Friends and the bag woman.

The desire to write is back... but what to write about is a problem. I could write about the fraudulent Moll but that wouldn't be fair... Yet.

I will however mention all my good friends who have helped in this time of need. Thank you.

And 'Heads'... I'm back.

How it is

I am about to be hated but I am about to save my life.

I'd rather be alive and hated than dead and patronised.

You would not believe the shit I am having to go through at the moment so that Moll the bag lady can
maintain her reputation.

Please have patience. I will be back.

Hot dog

Postcards from Rusty. No. 23

Rusty writes from Panic, Michegan. Frankly I do not believe that the image on the card is where he says it is.

He tells me that nurse Caz has left him for a snake oil salesman from Tupelo. He is returning to England.

Correct toothpaste procedure during courting.

She said, laughing, let's brush our teeth together and by the time I got to the bathroom candles were lit and the light sparkled in the many mirrors.

she watched with burgeoning affection as I squeezed the toothpaste from the middle of the tube while I thought to myself; 'how much time will pass before I am admonished for squeezing the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and nagged into squeezing from the end.

give me a cuddle, she said some time later, not a hard one but a long squeeze. so I squeezed her round the waist and told her that she would always be my toothpaste tube and that I would squeeze her for ever. All the while thinking to myself 'how long will this last.

And sure enough one day she pulls away and says: 'Dont squeeze me like that, if you squeeze me in the middle I'll be obliged to nag...

If only you were a foot fetishist, then you'd squeeze me right.

So I never squeezed her in the middle again and over the years the 'waist' which I had squeezed Into her dissapeared and she became tube shaped from all of my foot squeezing.

The only physical contact we have now is her monthly pedicure.

I noticed the other day that she squeezes the toothpaste from the middle of the tube and has always done so.

I daren't point this out to her.

Natural history.

Some time ago while watching a TV programme about the Humbolt current Nurse Caz pressed the pause button and said:

Jannie, I never had a teddy bear as a child. I had a sea lion.

I didn't have a teddy bear either. Or a sea lion... I had a rock, a black rock.

I found it in the shed by the kitchen door when I had first started to walk. I took it into the house and very quickly formed an attachment to that black rock but my mother took it from me and threw it on the fire.

I cried for a while at the loss of my only friend but soon returned to the shed near the kitchen door and found myself another 'friend' with which to play. my mother equally as speedily threw that friend on the fire.

This process continued for some weeks until I was fast enough on my feet to get ahead of the fire whereupon my mother started putting the black rocks into a basket beside the fire place. She called me 'Mummies clever little helper' although I could not see how it could be construed as clever to burn all of my friends.

Since then I have found it impossible to form lasting relationships.

but i am known for my splendid coal fires.

Window shopping and lardy cake.

Women can be cruel.

This morning I informed Moll that I would be spending a couple of happy hours window shopping followed by a light lunch with my 'yummy mummy' pals.

'They only want you there to spend all your money on lunch, otherwise they wouldn't be interested in you'. she said cruelly.

How wrong you are Moll.

Oh! for lunch I shall be having an egg white omelette and a glass of water followed by a lardy cake.

Molls 60's acid flashback.

I quite like avocado suites says moll they dont bother me at all, imagine it combined with purple it would be lovely.

The end of the lighthouse keeper.

I am reminded of lighthouse keepers.

And the sad fact that suicide is rife within the profession.

But there are no lighthouse keepers any longer I hear you say.

That is the problem. when automation was introduced the resident keepers were laid off and obliged to return to their wives and families.

Constant nagging and demands for DIYing come as a shock after years of solitude on a storm lashed rock.

They yearn for the constant nagging of the waves and and the demands of filling the oil lamps.

And then there are the rumours of fully manned lighthouses punctuating the seas and oceans of the afterlife.

And that Charons on board hospitality is provided by Grace Darling.

'Untie me from the mast, shipmates'. the redundant lighthouse keeper cries. 'I can hear the foghorn siren call and I must to her, to the lonely sea and the sky. All I need is my tall tower and my star to steer ships by'.

Orthodoxing Day.

Moll is no fool.

Her christmas day occurs in early January.

'Why so late?' I ask her.

'To take advantage of readily available natural resources'. She replies... 'A good selection of free christmas trees litter the streets (some of them part decorated), the recycling bins are full of wrapping paper, the charity shops full of cheap gift ideas.In the supermarkets mince pies and Christmas puddings are at a knock down price to make room for easter eggs (great stocking fillers in themselves) and there are no mile long queues at the checkout.

Another plus is the fact that the transport system works sufficiently well which means that there is no need for guests to stay overnight; they can leave shortly after the After Eights and well before my boredom threshold.'

'Not very orthodox!' I tell her.

'Au contraire sweetheart'. she says. 'It has long been the norm within the Greek Orthodox Church. which is one of the reasons why I was drawn to that strand of christianity'.

'What other reasons were there, Moll'? I ask.

She says nothing. Then a coy smile lights up her face and she glances sideways at the photograph of Archbishop Makarios attached to the fridge by a bagel shaped magnet...

Hogmanic tumbleweed.

Something to ponder over a well sucked humbug:

The start of the new year heralds the arrival of of the mysterious urban tumbleweeds that plague our streets for a week or two. The local authorities will do their best to clear the damn things away, but not before they distribute their seeds in the minds of small children and romantic adults, ready to germinate at the beginning of December.

Perfection and striped shirts.

Tristan called today in a state of great excitement.

'I have the answer to the perfect poem'. He tells me. I have hemingwayed one of my best ones until there is nothing there and all that is left for the performer is a series of body movements... It is sublime.

No Tristan, I replied... It is mime.

A train intrudes... But slowly.

Sadly (but inevitable sometimes) the realities of life have taken up much of my time lately; illness, death, lack of work and domestic worries have all contributed to a rather depressing time.

But hey ho, upwards and onwards. it is time to bring out the dunkirk spirit, dust off the old stiff upper lip and head towards the light at the end of the tunnel...

Probably an oncoming train though...

fortunately this is England and any oncoming train will be glued to the track by snow and oncoming nowhere, in any way other than abstract wishful thinking, for the forseeable future.

A good time to play 'chicken' then!