Archive for April, 2013

Sorry for long rest.  Experienced a blockage.  The only little splurge of crap what came out during the last couple of weeks was:  ‘am depleted.  low.  missing sun.  poisoned by antibios.  anti-life things.  can’t be bothered with caps.  got no lymph nodes to protect.  irreversible situation,’ and  ‘just wish the fuckin sun would come out.  wish it would warm up.  wish the mud would dry up.  went for a walk with janet and she fell over in the mud.  we are slipping and sliding around.  crap.’  The winter has been too long.

Claire had long said that the next time I was due to see Miss Benyon she would come with me.  We had been looking forward to this for like months.  She drove me in the Mini which is always a treat.  We went to Clinic 7 and sat primly in the waiting area.  Claire pointed excitedly at a screen:  ‘Miss Benyon’s clinic is:  on schedule.’  We were fizzing with anticipation, giggling and hitting each other.

Then, oh, balls, spotted another sign in black scrawl ‘Miss Benyon is not in clinic wed 27th march.  Patients will be seen by her registrar.’

Oh.  Bollocks, bollocks. To be so revved up.  And then so disappointed.  Not FAIR.

We did get to see the lovely Lindsey.  She was sweet and is a slight comfort, being Miss B’s lackey.  Also got to see a very handsome doc called David.  Lush.  I know, sorry, must not objectify people.  Not good.  Smack hand.

Got taunting text later from Mad Lucy ‘Where oh where is miss b?  she just went into the lift.  she was here just a moment ago.  her lipstick is still on the coffee cup.  HESTER she is not real you made her up.’

Yeah well, that’s why we call her Mad.

Tabs is back for the hols.  Has discovered that in addition to the diabetes, she has polycystic ovaries and hypothyroidism.  Is a bit stunned.  Says ‘I am being thwarted.’  Good word, thwarted.  You can imagine Miranda saying it can’t you?  ‘Thwarted, thwarted.’

Quite keen on ‘stymied’ at the minute too.  ‘Stymied.  Well and truly stymied that we are.’

One of my pupil’s dad, Adrian, brought me a bottle of ‘Juniper Green,’ organic gin. They sell it in Sainsbury’s in case you want to try.  It’s well juniperry.   Had not had a drink for a month,  so necked a few at neighbour Rachel’s gin club number 2.

Ok, so it’s a few days later now.  Easter has come and gone and it is still bitterly cold and snowing.  No let-up at all.  We keep going to bed with hot water bottles to worry about North Korea.  We are wearing layers and layers of jumpers under our coats, inside.  And hats and scarves.

We have some scales in the house which have gone schizo.  Like bonkers.  You step on them and the display flashes all through wild numbers to alight randomly upon something not even slightly resembling your weight.  One minute you’re twenty two stone and the next you’re like four stone.  Makes a mockery of the whole sad business really.  Good.  I’ve always hated scales.

I remember one time more than twenty years ago, coming up a path in early evening sunlight from Blacks Beach in Santa Barbara, this gorgeous out-of-this-world chap, looked exactly like Jesus, invited me and my sister Penel into his van-teepee combo to smoke some grass.  Jeez were those guys ever wasted in that dark smokey den.  They’d gone all ethereal.  You felt like you could put your hand through them they were that far gone. There was a guy with long grey hair smoking a bong chuckling away softly. There was a lush tanned half-naked girl with a big spliff.  For some reason the word ‘fat’ came up in conversation.  She looked round and said in a really slow drawl, ‘I’m fat….’  (think ‘fay-eee-at’) There was a pause,  ‘…Who gives a fuuuuck?’

It was so perfect. So simple.  Maybe it was the strength of the weed, but  I understood in that moment the beauty and freedom of self as an island but simultaneously glimpsed the impossibility, nay, futility of artificial self-boundaries when it’s so obvious we are all one, or something.  Anyway the friction of  such contesting concepts resulted in long-drawn-out hysterics.  Basically, our heads was done in!  We related this story to our brother Pete later that day, and he died laughing and bizarrely can still do the voice and tone of that girl so we have never forgotten it.

I never had scales in the house when my kids were growing up because I thought it might help avoid anorexia.  And I have known several people who litrally bore the pants off everyone they know:   ‘Oh, dear, I’ve put a pound on since Tuesday.’  ‘Ooh, I’ve lost three pounds in a week!’  Yeah, I wanna say, ‘who gives a fuuuuuck?’  That’s why I hated Bridget Jones when it first came out.  All that obsessing over stupid calories.  But the other day I happened upon it and read it again and I realised the author is trying to show the futility of it:  when Bridget is really chuffed at finally losing half a stone, all her friends tell her she looks terrible.

There you go.  Done me literary critique for the day.  Back to Shardonnay.  She’s not quite ready yet.  BTDubs, I have been researching.  Yes, Shardonnay is *whisper*  based on someone I know.  People say to me, they say, ‘Aren’t you worried she might read it?’  And I’m like, ‘Aha!  Does Shardonnay read though?’  There is a pause and I’m like, ‘See, we don’t have to wuz.’  You know when you is safe.  Like I can say anything I like about Fred, as he is never, ever, ever, ever (btw for the oldies reading this, that’s a song quote) going to read the blog.  He hasn’t even read Shardonnay!  And he’s even got a kindle!  Hunh!  Typical.  If you meet him in the pub/at the Stortford Music Festival/on the Eurostar tell him off for me will you?

I’ve punished him by booking his early July flight to Gavdhos with Alfie and six of Alfie’s mates, Sammy Wammy, Lukeybabes 2, Jack, Patton, Andy, Teddy.  Honestly, you should’ve seen the fuss Fred made.  ‘Waaaah!  I don’t want to go on nasty holiday!!!  Waaah, don’t wanna go, don’t wanna go!!  Wanna work, wanna do my noo job!’  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘Barney’s going with you!  God’s sakes, it’s only a fucking holiday!’

He should be bloody grateful I’m bovvered to book it for him.  They’ll only have the time of their lives.  Aaah, that reminds me of the first song Alfie wrote.  It was so cute.  It was about going out with his fwends.  It went:  ‘We just went anywhere we wanted to go, having the time of our lives, we just went anywhere we wanted to go, having the tiiiiiiiiiime of our lives….’

Things have pepped up a bit over the last week. Playing the flute helps:  it expels all your stagnant air.  Inez came twice and played for an hour, Tracy came and we played Mozart and Telemann duets for an hour, Alfie plays Mozart with me but only for half an hour at a time (yeah, what a pussy, says his lips get tired, aaaaah blesssss) and Ruby came every day and played Debussy and Schubert and Poulenc for an hour and a half.  Also did a Hawaiian Beach Yoga video with Janet and walked several thousand squelchy miles with the dogs so we are feeling better.  Also Alfie’s fwend, the charming Sammy Wammy came to stay which always cheers us up.  And yesterday felt finally like the first day of spring.  Boisterous warm winds, pussy willows and bonking frogs all over the place.


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