The Corner House

I am very busy as usual.
Two drama presentations to go. One is a weird thing, I get to be Princess Diana. Strange but true.
Another a naturalistic scene.
I love this, acting and writing all day long.
Bonnie returned from Scotland where she had an enjoyable, if still platonic, time with Farmer's Lad. He is hankering after the wife and family dream. He's only 41-ish, no reason he shouldn't achieve it. She advised him to forget the 'falling in love' myth, find a nice woman in her mid-thirties, there's loads of them looking for a good man to have children with. She, herself, was back last night on her computer dating site.
I was chatting about the restaurant and the long hours that the Eastern European girls put in. Now Bonnie's one of the most Socialist people I know, her father and late husband both card-carrying Communists. In her kitchen, as a child, there was even a picture of Karl Marx, for years she thought he was a relation. But when she heard about the waitresses she said, 'They work so hard for very little, it's not right that so many of our young women just think that they can get pregnant and live off the state'.
Well, I'm living off a student loan and can't say too much. At least I put my time in. Apparently in Norway there are hostels for teenage, single mothers. Sounds a good idea, God forbid it should go back to how it was but I don't think it should be made so easy and attractive for them. I say this mainly because I know how absolutely impossible it is for a single woman in London to get a council flat. Who wants to live in some rented room forever? I was lucky, I got a mortgage in the end (I was 45) but I know a lot of women, up in their forties, hard-working, with no chance of owning their own place. I don't want to sound like a 'Daily Mail' reader but it doesn't seem fair. And, besides, single Mums bloomin' get on my nerves big-time, them and their pushchairs taking up all the room on the bus. Not that I was ever a great fan of kids despite wanting one. Perhaps God knew something I didn't.
This is procrastination at it's best. Off to work now.

Just a quick post because I have to type up a story I'm trying to revise. I'm on the third draft already and it's still bollocks.
I'll have a look at everyone's posts later.
Just got back from work. I was in for 4 hours to help with a wedding. Didn't know people could get married on a Sunday but it seems they can.
A middle-aged couple. She wore a sort of long cream evening dress, thin straps and a flimsy bolero. Well, I had to clock the frock.
There's worse jobs than waitressing. At least I work in elegant surroundings - lots of white linen, sparkling glasses, cutlery and chandeliers plus everyone dressed up and looking nice.
The staff seem ok. I've not sussed everyone out yet. A young, female chef who's very friendly. (Needless to say there's the obligatory, temperamental male ones). I was on with 3 Eastern European waitresses tonight and I liked them. Couldn't help thinking, this is what it was like for my 'Auntie May' and her friend, Eileen, when they worked at 'The Haycock' and 'The George', except they were Irish not Eastern European. They worked hard, long hours but I suppose they had a bit of a laugh and made friends, as well as earning some money. My Mum always worked 'in service'. It's a shame, she would have had more of a 'craic' if she'd worked in 'The George' with her friends. But my Mum was orphaned at ten, didn't have an easy life and was very fearful of change.
Ooh, I feel sick. I'm such a greedy pig. I've just had 3 - THREE - slices of wedding cake. One chocolate, one sponge, one fruit.

Work last night.
Not as busy as the week before.
Staff food is laid out until about 6.15 pm. I think it's probably best to get there at 5.45 pm. I love anything that involves food. After the shift we get a 'toastie' and a glass of coke.
Oh, don't say I don't know how to live.
They seem quite a nice lot. Two of the teenage girls saying how they don't want babies yet, maybe never. I just kept quiet.
Barmy, really, girls thinking it's a tragedy if they get pregnant. I think it's a tragedy if they don't. I know teenage motherhood's not ideal, then again.....
I often say how I'd wished I'd got pregnant at 16 instead of getting 'O' levels. I mean, a lot of good 'O' levels did me. It should have been obvious to all around that I was never going to be any sort of high achiever in the world of work. I could have been a mother and a writer. J K Rowling? Well, maybe not....
You can't put an old head on young shoulders. My Mum used to love saying that.
And it's alright me thinking these kids would be just as well off pregnant but well, I certainly have had a life of travel and adventure which was very much what I wanted at 18. Bonnie's keeps telling me that I didn't really want a baby or I'd have had one.
In self-defence. The reason why I never had a baby. My Mum had me at 36 and my sister at 40. My auntie (mother of all the O'Looney's) got married at 32 and had 11 children after that. So I thought I had all the time in the world. My plan was, if I was still unmarried at 38, to get pregnant anyway. It so doesn't work like that. I never even had a boyfriend at 38 (what's new) and I just couldn't get pregnant by any old Tom's Dick or Harry's. It had to be by someone I loved. At nearly 43 I did fall in love with Ern and I did try to get pregnant but it was too late. I now realise that, because I had fibroids, it would probably have been to late at 31.
My cousin's wife, Mary, said (when I was still speaking to her) that it just 'wasn't meant'. I can accept if it wasn't meant but it's too awful to think I mucked it up.

I get more than enough e-mails from Ern
Wossis game? I ask myself.
Possibly he wants me back - on his terms. An on-tap girlfriend living 'oop North would suit him perfectly.
That's not going to happen.
Is he just hedging his bets until Miss BigBoobs Career Woman turns up? I know the sort of woman he dreams of, not a middle-aged student who writes poems, or writes anything 'cos he never had any faith in me or my abilities.
Quote - my ex-flatmate and her boffin super-brainy husband.
'Gee' he said (he's American) 'gee, but my wife's much cleverer than I am'
'Ern. Why don't you say that about me? Why don't you say - my girlfriend's much cleverer than I am?'
He was quiet for a minute or two. A long time for him. Then looks at me and pipes up -
'Who's gonna believe it'?
Sod you, Ern, I have moved on.
I not saying I won't marry you - a proper proposal, a proper engagement ring, all the things 'other girls have at 18' (quote Bet Lynch, years ago, on Corrie, when she wed Alec Gilroy) but I'm not planning on marrying anybody for three years. I want to get my degree first. Then, well - we'll see, Ern, Corin, David Tennant....
Who's dreaming now?
Today
House full of young lovers. The Wean's boyfriend is here.
Bonnie has lured Farmer's Lad up to Scotland to ply him with Irn Bru and have her wicked way.
So for consolation I took my single self off for a pedicure. Just because I'm a student doesn't mean I have to let myself go. While I was there I thought I might as well have my eyelashes and eybrows dyed too.
You gotta fight the aging process. I'm not trying to look young just alright for my years.
Bought today's Guardian, all sort of articles in it about getting older.
At least I'm getting old along with all the other Baby Boomers so it's bound to be fashionable. Bet they have their eyebrows done.
Also bet they're not living on a student loan.

I get more than enough e-mails from Ern
Wossis game? I ask myself.
Possibly he wants me back - on his terms. An on-tap girlfriend living 'oop North would suit him perfectly.
That's not going to happen.
Is he just hedging his bets until Miss BigBoobs Career Woman turns up? I know the sort of woman he dreams of, not a middle-aged student who writes poems, or writes anything 'cos he never had any faith in me or my abilities.
Quote - my ex-flatmate and her boffin super-brainy husband.
'Gee' he said (he's American) 'gee, but my wife's much cleverer than I am'
'Ern. Why don't you say that about me? Why don't you say - my girlfriend's much cleverer than I am?'
He was quiet for a minute or two. A long time for him. Then looks at me and pipes up -
'Who's gonna believe it'?
Sod you, Ern, I have moved on.
I not saying I won't marry you - a proper proposal, a proper engagement ring, all the things 'other girls have at 18' (quote Bet Lynch, years ago, on Corrie, when she wed Alec Gilroy) but I'm not planning on marrying anybody for three years. I want to get my degree first. Then, well - we'll see, Ern, Corin, David Tennant....
Who's dreaming now?
Today
House full of young lovers. The Wean's boyfriend is here.
Bonnie has lured Farmer's Lad up to Scotland to ply him with Irn Bru and have her wicked way.
So for consolation I took my single self off for a pedicure. Just because I'm a student doesn't mean I have to let myself go. While I was there I thought I might as well have my eyelashes and eybrows dyed too.
You gotta fight the aging process. I'm not trying to look young just alright for my years.
Bought todays Guardian, all sort of articles in it about getting older.
At least I'm getting old along with all the other Baby Boomers so it's bound to be fashionable. Bet they have their eyebrows done.
Also bet they're not living on a student loan.

Last night, having a cup of Horlicks with Bonnie and the Wean when a plaintive cry came from the front room.
'Mum....Mu-uu-m....MUM'
'What is it, son' shouted out Bonnie.
'Get me a drink of orange'.
Can you believe? She would have.
The Wean cut in.
'I'll get you one. But I might piss in it'.
'Fetch him one' pleaded Bonnie 'otherwise I'll only have to get up'.
'It's you that has him the way he is' said me.
'Bless him, he did fix our shower'.
Men! No wonder they rule the world.
Bonnie had previously been to visit our neighbours (two women) to explain that we're having the roof fixed. Sometime. In theory.
They're nice women. Sympathetic when the cat got run over. They told Bonnie that they can here us laughing through the walls but that's OK.
So I thought, yes, I will miss it here when I move. But I can't keep up the commmuting.

Last post for tonight.

I have spent the last couple of hours writing - can you believe - a love poem about some bloke I knew 30 years ago.

I'm beginning to think none of this writing poetry business is academic, much more me been self-indulgent.

They want 4 by 7th November. They've got about bloomin' 6!

I wouldn't mind if I'd done anything else today but I haven't.

Oh dear.

JIM’S FUNERAL

His was a lip-service, hedging his bets kind of religion.
I remember that Sunday evening at
Our Lady of Harlesden
After the Consecration, the congregation filed up as we filed out.
‘We’re holy enough’, said Jim.

I missed his nuptials.
Where was I?
Somewhere – nowhere – young and broke
‘I’m sorry I missed it’.
‘I wish I’d missed it myself’ said Jim.

But I made it to the big one
on Christmas Eve
This time it was not I who filed out before the finish
Sorry, Jim
You were on your own this time.

I couldn't resist Menopausal's Mamas Quiz.

Mostly As: The Spender

Motto You only live once.

Dead giveaways New car, latest gadgets, numerous garage sales, credit-card vacations

Profile You're very current, forward-thinking, fun to be around and often the envy of your friends. You are the fabled Joneses. You like money for the concrete things it buys as opposed to the abstract pleasure of having savings.

Danger zones If you don't pay off your credit-card bills every month, or have a permanent line-of-credit debt, you could be on a slippery slope.

Attitude adjustment Once you "buy" into the habit of paying your bills and socking away some money for savings before you treat yourself to a few fun things, you'll be on your way.

Famous spender Elton John. Most people, when asked how many Bentleys they own, could make a pretty close guess. Not Sir Elton. At last count, he had 14 or 15 parked in his driveway. This man is probably the world's champion shopper. In one trip to Versace in Milan, he spent $600,000. That was a leap even for him – $600,000 is usually the monthly total on his credit cards. But it wasn't his personal best. He's reputed to have spent $1.1 million in one day. Two truckloads of personal possessions accompany him everywhere he goes, no matter how short the trip. It's a good thing for him there are royalties, but even with that river of money coming his way, he once came within eight weeks of going broke.

From How Much Is Enough: Balancing Today’s Needs with Tomorrow’s Retirement Goals, by Diane McCurdy, Copyright 2005 by Diane McCurdy, published by John Wiley & Sons, Hoboken, N.J.

Medjugorie

Jack Molly’s boys enjoyed it when
Holy Harry
came visiting.

Some summers
he would enter a dog in the race.
He bred greyhounds.

Thirty years ago he married their cousin,
the beautiful Tereze.
He still couldn’t believe his luck.

Saint Tereze, they called her
pretty and pious.
Somewhere along the way she’d got religion.

Harry gave up the drink
left the pub, came home early.
Tereze cried, her prayers were answered.

Now Holy Harry spoke of pilgrimages
to Knock, obviously,
but also to Lourdes and Medjugorie.

Tereze, an Icon once herself,
Carnival Queen and Miss Six Counties.
Tereze had a great devotion to Our Lady.

Harry, these days, bred greyhounds in Co Tyrone
and prayed in Knock
and Lourdes and Medjugorie.

His big mistake
was to tell Jack Molly’s lads
of his Vision.

I liked Holy Harry
did my best, took his side
in that mocking car.

But it was
Quiet Jim
who had the Last Word.

‘The Virgin Mary’ he scoffed ‘he thinks he saw the Virgin Mary! Sure isn’t it hard enough to see any kind of a virgin these days, let alone the Virgin Mary’.

I'm not going to spend all day on this blog.
The university work is kicking in now.
I was very good last night, stayed behind in the library and finished my Presentation. Bonnie was an angel and picked me up from Manchester Piccadilly.
She thinks she's off to Scotland - her sister's caravan - this w/e with Farmers Lad. They seem to have some sort of platonic thing going on. His lack of sex-drive, we both decided, is because he's on anti-depressants. He's only 40 and Bonnie thinks he really wants a younger woman (she's 47) and hasn't completely given up on achieving the wife and family thing. He's one daughter from a previous relationship but I suppose that doesn't count as domestic bliss. Bonnie's also turned her attention to someone else at work. Not the Vice-Principal, this time, but one of her Learning Support colleagues.
'He keeps chatting. I don't know. Maybe he just sees me as someone to confide in. Telling me about how he's often at a loose end, been single. I don't know if he fancy's me. He's so handsome. About 40. Keeps chatting. You should have seen Nina's face. One of my pupils, 18, a tall, black girl, very streetwise. Was she clocking the whole thing; her body language was very much, 'your in there, go for it'. I don't know....'
I said that if he does fancy her it will become apparent over time. Offerred to have a word with any sister-in-law he might have.
As for my own non-existent love-life?
I do like Blue Eyes at the Uni but it really is a friendship thing. A, because it is, B, because I do not want any more romantic entanglements in a 'work' situation. I've been there with Ern.
But, you know, some people you just get on with. Why wouldn't I really? He's a kindred spirit, into drama and writing. I think he enjoys his bevvy too.
Poor man has some form of MS. It mainly effects his eyesight (and he has lovely eyes). It only came on recently, he told me, and he's hoping it won't get any worse.
Plus, are him and Bonnie on my case about trying to get some sort of Disability Allowance. I really don't think they give it out just for keratoconus (which is only a form of short-sightedness). They keep on telling me that I should make enquiries.
So I looked up the Keratoconus Club on the computer. They do have a Northern branch. But have I really got time to get involved with a bunch of Mancunian Myopics?

Regressing to childhood after a certain age?
A query from Isadora.
It's allowed if you do drama. Friday, 3 hours of a drama class. We had to do a little scene, no talking just a bit of lights and action. Anyway we all were taken to the Prop and Costume Dept. OOOh, fabulous, Aladdin's Cave. In a sort of basement, down some steps, rooms and rooms of props and costumes. Loads and loads of things to play with and get dressed-up in.
I always liked acting not least the 'dressing-up and showing-off' part.

My short-story more or less finished.
Best I can do. Although having big problems with printing it out. You don't wanna know. Why can't I do technology?
4 poems also needed.
They are on their way. Feel a bit tired today. More or less got three-and-a-half.
I'll get there

89% stupid.
Maybe if I had more sleep?

One short story later.
Didn't take too long in the end. Bonnie came home early from work and we watched Roman Polanski's 'Tess' on video.
She's now less sure about her new given-up-men resolution.
'I was walking down the corridor today. Behind the Vice-Principal. I've never really noticed him before. He's so gorgeus, so tall, so male. Not that he'd look at me. Even if he wasn't married. I know that I told Ian and Gabriella that I would never dream of shagging anyone in the toilets at a nightclub, the way some of their friends do but.... I'd make an exception in the case of the Vice-Principal'.
Watched Corrie with her and the Wean.
Danny Baldwin. 'Scumbag' said Bonnie, 'just Mo's type. Admit it, Mo, you'd shag him in the toilets given half an chance'.
'He does remind me of Ern'.
'Complete scumbags, the pair of them'.
An advert came on for Guys and Dolls, the musical. I thinks it's coming to Manchester, it's definitely on in Stoke-on-Trent.
'Shall we book it?' asked Bonnie.
'Yes. Nathan Detroit reminds me of Ern, too'.
Bonnie's burying her hair in the pillow by now (we're all on her bed, eating pizza as we watch telly) 'I'll end up like Mo. No sex for 6 years and still remembering my old boyfriend. Help. Shoot me now'.
Huh. I came down to the cellar to write some poetry and a bit for me blog.

A short post.
I really have to crack on with that blinkin' short story today.
I'd much rather finish Alan Bennett's 'Untold Stories'. I've been meaning to read it for ages, finally got it from the library. What an amazing writer. Do you think he agonizes over it for hours? I think he's the best playwrite (is that how it's spelt?) writing today. But harsh, too, his is not a soft world.
Poor Bonnie. She's back to square one although two thousand pounds richer. Last night, Geoff e-mailed her. She was great company etc but he's not quite ready to settle down into a relationship yet. I said they go on that website, see so many women, they become boys in a sweet shop. She says that's it, she's given up looking for a man, it's next to impossible for middle-aged women to find one and she still hasn't really got over Guy.
Join the club.

Shouldn't really be wasting my time doing a post. Still, I did a bit of work on one of my assignments this afternoon.
Got sidetracked by Bonnie taking us all out for an Indian meal. Just returned, after Chicken Tikka and a few too many 'Kingfisher' lagers. What was my thesis called again? Oh, thanks Dennypoos for reminding me - 'The effects of drunkeness of verticality'.
Anyway, Bonnie very flush. Yesterday morning she turned pale after reading a letter she had just received in the post. I thought, oh, no, what now, because I know all about her leaking roof and rising damp, not to mention lousy love-life.
'It must be a mistake' she showed me the letter.
I read it. It looked kosher to me. Apparently, her bank has decided to pay her over two-thousand pounds in lieu of bank charges misappropriated over the last six years. She's been writing and threatening to take them to court for ages but only expected to get a couple of hundred max.
'You better start writing too' she said. So, broke bloggers, be told. There's some law come out that banks can no longer get away with daylight robbery. I've been saying for years, usually to some jobsworth on the other end of the phone, that banks would be hung for usury in the Middle Ages. I think it's fees for unauthorised overdraughts and stuff that they are not allowed to charge, or something, not sure. Just write to them, what harm can it do, complain and you might get two thousand pounds.
I love Bonnie's attitude to money. Much like mine, if you've got it spend it, if not, economise. She's very kind and brought me a white blouse for my new waitressing job and fish-and-chips in a local cafe. Then she decided we both needed to see a hairdresser.
Luckily we found one that could fit us in. My hair was in dire need of a hairdresser, I was looking far to much like a poor student and that is not a good look at fifty-plus.
It seemed a waste of a good hairdo not to go to the folk club but I couldn't as I had my new job. Anyway, Corin hates me, nice hair or no nice hair. Alas.
My Saturday nights for foreseeable future will be most likely spent at Hotel and Restaurant 2nd Choice. It's ok. Mad busy. They told me I ain't seen nothing yet. Quite nice people. Pat, a bit older than me, Jill, a woman in her forties, some young English students, some others from the Czech Republic, Bob, the manager, camp as Butlins.
He gave us a 'team briefing' before the service proper started.
'Pat, your downstairs, Maureen, follow Pat, Jill upstairs.... Tina, you short-arsed little cunt (I don't think I misheard), stay in the annexe, Mariska, stop moaning. Now, listen, troops, as regards the double cream. It's double cream, serve it as it comes. No need to whisk it, shake it, bleb, bleb, bleb it. It's for pouring straight onto the sweets, that's all, it's not for...... you know doing THAT with'.
So today. As I said, some course work got done, not much. One short story, 2 poems to do by Tuesday. This is the downside to being a student, I mean I can cope with the turning-up at lectures three-times-a week part.
Still we all had a nice meal and me and Bonnie's hairdos got some sort of an outing. The Wean came too, having returned from a Theme Park bonding thing her job had arranged for its staff. She seemed more cheerful, the whole newspaper and housework saga forgotten. Ian and Gabriella; the Italian-Canadian Gabriella said that when in Canada she had thought England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland were one and the same place! She got put straight. She also thought that Catholicm and Protestantism were similar religions. The Glaswegians, Bonnie and the Wean, nearly choked when they heard this. Bonnie decided her future daughter-in-law needed educating and elaborated, at great length about Buddhism, Post-Modernism, having a degree in Sociology as well as Ian's toilet-training and what a bastard Guy, her ex-boyfriend, was.
When I could get a word in, I asked her if she really preferred Sociology to English and Drama? She assured me that she did.
Ian, the engineer. said, no, his Mum had just eventually decided to take a degree in a subject that she could actually get a job with.
Bonnie also happier because she has met a new man from the dating website. A fellow Scot, called Geoff. They went out on Friday night and got on.
So, as usual, I'm the only one in the house without a partner. In the whole world, it sometimes feels like. And all the kittens got sold. I know, 'cos I went back to have a look.

Am I miserable today?
I think I'm just tired. I was up late last night writing out notes, up early this morning to catch the train.
Missing my home in London, I suppose. It could be as tidy or as untidy as I wished and the cat had the garden. Think I'll have to sell it because I don't see I'll ever afford to live in it again.
Unless Ern moves back.
But he's made it quite clear he doesn't intend to. The arse. I've had an e-mail from him. I sent him the lyrics of 'Waltzing's for Dreamers'. His e-mail said 'How come I know Richard Thompson'?
I think Layla's right. She said that Ern may have been with me for four years but he never knew me.
Do I always fall for singers? Ern wasn't a musician and songwriter the way Corin is but he was a good singer. He'd sung in a band when younger but because he had a good job decided to keep singing as a hobby. He loved pubs with live music where he could sing with the band and - such an arsehole - referred to himself as an 'afficionado' where music was concerned. Still. he was a good singer and a song like 'Waltzing's for Dreamers' would really suit him.
And, be honest, maybe I'm a bit upset re Corin. Has he phoned? Has 'e 'eck as like, as they say oop here.
Bonnie's constant bleating about not having a man doesn't help either. I need to tell her, some things you have to learn and live with. I learnt that I was not remotely attractive to the opposite sex at about the age of 12. Since then, there's not been one of them that wouldn't have walked over me to get to someone else. Even when I go for a more beta-type male (Bonnie's always classifying men into alphas and betas. She's decided she's maternal and goes for betas but I'm not and go for alphas) where was I, yes, I go for a beta-type male like Corin and it still doesn't work out.
Some people are just destined to be alone. That's the extent of it and that's the end of it. I can live quite nicely on me tod, thank-you very much, just me and a few cats and piles and piles of old papers.

I know I'm untidy. I know I'm a hoarder. Yes, I also know about minimalism and Feng Shui but throwing things away really distresses me and makes me anxious. Probably why it took months getting my London gaff ready to rent.
So last night Bonnie was objecting to my piles of newspapers and wanting to sling them. But I'm not sure I've read all of them yet. Tried to compromise, saying I'd put them away, out of sight, down in the cellar. I have the tiniest bedroom so the cellar is really an extension of it. Bonnie fine with this. I also pointed out that I'd walked the dog and done at least an hour-and-a half of housework that day. On hearing this Wean pipes up. 'Housework?' she goes as if it's news to her.
I hit the roof. Yes, I shouted, I'd hoovered and tidied the living-room and seeing the kitchen was also in a right state, I'd put two loads in the dishwasher besides cleaning the worktops and hob and tidying and mopping both floors.
'There were dishes lying around when I came home from work'.
'It's not my fault people used the kitchen after I'd cleaned it and mucked it up again'.
The Wean has such standards but you seldom see her with a mop and bucket. It's just moan, moan if anything's lying around. Bonnie agrees and says I'm the only one doing any semblance of housework of late because she's too tired.
Bonnie told me about the Wean's mother. Really houseproud, the only time she sat down to rest was when she had a drink. And she died of alcoholism! I rest my case. That girl has to lighten up and realise that housework is not a priority for an aspiring authoress. But I do do my share.

Meant to do this post yesterday when I sneaked into Ian and Gabriella's room to use their laptop. But got sidetracked by Layla on MSN Messenger.
Anyway, Wednesday evening, horrendous. I only managed to catch the wrong train and ended up miles away. It's easily done. I mean, one train looks very much like another. 10.30 and I eventually got home, fed-up and starving.

I've christened him the Drippy Hippy. He's lovely, a real poet and looks like one. Not that I know what one looks like. Although I fancy Robert Burns. Where was I? He (drippy hippy not Rabbie) was on that outward bound thing (when I got lost) and he came today and gave us a talk on writing poetry. He's a real leftover hippy. Gave us some lyrics to read - guess what? Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. Plus something else called 'I wish a was a Punk Rocker' (with Flowers in my Hair) by Sandi Thom. This one really upset some young man. Dunno, he said it was nostalgic twaddle and where would the world be without the Internet or something and stormed out. Oh, well, bit of excitement.
I love poetry. And I have to read lots, it's part of the course. And write some. I love being a student, it really beats proof-reading. Anyone got any poems they like then let me know and I'll look them up.

The computer situation.
Bonnie's laptop works sometimes if it's in a certain corner of her bedroom.
Something was working in Ian and Gabriella's room because when I was trying to type up my story on Bonnie's laptop, I kept getting Ian's MSN Messenger messages.
Cellar computer, the one that I use, definitely not working.
So may not be able to blog until Thursday.
Which could be all for the best as I have another short-story and four poems to write.

I know I said I'd done my final post for today but I couldn't resist this. Richard Thompson has to be the best songwriter ever.
How bloody apt. Dreamers and Losers in Love. Yep, that's me, alright.

Waltzing's For Dreamers
Written by Richard Thompson Appears on Amnesia (1988)

Oh play me a blue song and fade down the light
I'm sad as a proud man can be sad tonight
Just let me dream on, oh just let me sway
While the sweet violins and the saxophones play
And Miss, you don't know me, but can't we pretend
That we care for each other, till the band reach the end

One step for aching, and two steps for breaking
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love
One step for sighing and two steps for crying
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love

Now they say love's for gamblers, oh the pendulum swings
I bet hard on love and I lost everything
So don't send me home now, put a shot in my arm
And we'll drink out old memories and we'll drink in the dawn
And Mr Bandleader won't you play one more time
For I've good folding money in this pocket of mine

Oh, one step for aching, two steps for breaking
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love
One step for sighing, and two steps for crying
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love

Oh Miss, you don't know me, but can't we pretend
That we care for each other, till the band reach the end

Oh, one step for aching, two steps for breaking
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love
One step for sighing, two steps for crying
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love
Waltzing's for dreamers and losers in love

Final post for today.
On the way to the gym yesterday, I passed the Pet Shop. Revision, I didn't pass the Pet Shop because it had a notice outside. Kittens.
No, I didn't but I was sorely tempted.
Same litter, one ginger, three white. How did that happen?
If I ever get a garden again.
All I can say is, good luck to Madonna, I mean I've nothing against her adopting an African baby. But if it was me, I'd settle for a kitten.
Job was fine. Busy as hell and a bit confusing. Much more hectic than my last waitressing job at the Golf Club. That was a doddle. But he wants me back Saturday.
Money. Money. Money.
Where's that blonde wig?

Bonnie and Farmer's Lad aren't an item any more but he still phones and texts her. Sunday, he suggested we all went out for lunch.
Good thing I have a p/t job because I don't seem to be curtailing my lifestyle in any way, shape or form.
Had a nice meal at some Garden Centre place then a drink in a pub with pet rabbits. Sweet.
Knocked out a short story in the evening. As you do. As you have to do when they want it in on Tuesday.
Took a break to watch the final episode of Jane Eyre with Bonnie. Don't know why we watch it because it gives us the miseries.
'That's what I should have done when it ended with Guy. Set off walking across the moors. They'd have sent out a search party....'
'No, Bonnie, nobody would ever in a million years send out a search party to look for you walking across the moors. Because anyone who knows you, knows you would never in a million years go walking across the moors in the first place. You would never, in fact, go walking, anywhere. A woman who drives her dog to the park then sits in the car while the poor thing has a widdle. Walking across the Moors. As if.... sitting stuffing your face in some cake-shop, more like.'
Then I began wondering if I would be so psychically tuned in to Ern that I'd hear him call out to me from deepest Hackney......
'Only way he ever will contact you unless you get your mobile phone charged up'.
'Maureen. Maur-een. The pub's on fire. I can't leave, the beer's all free. Maureen. Maur-een'.
Oh, what hope is there for the female race when even a clever woman like Charlotte Bronte creates a hero like Mr Rochester. Dream on.

Another nice song. One I'll never hear sung again. Folk clubs? I daren't leave the house, someone pass me a burkha, please.

Vincent Black Lightning
Written by Richard Thompson Appears on Rumor and Sigh (1991)

Oh says Red Molly to James "That's a fine motorbike.
A girl could feel special on any such like"
Says James to Red Molly "My hat's off to you
It's a Vincent Black Lightning, 1952.
And I've seen you at the corners and cafes it seems
Red hair and black leather, my favourite colour scheme"
And he pulled her on behind and down to Boxhill they did ride
Oh says James to Red Molly "Here's a ring for your right hand
But I'll tell you in earnest I'm a dangerous man.
For I've fought with the law since I was seventeen,
I robbed many a man to get my Vincent machine.
Now I'm 21 years, I might make 22
And I don't mind dying, but for the love of you.
And if fate should break my stride
Then I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

"Come down, come down, Red Molly" called Sergeant McRae
"For they've taken young James Adie for armed robbery.
Shotgun blast hit his chest, left nothing inside.
Oh come down, Red Molly to his dying bedside"
When she came to the hospital, there wasn't much left
He was running out of road, he was running out of breath
But he smiled to see her cry
He said "I'll give you my Vincent to ride"

Says James "In my opinion, there's nothing in this world
Beats a 52 Vincent and a red headed girl.
Now Nortons and Indians and Greeves won't do,
Ah, they don't have a soul like a Vincent 52"
Oh he reached for her hand and he slipped her the keys
Said "I've got no further use for these.
I see angels on Ariels in leather and chrome,
Swooping down from heaven to carry me home"
And he gave her one last kiss and died
And he gave her his Vincent to ride.

Access to a computer again.
So, what's been happening?
Bonnie, in a tidying-up mood on Sunday morning, found 2 long wigs in her bedroom cupboard, one blonde, one brown, and had yet another brilliant idea.
'Let's put them on, we'll be a tribute band, come on, lets go and wake up Gabriella, I'll be the blonde one.....' so we had to go and wake up Gabriella with our rendition of 'Dancing Queen'.
'You guys are crazy' was all she said.
Ian was out somewhere. But he knows he has a Mad Mother.
Mad, bad and dangerous to know.
'Well, Corin hasn't phoned yet, has he?' I gave her a very withering and accusing look 'and, it's quite obvious he's not going to'.
Then I got thinking 'Ern would have rang by now. In fact, Ern would have been round as soon as his sister-in-law mentioned it, looking for a legover... I bet Corin finds me repulsive'.
'Don't take it so personally'.
Huh.
I can never show my face at the folk club again, can I?

If the new job goes according to plan then Saturday was my last night at the Folk Club because I'll be working in future.
Last time I see Corin?
We had a great night as usual. Gorgeous Guitarist had a new guitar case which he was very pleased with. Kept drawing everyone's attention to it.
'Have you seen my new guitar case?' was his mantra for the night.
Apart from him, 'the usual crowd were there' to quote a line from St James Infirmary (one of Bonnie's songs), Corin and his sister-in-law, the couple who bring their labrador, the ex-heroin adddict turned Born Again Christian, two of Tom's (Bonnie's late husband) old friends, one I'll call Vincent because he sings a great song called 'Black Vincent' and the other I'll call Stud 'cos he thinks he is. Plus a few strangers, a few young ones which was nice because it's always a bit Saturday Night at the Old Folk's Home but this week Vincent's son came along as well as a young couple who wondered in by mistake but liked it and stayed.
Plus a blind man who hadn't been there before.
Corin, singing a lot of his own stuff. 'He's proper talented' as Bonnie puts it. He introduced one song about his ex-wife 'I wrote this because I hate her. I'm sorry if I upset any feminists out there but not all men are bad and not all women are good'.
Yes, remark sure did upset Bonnie, 'Corin' she said, 'if you think that's what feminism is about then I suggest you go and read a few books'.
Later, (Bonnie's suggestion) I went to the bar the same time as he did. He ignored me! However, all was not lost, we had to wait outside the room for a bit as someone was singing. I kept thinking, I'll never see him again, I should try and talk to him. Oh, shit, what can I say? Inspiration.
'You haven't sang Mr Bojangles for a while?'
'No, I haven't, On purpose. I was singing it every week'.
'Well, don't sing it'.
'Why not?'.
'It's too sad. It reminds me of my cat who died'.
'Was your cat called Mr Bojangles'.
'No'.
Oh, what a rubbish conversation. He must think I'm really stupid. I should have kept quiet. The Good Lord made me shy for a purpose, said purpose being so people don't discover how stupid I am.
'But his dog dies in the song....' I continued.
'Yes'
'And my cat died....'
'I have a cat. He's called Sam. I'd be devastated if he died and I'm moving soon. Near a main road.....'
End of, because the song finished and we could go in.
And guess what? Next time he sang, he sang 'Mr Bojangles'.
The raffle. It's always a bottle of wine and I never win it. Stud won it. 'I don't drink wine' he said and handed it to the pretty, young girl who had wondered in accidentally with her boyfriend.
'He's known me for years....' mutterred a peeved Bonnie.
Last number from Gorgeous Guitarist. 'Do you like my new guitar case?', he asked yet again before he started.
'Beautiful', said Stud, 'What's it like in bed?'
Time to go home. Adieu, Folk Singer. Alas, it was not to be. And how sad, I mean, the fact that he's got a cat, purr-fect, I don't want to sleep with anyone who won't allow cats on the bed, hear that, Ern?
Popped into loo. Someone in there first, probably Corin's sister-in-law. Bonnie signalling frantically for me to wait outside. I guessed it was because Corin would be outside waiting and it gave me another chance to talk to him. I sat outside for a bit, on one chair, he sat on another, neither of us spoke. I went in to fetch Bonnie.
'Good-night' she said as sister-in-law left.
'I might have done something wrong' she said to me.
I didn't find out what until we got home because she gave the blind man a lift. Which was quite hilarious given him being blind, me being short-sighted and Bonnie's sense of direction. I think the poor bloke thought he was being kidnapped by two mad women and kept mentioning that his 'partner' was waiting for him.
'I'd have brought her this evening but she's not into folk music'.
Bonnie a bit upset to learn about the partner as she fancied him.
'And what have you done?' I asked but I had an idea.
She's spoken to sister-in-law. Said something along the lines of 'my friend really likes Corin but he'd never guess because she's painfully shy. Could you give him her phone number?'
Sister-in-law, who Bonnie thinks is a nice woman, said yes, she would, but not to hold out too much hope. Corin was very badly hurt by his ex-wife, 'an evil woman' and hasn't gone out with anybody since.
'Look' said Bonnie 'we've given it our best shot. If you hadn't been starting that job, I wouldn't have done it.... I mean, I always thought of giving him the phone number but I suspect he won't ring. Don't take it personally. Inviting him to a party would have been a better idea. More natural. You could have both got drunk and ended up in bed together. Then, you'd have both decided, as you'd slept together, you might as well go the whole hog and have a relationship'.
I didn't say much. Just 'thank God I'm working on Saturday nights and never have to see him again'.

Slight problem yesterday. The house computer not working. Make that computers.
'5 people live here, why on earth do we need 4 computer?' asked Bonnie.
It's all Ian's fault. I'm sure he's overloading the system or something but they assure me that's not how it works. So, presently, I am sat in the Public Library using one of theirs. It's free for an hour, then I have to pay. Better get a move on.

My last post for today.
On the phone to Reba. (I eventually found the stupid thing). The usual, bits of gossip from my old job and her catalogue of woes.
'I'm selling my car. Everyone says I should sell it privately. How can I sell it privately without a man? I'll get ripped-off. Anyway, I can't have a queue of strangers queing up at the door. Oy'vay (or words to that effect) life is so hard when your a woman alone. Go to Turkey? On holiday? On my own? I won't enjoy it. And who'll look after the cats? And what's Ern up too? Every night he's asking about you. What are you doing? What are you up too? What's he up too, more like. He isn't with anyone at the moment, as far as I know. He'll keep you hanging on, you can't trust him. Doesn't want to know you for years, now you've left he's interested again. Men! They're all bastards'.

What do they say? Needs must when the Devil drives. Seems I've found myself a new job as a part-time waitress. I applied for two jobs but Hotel and Restaurant 2nd Choice have come up with the goods. I may yet hear from Hotel and Restaurant 1st Choice in which case I'll review the situation.
It's a lovely place, not too far from here although 1st Choice is nearer. It'll be hard work but a bit more gracious than the Pork Packing place. I always quite liked waitressing. I just hope I haven't lost the knack, I mean it's been years since I've actually done any. I start on Monday evening, a 'trial' run. Wish me luck.

I must admit there are times when I miss my old, lonely Spinster way of life.
Like when I'm looking for the phone. Personally, I would never buy a phone that goes walkabout, they give you brain turmours apart from anything else. Living here, it's impossible to find the house phone when you need it, it's always in somebody's room or other, or down the back of the settee or anywhere except where it should be.
Meal times. Yes, it is nice having meals cooked for me. Must admit. It's just times of said meals. Of late, they are very late.
It was fine when Bonnie was cooking. Any old stuff was left out to bung in mircowave if you weren't there. (Not that I'm a great fan of microwaves either). However, since Ian and Gabriella have taken over kitchen duties, it's way past bedtime before any food appears.
Bonnie moans because it's too healthy. I try not to moan because it's too late. 10 pm onwards seems to be their idea of dinner-time. In fact, Ian even calls it tea. How can it be tea at midnight?
Had lunch yesterday with the 2 other Golden Oldies on my course. Hubby (he's married so it's as good a name as any) and Blue Eyes. They had braised steak in Yorkshire Pudding with chips. It looked delicious. I had cheese sandwiches. Well, I am on an economy drive and Bonnie keeps saying make sarnies, don't waste money in the refectory. A couple of cheese butties and an apple.
It's working out fine at the Uni. I have the Golden Oldies to chat to on Friday and Jodie and Hew are very friendly towards me too. Hew's another mature student although I'd guess he's in his mid-twenties. I don't know if him and Jodie fancy each other. I'll work it out. Jodie's ok, but I can see why she's chosen acting as a course. Ego. I think I must have heard the ins and outs of every production she's been involved with since she was born. Anyway, Blue Eyes, I like him. I don't think it's as much I fancy him, there's just something I like about him. He's offered to give me driving lessons if I buy a car. Said offer seems to be worrying Bonnie. Can't see why, I'm sure there's loads of short-sighted drivers on the road.
Blue Eyes also has MS. Poor man. I mean, he looks fine but still. I don't really know much about MS except I think it's pretty bad.
Anyway, that was lunch. Or dinner 'oop north. Followed by a very energetic drama class and a 3-hour journey home.
I'm starving.
Ian announced that dinner would be ready 'in an hour'.
An hour, I'm just about ready to collapse, I'm so hungry.
An hour later and still no sign of it.
Even Bonnie's getting hungry now.
'I'll just fry me and Mo some bacon', she suggests, hopefully, to Ian.
He gets stroppy. 'Mum, I've cooked us all a lovely mean. Tuna-fish gratin and roast vegetables. Can't you just wait until Gabriella gets home and then we can all eat as a family'.
Gabriella's out waitressing and won't be back until midnight.
Bonnie and I insisted on having ours there and then. I mean, it was already past ten o'clock.
I think next week I'll go for the Yorkshire pud at the refectory.

Just sort of occurred to me.
Some people do not care what they do to earn money. Ethics and morality certainly don't come into it.
Copywriters.
There's an advert on the Uni bus.
It goes something like - 'This time last year, you thought that travel and adventure were only a dream".
So guess what it's advertising?
A career in the Army.

Just to say, in case anyone in Blogland thinks I'm a lazy so-and-so, they wouldn't be wrong but I have, at least, knocked out a first draft of story in the last hour. It's complete rubbish but apparently first drafts are meant to be. I assume my sub-conscious is working on it because I feel sort of worried that it is so bad.
Writing, I believe, happens on the 'back burner'. I know when I wrote comedy stuff, as long as I wrote some material down, the punch-lines would come later when consciously I wasn't even thinking about them. I assume all writing works like this. I'll let you know.

I don't know where yesterday went. Nothing much done, not even a visit to the Gym. Walked Fizz with Bonnie in the morning, I suppose.
Bonnie and Ian had a huge row. Over money. But they seem to have sorted it out and are friends again.
Spent all the afternoon filling in a form for a part-time job in a nearby hotel. I could use the money. I think I can fit in a few hours a week.
In the evening went to a comedy club in Manchester with Bonnie, Jane and some of Jane's friends. I see evenings at comedy's clubs, theatres, cinemas etc. as research for my course.
My excuse and I'm sticking to it.

I can't vouch for the following recipe because I haven't actually made it, the ones I kept making came from recipe books, magazines etc but eventually my sister found my Mum's recipe.
I mean, we like it, (me and my sister) but everyone has their own idea of what a Christmas Cake should taste like.
Ideally you should make them by November 5th and keep them until Christmas.
How can I afford to make one now I'm a poor student?

BE-RO XMAS CAKE (Mum’s)

4 oz’s BERO flour
4 oz’s cherries
1 teaspoon Mixed Spice
4 oz’s PEEL (chopped)
4 oz’s Ground Almonds
8 oz’s Butter
8 oz’s Currants
8 oz’s Caster Sugar
8 oz’s Sultanas 4 eggs beaten with
8 tablespoons Milk
8 oz’s Raisins (stoned

Mix flour, Spice, and Ground Almonds. Clean and mix the fruit. Beat the butter and sugar to a cream in a warm bowl. Beat eggs and milk together. Then stir alternatively one at a time the flour mixture and the eggs and milk and the butter and the sugar. Add the fruit last and MIX THOROUGHLY. If a darker cake is desired add one teaspoonful of gravy browning.
Grease a large round cake tin (8 inches in diameter). Line with greased paper.
Bake about 4 hours . The first hour in a hot oven 350-375 and a slow oven (200)? thereafter

From : Caitlin *******
Sent : 11 October 2006 12:06:34
To : "Maureen Rowntree" ******
Subject : RE: Chapel of Rest

oh no - what a nightmare. really sorry to have missed you. you weren't the only one who had trouble finding it though - Mum only turned up in the nick of time. I was wandering around and just followed some people wearing black and looking at maps. It didn't help in that it was on an estate and looked like a community centre.

it was very sad, but I have to say, I hope that many people come to my funeral. must have been a couple of hundred there, and it's only a small place so loads of people had to stand outside and so, effectively missed it too. I didn't get to speak to H or little Aine but Baby-Billy seemed remarkably up-beat when I spoke to him afterwards. They laid on some food and drink after but I went home pretty much straight away. did you stay for a while? I feel knackered today, what with all the emotion and praying etc.
ellen made me laugh afterwards when she said 'I don't like funerals. I don't mind a wedding though' - as if they were the same!

sorry you missed it. too many funerals recently, God willing that'll be it for a while.

Bonnie met me at the station last night and took me for a burger and chips in Weatherspoons.
While I've been with my hellish relations, she's had her own problems. A big row with Ian and Gabriella last night.
When they moved in, I think the idea was that they bought and cooked the food in lieu of paying rent. Which is great, really. Gabriella is a brilliant cook, we eat roast duck and all sorts of good things. Healthy, you'd better believe it, she's very into her 5+ servings of veg. Lightly cooked.
The problem is, Bonnie's a Glaswegian woman. I believe (and I hope that I'm not being racist), that the Scottish diet is one of the worst in the world. Bonnie likes her fry-ups.
'I got home last night, I'd had such a hard day teaching, I was shattered and what did she give me to eat. Liquidised, stone-cold beetroot. She even dared to call it soup'.
Apparently her complaining set Ian off on a 'you'll be dead tomorrow if you continue with your life-style' tangent.
And he has got a point.
But Bonnie said she didn't care and we were going for chips tonight and that was that and she wouldn't be bothered if she never saw another vegetable again and all Gabriella's endless bean concoctions give her the runs.
She's even contemplating moving into the Hall of Residence with me.
I thought young couples traditionally did not get on living with their 'in-law's' but Ian and Gabriella seem fine with it. It's Bonnie who's suffering.
Apart from that and on a good note. I have finished a short-story and I am pleased with it. I may get the hang of this writing business.
And Sista's birthday pressy finally arrived, after all its travels to wrong addresses. A lovely jade-green feathered fan and a handbag made of peacock feathers. So very not Sista, so very much me.

Wives and Gruesome Snakes. I'm on a roll now.
I am heartily sick of these family do's and aim to avoid them in the future. My sister never bothers.
My cousins are all busy doing man stuff i.e. getting drunk at the bar.
After the stress of my journey, I decide that getting drunk is not a bad idea.
The one time I really hate being single is at these bloody events. I wish Ern was with me.
You might have noticed that I'm a bit off Mary at the moment because we had a row in August. She obviously has not forgiven me because she makes no effort to come across and speak.
It is so unfair. She is with her husband, her kids, her Chief Rattlesnake of a sister whereas I am all alone.
Any port in a storm. Notice Padraic's wife, Ellen is there with her sons, one daughter-in-law and her sister, Philomena. Head acroos to their table.
They seem genuinely pleased to see me. (It wasn't always the case). John, the youngest son asks about my course and seems happy that I'm enjoying it.
Philomena was all chat. Gave me her phone number and told me to pay her a visit next time I'm in London.
Philomena. Thereby hangs a tale. My cousin Brendan loved her and only married Mary on the rebound. Philomena is not an 100 per cent nice person; she is manipulative and devious yet she seems to have this gift of making people love her. Brendan did, Brendan's mother did and really wanted her as a daughter-in-law and I did although she treated me as badly as she treated my cousin. We were good friends when we were younger; make that 'good' in inverted commas as I do have truer, more trustworthy friends. Luckily. We were like Caitlin and Baba in Edna O'Brien's 'The Country Girls'. She was Baba and I was Caitlin, the Girl with Green Eyes. The thing is despite her faults, Philomena can be very funny and charming and when I discovered that her birthday was on the same day as Ern's (27th July), I was not in the least surprised.

An hour-and-a-half later and I'm still traipsing up and down the Kilburn High Road asking directions to a Chapel-of-Rest which I'm beginning to think doesn't exist.
Not holding out much hope, I go into yet another pub.
'Does anyone know where the Percy Street Chapel-of-Rest is?'
'Why do you want to go there, luv?'
'Because someone I know's in it?'
'Oh dear. As long as it's not you, darlin'.'
'The way I feel, I'm beginning to wish it was'.
However, this time I was in luck because one drinker of obviously above-average intelligence looked up.
'You need to go down past Kilburn Park Tube and turn right.....'
Finally.
Of course, I'd missed the viewing of the body and the mass bit. Turned out I wasn't the only one because the chapel was too small to accommodate all the people who'd turned up.
Still, I was feeling very distressed from getting lost as much as anything.
'I'm so sorry I missed it' I said to Baby-Billy which (explain sometime) is what everyone calls Mairead's son. And I was sorry, I hadn't planned on missing the main event. He was fine about it and said at least I'd got there in the end.
On to the club where H. said he'd given me 'distinct directions' over the phone. He probably had.
Back to the Vipers.
The place was heaving with them. I just looked round and thought I am totally sick of the cousin's wives, the whole lot of them, all waiting, watching, back-biting, gossiping and trying to score points. I bet a few comments were made because I was late. Not least by Eilis, Mairead's sister, who's just as bad as any of the wives.
What a crowd. I realised it was exactly the sort of do Mairead would hate. She was such a quiet person and avoided social events. Neither could I believe that Mary, Brendan's wife, had turned up. A woman who hasn't spoken to H., her husband's brother, for years and who never, Mairead told me, once visited her during her illness.
Judge not that ye be not judged, I suppose.

Yesterday I went down to London for Mairead's 'funeral'. Her body will be buried in Ireland but first there would be a service in north-west London. H. even went one futher and laid on food in the Church's Social Club afterwards so really it was the London funeral only her immediate family going on to Ireland.
What a nightmare. For various reasons, not least because I got lost trying to find the bloomin' chapel. Yes, I had been there before, last Christmas, in fact, when my cousin died, but then I'd come straight off the night shift, got a lift with Brendan and was too tired to notice where I was going. This time, I caught a very expensive train, then the tube and tried making enquiries when I got out of Kilburn Park Station. No, not a soul had heard of the Percy Street chapel. One helpful man even looked it up in the A-Z and told me it didn't exist. Decided the best bet would be to try and find a mini-cab. Easier said than done. I, eventually found a mini-cab office, presided over by some evil cow who, gleefully and point-blank, refused to help.
'None of our drivers can take you if you don't know the post-code'.
What? You fuckin' bitch. I know mini-cab drivers never know where they're going but the only time they ever ask for a post-code is if you query the fare in advance. I mean, the nearest I got to asking an actual driver was talking to Mrs Idi Amin through the intercom. Yes, 'Idi Amin'; her refusal to help me in any way, shape or form was a pure racism.
First Viper of the night. More to come.

Seem to have my poetry head on just lately. I think Corin, the Marxist Folk Singer, would like the following poem:
Then again, maybe he wouldn't.

The Sons of Martha
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that good part;
But the Sons of Martha favour their Mother of the careful soul and the troubled heart.
And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord her Guest,
Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons, world without end, reprieve, or rest.
It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock.
It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock.
It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,
Tally, transport, and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to mountains, " Be ye removèd" They say to the lesser floods " Be dry."
Under their rods are the rocks reprovèd - they are not afraid of that which is high.
Then do the hill tops shake to the summit - then is the bed of the deep laid bare,
That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger death at their gloves' end where they piece and repiece the living wires.
He rears against the gates they tend: they feed him hungry behind their fires.
Early at dawn, ere men see clear, they stumble into his terrible stall,
And hale him forth like a haltered steer, and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is Belief forbidden; from these till death is Relief afar.
They are concerned with matters hidden - under the earthline their altars are
The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,
And gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose.
They do not teach that His Pity allows them to leave their job when they damn-well choose.
As in the thronged and the lighted ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,
Wary and watchful all their days that their brethren's days may be long in the land.

Raise ye the stone or cleave the wood to make a path more fair or flat;
Lo, it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that !
Not as a ladder from earth to Heaven, not as a witness to any creed,
But simple service simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd - they know the angels are on their side.
They know in them is the Grace confessèd, and for them are the Mercies multiplied.
They sit at the Feet - they hear the Word - they see how truly the Promise runs.
They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and - the Lord He lays it on Martha's Sons !

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Last night I took some time out from reading my Hamlet criticism to watch Corrie (naturally) and Jane Eyre.
Missed the other episodes of Jane Eyre but anyway saw this one.
She was too pretty. Jane Eyre is supposed to be plain. He was sexy.
Drool. Sigh.
'Why can't we ever meet men like Mr Rochester', I asked Bonnie.
She's swooning away herself and going, 'Guy was my Mr Rochester'.
'Excuse me' I said, 'but first I knew that Mr Rochester came from Sarf London.
After watching the wedding-that-never-was scene, we went into one. Guy and Ern both had wives (Ern's was ex but that's another story). Admittedly said wives both inhabited conventional semi-detached houses not attics.
'Yeah, I can just imagine Ern's brother-in-law turning up at our wedding....'
'Or Guy's.....'
'Yeah. It'd be 'Sorry Vicar, but he's well aht of ordah. He's got an old trouble-and-strife up in the attic already'.
'He tells all the gels she's barkin''
'And she don't understand him, neiver'.
Guy and Ern Rochester both have to admit defeat.
'Alright, it's a fair cop, guv, no reason we can't still 'ave the knees-up in the boozer, is there though? Fancy a Pernod?'

Fair's fair so I thought I'd also include the song Bonnie sung last night:
(Not that tone-deaf me actually sang anything).

Someone to Watch Over me
Writer(s): gershwin/gershwin

There's a saying old says that love is blind
Still were often told, seek and ye shall find
So I'm going to seek a certain lad I've had in mind
Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet

He's the big affair I cannot forget
Only man I ever think of with regret
I'd like to add his initial to my monogram
Tell me, where is the shepherd for this lost lamb?

There's a somebody I'm longing to see
I hope that he turns out to be
Someone who'll watch over me
I'm a little lamb who's lost in the wood
I know I could always be good to
Someone who'll watch over me

Although he may not be the man some
Girls think of as handsome
To my heart he carries the key
Won't you tell him please to put on some speed
Follow my lead, oh, how I need
Someone to watch over me

Everyone in the house was a bit hungover today. Bonnie decided to drive the Wean, the dog and me out to Buxton. Derbyshire is an amazing county, it was her late husband's favourite. Pretty impressive. Sat in park, dog ran around, the Wean fetched us some coffee. Wrote some impressions in a notebook. If I'm ever going to write anything I've got to become observant. Oh dear, I better make some effort with my coursework. But my poor head is not up to it. Someone stop me from drinking too much red wine every Saturday night.

I mentioned it last night so here are the lyrics:

Wall Of Death
Written by Richard Thompson

Let me ride on the Wall Of Death one more time
Let me ride on the Wall Of Death one more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
This is the nearest to being alive
Oh let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death

You can go with the crazy people in the Crooked House
You can fly away on the Rocket or spin in the Mouse
The Tunnel Of Love might amuse you
Noah's Ark might confuse you
But let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death

On the Wall Of Death all the world is far from me
On the Wall Of Death it's the nearest to being free

Well you're going nowhere when you ride on the carousel
And maybe you're strong but what's the good of ringing a bell
The switchback will make you crazy. Beware of the bearded lady
Oh let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death

Let me ride on the Wall Of Death one more time
Oh let me ride on the Wall Of Death one more time
You can waste your time on the other rides
This is the nearest to being alive
Oh let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death
Let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death
Oh let me take my chances on the Wall Of Death

As usual the folk-club.
And have I progressed with Corin?
No.
'He hates me' I told Bonnie.
She insisted he doesn't. But she cannot quite understand how a man can get to his age and be so shy.
'I think he likes you' I said to her.
Because he does and he loves her singing.
She sang 'Someone to watch over me' tonight and I think people's choice of song shows what's going on in their psyche. That's her choice but mine would be 'Ride on the Wall of Death one more time'.
There you go.
She insists that he doesn't like her. Says it's like I can talk to all sorts of men I don't fancy but when it comes to Corin, I'm struck dumb.
We had an argument earlier. Can't quite think how it started. Something about kids wasting their time doing acting courses and then becoming unemployed actors. She said. But I said, yes, but if no-one does any acting courses, then we won't have any actors'.
And I can't believe her reply.
'Who cares? As long as we have doctors and engineers'.
What? Reminded her that she's always watching 'Rebus' on telly and putting on DVD's. How's she gonna live if there's no actors?
She eventually conceded that I might have a point.
And then she started on about how Muslim women shouldn't be made to wear burkhas.

Let's do a little post.
After a little red wine.
The reason my name used to be Desertflower. The reason this blog is still called Desertflower.
My Dad met my Mum in Dublin. And my Mum's name was Campbell.
After they got married, some of his friends in the village asked 'Where did you get the wife, John-Joe?'
And my Dad answered 'From the desert'.

Took me 4 hours to get home last night!
Riduculous! First of all the inter-site bus was late. Then I got the idea of getting off the train half-way and catching another bus. Big Mistake! I'm stuck - God knows where - in the middle of the Pennines - with half-an-hour to wait. As for the Bus Station being 'next-door' to the Train Station, as I'd been misinformed, thanks Bonnie, no, it was a good 10-minute walk in the rain. Then 35 minutes before a bus was (officially) due. And I realise I'm no longer in London because absolutely nowhere selling bars of chocolate. Sod it, I think, and decide to go into a pub and have a glass of wine and a packet of crisps while I wait. Get chatted up by a drunk. Back to the Bus Stop. This time I start talking to a 'youth' and his mate, they had a small boy and a Staff with them. I'm a bit wary of Staff's but this one was still a bit of a puppy and very playful. It was lovely watching him and the child playing. Also it was a very well-trained dog. The owner told me his grandparents owned a farm and the police used to train dogs there so he picked up a few tips. He works as a painter and decorator but he would like eventually to learn how to train dogs professionally himself. So I wished him luck.
Told Bonnie about this encounter.
'And the dog's name was Tyson'.
' Tyson. Oh, my God! Your getting into conversations with people who call their dogs Tyson. Your not safe to to allowed out on your own!'

Nothing really.
Except message on my mobile from H. Mairead died on Wednesday.
Feel sorry. We're all on borrowed time.
Someone in the class today wrote about 'her beliefs were part Wiccan, part Buddhist and part marijuana-inspired spirituality'. Isn't that brilliant? I'm obviously going to be the class dunce 'cos I couldn't think of anything like that.
It very much expresses my philosophy, I'm such an old hippie chick.
Except when someone's dies. Then, I just think, and why shouldn't I, Mairead was a good person and I just think, well, she's gone to Heaven.

Work up tired despite 8 hours sleep.
Oh, I hate this morning lark. The one (maybe only) advantage of 11 years on nights was never having to rush anywhere first thing in the morning.
Bonnie, bless her, has decided she can drive me to a station near my university (it's on her way to work). So this was first day of new system. And her being up at the same time gave me an audience.
'This is hell, all this hectic stuff, being so busy, first bloomin' thing'.
'Indeed, hell, for you and 90 per cent of the population'.
'I'm not used to it. I can't find my shoes'.
'They'll be where you left them last night'.
'3 pairs of flat, black shoes and I can't find a single one of them. I'm going to really look the part in patent stilletoes, aren't I? As if I don't stick out enough being 30 years older than the rest of them'.
'You'll stick out more when you live in the Halls. How you honestly think your going to get on there.'
'I'll be in the mature students Halls'.
'Indeed, that will be a vast improvement. Do you realise they class 25 as mature; they'll still be up all night having parties, taking drugs, shagging.... I don't think you'll fit in'.
'At least I won't have to get out of bed at at 7 for an 11'clock lecture'.
'Hurry up. Stop moaning. You'll miss that train. I've never known anyone moan so much'.
'I haven't put my make-up on...'.
'Too late. Do it in the car'.
'What? Are you serious? Put my make-up on in the car? Like some kind of..... animal?'
Bonnie cracked up at this and asked 'What kind of animal wears make-up? I've never seen Fizz apply lipstick when she's in the car?.
Long story short. After all that, I did manage to catch my train.

Louise Hay says if there is something about another person you dislike, it's because you have the same trait. That's the reason you attracted the person into your life.
So I'm moaning about Clare being jealous and I'm just as bad. I do think jealousy comes from insecurity and lack of confidence.
And I've always been jealous of one of my oldest and best friends, Lemonie.
I am a horrible person.
She's just come back from a holiday in Turkey. So she phoned me and was on about all the men being after her.
Which they would be, she doesn't need to go to Turkey. She is very beautiful, it is so not fair. Six-foot and blonde, she could have been a supermodel. And ageing really well.
I was very dismissive. 'Oh, these Meditteranean men are always after eveyone'. True, but I was jealous.
Envy has no eyes. I learnt that in some psycho-theatre workshop that I once did. It helped. A bit.
'Maybe your friend deserves that life, who knows what she went through in another incarnation?'
That was fifteen years ago and since then, Lemon's life isn't as perfect as it once was. A divorced daughter, lots of cracks in her own marriage and the worse of all....
Bonnie told me off.
'Jealous of that poor woman? Who lost her breast through cancer!'
Mea culpa.

Just to say I am doing student-like things tonight eg my assignment for next week. In case anyone thinks I'm ignoring them.

A bit of bitching going on tonight.
A few belated birthday phone-calls. My lovely gay boys all singing 'Happy Birthday' down the phone to me.
Then Delphine, who was really sorry she'd forgotten but Clare had mentioned it was my birthday during a phone-call. Did Clare ring me or send a card? No.
Clare antagonizes people. Her and Delphine were the best of friends, once. Clare likes victims and Delphine stands up to her.
So I rang Clare. Why, I don't know.
She's lording it immediately, best pseudo-Edinburgh accent, mentioning the profit she's made on her new flat, her day-trip to Brussells, her new wireless laptop and a lot of talk about Tops, her lodger's cat. I mean, it might have been accidental but I don't want to hear too much about other cats, not just yet.
I said how I was really happy. Which I am. I just love my course. She couldn't understand. And, she's apperently been making snidy remarks to Delphine about how I won't fit in and I'll be too old to get a holiday job.
Then she wanted to know if I fancied going to the Canary Island for Christmas?
I mean, I've already explained how frugal I've got to be for the next three years. How can I afford Xmas in the Canaries? She is so lacking in empathy and imagination.
The only reason she wants me to spend Christmas with her is because her man will be with his kids and she doesn't get on with them.
Bonnie knows what she's like.
'Forget her, how did your lectures go today?'
Clare didn't ask me one thing about how my course was going.
Fabulous.
'Critical theory is making a lot more sense now' I told Bonnie. Her late husband was an expert on Critical Theory. Tom deserves his own post. Eventually.
'Yes,' I was warming to it, 'You know, I remember an old flatmate of mine. Years ago. Thought she was so intelligent. Going on about how she was really into Russian Formulism. That'll be me next. Yes, casually introducing Russian Formulism into the conversation....'
'Oh, for fuck's sake. Make us some Horlicks'!
Wozzat? Did someone in the blogosphere mention pearls and swine?

There was a rainbow yesterday. Pure Disney.
Gabriella cooked dinner - roast pork, brown rice with vegetables plus broccoli. Delicious and very healthy.
Ian grumbling. 'It's like living with three mothers and two wives'.
Bonnie disputed this 'Three mothers?'
Yes.
The third one being Fizz, the dog.

A post for whoknows and menhir.
I could have picked one with more Scottish words in but I like this.
Thanks for comments on Scottish vocabulary.

Sweet Afton
1791
Type: Poem

Flow gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro' the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev'ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream

Post from an ex-Proofreader.
Reading one of Ian Rankin's Rebus novels, it's occurred to me that Wain should be spelt Wean.
'Wee One', I suppose. These funny Scottish words my landlady uses. For the record there's also - 'clap' the dog; 'chap' at the door; a 'fish supper' and probably more that I can't think of just now.
So, from henceforth, Bonnie's niece is not to be referred to as if she's something from a Constable painting but giving her proper title - The Wean.

Ooh, has my status gone up in this house since I left items of exotic lingerie hanging around.
Ian took us all out for Sunday lunch to belatedly celebrate my birthday. Him and Gabriella, Bonnie and I, The Wain being in Edinburgh visiting her boyfriend. Restaurant with a view, I do like this part of the world. I bypassed the turkey in favour of the pork. Turkey, no thanks, I'd been looking at my neck to much in the car mirror on the drive there. Pork, delicious, I wondered if it was the same stuff I'd packed the other week.
Bonnie spent the whole day convinced I was in the first stages of Alzheimer's. Completely unable to recognise my own underwear. Wain came home while I was watching The South Bank Show.
'Are these your knickers?' Bonnie held up the offending article.
She took one look at them. 'Crotchless knickers? Och, nae'.
We settled down to watch Irvine Welsh and views of Leith where The Wain used to live. She got a bit excited pointing out her old flat to us, then added, 'Crotchless knickers, do yous think I should buy some?'
'You certainly should' advised Bonnie, 'I mean, if even your old Auntie's mate's got a pair. 54 and she owns a pair of crotchless knickers. Mo, you should leave them lying around indefinitely, just for the prestige value'.
Isadora asked how they got in the front room in the first place? Beats me.

Well, my stats went up after I did a post entitled 'Topless Barmaids'.
Seriously, though. Ian has sold his car and is now borrowing his mother's so yesterday he was ferrying us both around. After Lamorna's party he dropped us at the folk club, then proceeded to take Sandy home.
They were chatting. Can you believe what Sandy confided in him? Of course, Ian told his Mum. Sandy, apparently, has been having 'cyber-sex' with young Chinese women.
'Cyber-sex' snorted Bonnie, 'why can't he just give it it's proper name. Wanking!'

Today, Bonnie was in tidy-up mode. So she's running around, frantically hoovering and putting things away.
'Hey, these aren't mine' complained Gabriella on finding a miniscule pair of crotchless panties in the front-room'
'Who'd have thought The Wain had it in her?' marvelled Ian.
I had a look at them. Oh, dear. They looked a bit familiar.
'Erm' I said, 'I don't think they are The Wain's'.
They all looked at me, a bit gob-smacked.
'I wasn't always a size 16, you know' was all I said.

Yes, I had a nice birthday, thank you very much.
After the shopping bonanza, it was time to go to Bonnie's friends, the J's. Their daughter, Lamorna was 12 last week but her party was today because they could only book the venue for this week. A Victorian swimming pool. I tried writing some suitable descriptions in my writer's notebook but I won't bother you with them. Lamorna and friends had a great time on a bouncy water castle contraption. Pop and Pizza afterwards, and cake, naturally. Jane's lovely and she'd added my name to the birthday cake. Sandy was there, the retired teacher. The one who showed me the sights (of Manchester) a couple of months ago. I mean, he's pleasant and very gallant to both Bonnie and myself, not bad looking but - I just don't really fancy him. And later he was on about how he uses SKYPE (I think) to contact Chinese women.
Bonnie thought it slightly pervy. Sometimes, she thinks, there are reasons for men being (a) still single and (b) divorced.
Folk club night. Which I was looking forward to. And yes, Corin was there. And, oh dear, he is very handsome. Not young but you can see how beautiful he must have once been. Broad shoulders, hairy, very masculine arms and thin, long musician's hands. Gentle, sensitive, romantic. What's more we nearly managed a conversation. Coming back from the bar. One of the folkies was holding two pints 'both mine' he told us, ' I'm not driving tonight'.
'He's as bad as Bonnie' I said to Corin, 'she's not driving tonight either and she's really hitting the Bacardi'.
'Are you driving?' asked Corin.
'No, I can't drive. We're getting a taxi home'.
End of.
'It's impossible' I said to Bonnie afterwards, 'both of us are utterly incapable of forming a relationship with anyone, never mind with each other'.
I wish I still had my cat.