So there I was this morning, happily soaking up the glow of the Autumn Sun streaming through my office window, thinking what a lucky Shiny I am, having such a beautiful big sky view over the flatland to the mountains on the other side, all glittering and lovely, when I heard a vague scratching sound. A bit like paper rustling.
Through my golden-sunray-induced-reverie I heard it. A shuffling of papers in the vicinity of my colleague’s desk. Not something that would ordinarily bring me out of any kind of reverie, let alone a golden-sunray-induced one! Except that said colleague is on leave. I blinked, twice, and thought about turning around, the sun trying to keep me under its spell. The noise got louder. I got nervous.
I adopted the “If I don’t look around the Big Bad Thing will go away” stance, and continued to soak up the sun and started fiddling with my computer in the hope that the noise I made would drown out the scratching. I tried singing, loudly, but even a rousing rendition of Santa Claus is Coming to Town (why should such a great tune be reserved purely for one month a year?) couldn’t make it disappear.
It got louder, and closer (our desks join) and I decided I should muster up some courage to turn and face the Big Bad Thing. Slowly I turned my neck, just a little at first, not wanting to startle it, whatever it was.
Horrors! I was suddenly face-to-face with The Most Enormous Cockroach Known to Man (TMECKtM). Seriously, his 2000-lensed cockroach eyes were at my level. He was, admittedly, standing on the desk, as opposed to on the floor, but still, this guy was enormous. Rat-sized really (then again, the rats in this very old, many-roomed, used-to-be-hospital are cat-sized). TMECKtM looked at me, and I looked at it. Only momentarily, though. Then the reality kicked in. I was staring into the 2000 eyes of TMECKtM… fuuuuccckkkk.
I emitted a girly scream worthy of a Hollywood teen thriller and backed away before it could reach out and get its humungous spiky little cockroach hand stuck in my very-nice-thank-you jersey. I have to admit that I then very unfeministly called the nearest boy to come and ‘deal with it’.
Which he did, using a huge book.
I feel slightly bad about it. Perhaps TMECKtM was just coming over to say hello and share a cup of tea, like Miranda’s hippo?
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
My mother's magic handbag
My mother had a magic handbag when we were children. In fact, she had a number of them through the years. I presume that there was some Secret Handbag Shop where she'd buy them. I imagine it was one of those places in an alley, with a non-descript door on which you'd knock, perhaps three times, and a little slot would open through which you'd whisper a secret password (something like "Antwerp") and then it'd open, just wide enough to let her slip through, leaving the alley empty, and looking innocent.
Well that's how I think it happens, I may have got one or two details wrong (maybe the password is "Serendipity" or "Diddley-do".) She says she just gets them from normal shops. I know this is untrue, though, and she's actually been sworn to secrecy, and just can't tell the real story for fear of repercussions from The People who run the Secret Handbag Shop. However she obtained them, they were certainly magic. And still are.
You see, they have a never ending supply of tissues, generally a bit crumpled, but clean, that smell like her face powder (an extremely lovely, motherly-soothing smell). I have seen literally hundreds of them come out of there - to mop up spills, to blow snotty noses and - teenage cringe - to wipe small spots of dirt off our faces, with spit!
The main thing is that I never, ever, saw her put any of those tissues into the handbag. I told you it was magic, didn't I?
Well that's how I think it happens, I may have got one or two details wrong (maybe the password is "Serendipity" or "Diddley-do".) She says she just gets them from normal shops. I know this is untrue, though, and she's actually been sworn to secrecy, and just can't tell the real story for fear of repercussions from The People who run the Secret Handbag Shop. However she obtained them, they were certainly magic. And still are.
You see, they have a never ending supply of tissues, generally a bit crumpled, but clean, that smell like her face powder (an extremely lovely, motherly-soothing smell). I have seen literally hundreds of them come out of there - to mop up spills, to blow snotty noses and - teenage cringe - to wipe small spots of dirt off our faces, with spit!
The main thing is that I never, ever, saw her put any of those tissues into the handbag. I told you it was magic, didn't I?
Monday, April 19, 2010
The ash cloud
On the way to Real Work this morning, my love made this comment about the ash flying around up there above Iceland and the rest of Europe:
“Mother Nature just makes a small fart, and the world grinds to a halt. It’s a good lesson for humanity.”
I really couldn’t put it better.
“Mother Nature just makes a small fart, and the world grinds to a halt. It’s a good lesson for humanity.”
I really couldn’t put it better.
A wonderful weekend
It was a square table, with eight places. Each one filled with a fabulous soul. Between songs we could hear the sea in this little town on a turquoise bay, away from the city, where the stars shine and the sliver moon smiled a skew smile at me. Conversation flowed, freely and happily. Talk of things past, things to come.
The children slept in the bedroom. I remembered how that felt as a child, put to sleep in the dinner party host’s bed – to wake, momentarily, and hear the adult voices, I’d strain my ears to discern my parents’ voices amongst the jollity and, when I heard them, I’d be soothed and fall back asleep, wine glasses clinking, people talking and laughing in the background of my dreams. When did we become the grown-ups?
It was a wonderful weekend, celebrating H’s birthday in a beautiful place where the bright blue sky melted into the turquoise sea, picture postcard-like. We ate, we soaked up the rapidly fading summer sun, we played Trivial Pursuit (I won!) and I marvelled, again, at how lucky I am, to be able to sit at such a table, filled with food, and surrounded by old friends who know my every nuance, and new loves, who make us smile. Because H has a new love who is making her smile, a lot, that wide grinned kind.
I watched as they dipped their toes in the sea, as 3-year old M ran with her mother to the water's edge and I remembered watching a similiar scene, 15 years ago, on a different beach, in a different time, when we were young(er). She looked just the same, despite having had two children. I could smell the salt air and closed my eyes for a minute, and I was there.
And then to come home, driving through the country side with a never-ending sky dotted about with child’s drawing clouds. Home to all the comfort and a night filled with funny faces and laughing… All thoughts of work wiped away with giggles.
And I got to thinking about how it is to have so many to love and to be loved by so many. I couldn’t be luckier, could I?
The children slept in the bedroom. I remembered how that felt as a child, put to sleep in the dinner party host’s bed – to wake, momentarily, and hear the adult voices, I’d strain my ears to discern my parents’ voices amongst the jollity and, when I heard them, I’d be soothed and fall back asleep, wine glasses clinking, people talking and laughing in the background of my dreams. When did we become the grown-ups?
It was a wonderful weekend, celebrating H’s birthday in a beautiful place where the bright blue sky melted into the turquoise sea, picture postcard-like. We ate, we soaked up the rapidly fading summer sun, we played Trivial Pursuit (I won!) and I marvelled, again, at how lucky I am, to be able to sit at such a table, filled with food, and surrounded by old friends who know my every nuance, and new loves, who make us smile. Because H has a new love who is making her smile, a lot, that wide grinned kind.
I watched as they dipped their toes in the sea, as 3-year old M ran with her mother to the water's edge and I remembered watching a similiar scene, 15 years ago, on a different beach, in a different time, when we were young(er). She looked just the same, despite having had two children. I could smell the salt air and closed my eyes for a minute, and I was there.
And then to come home, driving through the country side with a never-ending sky dotted about with child’s drawing clouds. Home to all the comfort and a night filled with funny faces and laughing… All thoughts of work wiped away with giggles.
And I got to thinking about how it is to have so many to love and to be loved by so many. I couldn’t be luckier, could I?
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Circus ghosts
My barefaced honesty of yesterday bit me on my bum basically. I had not meant to expose that, but it just came out and then I'd hit that little orange 'Publish Post' block and there it was, raw and exposed. And I cried. And then I felt a little better. And then I looked around me and tried to be thankful for all the things I do have. And I have a lot. And we'll leave it there for now and I'll write about other stuff and leave that raw exposededness alone for a bit because I'm feeling, well, kind of over-exposed.
I drive past a circus school each morning on my way to Real Work. It's just across the road from The River, which often swirls in mist on Winter's mornings. The mist crosses the road and twirls its way around the circus school too. It has trapezes and foofie slides and swings, all with nets underneath them to catch any acrobats that might miss their grip. Last week a red-and-white-striped tent appeared. One morning I saw the huge poles, with the canvas lying curled on the ground between them, a stripy, sleeping cat.
The next morning it was up, magnificent in it's candy stripes, a place of childhood dreams. I could smell the straw scattered on the floor as we drove past and almost seen the guy outside selling candy floss. It stayed up for a couple of days and then disappeared again, leaving only the giant poles, a string from one flapping in the wind.
The thing is, though, that I've never seen a single person there. I imagine it is a place for circus ghosts, who play at night, swinging from trapeze to trapeze, sometimes falling to the net below and giggling with glee. Then, when they are breathless from foofie-sliding and mid-air somersaulting, they sit together in that striped tent and eat candy floss and tell fabulous tales of circus people and travelling.
There are probably even a clown or two amongst them all, big shoes, red noses and all.
I drive past a circus school each morning on my way to Real Work. It's just across the road from The River, which often swirls in mist on Winter's mornings. The mist crosses the road and twirls its way around the circus school too. It has trapezes and foofie slides and swings, all with nets underneath them to catch any acrobats that might miss their grip. Last week a red-and-white-striped tent appeared. One morning I saw the huge poles, with the canvas lying curled on the ground between them, a stripy, sleeping cat.
The next morning it was up, magnificent in it's candy stripes, a place of childhood dreams. I could smell the straw scattered on the floor as we drove past and almost seen the guy outside selling candy floss. It stayed up for a couple of days and then disappeared again, leaving only the giant poles, a string from one flapping in the wind.
The thing is, though, that I've never seen a single person there. I imagine it is a place for circus ghosts, who play at night, swinging from trapeze to trapeze, sometimes falling to the net below and giggling with glee. Then, when they are breathless from foofie-sliding and mid-air somersaulting, they sit together in that striped tent and eat candy floss and tell fabulous tales of circus people and travelling.
There are probably even a clown or two amongst them all, big shoes, red noses and all.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Heartbroken
I have wondered this before, and wondered it again this morning as the mist swirled and twirled about me, playing hide-and-go-seek with the trees along the river. Does The Weatherman change the weather according to my state of mind? While I realise it is a preposterous thought that the entire City Beneath the Mountain's weather is dependent on li'l ol' Shiny's mood, but it's just, well, very coincidental.
I have a lot on my mind, and it's twirling and swirling and storming and pouring and blowing about, this way and that, directionless. One minute I feel okay, the next I feel like it's all too much and I'm fucking it up and I'm getting fucked up. Excuse my sailor-like language, but I can find nothing better to describe this. My mother would be horrified.
I keep reassuring myself that this is just life, and that I can do this. I can get over the hurdles (even if I have to do that at a crawl, using my teeth and nails), that the good bits of life WAY outnumber the crap bits. And they do, I know they do. Just sometimes, it all seems so difficult.
And it's at those times that I really question stuff and my frustration feels insurmountable. All I want to do is walk along a deserted beach, salty wind and the frothy crashing of waves my only companions. A dip into the effervescence, a little body-surfing, allowing the bubbles to kiss every part of my skin and the ocean vapours to infuse my lungs, washing away those swirling mind mists, clearing the air. Being the real me.
But I can't. And it breaks my heart.
I have a lot on my mind, and it's twirling and swirling and storming and pouring and blowing about, this way and that, directionless. One minute I feel okay, the next I feel like it's all too much and I'm fucking it up and I'm getting fucked up. Excuse my sailor-like language, but I can find nothing better to describe this. My mother would be horrified.
I keep reassuring myself that this is just life, and that I can do this. I can get over the hurdles (even if I have to do that at a crawl, using my teeth and nails), that the good bits of life WAY outnumber the crap bits. And they do, I know they do. Just sometimes, it all seems so difficult.
And it's at those times that I really question stuff and my frustration feels insurmountable. All I want to do is walk along a deserted beach, salty wind and the frothy crashing of waves my only companions. A dip into the effervescence, a little body-surfing, allowing the bubbles to kiss every part of my skin and the ocean vapours to infuse my lungs, washing away those swirling mind mists, clearing the air. Being the real me.
But I can't. And it breaks my heart.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Another letter
Sitting in the traffic on the way to Real Work today I was astounded to see a new level of ridiculous outside the Very Posh Boy's School I drive past each morning. It inspired another letter:
Dear Driver of Big Sparkley 4X4,
While I’m sure you love your new 4X4, and you wish to show off its 4X4 abilities by mounting the pavement when dropping off your little prince at school, parking it half on the pavement and the the other half in the bicycle lane seems, well, a bit selfish. You see, if you think about it, just a little, you will realise that those people who ride bicycles (i.e. the non-gas-guzzlers with an environmental conscience) will need to swerve out INTO TRAFFIC to get past your car, thus putting their lives in danger.
If you turned your head just slightly to the left of your large car, you would notice a huge open area where the other little princes’ parents park their sparkley 4X4’s when dropping them off at school, out of the bicycle lane, thus not endangering anyone’s lives completely unnecessarily.
While we’re having this little chat, perhaps I could just mention, too, that such a big car seems unnecessary for city driving. It is patently obvious that the closest it has got to anything to do with a dirt track is perhaps some dust in your garage. You do know that there is a little issue with carbon emissions and the environment and stuff, don’t you? If not, perhaps you could ask your little prince. I’m pretty sure they’re taught about it at that school.
Just a couple of points to ponder this afternoon when you fetch the little tyke from school. I’m sure you don’t want to cause any unnecessary harm (to both cyclists, and the environment).
Love,
Shiny x
I wonder if I should pop it under the windscreen wiper?
Dear Driver of Big Sparkley 4X4,
While I’m sure you love your new 4X4, and you wish to show off its 4X4 abilities by mounting the pavement when dropping off your little prince at school, parking it half on the pavement and the the other half in the bicycle lane seems, well, a bit selfish. You see, if you think about it, just a little, you will realise that those people who ride bicycles (i.e. the non-gas-guzzlers with an environmental conscience) will need to swerve out INTO TRAFFIC to get past your car, thus putting their lives in danger.
If you turned your head just slightly to the left of your large car, you would notice a huge open area where the other little princes’ parents park their sparkley 4X4’s when dropping them off at school, out of the bicycle lane, thus not endangering anyone’s lives completely unnecessarily.
While we’re having this little chat, perhaps I could just mention, too, that such a big car seems unnecessary for city driving. It is patently obvious that the closest it has got to anything to do with a dirt track is perhaps some dust in your garage. You do know that there is a little issue with carbon emissions and the environment and stuff, don’t you? If not, perhaps you could ask your little prince. I’m pretty sure they’re taught about it at that school.
Just a couple of points to ponder this afternoon when you fetch the little tyke from school. I’m sure you don’t want to cause any unnecessary harm (to both cyclists, and the environment).
Love,
Shiny x
I wonder if I should pop it under the windscreen wiper?
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