Winter is upon us

Oh dear, oh dear! Winter is here! It's the first rainy, windy, grey day. I realised yesterday that this could, well, be the reason for my rising melancholy. I do not like the cold. At all. Yes, I love a day spent next to my crackling fire, listening to the rain on the tin roof in the company of lovely people but, unfortunately, in reality, that is not how most of my Winter is spent (although I try to make those occassions fairly regular).

Mostly it's spent getting up in the cold dark, muddling through the rain to work and slinking back home to try and warm up in my made-for-Africa (i.e. NOT warm) house. Don't get me wrong, I love my House in the Middle of the Street but no, the bottom line is that it is draughty and cold. Unless you're sitting right next to the fireplace. Here in Africa we don't do central heating. We just ignore the fact that, for four months a year (sometimes more) it's bloody freezing.

I think it's like they say childbirth is - during labour you scream and swear you'll never again and then you forget the pain as soon as you see the baby. Then you do it again. All Winter we talk about installing solar heating, blocking the gaps under the front (and back) door that allow the freezing gales in (and sometimes the rain too, if it's heavy) and vow to buy more energy-saving heaters (I do try to be environmentally-friendly). But, as soon as Spring curls her pretty fingers around us... whoosh... out of my tiny brain it goes.

In other, fascinating, news, the milk I have at the moment seems to make a skin on top of my tea the minute I let it stand. Most disturbing. I told you it was fascinating, didn't I?

Sinning and a confession

I slept, solidly, for 9 hours last night. But I have a confession. It's terribly embarassing, but I feel I must get it out, in the interest of my newly found blurting honesty. Did you see what I did? I made a crossed-out word. I have been reading other people's blogs and being very covetous of their ability to do that. Knowing that covetousness is a sin, I decided I should find out how. I love Google. No more sinful coveting for Shiny, no sirree.

While on these techno-thingies, does anyone know if you can change your blog name without changing the link to it, as in messing up people's links to it? I would hate to lose my three huge number of followers, but really feel that 'Almostthirtythree' should perhaps be changed three years down the line. Seeing as lying lieing being untruthful is a sin too. Dearie me, crossing-outed words are, obviously, the flavour of the day now.

Back to my confession... Wait for it...

I drool. Especially when I'm very tired and sleep solidly. I, too, thought it was something only teething children did but I am living, breathing, drooling proof, that this is not true. Adults do it too. By the way, the fabulous twin nephews are teething. And drooling, like their Aunt. At present they have one tooth between them. They are also becoming pros at crawling. Backwards. Bless. When I sleep, I drool. (Reading that paragraph back I thought I should just make that clear - I only do it while sleeping!)

Too much information?

A nasty one

Yes, I am writing two posts today. I don’t think I’ve ever done that before. I feel words bursting out of me (a rare occurrence in the past few months, so I should take advantage). I am feeling like my body is completely made up of a very thin layer of skin and inside is just waves and waves of salty water, with my organs washing around in there. One little prick, or taunt, and I may just flood.

Admittedly, I have had a number of things happen at Real Work that have made me question humanity. My faith in humanity is normally so strong, but sometimes it just gets royally fucked. I couldn’t bring myself to write about it until now, when, thanks to a comment from clever Tamara on my last, but one, post, made me realise that I should use this blog more as an outlet.

The first call I had yesterday when I got to work was about a woman who had been brutally and viciously raped. Because she was gay. My heart broke and my head reeled with the injustice and cruelty of it. I struggle even to write that, I want it to not have happened. But it did.

I have no words to explain my inconsolable sadness that people have to be put through things like this. It is indescribably horrific and I cannot imagine how, if ever, she will have any faith in humanity again.

Oh dear, I just pricked myself, I must stop before I flood the office. I seem to keep doing things without realising it at the moment, don’t I?

The nature of relationships

I wonder about relationships. I watch other people’s, I look at mine, and I wonder at the nature of them. Obviously, they evolve. I have had some relationships that evolved well, some that didn’t, I’ve been lucky not to ever have any that have exploded into nasty situations. I’ve seen that happen to lots of other people. I guess it depends on your nature, too. I don’t do conflict.

The point that I was pondering, though, is the evolution from that fizzy, fabulous initial phase. The one where SMS’s fly back and forth, and the air feels electric, all the time. The evolution to something more comfortable, less frenetic. It’s a lovely space.

I’m arguing with myself, though, and wondering where the line is between just loving someone entirely and being clingy? Are there rules about how much contact you make? Is it okay to still want to be wrapped up in each other, six months down the line? .

And by wrapped up in each other, by no means do I mean wrapped up to the point of exclusion of anybody else. I am also lucky not to have ever been one of those people who drops their friends whenever I get into a relationship (I learnt with my First Great Love the dangers of such foolishness). I have fabulous friends, why would I ever want to drop them?

Can one continue with the excited-to-call/message/e-mail part of relationships or, at some point, does one have to get into that grown up, humdrum relationship? You know the one.

An unexpected realisation

It was a strange Easter weekend. I did lots and, at the same time, did little. Had a couple of dinner and lunch dates, which were lovely, and then spent some me time, alone, at home, doing, well, um, nothing (except watching Season 1 and 2 of Green Wing. In their entirety).

I was feeling a little out-of-sorts you see, and anti-social, and wasn't sure why. Sunday night I got very little sleep, due to a combination of things, and my inherent worriededness. I realised, on reflection, that, while I generally count myself as happy-go-lucky, I am forever thinking I don't deserve the happiness I get. And then, as a result, I seem to think it's going to be taken away from me. It's terrifying.

Good grief, I had NO idea what I was going to write about today, and have never admitted to anybody that I have this crippling terror. Just goes to show what comes from just blurting out 'stuff' as opposed to thinking before writing.

Is this a result of my own personal tragedy, or was this there before? I honestly can't tell. But I can tell you that it’s very definitely there now. And I’m not entirely sure how to make it go away, now that I’ve acknowledged it’s presence. It’s sitting there in one of the (many) back corridors of my mind. It’s a dark, gloopy place, filled with fear and tears.

I wonder if there’s some kind of vacuum cleaner for such places?

Good Friday

This morning I spoke to my love out there in the barren land of big birds, then I ate Hot Cross Buns, then I met friends for a lovely breakfast in a big mall and met their new baby who is beautiful and soft and cuddly and smiley and then I spoke to The Pond in Faraway who is having a rough time and now I'm going to watch a DVD or read my book.

And through all these things, I am missing my love. Overwhelmingly.

Astral travel. Why's it taking them so bloody long to get it right?

Another letter to The Pope

Last year, around about this time, I wrote a letter to The Pope (see here). I have heard nothing back, which makes me just a little cross. I thought maybe he needed a little reminder, so have written a follow up. Here it is:

Dear The Pope,

I wrote to you last year about the naming of Good Friday but you haven’t, yet, replied. Now, of course I realise that you’re a very busy man, but I can’t help thinking that this is something that should move up on your list of priorities. I’m assuming that these things do take a while to get ‘passed’ or whatever you call it, in your Very Serious Meeting Sessions, so am going to give you the benefit of the doubt, and assume you’re busy with it.

In the meantime, that bakery is making those yummy Hot Cross Buns this year again, so let me know if you’d like some – they may even help you and your cronies make up your minds quicker about the re-naming… I find they help me think.

Which reminds me of a joke you could tell the guys, to lighten the spirit in your Very Serious Meeting Sessions. It's an apt one for this time of the year:

What do you get if you pour boiling water down a rabbit hole?

A hot, cross, bunny.

Love,
Shiny x

Wonder if he’ll reply this time?