I don’t have a title today

1. 8.31am. Where are those piano fuckers, I bellow, a toothbrush in one hand and a shoe in the other. They were meant to be here by 8.30 and I’m going to be late.

1. 8.32am. The doorbell. It’s the piano people.

2. 8.35am. J’s steel-framed upright piano and heirloom has been prised out of its corner, and wheeled out the door in under 4 minutes, without a grunt. The piano is off to a good home.

3. 8.36am. I start bawling uncontrollably, much to J’s surprise. It’s nice to be reminded of how soppy you are, he says, offering me a hug.

4. The cat has darted out the house, sulking. He doesn’t like it that the piano is gone either; he used to have so much fun running down the stairs at full speed and crashing into it head first. It would make a lovely muffled musical sound, too.

5. 8.45. I’m still bawling my eyes out. It’s not even mine! I can’t even play the damn thing! I put my other shoe on, finish brushing my teeth and leave the house. The Italian-lady-next-door is out gardening. Today is full of challenges aready.

Eliza, Eliza, do not mess with me

1. As a desperate attempt to keep my straying cat at home, I have roasted a chicken, and draped a warm and comfy Moroccan camel-pubes blanket over the sofa. He’s now reclining in comfort, with a full belly. Italian-lady-next-door, do you only know who you’re dealing with? I shall not lose my moggy to a superior feeder, even if it means I have to sit on the hard floor and eat raw turnips.

2. ‘Do you know how ladies in Florence kept their men at home? She asks. Well, every morning, they’d serve their husband a home-made poison, and every night, they’d give him the antidote; so any straying husband would have a very, very uncomfortable night.’ That’s a line of dialogue from a film I watched last night, people of blogland. The Italian-Lady-next-door – she’s called Eliza- does not know that I have my eye on her. But I’ve got to be careful, it’s what the film said.

3. The doorbell goes at 6.30. I can make out a plump shape behind the glass. It’s her! She’s coming to taunt me, wink at my cat, perhaps! Then they’ll probably leave together, pointing at me and laughing.
As I open the door, I’m a perfect picture of dignity and aloofness.

4. But the Italian-lady-next-door is bearing gifts. Hard, tiny green apples from her tree, and cat food! She’s bringing me cat food! Is it a truce? Is it a trap? But why?

5. ‘You’ve been trying to steal my cat away from me’, I do not say as I thank her profusely and close the door.
I’m confused.

Cheat

Like a husband coming home late smeared in some hussy’s red lipstick and smelling of cheap fragrance, my cat has been returning home smelling of fish.

I’m clearly being cheated on here.

Who is the mermaid luring him away?
Perhaps it’s the old Italian lady next door, the One Of The Gigantic Knickers.
Anyhow, the moggy’s got it coming. I shall craft a little pendant thing with the words ‘Do not feed me, I’m a greedy, lying, cheating fat arse’. and possibly make little flyers for people’s letter boxes.
Feel free to place an order if you have a similar kind of spouse.

I have other things to report, people of blogland, but there is coconut cake to be had, so farewell for now.

C is for Crush

People of blogland, sit tight: tonight I’m going to tell you about a few of my unrequited crushes. Just because I can. Just don't tell my Special Lady Friend, ok? This is just between you and me.

Crush #1, 5 on the Richter scale, Circa 1990
Oh, that one. Oh yes.
This one got me out of bed every weekday for a whole school year, you see.
I don’t know what it was; the ponytail, the blue eyes, the make up, the carefully studied androgynous goth/grunge look, the one earring. I was inspired; I read so many books that year. My friends said he had greasy hair, but I didn’t care, he was a lovely school librarian.
About three or four years ago I was home and I saw him down at the swimming pool. He was balding and had a mean potbelly. I swam to the other end of the pool.
I’m so over it.

Crush #2, 8 on the Richter scale, Circa 1978-1985, and for this one I can provide a picture:
With her Christmas bonus, my mother bought our first TV set, and at dinner time I watched Albator.
Right. Pirate. Long hair. Scar. Black clothes. Big knee-length boots. Rebel.
Sometimes I couldn't even swallow my food properly.
All I can say is : there is no way Albator was really a guy. Pirate, yes; girl pirate.
Seriously, look: hips!
What am I saying, 1985; I’m still crushed out.

Crush #3, 9 on the Richter scale, circa now:
This delicious creature is called Bebe, and she’s a singer and she’s Spanish. Oh, the beautiful extremeno accent, the lovely way she has of skipping over consonants, the hand gestures, the voice, the eyes, the everything. I’ve gone all weak at the knees just watching one of her videos.
In fact I’m feeling a bit queasy now. It happens when I get all crushed out on someone unattainable.

I don’t have a punch line, blogfolks. So now I better go and have some alka-seltzer.

Familles je vous hais, etc

1.Blogfolks, you probably have one of those too.

A cousin, sibling, whatever, just a year older than you, or, worse, younger and cuter, or and brighter and more attractive, with better grades at school, blonder hair, a better job, a sexier wife, a bigger car.
When you’re 6 your grandmother tells you about his impeccable manners; at 7 you know about how he can do a 6000 piece jigsaw all by himself (and you can’t), at 8 he’s a fencing champion( and you’re not), at 18 he’s got a rich girlfriend (and you’re a retarded goth), at 24 he’s getting married (and not you, and you’re not going to the wedding), and now he’s an engineer, and although your grandmother is now dead and can’t bust out the wedding pictures, you still think you’re just not as good.

Don’t you?

2. I have one. He’s been the plague of my life so far. Bigger, brighter, with shinier teeth, bluer eyes, an example to follow. Better at maths. (because being better at languages doesn’t count.) Better at sports. (because being better at friendship doesn’t count.)

3. ‘I saw Adrian yesterday’, my mother says on the phone. ‘He says hello.’
I bet he didn’t really.
‘you know what? He reminds me of George Bush.’
‘How so?’ I giggle.
‘Well.. Good hair, expensive clothes, a well-paid job, but really I think he’s an idiot. And he’s so fake.’

4. And this is another reason why I love my mother.
Wouldn’t you?,

30-something handed me this stick – it’s called 7 things.

Seven Things I Plan To Do Before I Die:

Plan? Me? No.

Seven Things I Can Do:
1. chew and walk
2. rub my belly and my head
3. pancakes.
4. Cartwheels.
5. origami in the shape of female genitalia
6. I’m a mean cuddler, but then I did learn from the best.
7. Pee very, very far. (I always won every competition.)


Seven Things I Can Not Do:

1. The splits. I used to, and now I can’t, although I have recurring dreams about it. I wonder what it means. *paging Dr Freud*
2. Wear odd socks.
3. Sit through a film in which a character is being treated unfairly, even if I know s/he’ll get even at the end.
4. Bear the sound of sports commentaries. I just get a rash.
5. act interested in wedding/sprogs pictures.
6. j says ‘tie your shoelaces’, but he’s grossly exaggerating.
7. eat a prune without farting for the next two days.


Seven Things I Say The Most:

1. Putain de bordel de merde. That’s a combo of 3 of the rudest French words you can get, and it’s very, very satisfying to utter. Try it.
2. It sucks donkey balls.
3. ay ay ay!
4. Bollocks.
5. Bring it!
6. Ok, but don’t yell.
7. mon gros matou chéri que j’aime - but only to my cat.

Seven Books I Love:

1. The heart is a lonely hunter – Carson Mc Cullers
2. They call me Mad Dog – Erika Lopez
3. Plateform –Michel Houellbecq
4. Slammerkin – Emma Donoghue
5. The Count of Monte Cristo – Alexandre Dumas
6. Au Bonheur des Dames – Emile Zola
7. Exquisite Corpse – Poppy Z Brite

So, that was nearly impossible.
I left out ‘ 7 things I find attractive about the opposite sex’ as well as ‘the same sex’. I don’t know why.

Trivia

1. Blogfolks, I had to shave my forehead today.

Not in a cool Goth shaved head kind of way. No. I had accidentally dyed my forehead black. So I scrubbed and scrubbed, with soap and more soap and various products I found- I drew the line at bleach and toilet cleaner.
I should have known- the hair dye box said ‘Blackest Black’. None of that ‘Kinda Black’, or ‘Half assed Black’ rubbish.
No.
‘Blackest Black’.
If you find anything blacker, you’ll probably die. No pun intended.
I want to write to the manufacturers and suggest ‘Black, Goddamnit’ or‘Motherfucking Black’.
So anyway. Forehead. Horror. Desperation. I’ll never be able to leave this house again. Scrub scrub scrub.
My skin turned an interesting shade of grey, but eventually regained its Caucasian pallor, with added shine.
The little hairs, on the other hand, remained obstinately black. I didn’t even know I had hair on my forehead!
So I shaved them off.
There’s no punch line, I just wanted to share. I know there’s more important things going on in the world, leave me alone.

2. I’ve gone back to work; it’s the end of life as I know it. Fortunately, last night my Special Lady Friend came over and helped tip back the work /life scales. She’s taking me away next week end. Or is it me taking her? I’m not sure. I know it will involve the sea, good food and sleeping late.

3. I’ll leave you now because I have to bleach my moustache. Thank you for stopping by.

Fairly atavic, or this fire in my belly

1. -I can reschedule the delivery for tomorrow, which means you’ll have to be at home for it.
- Yes m’am. Whatever you say, I’m at your mercy, Ye Parcelforce Power. I bet she has hair bleached yellow.
- So your parcel could be delivered anytime between 7am and 7pm, she says gleefully.
- Oh aye, I nod down the phone. I don’t want to risk her wrath and see the whole thing collaspse. Still. I bet she has her hair scrapped into a bun with that little bit hanging on her greasy face. And gold hoop earrings.
- So you have to be at home all day, she adds. This time it’s bordering on the malicious, chavgirl.
- I’ll make sure I set my alarm in plenty of time and then I’ll wait behind my net curtains for your messiah-like delivery man, I don’t say but I really wish I had because it would have been far cooler than just u-huh-ing down the phone, then thanking her politely for being patronised. So today, I’m stuck at home fuming again.

2. See, people of blogland, yesterday it wasn’t only the gods of parcel deliveries that were against me. Trains were too. As a result of South West trains’ extreme and untimely deviousness late last night, I took my special lady friend to places she’d never been before, and I don’t mean metaphorically. Effingham?? It doesn’t even exist. Finally we managed to get to my home and it was so late that all we had time for before falling asleep was a cuddle.. Trains, and chocolate vending machines which ate my last 20 pence. All day I mentally composed wrathful, vitriolic letters of complaints to the Higher Powers, and imagined replies of abject, crawling apologies that I could wave at people and frame. As well as free travelcards and endless chocolate bars.

3. See, most normal families know those times (Christmas, Birthdays, First Boyfriend’s visit) when you bust out the photo album and reminisce. In my family, we do most things differently. Instead, my mother keeps a thick folder of complaints letters that she has sent over the years. It goes back to 1969, année érotique for some, but to my mother the year she discovered the superior pleasure she could take in unleashing her rage at the same Higher Powers that pissed me off all of yesterday. At Christmas, we bust out the Bitching Folder and we giggle. My favourite letter is perhaps the June 1978 one, great year for gold lamé platform shoes with tiny straps. Straps that broke with the first step out of the shop; bum on floor and bruises, argument, scandal, perfectly delightful letter, 2 free pairs of shoes.
Result.
There are scores of other letters all legitimate, to gas people, mail order companies, wine sellers, supermarkets, plane companies. Over the years we got lots of free coupons, but she has never managed to get free flights.
Yet.

4. I don’t really know what my point is today; except that if the Pratcelforce powers don’t turn up with my stuff before 7.01, I have a letter coming. It’s brewing already. I have about a dozen really cool adjectives ready.
Blame it on atavism. J thinks it’s pointless and ‘such a Y thing to do’. I don't care, it’s cathartic.
And, sometimes, it gets results.