I have been having the worst dreams. They are becoming alarming more wretched and graphic as the week progresses...

Last night it reached pique with a delightful (I lie) scenario. Me, trapped in a room, a large loud room where no one could hear me or get to me- I screamed so loudly that I somehow managed to puncture a large hole in my throat- I could feel it. It was bandaged up for me, after a girl I went to secondary school with helpfully described it as a vagina....

When I woke up I checked my throat- standing in front of my mirror, muttering to myself that I have lost it.

Thankfully my throat is where it should be.

Other dreams were more surreal, and not as troubling- in fact I shared them all over the world by text, to let people know I was alive and to show them that I'm still... mad.

A few suggestions filtered through- give up cheese, talk to someone, careful what you read before you fall asleep. But my favourite one, from a medical professional...

Can you be normal for like, two seconds? Thanks.

Just in case you didn't believe me...

The Sunday of Sundays.

I put off going out to get the paper for some time as it was raining and I dislike wearing socks, so inevitably my feet would get wet and angry at me- they are vocal beasts.

But sometimes you know you should do something so it will entertain you at a later date and I am glad I did- I learnt that Baz Luhrmann isn't gay, that New York is so exciting you can make a 32 page travel guide out of the writings of people showing off that their passport is current and that there is a man in Leitrim advertising for a wife- he wants her for one year, to live on Inishfree.

I do kinda wanna sorta need to email him to see if it is legit and to find out if he is a terribly romantic soul or if he just couldn't be bothered with putting some product in the hair and going on tinder- it's where all the kids are going nowadays darling. But at the end of the day- I admire  his pluck, and the fact that he has no problem giving marriage a timeline.

It was a story in a magazine that also had a plucked, quaffed and spackled photo of Joan Collins and her adolescent boy toy of a husband as one of it's main features... so maybe I should wait and see what comes of the whole thing....

Gone Girl by Gillian Flynn
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

Maybe it's just me... maybe I read it wrong, but I certainly don't get what all the fuss was about.

I found it hard to actually finish this book to be honest, and that isn't something I usually experience- I will read anything (if my Goodreads library is anything to go by).

So as not to get too murky with spoilers lets just say;

There was one side to the story.

Then a second.

Then a tangent.

Then a "twist" which would make the Sci Fi channel cringe and then it ended.

That was the best part.

Knowing that it had to end.

Two stars might be kind actually.


View all my reviews

Finishing school?- FINISH HER.

The thing about solitude is- no one else is supposed to be there. I am supposed to be happily skipping around the shop, listening to my iPod a little too loudly minding my own daily mail (that is my code for BUSINESS) and I am supposed to be happy.

But today was different, today I came face to face with my nemesis. It was a collide of bodies, swear words (internal monologue) and galaxy minstrels. The person in question made eye contact and respectably said hello in a civil manner- which is just typical of them, always trying to make me feel like I am beneath them with their stupid face and hair and face.

I dealt with it in a mature and enlightening manner.

I stopped, looked and exclaimed- "Ahhhhhh!"

Before turning to the nearest exit.

Thank you internet; thank you for teaching me how to deal with the outside the world.

Or not.

Now- once I realised that I had in fact shouted in a person's face I felt slightly aghast at my behaviour- but then then the Nam flashbacks happened, the memories flooding from all sides and the reason for my behaviour was evident.

I liken it to the time someone told me James Franco was "beautiful".

Burying that body was a nightmare.

Even when it's at my finger tips....

With all the books, papers, magazines and online facilities I have within an arms reach- you'd think I would be more informed.

Today I spent the morning editing tirelessly- it's a slow and arduous task, not least because when I am tired and my spelling is the most woeful state of... (I just had to back and correct the word 'spelling'- good lord) vomit.

I love to read. I read until my eyes stop me, until I'm fast asleep and even then I am probably trying to finish the story in my overly stimulated head.

I find things online constantly that I want to read and know more about. I check a news website and see a related article and then I click on that, find something else shiny one page over and then BOOM- I'm on that cruel cruel mistress tangent ride that is Wikipedia.

In fact, I was just on the Irish Times website, fanning about and pretending to absorb some form of current event when I stumbled upon John Waters photo and by line, which threatening said- If you are reading this online, stop.

If ever there was a time to take stock, it's now. Mr Waters is watching.

With that in mind, I need to be more disciplined with my reading list on this tired computer if today is anything to go by, I have to learn to; Read or get off the pot. That may sound crude to you my delicate little flower, but if this madness continues there will be no novel for anyone and I will spend my entire life in a limbo of learning about things far worse than any theorem we memorised before going into the Leaving Cert.

I have decided that I need to empty that above image from my mind, my hard drive and my neglected reading list. He is like a poorly trained lover, you know he is there and if you're stuck... you'll give it a go. No idea why I made him male, that's for another day.

BUT NO MORE....

As soon as I learn all there is to know about this sport I just read about called curling...

God help me.

I think that the food in my fridge all hang out and are great friends when I close the door.

I think it's a mean girl society and they bitch and moan about the more popular things- like milk and cheese. The organic yoghurt that is only ever bought when I'm feel particularly guilty is always suicidal because... well, lets face it, it'll more than likely end up in the bin.

The condiments are cocky, arrogant and have no fear.

I hate ketchup.

NOAH Short | Short Cuts Canada | Festival 2013

Sometimes...

When I make a list of things to do... I leave off the most crucial task, this is because I enjoy a rebellion- even if it is against myself. Therefore if I don't add what I REALLY have to do onto the list and it might get done that day- it's all to do with psychology... Today I cleared out my wardrobe, it's a job I had been avoiding for a number of weeks and so last night my teenage self didn't remind my grown up self to do it and when I was supposed to be waxing my legs.... I cleaned out my wardrobe and compiled little regret bundles. Everyone has some of those, and if they tell you they don't, they're lying. Little scraps of clothes you never want the world to see, or more importantly- to see you in. But you will keep them in case of... some sort of post apocalyptical fashion crisis, Kimora Lee Simmons, Calvin Klein, Givenchy or Tom Forde may call on YOU... and want to know if you have that vomit green cardigan with the puffed up sleeves that will save the princess from the polyester pod people. All of this could happen. Anyway, I'm glad I blogged today. I meant to last week. This was when I was supposed to do a wash load. To conclude, I will go into my afternoon with one waxed leg (I forget my wimpish pain threshold) and no clean delicates. I have achieved.

Where have all the pants gone?

I don't ever want to begin a blog with; In my day things were different, but... In my day, things were different. A girl had money, and could afford pants, then she wore pants. Lets leave all VMA performances out of it- because I am pretty sure that you haven't been living under a rock and you know that one of the young people went a little crazy and disappointed their parents- they weren't mad, just... disappointed. I want to know where all the pants in the world have gone, are we sending them away to warmer climates? Is there a shortage in Australia and we need to provide them with trousers? Or is it now acceptable to not wear pants because... legs are good enough without them? I am not sure I want to live in a world like that.

If only it were true.

It's right there...

Scratching.

I have a kind of worry, the kind that you don't know where it came from and (more importantly) do not know how to get rid of it.

I need to work on it because it is causing my mind to wander, my eyes to glaze over and my nails to scratch my poor arm when I am daydreaming.

Aint nobody got time for that.

Wine, cheese, bread, wine, wine, prosecco and wine.

This is my Ernest Hemingway blog- so don't worry, it'll be beautiful and make perfect sense.

Did you have a good day?

I spent it dealing with nothing and then worrying about everything all at once. I have so much to write and yet everytime I sit down to do it- it never happens.

but... WORRY NOT....

I will procrastinate right here and it will all get done or it won't get done at all and I will fill my mind with youtube videos of cats... even though I hate cats.

I am going to call my mother more...

and tell her I hate cats.

There is always an issue when technology is an ass...

I am not a dramatic person.

But someone will die tonight.

And it will be my Mac.

Or Apple TV.

Or an innocent bystander who just happens to smile and so me the wrong teeth- I am very particular about these things.

Some opinions worth your time...

http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/vidhya-ramalingam/woolwich-attack-edl-violence_b_3326463.html

http://www.russellbrand.tv/2013/05/woolwich/

-

I have a very bad right-between-the-eyes headache. It's distracting me, which is very welcome today.

Every time I come on here the counter has gone up, and I wonder if it's internet fairies (Nigerian princesses needing emancipation, marketing research and miscalculating the keyboard during a late night porn scavenger hunt notwithstanding). I like to think that when you write something it does disappear somewhat. Goes to this place where nothing is really judged- but then I realise that I am a very cynical person and that would do me and everyone else no good.

Two of my best friends, a facile term when I try and sum up the relationship in my head, lost their mother today- who fought cancer with such dignity and class I will admire her until my last day on this planet.

When we try and think of a person with one label- we often go with the most obvious thing that comes to mind; mother, father, sister, brother, girlfriend, partner, husband, wife.... but then you have the luck of meeting those with limitless labels. The woman that passed away with peace today wasn't just a mother of five, grandmother of one busy bee, a sister of five or a wife of one. She was a mentor, teacher, advisor and an excellent problem solver when things were looking bleak.

My memories are warm and lovely, no need for regret in them. A hungover morning of hiding under a duvet when she sat on the edge of the bed telling me (or threatening....) about the cliff walk that we would take as soon as everyone was ready... or the eager questions she had about my stories and what was in my head. Her hunger and interest was something I will always look for in others for the rest of my life. And strive to keep in mind for myself.

I'm going to go to bed now. Sadder than I was this morning, but knowing someone you admire so much isn't in pain tonight can give me some comfort,

Brrr.....

There is something wrong with our weather...

I am wearing layers, on my bed, with a blanket over me and I am considering a hot water bottle...

It's the weather or me.

And I refuse to accept the latter.

Things I like.

Old is the new black...

I want another tattoo and therefore I have been online- trawling through Google images, looking at things that I know I will never be brave enough to actually get.

I love the idea of something old and vintage looking (god damn hipsters... they've ruined us all).

meltdownmillie.com

One of the nicest people I know has a blog- and becauase I am such a terrible friend, I only discovered its existence this morning. I recommend it to everyone- unless you cannot read and you find this post offensive... if you do, I apologise. It's pretty, and funny and very very Stephanie!

So check it out and giggle- meltdownmillie.com

We're still moving... I promise...

It's just taking alot longer than I imagined it would. Could be because I am a hopeless procrastinator that has just discovered Dawson's Creek on Netflix.... or could be down to the fact that I actually have a writing project with a grown up deadline. In a ridiculous notion of self preservation I thought that the best thing to do was actually copy and paste everything from this blog to a new space- revamp and renew. I want the new in with the old and then there is no chance of messing things up- seriously, that is what my head thought. I dislike clean slates- it makes me anxious and decidedly unnerved. When I am unnerved, I cannot sleep and when I cannot sleep I avoid anything practical and start to colour co-ordinate my wardrobe, re-watch the Gilmore Girls and knit. All in all I believe that I have a stable future in being completely unstable when it comes to change. I even worry about leaving this blog space. What if the new blog doesn't like me? What if all the other blog templates are mean to me? What do I do when I want to stop all the Russian spam from invading my non existent comments board. WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO DO, WHAT TO DO.... In a bid for sanity; today is the first day of the week and the rest of my organised existence. I have been feeling off all morning, lack of sleep and fluids making my head throb and my eyes hurt. Once I solved these issues, I sat in front of the hardest working person in my life, my laptop (not a word) and proceeded to write. I wrote fiction, fact and bits in between for over an hour, re-read and deleted, edited and sighed over it and then I saved it in a draft and promised myself that it will make for a perfect first entry of my new blog. Then I came down off my peanut butter m&m high and decided that by wanting to go and do new things, I shouldn't neglect the old, and I came here... To delete my Russian spam.

hu? HU?

I don't understand why my blogspot blog has transferred itself over here.... but rest assured I am on it- plus... WE'RE MOVING. By we... I mean me, and my poor poor thoughts. I have been archiving alot of posts lately- bated breath and it will all be completed soon.

Not playing safe...

I shall now do the Times crossword; using only my mind and a pen. A PEN... no pencil round here.

It's awful weather, isn't it?

I love when the sky is full of rain and it's so windy it pushes you to your destination- once it isn't under a car or anything... When the sky is grey with a kiss of pink and looks for pretty but is still quite wild- it's deceptive.

I know talking about the weather is seen as a means to drag yourself through a conversation when you haven't much else to say to the other person- but I do have alot to say and do... in fact I have too much to do and say at times and I find it quietly intimidating. So I distract myself by discussing the weather with.... no one in particular. I haven't been sleeping very well for- quite some time. I usually spend my night reading and then eventually dropping off through sheer exhaustion. Then I wake suddenly and forget why I can't sleep in the first place because it is such a peaceful thing. I plan on taking up sleep as a hobby and mastering it over the next couple of months. I think if I focus on it like a practice of something to perfect then maybe I'll win. After all- there are only so many books in the world.... and my read bundle is piling up... with books I almost know by heart.

The busy outweighs the shuffle.

I completely flaked on the plan, the experiment, the idea- I would like to say this isn't something that usually happens to me, but alas.... We have new babies in the family! Two. One boy- big (I say big... under 8lbs) and brawn with huge eyes and hands that fascinate him and one little woman who likes her cuddles and to worry her new parents through day and night while she gets used to the big world around her. They both are beautiful of course, and so different and alike at the same time it's hard to tell where the excitement of one of them begins and the other ends. Parents are elated and seem to be talking more softly now that they are here- men that I have never really thought as overly affectionate- although always kind, are now smitten with tiny bundles wrapped in blankets that sleep more than anything. Things have changed hugely and yet it feels like both of them have been around far longer than any birth cert can prove. They will be great characters I think, and will keep everyone on their toes... it's their jobs for the next 20 years or so.

To not shuffle.

I have 8249 songs on my iPod at the moment. I don't like enough sounds to warrant such a library and I have decided its time to set a challenge for myself. I always sit here with the idea of listening to music and the same thing happens each time- I listen to the same couple of hundred, Frank, the Beatles, FOB and a bit of classical... every so often I'll have a moment and turn on Beyonce or a film soundtrack, but generally I am the beige thing here. I don't seem willing to change when it comes to my own musical preference. And so from today on- I will not shuffle, like a soldier I will battle through over 8000 songs, never once hitting repeat, skip or "shuffle". This means all stray Sugar Babes, banished Backstreet Boys, neglected Nirvana (it's not for the good of my health I write this you know?) will have to be listened to and appreciated as if they came off the White album itself- that is taking it a tad too far, but if I deemed it alright to sync, it's alright to play. The rules are simple, during work, periods of writing and when I am reading I cannot select a song- I cannot go search an artist or select an entire album. I have to brave the unknown and in the end- delete everything offensive to my ears. I pray I managed to get rid of all the Mariah before this experiment.

Apparently this can be published here... Happy New whatever you need, and same the rest.

I have found a lot of comfort in familiarity in the last while. I realised that 2012 wasn't the best year I've ever had- but there is something liberating about the fact that it is done and will wash away with the toothpaste tonight before bed. Years ago I was told that whatever state you find yourself in at midnight on new years eve is the majority of your constitution for the following 12 months, and so that is why I will spend my evening listening to my favourite music, in one of my favourite and safest places and I will be writing- truth be told, for all those who have been around me in recent times that is the best place for me! I will develop on a story that I started with love and am determined that I will finish it with a smile on my face- when the clock strikes, I wish to be so engrossed I will miss the event. I don't mean this in a lack of sociability, I want for nothing when it comes to affection and family- i have wonderful players in my own game. When I was a little girl, I was peculiar small thing. I liked to walk around briskly, I had a very busy head and a loud voice- clearly making up for what was lacking in stature. I am the same in lots of ways now. My father is my yard stick for goodness, my mother my mentor in creativity and my siblings are adored as always but ever so slightly irritating- as they were trained for when in the womb. I've added loves and lost habits, I've picked up and pocketed the most wonderful memories and I have still got so much to learn. For the coming year I make no resolutions as such- but I have a bucket list of temptations I wish to undertake- I will tell very few of it and hopefully this night 12 months from now I can tick a few lines as complete. That is what is so delicious about what is to come! We will have so much time to think about what we will change- the fantasy is limitless, the only restraint we are truly plagued with is reality. Spend all the day daydreaming and work right on through the night; which is the disastrous motto my head contains. We will make decisions and changes and empty promises so hollow the echo is in the very declaration, but all the while there will be a very secret desire held on so tightly that we probably won't even share it with those closest to us. That is what makes us fascinating, we do the same thing every year to be different. I won't fill this idea with cynicism on the day that it is in it- it's not a cynical ideal. We are so desperate to be better in ourselves that we will try and retrain and regroup- which just shows how wonderful the human race can actually be. I, for example, was supposed to make a list and plan about tonight before now and as I sit on a bus, the sky gets darker and I hold onto the notion "well, it's still only afternoon- I have plenty of time", know that I have procrastinated to a fatal execution of productivity once again. Hope and promise are the lights at the end of a year long tunnel, and although we talk about the seasons as if they are passing by in a blink of an eye, we must remember that the longest thing we have is our own existence. To be is to be with the one you are as opposed the one you wish you'd change into.

Happy twinkle lights.

Once Upon A Time...

A girl named Lydia Jane spent her days and nights searching for her little brother. Her parents, distraught from their loss didn't pay much attention to the little girl and certainly didn't notice that she carried a large pocket watch with her wherever she went. It wasn't an ordinary pocket watch, with the turn of the golden lid that covered it's face the little girl could stop time and the people around her while she could still go about her business. With her trustee weapon, some biscuits and a sensible coat she took to the great outdoors in search of her sibling.

I like to send my favourite author (Harper Lee) a Christmas card and a letter every year. It's not so much a tradition as a habit; I don't expect a reply of any kind, but I feel it's only proper to send someone a card if you do think so highly of them. In this day and age where we think we know so much about celebrities because of all the inane internet gossip that floats around our heads. We are overly familiar with those people we do not know; if I wanted to I could go and find measurements of every actress I admire on screen, I could list a famous actors allergies and I could most certainly find an unladylike photo of Lindsey Lohan getting out of a car. So with that in mind, I seal up the letter to the stranger living thousands of miles aware because I love a couple of hundred pages she wrote once.

H. birthday.

Once upon a time, in nowhere very specific, a man sat and ate his ice cream in the park. The rain slapped his bald head and his fingers, blue at the tip held on a little too tightly to the cone. No one played in the park, no one walked their dog and no joggers braved the conditions- especially at 10PM on a Monday night. The only person near was the ice cream van driver. Who sat in his cabbie reading a three week old paper- waiting for the old man to finish his dessert and come back and buy some more cones to feed the ducks on the other side of the park. He was cold and tired and was looking forward to getting home to his warm bed. He didn't mind waiting though- the old man was a harmless sort and was always pleasant. As the rain stopped and the moon gave more light it was easy to see the two in their separate patches, the only sound was the radio in the van playing an old tune about a girl who still couldn't decide if she loved her current or ex lover. The man on the bench finished his ice cream, wiped his hands and popped the napkin in the bin beside him, he made his way to the van and bought his customary three cones, nodding he made his way to the pond. "Sorry for asking, and I hope you don't mind sir, but why do you sit on that bench in the cold and wet weather eating ice cream of all things? Wouldn't you prefer to be at home?" The old man stood for a moment and gave a rueful smile; "Ah, but then I can't talk to my ducks when no one else is around- see how they are getting on without getting in the way of all the families that come by during the day to give them the scraps of their dinners". The van driver was unconvinced but did not want to seem rude so he wished the older gentleman a good night and went to close his door. The old man started to walk back to the van, "You see, I've always come here at this time of night, first with my parents when it was just a pond and the surrounding houses still existed, then with my own children when it was a meadow of grass where they could play, and when they outgrew it my wife and I came here to relax and watch the world. Everything has changed in this place but those ducks and my visits, so don't worry about me- I'm so old no one would think to bother with an old man and a very empty wallet", laughing he turned and went on his way. The van driver got behind the wheel and rubbed his hands together to fight the numbness of his fingers- starting his engine he headed for home. As he left the park he could see the man in his rear view mirror, crouching down and feeding the ducks. He would stay there and watch the animals eat and then make his way back to wherever he came from.

enLIGHTening.... geddit? lights.

I had a long conversation with my two younger brothers today. The youngest of the two- the "baby" of the family decided that we should play the "how well do we know each other game"- it went well, there was no awkward moment and definitely no tears, only one punch was thrown and to be fair- I was asking for it. The second brother, who is closer in age to me, is about to become a father for the first time. He works everyday and spends his evenings with his girlfriend as they get ready for their son or daughter. We discussed the excitement of what is about to happen and the massive changes that will take place in their lives and in everyones who will get to know and love this new little person. Both conversations were important, both very valid. I learnt just as much from the first as I did in the second. It's an amazing thing to me, it's so important to talk to people that I forget that even if I am not at home, I can pick up the phone and talk to them and check in. Also- my youngest brother likes Nickleback.... and that devastation will take months to get over.

Thus with some Cif... he dies.

I had an issue with a blue bottle that seemed to be stalking me in my own home... it buzzed form room to room, taunting me with its very existence. Until I was preparing myself for bed one evening.

Bottle neck (naming it in an affectionate light wasn't a priority for me), had made his way into the bathroom while I was brushing my teeth, I could hear him behind me as I brushed my teeth and I could see him flying around with abandonment in my mirror. I decided I had had enough- I had also watched The Birds recently and find that I have trust issues with all things that swarm around the head area...

I picked up the Cif and preceded to attack.

This didn't go according to plan. In fact unmitigated disaster would be a far kinder description for the situation that I was dealing with. the bathroom, all lino, tiled and white became a hazard as I forgot about the simple fact that gravity exists and if I am to spray a cleaning agent into the atmosphere it must land somewhere.

And land it did.

On the floor, the toilet, sink, the washing, me....

I began to sweat (if my mother were here, she would tell me that people perspire and horses sweat- but I recollect thinking "giddy up" at one point, so I knew I was safe with my description)... the floor glistened, I slipped and Bottle neck old boy seemed to derive power from the putrid chemicals in the air.

But then he made a tactical error. He landed.

and BAM.

Shoe to the body.

I flushed him.

After checking for a pulse.

I wanted it to be as humane as possible.

My my my

I love this time of year. There is nothing nicer than crisp weather, crunchy leaves and having to wear a hat to cover my ears.

I walked around the city yesterday for a bit and I didn't even mind that other people were doing the same thing. It's like the cold air cast a non cynical spell on me. It's not a spell that will last long mind, but it exists now and that is all that matters.

All fairytales need a good old fashion villain

I think Arthur Conan Doyle got Moriarty to say that once...

mirror, mirror

The large room was always filthy, the furniture covered in dirty green sheets and the curtains so thick with dust the colour was no longer discernible to the naked eye.

But the mirror stood proud and golden in the middle of the neglected and musky floor, tilted up right like a robin with a bursting chest of pride it waiting for a visitor. Someone to stare and worship, chew lip and worry about what they see in the clear glass of truth.

The days whirled by and the room got heavy with age. The light outside forgot to hit the windows and let the rest of the house know what time it had. The ceiling groaned as the children skipped and played above and the outside corridor forgot to make room for a door.

A door that had the skin of the wall swallow it whole. Suck it out of existence. it was no longer a fixture. It was a place in another world. A world with no one, a place with no beauty.

But a mirror to watch it all pass by forgotten.

Because I'm worth it... (I almost immediately regret this title)

When I plait my hair one side will always be thicker- I'm a great in the moment planner, I can decide on what I will do right at this very moment, but there will be times, like Plaitgate 2012 when it doesn't work out great.

The left side went off smoothly- can't complain, it's a respectable piece of hair manoeuvring that got me to nod in the mirror. but the right, much like when I paint my nails and get tired by the time I reach the thumb- that has let me down.

At the moment I am one eye down- tragic eye patch and eye drops as far as the....uh.... eye can see. That means all hair styling moments should be be perceived as an attempt and now as a successful endeavour. Which leads me to my story.

Well, not really a story, more of a thought that leaks onto the blog because there is nothing good on television and strangers who aren't in my living room should learn about my habits when I am alone.

I love washing my hair- it's one of my favourite things to do, while I wash, rinse and repeat I often get ideas, thoughts and stories- they just appear, like my shampoo is more form of magical gel that I massage into my scalp and by osmosis gets to my brain, when I rinse, only the really good ideas stay put (steady now....), or at least the things I want to write about.

The water rushes down my face like tears and I happily plan how I will proceed with my idea, save my damsel or kill off that character that has had it coming.

Then when shower time is over, I wrap my hair up on top of my head and leave in a towel for as long as I can. I try not to have my hair up too often, I didn't think it was possible, but I have the ugliest neck.... however, that is for another post.

I will then write down the shower ideas, and that's when I take the care that the Olympic Athletes who work for Head & Shoulders seem to love to tell us about.

I comb through the wet strands, making sure there is no knots to get in the way of my hair dryer.

There will always be a knot, at the back, and I will have to spend at least two Beatles songs and numerous colourful swear words to get it out.

Once that is down and it's all straightly combed, like a dark sheet surrounding my face, I shake it up through my fingers and complain in my head about adopting the thick hair my father's side of the family have often commented on rather proudly at family gatherings.

Once I have my hair dryer plugged in, I blast it through the mass of tendrels that have already gone from wet to damp, while I do this I try to think over my shower ideas and make sure that I actually like them, if something sticks, I will go over that in more detail and then when my hair is dry, or my hand hurts from holding the weight of the dryer I stop, drop the appliance into it's corner and start to write.

This all sounds lovely and calm, and it happens at least twice a week. But the other days- it's 7am, I have to be out the door in five minutes and I am lucky if I have rinsed out the conditioner.

Or taken the towel off my head.

I have something caught in my throat, since yesterday.

I cough to clear it, and nothing.

I try to ignore it and it decides to make itself even more dominating...

I have decided the only way to solve this problem is a lot of alcohol....

while working....

gin.

My new handbag has this tag on it...

My dearest love,
         
                 would you like to come away with me, travel the nights, share memories and send secret love letters so we never forget each other?


                  in these envelopes is everything i could never tell you. take me with you and use ink and paper, to record it all.


always yours,


               Disaster




As love notes go... perfection.

Find me a good chick flick, that isn't 30 years old.

Do I truly believe that Tom Hanks' character or Meg Ryan's to that end actually have sex with their significant others in this film? No I do not.

Do I believe that when they fall oh so hard in love that they will then take their word heavy relationship to the sheets? No, no I don't.

Is that what a chick flick is? In 10 things I hate about you Julia Stiles subtly tells us sex is BAD, in She's all that Paul Walker comes off as some form of Prom night rapist... what happened 90's??

I want the 80's films back. It's only romantic if John Cusack is outside my window blaring classic tunes from a sound system bigger than his car but smaller than his hair...

Tonight I will have an early night...

I have read before that the first thing that comes into your head when you wake up in the morning is your deepest desire. Every morning it's the same thing- I'm going to bed early tonight. But it never happens.

Lets take last night for example...

My room- while not the tidiest it has ever been, was in a respectable condition, maybe that's why at 12am I decided in a massive overhaul that took well over an hour, a hoover bag change and mending the lining in a men's leather jacket that I never wear outside of the house....

Then I had some corrections that just couldn't wait, had to make a lunch (which is helpfully still in the fridge) and then at 2am.... I had a shower.

On the up side.....

No, shag it, I'm exhausted.

You'll never get in trouble if you say "I love you" at least once a day.

Sometimes I worry that people aren't romantic and lovely enough.... and then I find these things...




Michael Reagan
Manhattan Beach, California
June 1971

Dear Mike:

Enclosed is the item I mentioned (with which goes a torn up IOU). I could stop here but I won't.

You've heard all the jokes that have been rousted around by all the "unhappy marrieds" and cynics. Now, in case no one has suggested it, there is another viewpoint. You have entered into the most meaningful relationship there is in all human life. It can be whatever you decide to make it.

Some men feel their masculinity can only be proven if they play out in their own life all the locker-room stories, smugly confident that what a wife doesn't know won't hurt her. The truth is, somehow, way down inside, without her ever finding lipstick on the collar or catching a man in the flimsy excuse of where he was till three A.M., a wife does know, and with that knowing, some of the magic of this relationship disappears. There are more men griping about marriage who kicked the whole thing away themselves than there can ever be wives deserving of blame. There is an old law of physics that you can only get out of a thing as much as you put in it. The man who puts into the marriage only half of what he owns will get that out. Sure, there will be moments when you will see someone or think back to an earlier time and you will be challenged to see if you can still make the grade, but let me tell you how really great is the challenge of proving your masculinity and charm with one woman for the rest of your life. Any man can find a twerp here and there who will go along with cheating, and it doesn't take all that much manhood. It does take quite a man to remain attractive and to be loved by a woman who has heard him snore, seen him unshaven, tended him while he was sick and washed his dirty underwear. Do that and keep her still feeling a warm glow and you will know some very beautiful music. If you truly love a girl, you shouldn't ever want her to feel, when she sees you greet a secretary or a girl you both know, that humiliation of wondering if she was someone who caused you to be late coming home, nor should you want any other woman to be able to meet your wife and know she was smiling behind her eyes as she looked at her, the woman you love, remembering this was the woman you rejected even momentarily for her favors. 

Mike, you know better than many what an unhappy home is and what it can do to others. Now you have a chance to make it come out the way it should. There is no greater happiness for a man than approaching a door at the end of a day knowing someone on the other side of that door is waiting for the sound of his footsteps.

Love,

Dad

P.S. You'll never get in trouble if you say "I love you" at least once a day.

Wash, rinse, repeat.... repeat... repeat....

I was zombified this morning when it was time to embrace the day, so I stumbled bleary eyed into the shower and washed my hair so many times I lost count.

I don't actually know why I did it- I was trying to remember the 47 European countries that I had learnt yesterday and Kosovo, Bulgaria, Romania and the many Slo's raced around my head. Before I knew where I was I had made an impressive dent on the bottle of head and shoulder's on the ledge.

This terrible event led to me forgetting my banana for breakfast, missing my bus, getting a taxi where the taxi driver didn't want to tell me how the recession was ruining the city and failing to make an appointment for the dentist.

To be fair, the latter hasn't been attempted yet.

It's spelt....

Yesterday, while at work, I came across a moody, rich, British man- a rare specimen... cough.

Anyway, while I was solving his "numerous issues", we got into the nitty gritty of contact details. He wished me to use his wife details for this- I think he, like me, was worried that the two of us had become too emotionally attached and wanted to cut off communication before someone's feelings were hurt.

As I took down the name and number he told me his wife's name was Dali- which I helpfully spelt back to him and he said "yes, Salvador Dali...". To which I stopped what I was doing and there was a 3 second pause. "Your wife is Salvador Dali?".

"What? No her name is Dali, like Salvador Dali". "Ok.... Dali is her first name though right? I mean that was his surname, his first name was Salvador".

My new best friend huffed out a breath over the line and curtly replied with "well, I know that- I was just being helpful".

Being helpful by causing massive confusion....

I think he thought he was being clever. Mentioning an artist I obviously wouldn't know- because lets face it, he's smarter than me....

We finished the call by me just asking who I was speaking with, he said his name was Paul. And I said "Oh... see I would have known that your wife wasn't Salvador Dali at the start of the call if we'd started with that- he was married to a woman named Elena...."

I....sleep.

This is because housemate needs luck, distraction and..... well, just look at him.

Part One...

Dirus the dragon was the monster high on the mountains who kept the villagers of Cornville shuddering in their beds at night. His roars shook the buildings on the main street. His giant flames firing from his nostrils crackling and snapping in the stained night sky so loudly that the townsfolk had taken to wearing ear muffs after 6pm.

Every five years the village would call on heroes far and wide to come and attempt to slay the dragon; if they were to succeed their bravery would win them a life of luxury in the castle on the mountain that lay dormant as it was too close to the mouth of the dragons lair. The palatial dwelling shone in the moonlight as the marble swarm above the village- an untouchable halo.  For fifty years it lay in wait for a new master, as the village waited for its king and hero.

The Dragon battle took place every five years, on the shortest day of the year. The 21st of December was blisteringly cold, howling winds, grey dark skies- which made the sun seem like a fable the towns children read about in school. And every five years 35 men fought and failed to succeed in slaying the dragon.

One by one they met their end, and with the bones of the fallen soldiers the Dragon cleaned, shaped and moulded the bones to fit a macabre keyboard for his grand piano which stood proudly on the mossy banks of the cliff overlooking the village. He played it in triumph and mocked each soul as he laughingly tapped the bone keys he had created. For hours his music swam around the air, haunting the inhabitants of Cornville, even after he had long since finished playing.

One child, Matthew, watched from his bedroom window while the dragon taunted people with the death song for the tenth time that night and he wondered, if his father- who had fought the beast when Matthew was a baby was part of the terrible sound drowning out dreams for at least 50 miles.

He swore that some day he would fight and win. And the first thing he would do would be burn the dragons body on top of that cursed piano.

Hello Lover....

Once upon an imagination...

I've taken to sort a gorilla imagination test this week. Let me explain....

Basically, the idea that ones imagination could just up and leave came into my head at the start of the week, and in a train of utter panic I worried about this occurring. It's like anything else in this world- if you stop practising it when its become second nature and you've taken it for granted then it will leave. Maybe by giving my imagination such a sassy personality I should have realised I was probably okay.

But I started taken the words or phrases everyday and creating a story from it- if it was up to scratch then I'd leave it exist on the history of my iMac- if it was loose stool water.... well, I'd flush it.

The first day I chose a mango, a bucket and a group of history students. They became pirates on a weekend field trip, brought with them a bucket full of ripe mangoes and ended up lost in a cave in West Cork. What they didn't know was that their parents (obviously had staggering trust issues by the way...) had left a track device in the inside lid of the bucket and making sure their children were safe they all had a fun weekend two miles down the road and collected/ 'rescued' the kids in time for Sunday dinner.

It wasn't a great story but I was satisfied that things were alright in my head- well, in so far as my imagination was concerned.

Sometimes when you worry about the fact that your job is in no way creative and that all you do all day long is repeat yourself it's good to do something different.

Like take your camera, walk around a graveyard taking pictures while listening to Miles Davis....

That might seem overly specific, but it's effective.

it's fashery (cough..... i'm trying to put a pun on bravery)

I always wished I was taller, thinner, longer legs etc. Then I could imagine myself in an Alexander McQueen sparkly champagne christmas tree creation- but alas, it is not to be. Florence Welch is to be my muse in that regard.

Some complained about it- too weird and with no structure there was no way of showing the design of the dress. But if there was structure and it was more normal.... they would have bitched about it being boring.

You're damned if you do, you're damned if you don't- and hey... at least she didn't look like....

Just saying'....

Albert (MAKE IT END) Nobbs

Rodrigo Garcia decided to annoy me lately by compiling all the cliches of contemporary Ireland and then throwing whatever broad accent that could pass for Irish into the mould of some dead behind the eyes actors- oh, and Brendan Gleeson.

Albert Nobbs (Glenn Close- from here on in shall be called the founder and punisher of boredom- FPOB, for short) is a shy and unassuming butler working in a holier than thou Dublin Hotel in 19th century Ireland. The plot never thickens... it's a thin soup from the minute the Atonement soundtrack begins (you know they use it for all "Big House" drama's now...).

The basic story is....

Nobbs (FPOB) is a miserly old woman, dressed as a man who is terrified that she secret will be revealed to the house when she is made share her room with the freelance painter Mr. Hubert Page (played by Janet McTeer). Page and Nobbs strike up and unlikely friendship and Albert learns to share the real person under the butler uniform. During this time the audience learn of Albert's love for Helen (Wasikowska) an in house maid, who doesn't reciprocate. She spends her time looming at the Dublin handyman Joe and ends up, non surprisingly pregnant. The rest of the story goes in a fashion that John B. Keane would be proud of.

The character I had the biggest problem with was the lowly wide eyed and bushy tail servant Helen (played by that one, Mia Wasikowska- if you think of it in terms of current events, she's like a Tesco Value Saoirse Ronan, they couldn't afford the real thing but then after trying the cheaper version out for a bit they just gave up ). If I believed for a second that she had a soul and wasn't the epitome of a gone off fig roll, I would elaborate further on her accent, the fact that she hurt my eyes with her fake tears and the idea that she has a vagina in which to entice men- it all seems very unlikely.

The bad guy- if there is a bad guy in this would have to be the greedy and loathsome hotel manager Mrs. Baker, played by Pauline Collins, who was Shirley Valentine back in the day and should know better at this point in her career. For some reason she was dressed like a withering mother from the Jane Austen era- and had a panache for lace gloves.

The accents varied from awful to down right prejudice on the scale of offensiveness- think Richard Gere in the Jackal then think about Paris Hilton's sex tape and then get a screw driver and push into your left ear- ignore resistance, then you're with me.

Janet McTeer was okay. I mean she didn't make me want to end her existence. Her character was a little more believable in terms of a strict routine in Ireland and a little less- pity me because I talk very little, which seemed to be Close's plan for the 17 hours the film went on for (it was that long, I timed it). Brendan Gleeson was dependable, but there was little he could do with the material given. It's like trying to get The Only Way Is Essex to act out Macbeth- it'll be fun, but in the end you'll feel sad that it ever happened- like that Paris Hilton sex tape.

The characters meld into each other at some point after the initial development of what Nobb's plans on doing with his/her/its life- Jonathan Rhys Meyers is still alive- I know this because he somehow managed to wander on set and piss me and the entire cinema off by pretending he is straight- I won't believe for one minute that the man was acting- An amoeba can't act, I know this because I did Biology in school.

I feel Gleeson really tried, so much so that I'm convinced if we were to freeze a frame during the scene where he is going down on Maria Doyle Kennedy you can see him mouthing "help me".... and just like the plot, no one can save him.

I've always liked the writing of John Banville, it was one of the main reasons I coerced my friends into going to see the film (they aren't my friends anymore...), but just like all his novels, it went on a bit too long- and what could have been said in one paragraph took a fortnight to stutter out. The most annoying fact is that there was such huge potential in this film- the star status of Close, along with her financial backing meant that people were going to sit up and watch. The fact that it was only released in January in the States and yet was still nominated for three Oscars (best actress, best supporting actress and make-up) also meant there was heavy anticipation where it was concerned. What went wrong?

There was a good point- I can assure you. It does end.

Eat (yawn) Pray (load gun) Love (BANG).... yes this aged review is relevant.

Ryan Murphy jumps off the diving board of Glee fame and belly flops into the pool of motion picture promise, to scrape together a screenplay. The ingredients of the man of the hour is priceless,  deemed for success with the likes of Javier Bardem, Julia Roberts and that cardboard cut out known as James Franco and charged me €9 in good conscious to sit for over two hours in front of a big screen. All the time I worried that Roberts massive “I can hold a whole wagon wheel in my mouth without crushing it” face could cause me some kind of untold damage. But it would probably be worth the risk right?

Most painful chick flicks have the ripped off bandage appeal that rushes us through the formalities of realising that our brains are rotting in our skulls- but not this little number.

Meet Liz Gilbert (Roberts), a married woman who realises one night that her marriage is in fact utter toilet water in consistency. Her husband is a fickle, career drifting post pubescent love sick puppy who stares at her longingly from across the pillows in the marital bed. After a painful divorce scene she decides to organise an around the world trip in order to “find herself”.

First though, Murphy, not happy with the idea of clichéd mid life crisis pre menopausal women, decides to subject the world to the “acting” of the human being formally known as James Franco. I have watched paint dry with more emotion, I’ve watched “reality television” segments with more convictions, hell I think Robert Pattinson might have a career after all this Vampire seduction now that I have endured Franco on screen.

The chemistry between himself and Roberts is nil. Probably due to the fact that the script is terrible and never allows for the audience to see what the characters truly meant to each other. The book- which, yes I did read was far more substantial in conviction. The idea that a woman would need to escape from herself is far more real to me as I read through the chapters rather than watching Roberts sobbing on the floor while her toy boy boyfriend lies on the bed. There was no concrete reason given on screen for the start or fizzle out of their relationship.

The most important thing to consider while watching this film is that Gilbert’s is told at the very beginning that she will lose all her money during the year (she gives her whinging husband the majority of her assets- probably because the dialogue was terrible and the camera man was nodding off). Yet here she is travelling around the world- never wearing the same outfit twice and never mentioning the fact that she is supposed to be now destitute.

I am not cynical- a lot of the time. But as I sat through this film I waited for the amazing moment Oprah promised me would come. The ravings about this book come “cinematic experience” made Britney Spears Crossroads the Schindler’s List of the last decade.

Bardem, an Oscar winning actor- hottie from Spain, the man who knocked up Cruz, my future second or third husband... he sucked too. The only time I didn’t mind his awkward persona on the screen was when he was teary eyed in saying goodbye to his son as he bade off for college. I can only assume the tears were real as the actor realised as soon as his “son” leaves he would again have to trash out another love scene with Roberts.

And that’s another thing; when a man like Bardem takes the book you are reading out of your hand and tells you “it is time” and nods in the bedroom direction with those sex steep eyes you run. You run hard, you run fast and you let the camera’s follow you so the audience at least have the chance of seeing Javier topless. This film did nothing to save itself.

I think she is what is wrong with the world.

Most of the time I find I get irrationally angry and once I simmer down, I realize I was the one being ridiculous- but having read the entirety of this article last night.... I still want her slapped. In the face. With an ESB bill.... From an article in the magazine of the Sunday Times last weekend.....

“James and I both have Range Rovers for running around, but he’s also got a black Lamborghini and a black Rolls-Royce, and I’ve a white Ferrari and a white Rolls-Royce…I’m bored with designers like Dolce & Gabanna. I hate it when you know what label a person’s wearing – it doesn’t say luxury, it feels a bit Russian and cheap…I don’t live in a bubble though… I clear out my clothes every few weeks and send them to Croatia…Our bedroom’s actually more like an apartment, with its own kitchen, bathrooms, lounge, dressing rooms…”

—Petra Ecclestone, keeping it real in The Sunday Times (“It’s not easy being this rich‟).

Ah Yes.

During the height of its controversy, in 1966, harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird was removed from the shelves of schools of the Hanover County School Board in Virginia. Once Lee was made privy to the situation she responded perfectly with:



 Monroeville,
 Alabama,
 January,
 1966


 Editor, The News Leader:

 Recently I have received echoes down this way of the Hanover County School Board's activities, and what I've heard makes me wonder if any of its members can read. Surely it is plain to the simplest intelligence that "To Kill a Mockingbird" spells out in words of seldom more than two syllables a code of honor and conduct, Christian in its ethic, that is the heritage of all Southerners. To hear that the novel is "immoral" has made me count the years between now and 1984, for I have yet to come across a better example of doublethink. I feel, however, that the problem is one of illiteracy, not Marxism. Therefore I enclose a small contribution to the Beadle Bumble Fund that I hope will be used to enroll the Hanover County School Board in any first grade of its choice.

 Harper Lee

Everything has gotten whiter and fancier on this website- I'm not sure how I feel about that.... but I think I will change the look of my blog, then vent and complain about it for a week, then forget to write in this thing for an additional six weeks and come back and start the cycle all over again....

What big teeth you have....

On my way to work today I saw a wolf in the clouds, chasing after the morning sun, opening it's mouth wide and trying to swallow it whole. I almost missed my stop because I wanted to see who would live to see the afternoon.

There's something really sophisticated about sitting in a room surrounded by strangers speaking in different languages. It's like being on holiday and sitting in a hotel lobby waiting for the rest of the group to come downstairs so the days adventure can begin...

This in mind- I clearly need some form of holiday.... a break... a little retreat that means I don't have to sit in an office, with office furniture and lighting and pretend because there is team of Spanish people to my left discussing the recent quarterly report that I am on a fictional holiday.

I should probably aim higher on getaway ideals.

And not book with Ryan Air.

Cough.

I have sleep in my head... it's sort of foggy, but very much there and it is distracting me from work today....

Twain had it figured out.

Mark Twain, in a sort of witty, yet telling mood gives a hand to an aspiring gentleman with a list. A list of rescue etiquette- should it ever be needed in the event of a fire. Note: he makes sure not to discriminate throughout....

1. Fiancées.
2. Persons toward whom the operator feels a tender sentiment, but has not yet declared himself.
3. Sisters.
4. Stepsisters.
5. Nieces.
6. First cousins.
7. Cripples.
8. Second cousins.
9. Invalids.
10. Young-lady relations by marriage.
11. Third cousins, and young-lady friends of the family.
12. The Unclassified.

Other material in boarding house is to be rescued in the following order:

13. Babies.
14. Children under 10 years of age.
15. Young widows.
16. Young married females.
17. Elderly married ditto.
18. Elderly widows.
19. Clergymen.
20. Boarders in general.
21. Female domestics.
22. Male ditto.
23. Landlady.
24. Landlord.
25. Firemen.
26. Furniture.
27. Mothers-in-law.

What did I do before the internet?

Google, google on the screen...

If you are, like myself, wandering the abyss that is the internet and decide to use the search engine Google- you will find it is a fantastic way to learn about the specie of man, or woman... as the case may be.

Type in "how can I" and the below top four will pop up, in the same order.

...get a boyfriend.

...lose weight fast.

...make money.

...delete my Facebook.

Now, if that isn't a good overall summary of the internet, I don't know what is.

Because if you think about it…. you lose weight, make more money, automatically gain more confidence and that AMAZING guy you've have always known was waiting for you appears. BAM BOOM… delete Facebook, you don't need to stalk anymore.

1,2 and now 3

I have just downloaded the final piece of the Memphis 3 documentary,Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory. This is the final hurdle in the chronicle that was the child killing scandal that hit the USA 19 years ago this year.

I remember when I watched the first documentary, Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills; taking away from it, the shock of the photos of dead innocent children on the screen and the clear lack of evidence to put these three teenagers behind bars, I was left with rolling credits, loud Metallica music and a feeling that the next one would be just as good and leave me even more angry with the American justice system.

So I quickly sought out and found the second installment, Paradise Lost 2: Revelations. This time I wasn't really left feeling in anyway different, has I had imagined would be the case. The law was wrong, innocent people were being tortured in what could be called the most unlawful injustice in years and three boys were still dead.

But, and I know this isn't something many people would have an issue with, I had a problem with the portrayal the film makers brought about. Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky, albeit it very talented men behind a camera like to play the conductor of the orchestra as well.

Without strictly pointing the finger, they very much point their camera in the direction of one man- the erratic, strange and volatile John Mark Byers. This man couldn't have played into the documentary makers hands any better than if he actually went into supposed detail about what "probably happened" before the little boys were eventually murdered (think Joe O' Reilly, when he liked to give people a tour of the home he shared with his wife before she was brutally murdered one morning- he was later found guilty of the crime).

Byers, in the first film, brings the camera and filmmakers with him to the crime scene, imagines what it is his step son went through in that cold, desolate and lonely place and then describes the pain he would inflict on the killers- if they were to ever get out of prison.

In the second film, Byers is more alone and more vocal then ever before. We read on screen that his wife, Melissa had passed away the year before filming had taken place- her death was still undetermined but they had confirmed at the time that it was drug related, which was apparently no surprise to her second husband.

We are told there are numerous explanations for Byers no longer having his own teeth- three scenarios are told- all by Byers during the filming and he that doesn't seem to bother him in the slightest. And the audience are met with more personalities of Byers than anyone could due comfortable with.

Quiet and unassuming one moment, to impassioned, religious and tortured the next. He spoke calmly to the specialist dealing with his lie detector test and yet had no problem getting up close and personal out the courthouse with the supports of the West Memphis 3. His behaviour was not something that could be safely put into one category and for that he was the dream candidate for the answer in whodunnit film making.

Most of the evidence in the initial case is moot at this point when it is now heavily criticised for it's lack of moral foundation in the first plea, the lawyers themselves had been paid by Berlinger and Sinofsky for their part in the first film. Making their integrity on screen seem that bit more blurry now.

But all that aside, the second film left a bad taste in my mouth. I felt the film makers agenda was two fold. Paint the, rightful, picture of innocence to the fallen and more worryingly use their powers to set blame down.

Granted I too feel that there is something "not quite right" about Byers, I am not about to fuel his ego by allowing him to star in his own film, and I am certainly not going to accuse the man of something no one can be sure of.

The worst part of this story is the glaring fact that there can be no happy ending. Dozens of lives have been destroyed and three little boys were murdered before they could even learn to live.

The final installment of the documentary has just been released and with the remnant cheers of the crowds in Arkansas welcoming home the three men who's lives were ruined forever when they were arrested for a crime they did not commit the problem in Paradise Lost is still hanging over the audience all the same.

Who is the killer.

What do you see?

Did you know that the above blotting is actually called a Rorschach? (pronounced "roar" like how we respond to the television when we worry about the plight and so obvious demise of one Sherlock Holmes, and "shack" similar to the term used for the majority of college accommodation).

This guy named Hermann Rorschach thought this inkblot test was impressive enough to name it after himself and from then on (1921) people have been staring at these things hoping that by seeing the very obvious penis they haven't walked right into the label of mental case.

When I look at this one I see all types of naughty things- but I aint telling you that.

I'm a lady.

(vagina....penis.... gaping...oh my)

Mystic.....?

Years ago I read my horoscope... and it basically said I would have the worst week of my life. And so the week began, I was a mess by Tuesday, in despair by Thursday and I decided not to get out of bed on the Saturday. Sunday night, nothing had happened all week- bar the add on of about ten grey hairs.

So today I mustered up the courage and read from the classier papers (The Sunday Times), and my star sign said the following;

Something vague will happen this week. It will either be positive or negative. That is up to you.

And so the week begins....

Once upon a time there was a lady. This lady needed to ring Meteor Customer Care about her phone, three hours later, she decided that communication had become too frequent in this futuristic world and had returned to letter written.

She had always admired Jane Austen, and couldn't stand stupidity.

The end.

Yes.

Anne Sexton.

I hope the book is..... nicer than I think it's going to be.

I sighed...

Found this post in my favourite website....

Wednesday, 11 January 2012

Nothing good gets away

In Novemeber of 1958, John Steinbeck — the renowned author of, most notably, The Grapes of Wrath, East of Eden, and Of Mice and Men — received a letter from his eldest son, Thom, who was attending boarding school. In it, the teenager spoke of Susan, a young girl with whom he believed he had fallen in love.

Steinbeck replied the same day. His beautiful letter of advice can be enjoyed below.

(Source: Steinbeck: A Life in Letters; Image: Thom and John Steinbeck with their father in 1954, courtesy of UC Berkeley.)

New York
November 10, 1958

Dear Thom:

We had your letter this morning. I will answer it from my point of view and of course Elaine will from hers.

First—if you are in love—that’s a good thing—that’s about the best thing that can happen to anyone. Don’t let anyone make it small or light to you.

Second—There are several kinds of love. One is a selfish, mean, grasping, egotistical thing which uses love for self-importance. This is the ugly and crippling kind. The other is an outpouring of everything good in you—of kindness and consideration and respect—not only the social respect of manners but the greater respect which is recognition of another person as unique and valuable. The first kind can make you sick and small and weak but the second can release in you strength, and courage and goodness and even wisdom you didn’t know you had.

You say this is not puppy love. If you feel so deeply—of course it isn’t puppy love.

But I don’t think you were asking me what you feel. You know better than anyone. What you wanted me to help you with is what to do about it—and that I can tell you.

Glory in it for one thing and be very glad and grateful for it.

The object of love is the best and most beautiful. Try to live up to it.

If you love someone—there is no possible harm in saying so—only you must remember that some people are very shy and sometimes the saying must take that shyness into consideration.

Girls have a way of knowing or feeling what you feel, but they usually like to hear it also.

It sometimes happens that what you feel is not returned for one reason or another—but that does not make your feeling less valuable and good.

Lastly, I know your feeling because I have it and I’m glad you have it.

We will be glad to meet Susan. She will be very welcome. But Elaine will make all such arrangements because that is her province and she will be very glad to. She knows about love too and maybe she can give you more help than I can.

And don’t worry about losing. If it is right, it happens—The main thing is not to hurry. Nothing good gets away.

Love,

Fa