allowed sufficient time for medications to do their thing, chatted on chat with my Beloved Daughter-in-Law, and then made my way via the Rhubarb plant to the village. I'd harvested the first six sticks of the crop and took them into the animal feed shop. We bartered: D got the rhubarb and I got two days supply of food for my dog, my cats and the Wild Boys. Now that's the sort of market forces I understand!!!!!! Must be a medieval soul, always said I was born out of my time.
Took MaddyMoo to Howden's Pullover to play fetchy catchy and en route we saw two magpies. Oh joy! Previous readers will recall that I have an irrational love for the so called Devil's Bird and am always rridiculously pleased to see a pair. So I grabbed the omen tightly to my chest and hoped. MaddyMoo was delighted to arrive at her new favourite play place. Something, however, spooked her. She, the fearless Patterdale crossed with a Collie who would take on the biggest, fattest, smelliest monster if it was attacking any member of her tribe. She became distracted. Looking beyond me to the horizon she could clearly hear or see something I was not privy to. I confess that I was struggling on account of the fact that I had miss-timed the meds, again, and was finding it hard to throw the toy but I tried to encourage her to play a little longer. Nope! MaddyMoo picked up her toy, leapt into Florence and looked at me in that 'Can we go home now please' kinda way. Gratefully I fired up Florence.
Then I decided that I would just pop over to 'my' church to see what was happening. I was a bit concerned. The conservators have been here for over a week restoring the font and the door was wide open and the lights were on but no car or truck parked up. They had already asked me to keep the church locked as there was £5,000.00 worth of tools stored in there whilst the work continued. Me and MaddyMoo went to investigate. The young man in his mid-twenties was in fact in the church continuing with his work on the wooden lid of the font. He explained in answer to my worried enquiries that he had had to park his car away from the church because someone coming out of the farm entrance next door had hit his car! This is a rural road! One car parked by the Church, several collared doves wandering along the road, the odd, very odd as it happens, Wood Pidgeon and several sparrows. And she managed to hit him how?????
Ah well I guess we can all get into muddles.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So I had written several paragraphs that went on to talk about medieval-ness and bartering and general chitter chatter when I went to edit some mistake. Yep! Wiped the flipping lot! every word, 'cept the word that I had just edited. Couldn't find the blog anywhere. So here we are then with fresh one. Clearly the Blog Fairy thought the previous version was a little too, how shall we say, open?
Despite having retired early last evening, I awoke very tired this morning and remained so. In fact, it is fair to say that I could have gone back to sleep after the first cup of tea. But I didn't. I allowed sufficient time for medications to do their thing, chatted on chat with my Beloved Daughter-in-Law, and then made my way via the Rhubarb plant to the village. I'd harvested the first six sticks of the crop and took them into the animal feed shop. We bartered: D got the rhubarb and I got two days supply of food for my dog, my cats and the Wild Boys. Now that's the sort of market forces I understand!!!!!! Must be a medieval soul, always said I was born out of my time.
Took MaddyMoo to Howden's Pullover to play fetchy catchy and en route we saw two magpies. Oh joy! Previous readers will recall that I have an irrational love for the so called Devil's Bird and am always rridiculously pleased to see a pair. So I grabbed the omen tightly to my chest and hoped. MaddyMoo was delighted to arrive at her new favourite play place. Something, however, spooked her. She, the fearless Patterdale crossed with a Collie who would take on the biggest, fattest, smelliest monster if it was attacking any member of her tribe. She became distracted. Looking beyond me to the horizon she could clearly hear or see something I was not privy to. I confess that I was struggling on account of the fact that I had miss-timed the meds, again, and was finding it hard to throw the toy but I tried to encourage her to play a little longer. Nope! MaddyMoo picked up her toy, leapt into Florence and looked at me in that 'Can we go home now please' kinda way. Gratefully I fired up Florence.
Then I decided that I would just pop over to 'my' church to see what was happening. I was a bit concerned. The conservators have been here for over a week restoring the font and the door was wide open and the lights were on but no car or truck parked up. They had already asked me to keep the church locked as there was £5,000.00 worth of tools stored in there whilst the work continued. Me and MaddyMoo went to investigate. The young man in his mid-twenties was in fact in the church continuing with his work on the wooden lid of the font. He explained in answer to my worried enquiries that he had had to park his car away from the church because someone coming out of the farm entrance next door had hit his car! This is a rural road! One car parked by the Church, several collared doves wandering along the road, the odd, very odd as it happens, Wood Pidgeon and several sparrows. And she managed to hit him how?????
Ah well I guess we can all get into muddles.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Sunday 10 April 2011
A Lazy Sunday Afternoon in April
I'm not sure where I am on the lazee-itis spectrum but as an unwashed benefit claimer sus-sppose I must be somewhere near the top percentile. Percentile. What a funny word! Before it was explained to me by our wonderful Head of Learning Support, I thought it was a Latin derivative used to describe the symptoms of special needs. Anywhey! it's one of those words that fascinates me - like 'exquisite' (which I see as delicate, sparkly and tiny - a bit Kylie My-nog-knee ish; or, 'mayhap' which conjures up for me a serf in drab beige-y brown-y clothing but wearing a jolly red hat and long-toed shoes in royal blue. (No, I don't get it either.) Back to being lazy; and I have been today - 'Idle-itis! That's your middle name!' I hear my dead Catholic mother say.
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
The appearance of being busy is not the preserve of Catholics alone. Oh - No - Siree - Bob!!! How many people do you know who can manage to expand the task to fit the time? It's as if they have discovered how to bend time to their will. That young chap from Accounts? Always with the busy, busy, busy ! He's forever up and down the corridors between floors 5 and 9 with reams and reams of papers. Ah, but, the astute observer will have noted that; a) the file is always the same file and is dated 1989, b) he times his excursions fifteen minutes prior to authorised breaks and always returns to his work station precisely at the agreed return time from the scheduled break. Monitoring his activities over say, a five day period, would, in fact, prove that he actually only spends 3 hours attending to actual work out of his contracted seven and a half hours.
I spent some time today regretting that I had not realised the film Mama Mia! was on the goggle box last night! I fell upon it around an hour short of the end. What a shame! I wish I had seen it from the start. Flipping great it was: wonderful!!! Cheesey? but of course; believable as a tale? certainly not, a triumph of actors singing splendidly? not at all! What it was was a damned good, a feel good, an in-your-face-having-a-great-time homage to those Music Meisters: ABBA. It made me laugh out loud, suspend belief and rather unexpectedly, weep (I gave myself a right good telling off I can tell you!). It was obvious to a blind tortoise that those taking part were having a thoroughly good time! How fabulous! I do hope it is re-screened soon.
I'm kinda struggling today; got too cold - April can be very deceptive don't you think? She looks pretty enough in her spring frock with all its promise of the joys to come but she can be cruelly cold without warning.
I also think I may have used up the small amount nenergy I was granted today what with the washing and the setting of my hair and stuff. I have fed my babies and fed myself so I think I shall indulge in a little more idle-it-ist and just go snuggle in the den and doze.
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Saturday 9 April 2011
Bits and Bobs on a Spring Day
If you have been, thank you for reading ;-). Having awarded myself a Purple Fairy Bank Holiday yesterday, I was supposed to be a Worker Bea today. I have failed. Do I feel guilty? Yep but only mildly. Cos, actually, there is only me to tell me off and I'm rather bored with the concept of self flagellation.
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
So just what has today been about then? Well, I had intended to be as daft as a brush all the live long day and me and LL managed a flying start this morning with our potty posts on Facebook. Then I spoke/chatted with five of the people I love and made an arrangement to swap seeds and stuff with K and her daughter tomorrow. I did the crucial chores between bouts of pain but not the ones that were on my 2DoMent List. Oh! I had great plans to get out into the garden and to try and deal with the runaway hedge, the rampaging grass and the dastardly dandelions infesting one of my pots which houses a rose.
I did have a bit of a scare early in the day: My MollieMoo did not attend me with her early morning enquiries after my health. I kinda thought she was punishing me for, yet again, letting that flipping dog occupy the BEST spot when sleeping with THE Purple Fairy. I didn't panic straightway because I thought she was safely tucked upstairs in or on my bed. I called up the stairs and invited her to partake of breakfast. Nothing. Zip. Nada. No little answering squeak and big eyes peering at me from the top of the stairs. No matter I thought, she'll surface when she's hungry or when she needs the 'What DO you mean you haven't cleaned the litter tray' facility. With half an anxious ear tuned into possible MollieMoo sounds, I carried on carrying on.
Since poverty has gripped me in it's horny hand, I daily think of ways of making money, food, fuel, all resources in fact, go further. One of the side effect from this has been the reduction of speed as I travel in Florence. Those who know me, know that I am no stranger to the 70, 80, 90, and heaven forfend! 100 miles per hour on the speedometer. However, now, as I eke out the pitiful amount of fuel I cannot afford for Florence, I try to estimate the number of trips the amount in the tank will take me to the nearest town. Fortunately those clever French engineers have created a guesstimator that tells me how many miles I have fuel for. The result of this is that I appear to have lost contact with the accelerator and tootle along at sensible speeds watching to see if the guesstimator's predictions increase. For shame!!! Oh my Goodness, I will be wearing beige next!!!!!! And if this distancing of myself from the gas pedal, as my American chums say, continues when the hell WILL I be able to play my Meatloaf and my Bonnie Tyler tapes, just answer me that!!!!
Actually, I am beginning to think that the cocktail of medications I now take is having a crucial impact on my view of the world. I did something today I never, ever, thought I would be capable of. I was shocked. Nay! Stunned. I spent £1.90. No! Really I did! I spent £1.90 on a copy of the, oh I can barely bring myself to even type the word; a copy of the GUARDIAN! I have never, ever, knowingly even read a paragraph from the Guardian, let alone bought a whole newspaper before. Some people, I assert wrongly, judge your character and your politics by the newspaper you read. (For the purposes of this discussion I discount the Star and the Daily/Sunday Sport by reason of their efficacy as toilet paper.)
When I was being brunged up I avidly read the Daily Mirror from cover to cover because that was the newspaper my father read. And, besides, I just loved Andy Capp. As I grew older I became uncomfortable with it's tone, the newspaper's tone not the tone of Andy Capp. At about the time I was going out with a rather gorgeous, highly intelligent young man (no! I don't know how I snared him either) he thought to add to expand my intelligence by 'encouraging' me to read The Times. Every day, he brought me a copy. Every day I looked at the front page. Sometimes I even unfolded the broadsheet and looked at the second half of the front page and once, I looked at the back page. Michael would test me on what I had learned each evening. After about a fortnight, he became, how shall I say? perturbed. Perturbed at my lack of progress in the intelligence stakes; confused that I could not answer the simplest of his questions posed by the big issues of the day and covered by The Times. This lead to friction. Miserable after the fourteenth fight over my inability to get beyond the front page, I yelled at him that I couldn't understand the bloody headlines never mind the bleeding paragraphs underneath the headlines. Michael, somewhat dignified I thought, withdrew from the role as edjumactor of the Thick One. It may come as a surprise to you to know that the relationship, sort of, well, failed actually.
Somehow I found myself in the world of the Daily Mail as I grew older. I read every word, including the back pages; all the columnists - oh how I miss Keith Waterhouse!! My day was incomplete if I did not obtain a copy. In fact I got vexed if I could not buy a copy and have been known to walk several miles to bloody well get one!!! I consumed the newspaper in the same way as I consumed books; greedily, totally without pausing for breath. I could not bear it if someone handled or read MY newspaper before I had! My love affair with the Daily Mail lasted throughout my Second Age until the reading gene broke down about three years ago. Since then I have bought the local newspaper for my nearest town (generally to see if I recognise any of the arrestees as my 'boys') once a week. I have occasionally bought a copy of the Mail at the weekends and struggled with the sheer weight of them!!! Sadly it would be fair to say that sometimes, not only have I not unfolded it, but I have used it to light the fire without reading a word.
So why the Guardian I hear you say? In my defence, I say that, as a person of conscience (God! what a curse!) it appears to have cornered the market on the collective consciences for the Nation. From the MPs' expenses scandal to the present revelations of the JobCentre Plus targeting people in order to reduce their benefits. It seems to chime with the burgeoning rage of the silent majority. So I have brought the first copy home today. I am comforted that the bundle should last me at least a week in reading terms - provided of course that I can concentrate long enough to absorb the contents. I'll keep you posted as they say!
And so back to MollieMoo. By midday, it would be fair to say that the panic was indeed beginning to surface. No answer came the stern reply to all my callings. Taking my courage sternly by the throat, I ascended the stairs and went to my bedroom. Harrumph! Did I really leave the wardrobe door open like that; and that pile of freshly ironed clothing dumped on the bed, and what about clean bedding you were supposed to be putting away! The answers, of course, were yes; yes and oops! No MollieMoo; no MollieMoo in the spare room, the bathroom, in the walk in cupboard, not a single glimpse of her. I was, by now half expecting to find a corpse, inside or outside of the house. Looked around the downstairs again - nope. As I was about to totter along the road and to check the dykes, I had an Eureka Moment; opened the door to the Garden Room and sleepily, MollieMoo blinked at me as she lazily lifted herself off the cushion and squeaked at me. I swear she said 'What took you?'
take care, love and peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
Friday 1 April 2011
Little things, it's ALWAYS the little things - like a decimal point eh Asda?
Oh! Hello! I notice it is Friday. The end of the week for most people, save for shift workers, retirees, the jobless and those whose attention wavers from the calendar. It is also April Fools Day. The Day of Fools. Not many societies, I suspect, can claim a day (well, actually only half a day cos it all ends at midday) set aside in the calendar just for Fools. I missed the possible joke on the Today programme this morning but truth be known, I have managed to spot the joke for several years, so I guess I didn't miss it that much. I also missed the spoofs in the newspapers on account of the fact that I only ever buy a newspaper now once in a blue moon and usually use it to light the fire rather than read it. Whilst I remain politically active, committed and impassioned, I am so fed up with the spin doctoring of the presentation of news. One misplaced , misjudged word can throw the entire 'story' out of kilter.
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
It's been a sort of frustrating day really. I wanted to 'get on' and 'do stuff'. No! Honestly, really I did. I had intended to do a little of this, a bit of that, some of the other and a lot of the thingie. The Rat-in-Me-Back; the telephone and the distraction of the bag-o'-words in me head saw a different outcome. I did so the fire thing; the collecting of the wood thing and the chopping of the sticks thing. The Rat-in-Me-Back appears to have smuggled in a cousin of his into his lair cos each time I have tried to pick something up, or move something, or, indeed make my way through the throng of animals, the Spiteful Cousin stuck a red hot knitting needle deep into my bone causing me to yell out. First layer of frustration.
A little light distraction with the computer games temporarily puts the pain on the back boiler. Doesn't make it go away of course otherwise I wouldn't need the meds, but concentrating on something else takes the focus away from those nasty little teeth as they chew through my nerves. I haul the weary carcass to the village and had intended to let MaddyMoo loose at Howden's Pullover for a bit. I even packed a fresh new tennis ball, such was the sincerity of my intent. But. Got as far as the store. Now, I am currently greatly in need of meat and I toyed with the idea of getting some bacon so that I could do baked potato dressed with bacon bits, beans and grated cheese. Before I went to the butcher I just checked again the dwindling stock of coinage in my wallet. After the third moth flew out I realised that purchasing bacon would mean the non purchasing of another essential item. Turning away from the butchers me and Percy, my walking stick, hobbled into the store to ponder.
Once upon a time I rampaged through the world at 90 miles an hour, carried a tonne of produce and groceries, knitting my own yogurt as I planned the next exciting adventure for my family and friends or worried about the next project at work. These days, I lopsidedly shuffle from aisle to aisle trying to remember what it was I HAD decided I might buy. Choice at my local village store is limited. Time spent preparing and producing food is also limited. Sometimes I have to eat and I have to eat NOW! There was nothing that leapt out and said 'eat me eat me!' So I settled for a tin of mushroom soup and some high fibre wholemeal bread. Second layer of frustration settled down without my noticing.
As I fired up Florence the Rat-in-Me-Back and his Spiteful Cousin danced around the already overheated damaged area of my back and I realised that, uh oh! yet again, I was out of time with the meds. 'So sorry MaddyMoo' I said 'I need to go straight home, eat and then take the meds.' 'Minnits' I said unconvincingly, our word for maybe, soon ...
I used to be scared of microwaves. Way too scary for me. All that talk of danger and leaking and radiation and rock hard stuff you had to eat with a pick axe and hammer made me very nervous. I managed to keep my first microwave with a power factor of about 250 watts for about 12 years. It's longevity probably explained by the fact that I barely knew how to do anything with it other than make things hot so it was unlikely to get worn out. My current version is a little more powerful, all shiny stainless steel, and, I'm told, quite capable of splitting the atom or at least cooking a joint. I have mastered about one third of the controls and knobs and functions ... It is of course ideal for heating soups, re-heating cold cups of tea or coffee or heating frozen foods what I have saved from a previous cooking session. Mmmmm mushroom soup I thought.
Once upon a time if you needed to open a tin of food, you had to use a rather peculiar shaped instrument that looked a little like a fat fork with two prongs. One prong was actually a cutting blade sharpened into a point and the other prong had a nick cut into it where you placed the rim of the tin, once, that is, you had stabbed the tin with the pointy bit to make a hole in the lid. The technique required that you carefully and slowly manipulated the cutting blade around the whole of the lid until you were able to, everso carefully prise the cut tin lid away from the body of the can and access the food therein. The secret was to make sure you had just enough of the lid to manipulate; not only to expose the food but also to ensure you did not slice the top of your fingers off. The experienced pracitioner learnt, after several cans of food were spoiled with blood, to use the two-pronged can opener to remove or bend the lid backwards rather than your naked fingers. Armed with appropriate microwaveable container I picked up the tin of mushroom soup with its new fangled ring pull lid. Turn ring, straighten ring, insert finger and pull backwards towards you. No more ripped digits with this new invention. Ah! The ring on the tin was broked. Three failed attempts later, four expletives deleted plus sore forefinger, I reached for the swanky tin opener. Three failed attempts later I realised that the siting of the easy new ring pull lids were actually a tad deeper than the depth of the cutting wheel on my fancy can opener. Third layer of frustration solidified into temper tantrum.
At the end of the 15 minute process of trying to prepare a light, but warming, lunch in order to line my stomach prior to the injestion of the overdue meds, there was: a sore forefinger; a half opened can of mushroom soup, a draining board decorated in mushroom soup artfully arranged in the style of Jackson Pollock and a blue tinge to the air in the kitchen as various filthy Anglo Saxon words looked for somewhere to hide. Nice.
And so, once more I have procrastinated, put off dealing with the troublesome stuff, the stuff that's too big for me to deal with but I have enjoyed a wonderfuly long telephone conversation with Beloved Son and Heir and my lovely Daughter-in-Law; my Best Friend, chatted with my chums, and heard that the final stages of the end of the Second Age are approaching the final straight where freedom beckons. Now all I need is for someone to ...............
Love and Peace
THE Purple Fairy xxx
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