Monday, April 25, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
House of Women ...
and one of them, is a monster at the moment. Veering wildly between adult and child, she manages to spend most of it displaying a personality just a smidgen less possessed than Regan MacNeil's. Since Christmas we've had a vitriolic spew of mother hatred on Facebook, two all night parties that saw no return for three days, orange hair, pink hair, green hair and now black hair that hangs like a curtain over her sullen features, a scaffold that was executed so badly she ended up in A & E on Boxing Day, and now the same ropey back street piercer has struck again (thanks to her dad RETURNING her to same piercer) skewering her lobes with some dodgy teeny tiny silver studs, one of which vanished inside its own hole the other night. I was working on a monumentally foul piece of academic nonsense when she tentatively pushed open my bedroom door and whispered "I can't find my earring". She came closer for inspection, and it looked as though the ball of the stud had fallen off, though I couldn't pull it through from the back. Big fat tears welled up in the dip between her eye and the bridge of her nose as I gently tried to get the back of the earring off. Horrified, her wee sister stood there and allowed Regan MacNeil to squeeze her hand to distract from the pain. I couldn't get any movement so went to fetch ice and a syringe from my work bag to a background of wails from the bedroom. Hopefully I could try and proggle the back off, or make the hole bigger to pull it through. Once the lobe was numbed, I was able to push it hard enough to pop the earring which incredibly was still in situ, out of the front of her earlobe again. Bloody thing had shrunk back inside and the skin was forming over it. I will be popping the piercers head back inside her neck if she touches my child again.
After the deed was done, I saw a flash of my gorgeous, funny, sparky girl as she stood in my doorway and thanked me, asking would I like a cup of tea. I was agape. A request for as much as a walk of the dog or a brush of her teeth has resulted in a snarling ball of fury for weeks... I said yes, I'd love one. Five minutes later she came back in my room and handed it over. "I love you" she said.
And yes Wibs, I love you too. It's hard work sometimes, but dammit I love you. You and your rainbow head.
and one of them, is a monster at the moment. Veering wildly between adult and child, she manages to spend most of it displaying a personality just a smidgen less possessed than Regan MacNeil's. Since Christmas we've had a vitriolic spew of mother hatred on Facebook, two all night parties that saw no return for three days, orange hair, pink hair, green hair and now black hair that hangs like a curtain over her sullen features, a scaffold that was executed so badly she ended up in A & E on Boxing Day, and now the same ropey back street piercer has struck again (thanks to her dad RETURNING her to same piercer) skewering her lobes with some dodgy teeny tiny silver studs, one of which vanished inside its own hole the other night. I was working on a monumentally foul piece of academic nonsense when she tentatively pushed open my bedroom door and whispered "I can't find my earring". She came closer for inspection, and it looked as though the ball of the stud had fallen off, though I couldn't pull it through from the back. Big fat tears welled up in the dip between her eye and the bridge of her nose as I gently tried to get the back of the earring off. Horrified, her wee sister stood there and allowed Regan MacNeil to squeeze her hand to distract from the pain. I couldn't get any movement so went to fetch ice and a syringe from my work bag to a background of wails from the bedroom. Hopefully I could try and proggle the back off, or make the hole bigger to pull it through. Once the lobe was numbed, I was able to push it hard enough to pop the earring which incredibly was still in situ, out of the front of her earlobe again. Bloody thing had shrunk back inside and the skin was forming over it. I will be popping the piercers head back inside her neck if she touches my child again.
After the deed was done, I saw a flash of my gorgeous, funny, sparky girl as she stood in my doorway and thanked me, asking would I like a cup of tea. I was agape. A request for as much as a walk of the dog or a brush of her teeth has resulted in a snarling ball of fury for weeks... I said yes, I'd love one. Five minutes later she came back in my room and handed it over. "I love you" she said.
And yes Wibs, I love you too. It's hard work sometimes, but dammit I love you. You and your rainbow head.
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Time's gone by...
A friend of mine is home for Christmas. Hilariously, he is posting a great raft of pictures (onto Facebook) that he took almost thirty years ago, of me and our friends. Luckily his privacy settings are pretty high, so my boss, colleagues and anyone who isn't a mutual friend, can't see them. For your amusement, I am reproducing one of the photos below. Another friend of mine, said "thirty years ago eh? Why dont you make some copies and we can pass them around. We could title it - 'Thirty years later, can you spot thirty differences?' ". Cheers pal.
Other insults;
Bonny - Wow, look how thin you are mummy!
Wibs - Yeah, We ruined her. Heh.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Thursday, December 09, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
FML
.. as the kids say. My Christmas hamper sized pack of Haribo is all gone, finished my book (Patrick Suskind's Perfume - words cannot describle how difficult, and enjoyable, this book was for me) and (yes, I'm such a Brit, I must mention the weather) - it's fucking freezing. Not even December, and it's doing the deep and crisp and even nonsense out there.
In other news,things occupying my mind are ...
1. The Machinist. Probably the best film I have ever seen.
2. Why are men such a bunch of personality disordered areseholes
3. Haribo, and how to eat it without getting fat(ter).
4. How to dismantle a pomegranate correctly.
Thursday, September 02, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Friday, April 02, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
And this, I know to be true
Elle
You are so beautiful, it makes me ache. I think that you might be starting to believe that it is true. Despite me telling you for years, you at last are beginning to realise that it is not simply a mother's biased love that makes me state this fact endlessly. You are not only beautiful, you are graceful, kind, funny and clever. You know what to do with an apostrophe, but more importantly, you do not sneer at people who don't. I actually have never heard you sneer or belittle anybody, and for this, I am immensely proud. There are many who could learn from you. You see beauty in many things, the value of people. Now look at yourself. And thank you for my delicious and fabulous cake. You are clearly talented on top of this. Now let the rest of the world see who you are, mankind needs more people like you, shining among the grit.
Wibs
You also are beautiful. You are 14, with the face of an angel, your expression a mixture of sulk and barely concealed amusement. To you, I say this - do not strive to be what you think the world wants you to be. I have seen you from the moment you were born, raging at the world. The world, needs raging at. You are clever, so clever. Do not cry when you and your boyfriend argue, do not miss him because he made you feel special. You are special, and he is lucky to be with you. Really, you are the best girl he will ever date, and in the future, he will look in the newspapers at the scientist/politician, writer called Wibs, and rue the date that you both agreed to call it a day.
Bonny
Don't put up with it when your friends treat you badly. You don't deserve it. You are good, and noble, and you have the craziest sense of humour. These things will carry you a long way. When your friends call you mental, tell them to fuck off, and carry on without them, it will be their loss. You appreciate that not everything has to be worthy to be appreciated, and my goodness, you appreciate life, biting off huge chunks of it. Hormones are hideous things, don't worry, being 11 doesn't last for ever, and you will emerge the other side, just as precious as you have been for the last 10 years. Think of the uncertainty of being 11, as a blip. Carry on covering your bedroom carpet with glitter, it doesn't matter. Vacuum cleaners are over rated anyway. Incidentally, you are also beautiful, but don't stop pulling hideous faces to make people laugh.
Elle
You are so beautiful, it makes me ache. I think that you might be starting to believe that it is true. Despite me telling you for years, you at last are beginning to realise that it is not simply a mother's biased love that makes me state this fact endlessly. You are not only beautiful, you are graceful, kind, funny and clever. You know what to do with an apostrophe, but more importantly, you do not sneer at people who don't. I actually have never heard you sneer or belittle anybody, and for this, I am immensely proud. There are many who could learn from you. You see beauty in many things, the value of people. Now look at yourself. And thank you for my delicious and fabulous cake. You are clearly talented on top of this. Now let the rest of the world see who you are, mankind needs more people like you, shining among the grit.
Wibs
You also are beautiful. You are 14, with the face of an angel, your expression a mixture of sulk and barely concealed amusement. To you, I say this - do not strive to be what you think the world wants you to be. I have seen you from the moment you were born, raging at the world. The world, needs raging at. You are clever, so clever. Do not cry when you and your boyfriend argue, do not miss him because he made you feel special. You are special, and he is lucky to be with you. Really, you are the best girl he will ever date, and in the future, he will look in the newspapers at the scientist/politician, writer called Wibs, and rue the date that you both agreed to call it a day.
Bonny
Don't put up with it when your friends treat you badly. You don't deserve it. You are good, and noble, and you have the craziest sense of humour. These things will carry you a long way. When your friends call you mental, tell them to fuck off, and carry on without them, it will be their loss. You appreciate that not everything has to be worthy to be appreciated, and my goodness, you appreciate life, biting off huge chunks of it. Hormones are hideous things, don't worry, being 11 doesn't last for ever, and you will emerge the other side, just as precious as you have been for the last 10 years. Think of the uncertainty of being 11, as a blip. Carry on covering your bedroom carpet with glitter, it doesn't matter. Vacuum cleaners are over rated anyway. Incidentally, you are also beautiful, but don't stop pulling hideous faces to make people laugh.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Monday, January 25, 2010
Good Girl.
I hear her voice outside my door
the sound creeps under, "kurva", she whispers
scared someone will hear her, most of all me.
I hear her. I think she hates herself.
In the morning she sweeps the stairs for a rent reduction
and her husband drinks burčák from 8, he fights
downstairs, outside. Sometimes she bakes bread
for the caretaker, whose wife is useless.
She walks to Delvita, comes out laden
with bags, sits to catch breath and rest her feet. I wonder
if being fucked at life gives
you fat ankles. I watch her from my balcony.
She thinks I am reading, Seifert, but I am watching
always watching.
I keep myself to myself, I smell the gulas in her kitchen
she cooks daily. Her children fight but
her husband says nothing. She raises her voice and I think, yes
she is not happy. My mouth waters. I will eat out tonight.
I love the men I sleep with, sometimes briefly, but the love is there
and it's real. She brings in clothes from the balcony line
cracks a shirt in the air. A whip for his back.
Dropping pegs into a tub on the floor she curses her life. Under her breath.
Tomorrow when she slices onions, I will cry for her.
kurva, burčák
Excitement!
Look HERE! How splendid. The Poetry Library bought my book last month. There I am, with TS Eliot Jenny Joseph and Clive James. Me! What the hell?
Look HERE! How splendid. The Poetry Library bought my book last month. There I am, with TS Eliot Jenny Joseph and Clive James. Me! What the hell?
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Get Happy.
Here's the thing. Pick up a pen. Place it between your teeth (horizontally, we don't want a Nosferatu look going on) and then let go. Bite the pen gently, and continue biting down. Feel the shape your face is making? Look in the mirror. It is using the same muscles that smiling uses. Do it for long enough, your muscles send signals to your brain. They tell it that you are smiling. Brain reacts accordingly, and cheers the hell up.
It works.
Here's the thing. Pick up a pen. Place it between your teeth (horizontally, we don't want a Nosferatu look going on) and then let go. Bite the pen gently, and continue biting down. Feel the shape your face is making? Look in the mirror. It is using the same muscles that smiling uses. Do it for long enough, your muscles send signals to your brain. They tell it that you are smiling. Brain reacts accordingly, and cheers the hell up.
It works.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Padel
Trying to get back into writing anything other than academic waffle and blog waffle. I don't want to spread any more gossip about Ruth Padel, but I took her into a bath with me this morning for an hour, and really enjoyed myself.
I don't read enough poetry anymore, and this has to change. I saw this, and LOVED it.
Tell Me about It.
When they mourn you over there
the way you'd want, the way you mourn
your friends;
when they're celebrating
having loved you
in Derry, Rathmullen, wherever -
birettas, candles, Latin,
all the weavings you don't believe in
but love anyway and I'll never share
for who the hell converts to
ex-Catholic? - no one will know
someone's missing you here
for ever. Whose arms,
printed with that absolute
man's stillness
when your breath calms
into my shoulder, and you fall asleep
inside me, open and close
in a foreign night round nothing.
Who misses the way
you pour loose change onto a bar
in a puddle of fairytale silver
and move through the night,
through everything, curious
mischevous as a mongoose
and never an unkind word.
I might dream
of coming over, touching
just one friend's sleeve
to whisper
'Talk about him. A bit.
The way he was, here' -
but never do it. Instead,
I'll say Yes in my sleep
to you. To no one. You'll put
your tongue in my mouth, deep.
the way you do,
and my eyes will open
on a dark garden. I'll wake up
touching myself for you.
The alarm will stare
venomous digits. I'll hang on
to the fragile haze
of a wine-bar.
when you leant over the foreign formica,
haltering my hand within your two
like the filling in a sandwich,
sashaying the skin of each finger
down to the soft web between,
over and over, a rosary of rub
and slide, as if you could solder
me to your lifeline. As if
you could take me with you.
and I'll wish you had.
Ruth Padel.
Trying to get back into writing anything other than academic waffle and blog waffle. I don't want to spread any more gossip about Ruth Padel, but I took her into a bath with me this morning for an hour, and really enjoyed myself.
I don't read enough poetry anymore, and this has to change. I saw this, and LOVED it.
Tell Me about It.
When they mourn you over there
the way you'd want, the way you mourn
your friends;
when they're celebrating
having loved you
in Derry, Rathmullen, wherever -
birettas, candles, Latin,
all the weavings you don't believe in
but love anyway and I'll never share
for who the hell converts to
ex-Catholic? - no one will know
someone's missing you here
for ever. Whose arms,
printed with that absolute
man's stillness
when your breath calms
into my shoulder, and you fall asleep
inside me, open and close
in a foreign night round nothing.
Who misses the way
you pour loose change onto a bar
in a puddle of fairytale silver
and move through the night,
through everything, curious
mischevous as a mongoose
and never an unkind word.
I might dream
of coming over, touching
just one friend's sleeve
to whisper
'Talk about him. A bit.
The way he was, here' -
but never do it. Instead,
I'll say Yes in my sleep
to you. To no one. You'll put
your tongue in my mouth, deep.
the way you do,
and my eyes will open
on a dark garden. I'll wake up
touching myself for you.
The alarm will stare
venomous digits. I'll hang on
to the fragile haze
of a wine-bar.
when you leant over the foreign formica,
haltering my hand within your two
like the filling in a sandwich,
sashaying the skin of each finger
down to the soft web between,
over and over, a rosary of rub
and slide, as if you could solder
me to your lifeline. As if
you could take me with you.
and I'll wish you had.
Ruth Padel.
Bonny Chats.
Laying in bed with my youngest I am forced to watch Tracey Beaker on the laptop. Not my idea of a Sunday lie in really.
Bonny - Isn't it a shame that fish don't have arms?
Pesk - Why would fish need arms?
Bonny - They could carry things if they had arms. Like bunches of flowers. They could use their gills like pockets. (pause) Except then they'd drown. (pause) Can fish drown?
Pesk - Watch your programme.
Laying in bed with my youngest I am forced to watch Tracey Beaker on the laptop. Not my idea of a Sunday lie in really.
Bonny - Isn't it a shame that fish don't have arms?
Pesk - Why would fish need arms?
Bonny - They could carry things if they had arms. Like bunches of flowers. They could use their gills like pockets. (pause) Except then they'd drown. (pause) Can fish drown?
Pesk - Watch your programme.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Disco Dolly. And Derek.
Ok, so here is the deal. When I win £7,000,000 on the lottery (because I surely will, by law of karma alone) I hereby pledge that I will open the world's greatest residential home for the elderly confused. In it, will be -
1. A nightclub. Not just any nightclub, this will called Bacchus' Geriatric Gardens. It will be an outdoors but indoors and have a huge domed ceiling dotted with glittering stars, the moon will always be full and the air scented with perfume. It will have enormous egg shaped seats swinging from overhead trellises which will be festooned with passion flowers and jasmine. There will be hideaway caves for snogging. Here and there will be mini bars staffed by muscled young barmen and boobalicious young barmaids, serving sanatogen tonics as well as champagne cocktails. There will be laser shows on the hour, as well as wandering opera singers and marching bands.
2. A small fairground in the gardens, with rollercoaster, a waltzer, a helter skelter (with big puffy cushions for fragile hips), coconut shies and hook a duck stalls. A little kiosk will give away candy floss and toffee apples (denture friendly).
3. A (minimum 2) star Michelin chef will design and cook the menus. It will be eggs and salmon for breakfast, steak for lunch (unless a soft diet is required, then it will be foie gras) and whatever magnificent concoction they choose for dinner. Swan probably. Chocolate strawberries and muffins sprinkled with golden and pink glitter will be laid out on china plates for those who are peckish throughout the day.
4. The staff will be on a 2:1 ratio, and wear a uniform of pink feather boas and hotpants. Both sexes.
5. There will be a betting shop where every bet placed is a winner.
I am fed up, with the misery the old folks of this world endure at the end of their lives. So, come on. Point the finger at ME dear lotto God.
Ok, so here is the deal. When I win £7,000,000 on the lottery (because I surely will, by law of karma alone) I hereby pledge that I will open the world's greatest residential home for the elderly confused. In it, will be -
1. A nightclub. Not just any nightclub, this will called Bacchus' Geriatric Gardens. It will be an outdoors but indoors and have a huge domed ceiling dotted with glittering stars, the moon will always be full and the air scented with perfume. It will have enormous egg shaped seats swinging from overhead trellises which will be festooned with passion flowers and jasmine. There will be hideaway caves for snogging. Here and there will be mini bars staffed by muscled young barmen and boobalicious young barmaids, serving sanatogen tonics as well as champagne cocktails. There will be laser shows on the hour, as well as wandering opera singers and marching bands.
2. A small fairground in the gardens, with rollercoaster, a waltzer, a helter skelter (with big puffy cushions for fragile hips), coconut shies and hook a duck stalls. A little kiosk will give away candy floss and toffee apples (denture friendly).
3. A (minimum 2) star Michelin chef will design and cook the menus. It will be eggs and salmon for breakfast, steak for lunch (unless a soft diet is required, then it will be foie gras) and whatever magnificent concoction they choose for dinner. Swan probably. Chocolate strawberries and muffins sprinkled with golden and pink glitter will be laid out on china plates for those who are peckish throughout the day.
4. The staff will be on a 2:1 ratio, and wear a uniform of pink feather boas and hotpants. Both sexes.
5. There will be a betting shop where every bet placed is a winner.
I am fed up, with the misery the old folks of this world endure at the end of their lives. So, come on. Point the finger at ME dear lotto God.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
