Giacometti, The Tate Modern and merde – she says no, no, no

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fullsizeoutput_75d7 ‘Be it ancient or contemporary, Art speaks of our time on earth.’

Times mistakes are good.  Blond here had a ticket for Stanley Tucchi’s film ‘The Final Portrait’ with Geoffrey Rush, depicting the life of Giacometti. Happens to coincide with the exhibition at the Tate Modern.  Sunday, sunday, sunday she had drilled in her head.  Problem was, Sunday past and my entrance into a very empty cinema confirmed my dilly lack of detail. ‘Merde’ she hisses … but I am at the Tate Modern, to Giacometti I will go. Stream the movie later.

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Sensory overload.  Understanding contemporary art requires careful observation.  Standing back, reflection and looking at the careful details of every aspect of what is presented to the viewer.  Story telling in the art. Don’t rush, don’t rush.  These are statements on politics, social interaction, the world perceived by those who strip the everyday to the core. Sometimes, I find myself looking at splotches (yes a bit like a child throwing paint on canvas) but then comes the question – does it make sense as a piece on it’s own, or more if we learn what the artist was trying to express?  What are your thoughts?

fullsizeoutput_75d5 Then, we come to the raindrop.  The artist, mesmerised by the spiritual qualities of a raindrop, and how to transform in concrete terms … I stand and look, and look and in the looking … behind me a woman says in Afrikaans ‘lyk soon ‘n tiet’ – looks like a tit! Boob dangling from string – are you totally without I wonder, but laugh as she does to realise I understand the language.  The art is decidedly lost on her and her partner, in fact a few minutes later I pass them again, her voicing the need to find an exit to all this nonsense.  No, No and no again … And so it goes … should I smile, should I shudder … but that is contemporary art for you … each to his own I guess.

I, on the other hand, am inspired.  I cannot do this, so I appreciate others who can. May not always understand, but try to,  There is a reason these pieces have a place in this great gallery. 

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Aaah, ’twas a great afternoon. I live in a city where all the great works come together.  The Tate, the Modern Tate and all the other galleries that offer me the chance to see the greats.  Not too shabby she says as she takes the lift to the 10th floor. The viewing deck.

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Standing up there, with a full 380 degree view, Art is everywhere. Ancient, modern, traditional, futuristic, it’s all for our pleasure. 

I want more of Botticelli, Michelangelo, Titian, Pollack, Warhol and everyone else that paints, sculpts, draws and puts to paper, canvas and metal the world the way they see it, to enlighten, enchant and entertain me … for I learn.

 

It’s official. You have to stop playing the Lotto – like now!

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It. Is. My. Turn.

We all know about the Struggle.  We do.  We live it, write about it and light candles to pray for the stopping of it.  The struggle is exhausting, and sometimes, all the hard work and millions of little dreams just elude the overcoming of the Struggle.

So the Lotto win is the next big thing. Have tried it at times, and weirdly, at times taken a ticket and never looked to see if I won anything – have you done that? ‘Perhaps winning something ticket’ lies in my purse until I tear it up, too arsed to see if a pound richer I am. Useless.  So I reckon, if I appeal to everyone on the planet earth to stop playing the Lotto, just for a little spell, I have a chance.  I need to win that Lotto, and my reasons are pure. They are:

  • I reckon I earned it.  Have dealt with the Struggle more than most of late.  Lotto will reward me for the Struggle.
  • In the eddy of Struggle, I have had to make do with Boots generic face products.  This is sad to say the least.  Trés sad.  I believe darling Helen Mirren says ‘f…king’ helps little all those moisturisers but it feels SO good to have expensive creams on the wrinkly face.  Bits of gold leaf in neck cream is awesome.
  • Need new gym clothes.  I don’t go to the gym but wearing them around the house makes me feel healthy. Haute couture gym clothes is all for working on the laptop.
  • Googling exotic destination holidays on waitron salary is fatal to the soul. A la masochistic mode. A little Lotto booty will take me from Southfields to the South of France and we all know, a girl needs the Cote d’Azur for uber wellness.
  • Mermaid Honda Jazz is sick.  She is valiant, but sick.  Ignore anyone who says it’s fine – trying to outsmart a Range Rover Vogue is not only frightening but makes us feel like  Thomas the tank engine next to Gordon the Big. I need Range Rover injection.
  • Surrounded by big city fashion labels.  I don’t really like fashion labels (bullies all of you) but sneaking into Primark is random stuff. Just once, just once, Lotto can get me the Loro Piana, Hermes and wine – circa made by monks with no screw top.
  • Letting someone else struggle with the unruly Macbeth hags hair.
  • Foregoing Ryan Air dehumanisation in favour of turning left on British Airways.
  • Allow for setting up trust funds for my children with great titles that sound important.
  • Centre court tickets at Wimbledon.  Tennis is not my passion but centre court sounds so grand.
  • Being told, of course you may have a table, and not being lied to about full bookings because you ask for a table for one.
  • Charity.  Being able to share the Lotto with others rather than thinking, sorry mate, I have beans for the rest of the month myself.

And you know what?  I don’t want the millions – seriously – it brings it’s own headaches and heartaches, but a little extra would be welcome.  

And you know what?  If I won, I would most likely give it all to my children.  Actually more in love with the packaging of Uber brands than spending money on the items themselves. Have no need for yachts or watches, sports cars or holiday homes.

Just want the feeling of saying … maybe I could.

Truth be told … very happy with what the Struggle has made of me, the great opportunities presented and the drive created.  But, and I say but … a little of the Lotto would be nice.

So again, stop playing all you lovely people – this dame needs a windfall of possibilities.

You can play again, say in a month or two.  And if the saying that every draw creates six winners of millions and I figure this has being going on for a while, surely the odds are in my favour if you all desist for a while …

images-40 The price of a new car, cosmetic ‘upliftment’ and that little black dress means winning the Lotto – so help a poor girl out will you?

PS if I win, having taken two tickets tonight, I shall share it with the first person who tells me how winning will change their lives, in the most interesting way, for the better.

PS – if you believe that I love you, but seriously, a little for the information.

Images: Pintrest

A little bit of perspective …

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6675370c20532372d02c4799b7cbfc88--warrior-woman-tattoo-i-am-a-warrior Thoughts on a Sunday evening…

Someone said the other day. ‘ I cannot believe you do so many things!  Travel consultant, wedding and events planner, concierge around London, mother and … waitress.’  Let’s call the last one as we know it, the waitron thing may be PC but ultimately, waitress is what it is.

How do you do it all?’ she asked.

Then a friend sent me a link to an article about resilience in one’s later life.  Overcoming pain and all that in our Silver Street part of our lives.  It was a great article, and I read most of them.

‘How do you do it all?  she asked.

Seriously, what is the alternative?

We get on with it.  Adapt or die as Pieter Dirk Uys would say.  We adapt … or we die.

Today the shift at the cafe required hours of standing, or rather running around. Busy, busy, busy.  Times I am guilty of frustration at small errors made.  I make mistakes myself, but rather than freak out, I keep telling myself … this is not an emergency ward, the toast may be late, the eggs too runny – I am the one with the ‘don’t sweat the small stuff attitude’ and ultimately the customers just want a friendly face, a great meal and time to socialise with their friends.  

Now seeing the whole shebang from the other side, times I want to literally pull up a chair next to a customer who is yelling and rude, and even remind myself when I expect too much, that these incredible women have lives outside the doors and more:

  • These people I work with in the cafe are doing two jobs at the best of times.
  • Sometimes they have long shifts and leave the cafe to go to work somewhere else.
  • During the week, they work full days and supplement their incomes on the weekend.
  • They are often in London alone, have no close family and send their money home.
  • And these incredible young women, working untold hours, have stories I don’t know of.

I don’t have to do this to survive.  I do this because it puts me in touch with the real world and I see stories unfolding, everyday, and it humbles me.  And I learn. The once princess of all goes to work because I enter a world I knew little about, a cauldron of cultures, creativity and youth.  Many of these young people will work their entire lives to better their situations.  They laugh at my stories of huge homes, maids and fancy holidays yet ask advice on what they should do, how they might one day have a business of their own.  I learn from them.

These women, so much younger, my children’s age, are happy but wanting more.  I hear my own children’s voices in them.  Its tough out there.  Pain happens.  Days they struggle a little more than most.   Like diamonds, they are strong and resilient. When I think of my journey, I know it has made me more understanding, more aware.  

Tonight, Sunday night, I am on my office balcony in London.  Cinderella of sorts.  And in this Silver Street, I am all the better for learning from younger women who teach me that life is for them, for moving forward, for appreciating all that you have been given and never giving up.

Never in my past life of luxury would I have known the blessings of being part of something that an apron, throwing the lattes,  could bring.

The body is broken after such a long shift, but the spirit is better than ever …

Are you on your bicycle of new beginnings?

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68a34f3e8d0e968391519f5ff3457eb6--bike-drawing-bike-poster …you had bloody well better find some way that is going to be interesting. 
- Katherine Hepburn

If you are like me you start each morning with ‘Right!  I am going to do this.’  Refreshed from a very needed good night’s sleep and the world is full of options.  Times the day sort of wears you down, people don’t always see things from your side, but do not get sidetracked!  Do not fall off the bicycle. Some of us have not been on one for awhile.

Riding a bike is easy.  Everyone can do it.  How then to get back on the proverbial when the wheels fell off the last one?  Or your bike got stolen?  That truck of life knocked you sideways? Let’s do this together:

  • Let it go.  The old bike is no longer roadworthy. Take the bell as a memory and send the rest to the scrapheap.
  • Find a bicycle that suits you best.  I like those pretty ones – places for flowers, pretty packages and pretty colours to make the ride all the more interesting.
  •  This may seem daunting but don’t take the overused highway of life, the road that is easy, you have the skills to plan an interesting route and make it financially and  aesthetically viable.
  • Don’t worry too much about the map, have a few great options and let’s see where the road takes us.  There may be ideas lying long and dusty in the ambition box, now is the time to dust them off and take them with you on the bicycle to new beginnings.
  • Surround yourself with people that think like you do, or open your mind to views you may never have considered.  Team cycling is great.
  • Use that memory bell to tell everyone you are back on the bike and they had better watch out!  Ting a ling, ting a ling.

Confidence is the only real thing you need.  Once you feel invincible on your bicycle, everything will follow.  You may fall once or twice, but getting up, scars and all, is the only option.  Do you have the confidence to get on the bicycle of the great unknown – which you deserve – are you ready (whether you like it or not, because seriously, letting the past/feeling weak/doubt is going to hold you back) to get back on the bike, with those pretty flowers and a book of great ideas – it’s fun once you try it.

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Disappointment is the devil’s child, never for your own.

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 One of the most inspiring young bloggers I follow wrote a heartfelt entry that simply broke my heart.

Her blogs are usually hugely inspirational, filled with the love of life, flowers and particularly Paris – her photography is my daily high.

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We both love Paris without ending.  images-39

But unexpectadly, she decided to write from the heart – and her father’s disappointment in her choice of lifestyle and career.  For someone who makes so many happy, wish for some of her experiences, it is still not enough to bring stars to her father’s eyes.  Which got me thinking:

  • Are we as adults expecting too much from our children? We all raise them with dreams of what we want them to become one day … lay the proverbial path down, sometimes with sacrifice, but more with joy and hope, and when they choose another path, do we show our disappointment too openly?
  • I know I am guilty, one hundred percent.  Which is why this post resonated so much with me.  Though my children are all strong and doing well, I riled at a career choice and let it be known.  How on earth would they want to … throwing away your education blah blah blah and it still stings, but I have realised that I come to the edge of the lake as the helicopter mother and must let them sail … with all my support, despite my reservations.  The foundations are strong.
  • Perhaps we are the one’s out of touch with the real world.  Not every child grows to be a CEO, a Scientist or a lawyer – driven with ambition and dollars in their eyes.  The world needs dreamers, creative artists, educationalists, carers … so many other vocations that may not bring the big house, but will bring immense satisfaction.
  • God knows that we have disappointed our children on all too many occasions, even if they stay silent about it, so why do we still feel the right to comment on how they may have disappointed us?  Have we been true to their visions of the kind of parents they want us to be?
  • When it comes to a lifestyle, or career choice, are we so happy with the one we chose?  Too often we complain and berate our choices and those words stick.
  • I remember when my eldest was in Junior School, being told that nearly 60% of career choices available to her when she finished school had not even been thought of yet.  At the time I thought, mmm, and look at the world now.  Do we, the elders, stick to what we know and fail to embrace these ‘new’ options because we cannot understand them.  It’s quite exciting actually, so why do we cling to the past like we do when it comes to our children’s choice of career?

All I know is that I wish her father saw her potential and allowed herself to be.  All I know is that it is a lesson to me too, that although I have born and raised my children, hopefully to the best of it all, they should and need to be supported in their own choices from now on. We have had our turns, now just relax knowing they will be fine. 

Disappointment is the devils child – ours are there for the future – let them live it their way.

Images Rebecca Plotnick – Everyday Parisian

 

 

Gritty view of the city and Grenfell’s ghost

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The Amazon morning days – have a free day and promised a friend I would visit their pop-up food truck to taste a prego, or two.  Turns out it was two, (no I may look it post prego, but not pregnant) so disturbingly delicious they were.  Growlers  is the food baby of two Cordon Bleu chefs with youth and drive in their hearts – ambitious and beautiful at the same time.  This could be my new ‘follow that truck’ situation.  

Found them today at Paddington Central, behind the main station and on the canal. The space has been restored into an inspirational combination of office blocks, old world barges and funky art.  Walk the walk here all the way to Camden for a great day out.  Having done that, I decided to path less known, the other way beside the water.

Tourist London ebbs into the more gritty side of the city on this route.  Park benches become fewer, quaint cafés tumble into seven elevens and residential ‘back views’ along the canal.  Though most are well cared for, the private voyeur style looking through windows reminds me of Athol Fugards play ‘People are living there.’  Swans and even better, cygnets for decoration on the water.

IMG_5432 One of the prettier blocks on the water.

Art takes the form of graffiti and to the left, the high rise council buildings shadow the clouds.  I can see the cladding, the cladding so deadly on most of them.  Still I walk on, it gets quieter here but am I nervous, no, I am in London in the afternoon.  Refugees sit silently on benches but do not disturb.  This is what makes London so unique – like most cities, the tourist areas, and the living areas, cultural melting pots within the boundaries.

But I am wandering too far, becoming rather a little bleak for me with the now failing Amazon attitude.  Decide to get a bus back to the brightness, and wait, and wait.  And observe. Cross rail signs on the other side.  A couple trying to create a patch of garden through the small gate I spy, the noise of the trains and traffic will never for a quiet space allow.  An old man is struggling to carry his grocery bags, stopping to pause, to change hands and walking stick with orange packets.  I wonder if he ever still looks up?  A whirr of skateboarders fly past.  When the bus finally arrives, I board to find it stops at the next stop – I am going the wrong way, end of the line.  How is it that I made the mistake  for goodness sake, I have lived here long enough by now! Cross the road and wait again.  Me and a young woman with a white painted face.  Like a face mask, totally white bar the black lined eyebrows, false eyelashes and box black hair.  Her suitcase, black, reaches her boobs. Goth in the daylight, her dress is torn, her life is a difficult one I think – she is young, she is a hundred years in sadness.

The ride back to Piccadilly flows past reams of houses, some blue, some pink, some forgotten.  And then, the blackened death trap of Grenfell Tower.  I cannot take it in, so large she looms over us.  Stark, World Tower of pain, looming, silent as life crawls below her.  And I wonder, should she stay in testimony to human frailty, or be razed in memory to lives lost on that awful night?  Don’t know – but I was no longer wanting to explore this city I love today.  The sadness of Grenfell continues to overwhelm.  I wanted to go home. Kept thinking about this gritty, pretty city – the ages of life, death, re-birth, famine, plague, money, success, happiness and how the layers of history lie below me as the wheels of the bus … 

Times one needs to walk further than the familiar. Inner city views for even here, in the dishevelled state, in areas we chose to ignore, there is a kindness as we saw with Grenfell, innovation, art and the most amazing people living there.

 

 

Why we all need pain … seriously?

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You know, maybe you don’t, but when you are in the proverbial corner, sobbing the eyes out at your miserable life, in the dark hours of the morning, you, like me, start reading ALL the inspirational stuff of ‘how to get your life back’ or ‘beginning again in your fifties’ sort of stuff.  Ted talks comes to mind.  Grabbing at anything positive until the sun rises and the Amazon returns to your camp.  Did it all the time … when I couldn’t face the reality of what was, what a sh…t storm my life had become.  It works. I was not alone.

But, and I have pondered over this one for a few days, when an article comes along, well meant it may be, that says …’Why we all need pain’ – I just could not buy into that one.

For starters – NO ONE needs pain. Pain is horrible, insidious, breaking of body and spirit, just bloody awful. NO ONE needs pain. Not ever.  And I say this because:

  • We spend our lives avoiding it.  Make decisions NOT to inflict it on others and try not to ever be the recipient of it.  
  • It happens, but it is never a good thing.  So you get through it, grow, change direction, not from a positive place, but from a ‘have no bloody option’ place.  
  • Spend your life guarding your children from it.  From the bullying at school, the humiliation of coming last, being chided and mocked – you build castles, fortresses, to protect your children from it.
  • When life happens and pain comes, your children are part of it.  Do you want to tell them, darling you need pain to grow?  I don’t agree – you need optimism and praise to grow, pain distorts, lessens, breeds suspicion. Your children become hardened from pain inflicted upon them.  You do too.
  • Some parts of life involve pain.  Losing your parents, a natural phenomenon to deal with. Your child no longer wants your hugs and prefers being dropped off at school away from friends in the growing up phase.  Natural pain. Getting older, natural pain. Family pets dying, natural pain.  Losing your job – sort of natural pain.
  • Inflicting pain on others. Not natural.  I have done this and regret it dearly, but do I turn to those I hurt and say ‘ Pain is good for you, I have done this for you to grow’ , of course not – I have to live with it and make it better to avoid further pain.
  • I quote: ‘By shifting the focus from yourself to something else, you’ll learn how to gradually let go of your pain and move on.’ Should we not be doing this anyway?  Believe me, when pain comes to stay, there is nothing or no-one in the wallowing but yourself.  Not capable of focussing on anyone else, even puppies, it is all about moi and how you are going to get through the day. Look at literature etc, those in pain, wrote only for the angst – were they going to do charitable acts, visit the elderly etc.  When pain and depression strikes, it is all about you, and only you, and how to put your feet into the shoes in the morning.  Pretty much useless to anyone else.
  • Some forms of pain, like a terminal illness is the worst kind. There is no growth, only despair – don’t sugar coat it with platitudes of growth and insight. It’s scary and awful and no-one should go through it.
  • Physical pain like childbirth and triathlons are a means to a better end. Opted for pain.  Any other form of pain, unexpected or deliberate in giving is rubbish pain.

So, pain may make you re-evalutate, grow, change direction but it is never without scars.  

Scars are never pretty, never.  Even if you cannot see them.

Scars fade. We do move on, and we are optimistic and enthusiastic about life when the time comes. We are never the same when pain takes hold of our lives – and I for one, do not welcome it. Life is too precious to inflict or receive pain.  Let us rather not patronise pain – let us seek to avoid it.

I love reading uplifting articles, need them at times, but let us be realistic and tell it like it is. Pain is bad for everyone.

Image: Arianna Huffington

 

The size ten looking back at me – Jenni Button’s and my glory story

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Jenni-Button-store-copy Back in the prime years (did I just say prime? is it not the prime years now she wonders?).  Back in the prime years, living in South Africa, Jenni Button was my idol.  An icon in the fashion industry, sleek, elegant and classical designs much admired and barely affordable by moi.  But I loved her look.  Loved her philosophy.

The joy of the day that I found myself able to afford a few pieces by  Jenni Button, and better still, fitting into the size ten clothes – oh, happy day I remembered fondly. Still hanging onto that one.

Fast forward to the story of a women who built up a formidable business, went into a partnership deal and lost everything, including the use of her name in the fashion industry. Pointless legal battles and like my waist, went sideways. Jenni, like my body, had been sabotaged.  

Unlike my body, menopause does scoff at the size 10, Jenni did not succumb to the muffin top of life, and despite huge loss on both the financial and spiritual scales, turned her talents to Philosophy, her new clothing line.  Quick to thwart any more surprise attacks from those ugly powers of high, she also registered her name internationally, for one day, clever woman.  

kko0Qn85 The real Jenni Button

I do believe, nasty, scheming, unkind people never win, and so it was a delicious taste of Karma when the new bossy company went into liquidation a few years ago.  Sadly Jenni Button, Hilton Weiner and Aca Joe, all favourites, went with the sinking ship.  Lesson learnt I hope.

The real Jenni Button, as she likes to call herself, is going strong and a story for all of us.  Especially me. Still remains a fond memory of buying her clothes, feeling special being able to do so and the clothes may lie fallow in my cupboard, but will never be tossed for the size ten, like Jenni’s story, may well find restoration – post menopause.  I look at them every now and then, not with sadness, but fondness and expectation.  They are my possibles.

Interviewed by the ‘Entrepreneur’ magazine in 2009, Jenni told her heartfelt tale.  She also spoke of hindsight, learning from a bad experience (like Jo Malone) and moving on.  Some of her insights to success and inspiration are valid even today, and advice we should all follow, and I quote:

Jenni Button’s secrets to success & inspiration

  • If you don’t have absolute passion and pure conviction about your business venture, don’t bother doing it.
  • Being naive has its virtues in business but make sure you get all your admin perfectly in place. Many an otherwise savvy business person has been brought down because they didn’t dot the i’s and cross the t’s when it came to issues of partnership agreements, tax or legal documents.
  • If you choose to delegate (something I don’t do easily) make sure you check and double-check that it’s been done, and done properly. Your business relies on it.
  • Make sure you have a business plan and that it covers all potential areas of risk.
  • Do not procrastinate! “Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday.” – Don Marquis
  • Change your thoughts and you can change your position in life. “It’s not the strongest of species that survives, nor the most intelligent, it’s the one that’s most responsive to change.” – Charles Darwin
  • “Whatever the mind can conceive and believe, it can achieve.” – Napoleon Hill.
  • Refuse to be a victim! “The most potent weapon in the hands of the oppressor is the mind of the oppressed.” – Steven Biko
  • Be flexible. “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” – Albert Einstein
  • “If moment by moment you can keep your mind clear then nothing will confuse you.” – Sheng Yen
I think of Jenni every time I peek in the cupboard and defy all who say, throw out the old clothes, for these are now even more valuable.  An inspirational, beautiful woman and one I hope to meet one day, preferably in the size 10 clothes she made for me.  Felt like a princess, thanks Jenni!
Images: twitter and destiny

Domestic central D-day

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a5a1ef700126da1d86d24b022fa3608b need an espresso to wake up properly.  Needed three before I put on the gym clothes (yup, them gym clothes) to tackle the lego house this morning. Times a quick tidy will do and times when you can spot the muck out of the corner of your eye at night on the glass of wine and know … it’s time.

D-day for domestic crap. Heavy duty cleaning required. For a woman who likes a plan:

  • Armageddon oven.  Ovens are places where food likes to be cremated and lie there.  Cremation station. The odd wipe and dab will do but every now and then, its time to wrestle with the metal and God knows, this is a job for Bear Grylis.  Ever prepared, did the toxic spray last night.  Nearly f …king killed me, the fumes, lordy, the fumes. Near death by oven cleaner.
  • Broom cupboard and bin.  If left non-sterile, the future home of little mice. Must avoid mice.  Attacked by ironing board, found an ocean of plastic bags (I will use one day) and compartmentalised – one for rubbish, one for re-cycling and one for those pretty used Nespresso caps.

More Nespresso.

  • Descaling kettle and Nespresso machine.  Tea tastes like descaling medicine and Nespresso now confused as to descaling or coffee.  Small nespresso cup overflowing on the wrong cycle. Quadruple espresso.
  • Stove and surrounds.  Hate trying to clean around the fiddly bits.  Can think of a hundred ways would rather fiddle than break nails on gas outlets.  The shine as promised from granite shine, does not shine, but streaks, like my highlights. Over it.
  • Fridge.  I have a Bridget Jones fridge.  Dead cheese, withered celery and six bottles of wine.  Rather easy to clean.  Amazing how the fridge door looks like a murder scene, so many fingerprints, all the time.

More Nespresso.

  • Washing machine and dishwasher.  There is gunk there that would make a slimy pond look lovely enough to dip in.  Soap build-up.  Wish my confidence had so much build up. Pity no-one will see the shiny insides of my machine, but I know.
  • Top of cupboards.  Well, who knew dust would congeal to state of cement? 
  • Floors.  I have a fixations with fluff and dust.  London specials both.  Brush, mop and on the knees to wipe clean and get into those little crevices – I hate my life.

Too early for wine.

54c131321d66f_-_hbx-cleaning-habits-de-s2 My kitchen and living room – NOT.

Serious workout happening here.  Luckily I have my gym clothes on.  Need to tone the coffee, add some froth.

  • Drawers and shelves.  Treasure finds.  Magazines dating back to the Millenium (not quite), expired invitations and that every handy roll of string and elastic bands.  I have never needed the string or elastic bands, but just in case.  Like the instruction manuals from equipment long dead.  Like the pretty blue ceramic pots which once housed my favourite yogurt and I cannot throw away.  Like just about everything we keep, for one day, which never comes. 
  • Bathroom.  Now this I clean all the time.  All the time, except that shitty hard water that mocks me after every shower – wipe as you will, I will return.  Hate hard water.
  • Shampooing of hair brushes, wiping the necks of toothpaste, scrubbing the loo. Sorting make-up worn past sell by date, arranged earbuds, make up brushes, tossed empty conditioner vessels and added to the death of the planet with enough disinfectant down the drains.  In fact, there is now enough cleaning liquids in my home to give me a total high.  Candles to kill the smell.

Under the beds, re-packing of cupboards, tossing clothes (for one day you know) and sorted out the washing.  Is there anything else, if so, the weak, massively palpitating heart will not, I fear, survive more today.

Note:  Apart from the obvious workout, clean, shiny home and frequent rage, cleaning on this level is great for thinking.  You can vent all your frustrations, plan, swishy to the music and clear the head at the same time.  I now have a vacant brain, right arm muscle improvement and painful knees, but I am done.

Wine O’ Clock!

images-73 Damn, I knew I had forgotten something …

Images pintrest, housebeautiful

 

The nestling and being a mommy

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4908cc2969a91e7f66a2d2f61d13c321--bird-paintings-watercolor-paintings  curious thing happened this afternoon.  Perched in my ‘office’ balcony, I noticed those walking along the sidewalk stop, look, one even took a photograph, and walk on past a ‘blob’ before them.  My eyes are not as sharp as they used be, but I could swear it was alive.  

A nestling, all small body and tendril feet, all yellow beak and few feathers sat, fat, squat and squeaking on the sidewalk, fallen from the nest too soon.

What do we do? What do I do? Go sigh, this is a problem I know not how to deal with.  Baby has fallen from home.  Cannot even see home high up high.  What to do with the nestling who will surely not survive but cannot walk away.  Me and animals.  Most of us and animals (except for those who leered and left) and memories of my childhood attempts at being a vet with all those baby birds.  Pushing pulp of bread and milk on match sticks down their throats – I think they did all die.  We had a bird cemetery in our garden.

My childhood heart did not cope well with dying baby birds.  Oh my God, how I cried. Prayed so hard. 

Picking up baby,  lice crawled over my hands – are these birds really infested so much?  The chirping did not stop, but more so, I could hear an echo to its cries. Mother was close.  In a box I popped it, as we do on a bit of paper towel and placed it back on the lawn to observe from my ‘hideout’ up high.  And called the vet.  Bring the baby in.

The thing is, when I went back outside, mother was right there, feeding her nestling and flitting about in panic.  She did not care for my presence, her mind on her young one.   A neighbour found another, we put them side by side, all the while mother close, on the grass, up and over, diving and darting with bits of food.  Together we made the decision to place the babies (at least they are together now) on the top of the hedge and pray for the best.  Let nature take it’s course sort of thing.  And I hear little now, hoping they are asleep and plans are being formulated (the vet told me this) for the mother to get them back to the nest.  How, but how I wonder.

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More than that. I keep thinking about the mother.  God will decide on the young.  The mother, I saw such panic, and such bravery in her angst. Protective instincts in overdrive, loss and panic. As small as she was in this big world, nothing mattered but her young.  

am an overprotective mother.  I have hovered, or helicoptered, around my children for they are my purpose.  This is part of my dilemma.  When and how to let go. For too long I have been the centre of their Universe, and they mine, and what happens now when they are grown and gone.  And how fortunate that I had them close, not scared and far from the nest when they were young.  The horror some mothers have had to endure, like bird mother, I cannot imagine. 

We speak of animals and letting nature take it’s course.  The world will take my children elsewhere.  So difficult for moms, and dads.

sit here now, praying that they will be safe, those little nestlings, and mom will make a plan. The neighbours have been to check, I listen for sounds but it is quiet. Going to pray hard tonight.

Images pintrest, crookedhouse