Monthly Archives: September 2013
It survived the night and then died between 8.00 and 8,30 a.m.
Poor pidge. Feeling gutted. Probably disproportionately so for a bird that I never knew existed as an individual prior to yesterday afternoon. Still, we can’t help how we feel about things can we? They are the one thing that will keep coming, and for free.
The kids had a name dispute as well. One favoured Miss Sippy, the other Sheila.
RIP Miss Sheila Sippy. Now I’ve got to break the news to the children. I think I am going to cry. My sunglasses are already on in preparation. If there’s one thing I am already well-versed in, it is dying quietly inside.
And with stops to drop off people and pick up same and delays due to road accidents we were in the car on and off for nine hours yesterday.
I don’t mind travelling, but it takes it out of me these days.
The net result was a fistful of medals and a trophy, but the real diva in this family was distinctly unimpressed: repeatedly placed but no wins. The trophy for third in the premiership dance category was dismissed, mainly due to it being an eighth of the size of the last one she hooked,
I tell her – this is character-building. A chance to develop your grittier side. Take the feedback and come back at it again harder.
After nine hours car, and £100 lighter in the pocket (petrol and competition entry fees) there is a large part of me that thinks – I could buy you ten trophies for less…
I repeat my own mantra to myself: this is character-building. A chance to develop your grittier side. Take the feedback and come back at it again harder.
In the meantime, whilst we a building more character, we are also trying to save a pigeon the dog found in the woods this afternoon. I don’t know what the matter with it is, there are no obvious injuries but it was immobilised and unsteady on its feet. After the near-miss with the cat on Friday afternoon, the dog gets major kudos for leaving the poor injured thing alone. I wonder if he knows what I hope he doesn’t – that all our efforts with warm glucose possets are in vain and it will die in the night anyway.
We will see. It’s out of the way on top of the wardrobe in the cat carrier in a nest of shredded newspaper. The Daily Express to be precise. I never buy that paper, but last week I did. I won’t be bothering again, although I did enjoy reading the cruise supplement. Perhaps I’ll take the pigeon on a round the world job, if it makes it…
The video link is for daughter #2 really. Still, it’s never too late for any of us to don a curly hairpiece and and bespangled short dress with poodle socks. Is it?
Child #2 requires motoring to Bristol tomorrow for a dance competition. She has bought ‘1D’ heart earrings for the occasion (double up as Irish Dance earrings she assures me), and asked if she can wear a little bit of eye-shadow…
It’s only a hop jig away now from the full on sequinned dress, curly hairpiece attachment, glue round the tops of the poodle socks and full make-up case on wheels. What awaits is a long drive, hard chairs, confusion, minor strops and heartbreak or glory. We take Kipling’s advice to heart on this one and treat ‘both imposters’ just the same. Then it will be a turnaround to get home.
I have been prescribed a short course of steroids which I started this morning. Without wishing to meet my own expectations, I can feel myself becoming somewhat testy, but that might be down to the tiredness for which they were prescribed. Side effects and symptoms dance a tangled circle round the patient at times. Which reminds me, the session in the doctor’s waiting room was surreal, the consultation Lynchian. I must write about it!
For now, I want to chill out to this song. The only way I can share it is with the video, which I am not crazy about, but if I close my eyes… it works. Here’s hoping the Miguel vibe (in my mind he’s got a touch of the Maxwell sound which I love) keeps the roid/road rage at bay on the M4 tomorrow…
Firstly, the bad and ugly in one hit: the bike was stolen from work whilst I was teaching an evening class on Monday night. I must admit I blinked into the darkness at the gap where the bike should have been when I came out of the building. In point of fact, I may have looked rather like a mole. I am sure I left it there, I thought to myself. Confirmation that I had indeed left it there came on closer inspection, which revealed my cycle helmet lying on the floor alongside the lock that had been cut clean through with bolt cutters or some such.
Honestly? I am surprised a bike has not been nicked from me before now. There is a Recycle Bike shop in the town, supported by the council, so I will be off there as soon as I am able to see if they have got some derelict bone-shaker that needs a home.
The good: yesterday a beautiful book arrived in the post featuring a picture I took about two and half years ago. The theme of the book was the window and, amongst the photography, there are also poems by James Joyce (who knew), Robert Frost and another favourite Rainer Maria Rilke, as well as the window in art. Predictably, there’s rather a lot of those Edward Hopper scenes with a woman and a window, of which I am not fond, preferring his gas stations or bars. But there is also this.
And that image is such a lovely thing in itself that I’ll leave the other until tomorrow.
Just because lovely things come along like buses, doesn’t mean you have to be in a big rush about it…
Suspended Shirt Installations by Finish artist and environmentalist Kaarina Kaikkonen who uses hundreds of second-hand shirts to create her often site specific installations.
“Her most recent work Are We Still Going On? (top images), was conceived at Collezione Maramotti, a private collection of contemporary art in Reggio Emilia, Italy, and involves hundreds of children’s shirts hung in rows to resemble the interior hull of a giant ship. The shirts are organized by color on each side of the skeletal boat to represent a sort of symbolic dialogue about gender.” ( via colossal)
It’s only a spider. And it’s not just any old spider, it’s straight from the East End this morning. Definitely a cockney.
Mind you, I can talk. I visited family at the weekend and before I could sleep in the room they had to remove the cobra skeleton, the snakeskin handbag and cover up the alligator skin on the wall. I put up with the mini squished desiccated baby gator and an ossified lizard at eye-level.
I marked the occasion (it was yesterday – 19th September).
It was not my idea. It was not even the inaugural occasion. How? Why? I don’t know – it’s lost in the mists of time that swirl around the recesses of peri-menopausal minds. A collective term for women such as myself might be ‘a confusion’. We don’t get out much – except to drive children to wheresoever they need to be. Like those cuckoos who pop of out clocks every 15 minutes, much of our daily existence is pre-ordained, by the demands of others.
We don’t get out much because there is no time, no money, no energy. When we do? We shuffle in with messed up hair and outfits and we order spirits. We talk. We laugh. We cry. We are on the edge.
We work, we parent, we try grow things in the garden. Some of us paint, or make, or write, or sing. We all dance, sometimes.
Some of us are the World’s Expert on Listerine. Some of us can teach 40 under-fives in pink leotards ballet and keep our heads when someone pees on the floor. Some of us exhibit at home, and abroad. Some of us run school discos after a day’s teaching. Some of us stitch, or bake and wear customised leather jackets. Some of us would kill for a turquoise sombrero. Some of us can’t be there because life has tripped us up, but we know, the next time Derek Nimmo’s birthday comes around – there will be something that has been said and done that day by all of us that is worth celebrating.
My life as the Magic Roundabout – channelling Ermintrude with a fawn dog by my side.
At least she was never forced to drive through at a McDonalds…
Mainly because, after a bit, quite a bit, I’ve had to adopt a grit one’s teeth and bear it approach to the government. The alternative was madness, or imprisonment. I’ve laid awake in bed thinking about how to rid the country of the turbulent Gove et al and got nowhere – well nowhere that doesn’t involve crime and that would be wrong – so I retreated, like so many, into apathy. I’m not proud of it, but there comes a time when banging your head on a brick wall just hurts your head. Or so I am told. I am still a bit prone to head banging…
So, here we go.
Has Nick Clegg gone mad?
Has someone attacked him with a giant shiny silver syringe full of shite-spouting serum?
Has he dyed his hair an even darker shade of brunette?
Has his wife finally decided to come out to play the First Lady in waiting game?
Is Vince Cable going to stand for it?
Yesterday’s outrageous conference performance from the leader of the Lib Dems was like a Dallas/Dynasty/Dr No mash-up with slightly less glitz, but a very healthily inflated sense of self-worth. I would go so far as to say that, yesterday, Nick Clegg was tumescent.
This is not a good thing. The Lib Dems are still the Yellow Party and Nicky Boy ain’t fooling no-one. I hope.
But you never know.