Friday

Friday night, she said with some glee
We'll come to your house, we'll drink all of your tea
We'll sort everything out, we'll make a grand plan
To keep the Royals happy, to do what we can.

We settled ourselves round the table square
Myself and himself and the other pair
Sisters both, one quiet, one not
Everyone there, ready to trot.

The unquiet one had an axe to grind
The solution, she barked, is not hard to find
You MUST do more, you MUST pull your weight
You can't expect US to keep on at this rate.

The quiet one looked like a little lost child
Her lips were trembling, her eyes a bit wild
I want to ... I can't ... I'm doing my best
She stuttered and stammered, failing the test.

The unquiet one preached on and on
Venting her spleen, singing her song
Of resentment and anger, of right and of wrong
For the hours she had spent and all she had done.

At last, the quiet one could take no more
She jumped from the table and ran out the door
She was crying and shuddering, like her heart would break
She was wondering aloud, how much more she could take.

Himself in the kitchen was calming things down
The unquiet one was wearing a frown
Well, thats that sorted, I'm off home to bed
Never mind her, she'll get over it, she said.

When she was gone the quiet one sighed
She doesn't understand, she hasn't even tried
She thinks I'm lazy, selfish and unkind
I'm none of these things, I'm losing my mind.

A little while later, she hugged us both
Thank you for listening, as she put on her coat
She'll be calmer tomorrow, just you wait and see
If she isn't, I said, just refer her to me.

Himself and myself, we sat down again
What'ya make of all that, do you think it'll rain
I'm glad you were here, the voice of the sane
And no, I DON'T think it is going to rain.

Eejity ...

I love the English language. The variety of words available to describe any particular emotion or feeling, are enough to send me into paroxysms of delight, kinks of laughter or child-like wonderment at the vastness of the available selection.

I love the whispering of the wind. The chattering of the chipmunks. The roar of the rapids and the rippling river. The hoity-toity and the skanky slappers.

Its like being a child in a sweet shop. Alone. Free to pick and choose, to gorge on allsorts, indulging the sheer pleasure of rolling them around one's mouth, to taste and lick, to discard or keep.

The fruit of my loins, like a lot of offspring, delight in finding a chink in the elder's armour. I have been caught, on numerous occasions, reading the dictionary. For some unknown reason, they find this extremely amusing.

Eejit is one of my favourite words. It can be used affectionately, derisively, aggressively or even admiringly. So versatile. It serves as a noun primarily but can also be used as an adjective. But you won't find it in any dictionary. Not of the English variety anyway. I suspect that it is peculiar to this green island. Certainly, the Queen of England wouldn't be having it as part of her verbal repertoire.

Loosely translated, it means "a foolish person". A "clown", of sorts.
"Eoinseach", another splendid word, is the gaelic for eejit. It can sometimes be interpreted as meaning "a bit light on the grey matter" or a "tad short on the smarts". Whatever its meaning, its like a great big clove-drop pinballing around the tongue and teeth.

One can be a great eejit, a big eejit or even a stupid eejit. One can even be a f***ing eejit. The opportunities to shine are endless.

Now, the adjective of this word is Eejity. A different kettle of fish altogether. One can be born eejity (sure god help us all), one can develop eejitiness or one can simply degenerate into an eejity state through no fault of one's own. While trapped in an eejity state, one is rarely coherent, one usually has the unfocused gaze of the bewildered and one should most definitely not be allowed within an asses roar of a motorised vehicle. Sympathy abounds in some quarters for the eejity ones. Compassion is an admirable virtue.

It is 11.45pm and I am dropping with tiredness. I have been decidedly eejity for the last couple of hours.

But I couldn't disappoint the Molly.

See, I am a good little blister.

Eejity but good.

We are experiencing some Difficulty ...

6.45am. Trumpeted out of the scratcher to the sound of the psychotic canine scrabbling noisily at the utility room door. Sleepy nose detects the reason for the rude awakening. Stomach somersaults as the size 5 misses its target. Breakfast is postponed.

7.15am. Floor washed, laundry on, unread newspapers gathered, unrepentant canine allowed back in. Clothes folded, sleepy heads up, "where is my green top?", "where are my keys?" Have a nice day dear.

8.00am. Cup of tea. Spot of navel gazing.

8.30am. Onwards to the palace. Breakfast for milady. Doggie biscuit for royal hound accompanied by much gratuitous slobbering. The main man up, washed and dressed. Fed and watered. Bed clothes changed, living room vacuumed. Pills for week sorted. Desultory conversation.

10.00am. She who would like to be obeyed rises from the boudoir. With a list. And an attitude. Silent prayer is said.

11.00am. Class for the wobblies at local pool. Much hilarity and sadness.

12.30pm. Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Soup. Look through post. Pay bills. Transfer small fortune to offspring residing temporarily in Barcelona. Phone dancing off the hook.

2.00pm. Dancing with the divas. One of whom has consumed too many glasses of wine with her lunch. Cross words and slight 78 year old tantrum when not allowed to trip the light fantastic.

4.00pm. Back to palace. 35 minute shuffle to the bathroom. Too late. Exercises done. Queen querulous. Murderous thoughts.

5.30pm. Dinner?? Nah ... couldn't be arsed. Let them starve.

6.45pm. Exhibition opening no.1. Old friends, new paintings. Disappointing.

7.30pm. Exhibition opening no.2. Brilliant. Manic. Hot.

8.30pm. Poetry reading. Interesting.

11.00pm. Home again, home again, jiggety jig. Tidy kitchen, let reluctant canine out, some laundry sorting. Cup of tea. Breathe. Haul cat-marauding canine back in.

12.30am. Yawn. Nabloblahblah??

There are not nearly enough hours in the day.

Wordless Wednesday

Wednesday is as good a day as any for a little self-indulgent day dreaming.

The halcyon days on the GR20 in Corsica last July are just the ticket for the escapism that is fast becoming a necessity.

I know, I know, not quite wordless.

Classy ....

Nose-picking.

Crotch-scratching.

Pathetic stray hairs combed over a bald patch.

Toupees.

Wife-beater vests.

Dirty fingernails.

Woolly socks with sandals.

White socks with sandals.

Peroxide blonde hair with bright blue eye shadow.

Foul-mouthed people.

Mutton dressed up as lamb.

Battered burgers.

White ties.

Smelly feet.

Smelly anything.

Drunks.

Dog beaters.

Litter louts.

Lovers who cheat.


I'm feeling rather intolerant today.

The Bee-Keeper

Every morning I see him.

A tall man, he walks with a stoop. He seems to be afraid of having his head in the clouds. A long grey raincoat hangs loosely on his bony frame and he carries a small, black and white rucksack on his back. The heavy, black shoes are the same ones he used to wear when he was a security guard. He is retired now due to ill-health.

He has been living in the area for going on 30 years. His elderly parents moved back to their roots and he came with them. Even though his roots were elsewhere. He dutifully minded them until they died. Never marrying. He knows everybody in the neighbourhood. He knows everything about everybody in the neighbourhood.

Being a religious man, his first port of call, after his breakfast, is the church. There he meets with other retired, like-minded souls. He can be seen, chatting in an animated manner, or quietly leaning closer to catch some whispered confidence. He continues from his prayers into town. His needs are few so the little rucksack is more than adequate to carry his messages. He usually wanders home just after 11.30am. He is a creature of habit.

He likes chocolate and bananas. The neighbourhood children used to call regularly to his door knowing that they would come away laden with goodies. That all stopped when a well-meaning woman warned him that "People would talk ... they wouldn't understand". He still gives out chocolate and bananas. Carefully.

He knows everything. The best way to recycle waste, the nutritional value of bananas, the intricacies of heart surgery, the benefits of thyroid tablets in the event of a nuclear disaster and the life cycles of honey bees. He loves bees. In his back garden there are about 20 beehives. He doesn't care much for gardening so the bees get to live, joyously, in the wild. He bestows jars of precious honey on the select few of his neighbours who have been behaving themselves. These gifts are, inevitably, accompanied by a diatribe on the benefits of clean living and how much man can learn from watching bees. Every year, he tootles off for a week of bee talk with other bee enthusiasts. The other week of his annual holidays is spent in Lourdes. He usually returns from Lourdes laden down with gallons of Holy Water which, like the bees, has amazing curative powers.

He seems to be a man of simple needs. A God-fearing christian.

Why, then, do the hairs rise up on the back of my neck every time I see him?

Amen

Amen.

A small word. Compact and to the point. Rolls off the tongue easily enough.
It can be said softly or loudly. Whispered with emotion or gloriously shouted.

If one looks it up in the dictionary one is informed that the direct meaning for Amen is "So be it".

Interesting.

If one were of a religious inclination one would be inclined to think "Well, thats it, I can do nor more" or, maybe, "Its in God's hands now, he'll take care of it" or maybe one might whisper softly to oneself "Whew, that was a close one, I'm glad its not my responsibility any more".

One might also think, if one had nothing better to be doing than contemplating one's navel or some other equally innocuous part of one's anatomy, "Why Amen? Why not Awomen?"

Luckily, around here, there isn't a lot of time for contemplation of one's body parts.

The big blister, aka Molly, and I have decided to post a blog a day for the month of November. This arose from a late-at-night telephone conversation which covered a myriad of subjects, including my disastrous attempts at blogging on a regular basis. In a moment of marble-free madness, I suggested that we both undertake the insanity that is Nablopomo. Molly, after much humming and hawing, and being the soul of big-sisterly kindness, reluctantly agreed. Against her better judgement, I might add. She is, indeed, older and wiser. Most of the time.

So here I am, clueless and bereft of inspiration.

Molly, dearest, as the older blister, one feels that you have a duty to guide and mentor the younger sibling. You are most remiss in your duty in letting the hare-brained one cajole you with well-meaning promises to be good. Do you not realise that queens and kings will go unwalked, psychotic hounds will remain unfed, spouses and offspring will, needlessly, suffer the rantings and ravings of a middle-aged, bewildered harridan.

What were you thinking?

I have no more to say for now.

Except.

Amen.