tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37928163290788035702024-03-13T19:17:42.710+00:00A Pyramid of PiffleYou can find me again, back at my original Blog 'The View From This End'which has now been restored to me.Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.comBlogger12125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-83719246259836340352011-09-19T14:27:00.001+01:002011-09-19T14:33:28.108+01:00DAY ONE: Minus four.I have been feeling odd; bit of a cough as expected after 64 years of the weed, light-headed yet achy behind the eyes nose and cheek-bones...classic allergy symptoms I've been telling myself when my thought process turns to the most obvious and, some would say, most deserved diagnosis.<br />
<br />
But it is the sharp pain under my ribs [ diagnosed by me as intercostal cartilage strain or inflammation of:-] which is the one symptom, the final symptom which leads me to the decision that <b>I Must Quit.</b><br />
<b><br />
</b><br />
To that end I dug in the rubbish drawer for the Niquitin lozenges from my last attempt, only remembering the foulness of them on sucking the first one. I sauntered next door but two to the Chemist - our usual glorious Pharmacist - she of the ebony skin, silken dreadlocks and the whitest truest smile was on holiday and her Locum, a tall elderly taciturn man with a full head of white hair and moustache to rival that of Dick van Dyke's Dr. Sloan, suggested, when I asked if there had been a breakthrough and had someone thought to flavour the wretched things so that they were palatable, wandered around the aisles and suggested that 'perhaps if I bought some strong mints and sucked along with a lozenge...'<br />
<br />
That was Day one: minus one. I lasted until 1pm. I tried keeping busy, but one has to sit down sometime and Milou didn't feel like giving up his afternoon cuddle on the sofa with mum, Doctors, Flog it and Countdown.<br />
My count was six that day...which I felt was a credible effort.<br />
Day One: minus two and three followed pretty much the same pattern except that I think I must be holding my breath or somehow controlling the strength of the breaths I do take because though I slept well enough the intercostal pain was worse this morning.<br />
<br />
Took another stroll to the Chemist...tablets <u><i>are</i></u> mint flavoured but at £15. Hell's Bells. Forget it. I will quit, but slowly using will power. [famous last words?]<br />
<br />
Just Googled Intercostal Cartilage and I think I have been 'Bracing'. Yup!<br />
<br />
Life in the old girl yet.<br />
<br />
Will no doubt be flagging Day one when it arrives.<br />
<br />
I looked for a suitable illustration on Google Images but they are all too preachy, too worthy , patronising or just bonkers; as if we are not aware of the dangers involved in sucking up the tarry smoke. Then I thought of the very old song by Phil Harris:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Smoke smoke smoke that cigarette </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Puff, puff puff and if you smoke yourself to death</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Tell St. Peter at the Golden Gate, that you hate to make him wait</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> But you just gotta have another cigarette.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><br />
</i></div>This song came out in 1939/40 and it was one of the songs in Mother's meagre collection [the B side was<i> </i>something about a card game: I remember: <i>Now sitting right there in that there clan, there chanced to be a one-eyed man and he kep' starin' at me out the corner of his eye...an' ol' one eye would deal and then, it cost Bill another five or ten....]</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
So even then they knew. 1]that nicotine is addictive and 2] It was/is harmful.Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-44733561521883040632010-12-31T12:09:00.000+00:002010-12-31T12:09:05.597+00:00GOING HOMEI am having trouble finding enough of interest to keep two Blogs going at the same time, so I have decided to make <a href="http://theviewfromthisend.blogspot.com/">The View from this End </a>my principle Blog. It feels so much more like home. Daft, I know, after all, they are both floating around in space but, there it is.<br />
<br />
I don't have the courage to close this Blog, having lost 'The view' once, accidently and not liking it one little bit, I shall hang on here...post poems, perhaps, and trivial stuff suitably described as piffle. So please, do come back to me at my old place and help me to re-furnish it.Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-19091509229829581822010-12-18T22:48:00.000+00:002010-12-18T22:48:28.686+00:00EVERY GOOD WISH TO ALL.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TQ04a-N7uQI/AAAAAAAAAFM/BzB1udd4GIA/s1600/DSCF2118.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span></span><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TQ04a-N7uQI/AAAAAAAAAFM/BzB1udd4GIA/s640/DSCF2118.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime; color: red; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>WISHING YOU ALL A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS </i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: lime; color: red; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i>AND A HEALTHY, PEACEFUL NEW YEAR</i></span></div>Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-4314890489591391302010-12-11T22:55:00.000+00:002010-12-11T22:55:12.315+00:00SNOW DIVER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TQOoiAa2pAI/AAAAAAAAAFI/DjWdcPHpfws/s1600/DSCF2198.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TQOoiAa2pAI/AAAAAAAAAFI/DjWdcPHpfws/s640/DSCF2198.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">this is a just a little something </div><div style="text-align: center;">to make you SMILE</div>Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-37819135337153980132010-12-07T22:36:00.000+00:002010-12-07T22:36:24.685+00:00BLUE MOON<div class="lyrics"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">Blue moon, you saw me standing alone<br />
Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own<br />
Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for<br />
You heard me saying a prayer for someone I really could care for<br />
And then suddenly appeared before me, the only one my arms could ever hold<br />
I heard somebody whisper 'please adore me'<br />
But when I looked, that moon had turned to gold - oh oh oh<br />
Blue moon, now I'm no longer alone<br />
Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own Without a love of my own<br />
(Blue moon)</span></div><div class="lyrics"></div><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">[Rogers and Hart]<br />
<span style="color: blue;"></span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
When I was young<br />
And in my prime<br />
I sang and danced<br />
and played with rhyme and gave no thought <br />
to<br />
passing<br />
time.<br />
<br />
I thought about the the boys I'd kissed<br />
who'd kissed me back,<br />
Of softly padded fingertips<br />
and how they felt.<br />
I thought in white<br />
I thought in black,<br />
and gave no thought <br />
to<br />
passing <br />
time.<br />
<br />
I dreamed a future-technicolour bright<br />
where softly padded fingertips<br />
would put my world to rights<br />
Where every kiss would stop my breath,<br />
Where those I loved would sneer at death<br />
and <br />
swiftly <br />
moving <br />
time.<br />
<br />
Now old, the padded finger tips are calloused<br />
and time waits to stop my breath.<br />
But still, a tune, a song can brings back to me<br />
full versed - the magic pulse which once<br />
brought every nerve to life, and...<br />
I remember when, so long ago<br />
I thought I knew in white<br />
I thought I knew in black <br />
but gave no thought<br />
to all the shades between<br />
as I cling<br />
to<br />
fleeing<br />
time.Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-23560837220037629082010-12-01T15:52:00.000+00:002010-12-01T15:52:21.283+00:00JP and Picasso. A sorry tale.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TPZo5ntDs2I/AAAAAAAAAFE/AM2-Zso_390/s1600/picasso.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="129" ox="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TPZo5ntDs2I/AAAAAAAAAFE/AM2-Zso_390/s200/picasso.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The revelation of the treasures hidden in the attic, garage and shed of Monsieur Pierre Le Guennec -consisting of 271 pieces of art by Picasso, and valued conservatively at £55 million, has dredged up an old story from the archives of our family history. And, once again we are hearing some derisive phone calls that begin with:'Thank's a lot, Dad'.<br />
<br />
As a young boy aged thirteen or fourteen he helped his mother and her partner in their <em>Epicerie</em> in Cannes, stocking shelves, carrying boxes and delivering groceries on his bicycle. Chez Picasso was one of his regular stops. He would ring the bell at the gate and would be let in by the housekeeper, carry the goods to the kitchen door and receive a pourboire, usually enough for a small bet at the <em>Bouleodrome,</em> where he often played, and won against grown men.<br />
<br />
This particular day he rang the bell, and waited, then rang again. Finally Picasso himself came to open the gate and beckoned JP inside and over to the kitchen where he deposited the groceries onto the table. Then the great man patted his pockets and turned them inside out to show he had no small change on him. Disgruntled, JP turned to go but Picasso said 'No, wait, just a moment'. He emptied one of the white paper bags onto the table and, taking a pencil from behind his ear, and with a few bold strokes drew his famous Dove of Peace on it, dated and signed it and presented it, with a smile to the boy.<br />
<br />
Outside the gate JP looked at the paper in his hand, crunched it up and threw it into the ravine and muttering words that only be translated into 'what a mean, miserable old......' rode back to the shop in high dudgeon.<br />
<br />
'THANK'S A LOT, DAD!'Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-60612440926127438982010-11-25T14:57:00.000+00:002010-11-25T14:57:00.383+00:00THE ART OF HAVING THE LAST WORD:2I needed something from the store and was crossing the living room towards the front door, when I chanced to look out of the window just in time to see JP emerge from the side door into the garden. He was looking down, and frowning and then he half-ran half danced down the path toward the gate waving his outstretched arms up and down as if on a very slow take off run. I peered through the glass, ducking back quickly as he turned and walked slowly back up the path.<br />
<div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TO54OKL4hrI/AAAAAAAAAEg/0-hakMcm7Y0/s1600/taking+off.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ox="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TO54OKL4hrI/AAAAAAAAAEg/0-hakMcm7Y0/s1600/taking+off.jpg" /></a></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Now I should mention here that lately he has been very grumpy in the morning; irascible actually...well truth to tell, a lot of the time his tolerance of the human voice, particularly mine, is limited, so I try to keep conversation to a minimum for as long as possible. He came into the room.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Me [big smile] What was all that about?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">JP. All what?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Me. That dance up the path.<br />
<br />
JP. No idea what you are talking about.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Me. Come on. What on earth were you doing, you don't usually dance down to the wheelie bins. [laughing]<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>JP. Where are you going?<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div>Me. Don't change the subject.<br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">JP. Tell me where you are going and I'll tell you what I was doing.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Me. You first. [you can tell that we have pretty dull lives if we can make a drama out of nothing.]</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">JP. [looking sheepish] </div><br />
Me. [suddenly putting two and two together; the half run, the downcast eyes and flapping arms] Oh my God...[now laughing hysterically] It was the wretched Starlings again...wasn't it? <br />
<br />
JP.Weeeelllll! The greedy %$&^***!'s. zose pointy beaks, I 'ate zem.<br />
<br />
Me.It was worth it just to see you flapping your arms for take off.<br />
<br />
JP. So, where are you going.<br />
<br />
Me. To the store, but I've forgotten why.<br />
<br />
JP. Silly beech!Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-20347773027602467622010-11-21T19:26:00.000+00:002010-11-21T19:26:25.460+00:00November: That 'inbetween month'<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><street w:st="on"><br />
<address w:st="on"><a href="http://mrlondonstreet.blogspot.com/">Mr London Street</a></address></street> in his post <em>Thirty Day Trailer</em> says - [why am I always quoting him? Well, he is a source of interesting ideas and he doesn’t squeak if one steals an idea as long as he is linked] -that he has a lot against November; calls it <em>the ugly sister of the calender.</em></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">What I have against November is that it has come too soon, the way that Friday seems to come straight after Monday most weeks, and I'm buggered if I know what happened to Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Of course I totally lost a month when I lost my place in blogland, but that does not explain what happened to September and August, or the 9am that becomes noon, missing out ten and eleven o/clock in the process, then in a twinkling it’s time for bed and I have done nothing to make this particular day any more remarkable than those which preceded it.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">November <u>is</u> a sad month coming as it often does after the joys of an Indian summer and seeming to stave off the Christmas Season with an outstretched hand and a screaming ‘noooooo, not yet, please!’. It reminds us that once again we have not fulfilled the promise we made after last years frantic rush, never to leave it all to the last minute, again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">November causes havoc in the gardens and in leafy glens. After the splendour of autumnal colours the leaves fall and turn to squidgy slimy muck underfoot.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">November is the month of remembrance. November the 11<sup>th</sup> is marked by a two minutes silence, and the Sunday nearest to it is marked with pomp and ceremony, wreaths of Poppies, solemn marches to War Memorials all over the country and nationwide two minutes silence.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">One year, on the 11<sup>th</sup> I was in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Canterbury</place></city>, browsing around the Saturday market. I was totally absorbed in my own company and my search for something or other that was terribly important to me at the time. Truthfully, I had not noticed the date and wondered why so many people were standing around as if deep in thought. I wove in and out of them, a little irritated at the slow pace of everyone, or almost everyone; the fact that there were those who were going about their business continued to lull my dull senses. There were a few ‘tuts’ and some black looks but it wasn’t until the Cathedral Bell tolled the ending of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the silence and everyone moved that the enormity of my behaviour brought on a rush a shame and sick sweat and a wave of red that crept over me from head to toe. I abandoned my shopping a drove home.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">But there is something good that happened in November. I least I think so.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I was conceived on November the 11<sup>th</sup> 1933. No doubt about it, it was a good month for me.</div>Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-44337566747237850342010-11-06T20:08:00.000+00:002010-11-06T20:08:45.694+00:00THINGS I LIKE A LOT # 5 & 6<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><street w:st="on"><br />
<address w:st="on"><a href="http://mrlondonstreet.blogspot.com/">Mr<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>London Street</a></address></street>instigated this idea and, on my old blog - which has, as you may know disappeared into the back end of Blogland, and which was for a while, withheld to punish me for my stupidity in losing it in the first place – I have already posted 1, 2, 3&4.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course I cannot link to them, but thanks to suggestions from bloggy pals, Saz has found the lost treasures and they are all safely tucked away where I can reach them, though not of course in their pristine form.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">But this is a new place, not for mourning, so I shall continue as if ‘nowt has happened.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><strong>5:</strong> I like water, moving water. I prefer a bath to a shower being immersed in it. <br />
I like to be near the sea, as near as possible; at least five of our homes have been within earshot of splash and slurp and susurration.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I used to swim every day, from April till September until my mid-fifties and in those days the Bay did not have a very good waste disposal system. There was a long pipe that sent all the nasties a quarter mile out to sea, but nothing to stop it all flowing back inshore. No seaweed grew along our shore and it never occurred to me to ask ‘why not’. I guess I became immune to Staph. and Strep. I was limber and glowing with health.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Then we moved away and the Council built a new Sewage Treatment unit and the seaweed came back and mussel beds grew and the sea lost its dirty brown frown and looked almost <place w:st="on">Mediterranean</place> on sunny days. But I was older and not happy to frolic in my one piece, hidden panels swimsuit. And the longer I left it, the bigger I grew and I only paddled with Milou once or twice with my jeans rolled up. But the pebbles, which once were as soft as marshmallow beneath my hardened feet now caused me to stumble and prance in a most ungainly manner, as if on hot coals.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I learned to swim and to be unafraid of water in Folkestone during the war. Mother would take my brother and I to the open air swimming pool on the seafront. She would throw pennies into the water and tell us to fetch them back to her, throwing them a little further into deeper water each time. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I would not be afraid to die in water. I almost drowned once, and found the whole incident calming. Silence and the feel of water on my skin like a caress.<br />
<br />
<strong>6:</strong><br />
I like to sleep alone. Don't misunderstand. I'm as much a fan of bedtime fun as the next woman, and nothing says 'I love you' more than a cuddle, a warm back and a reassuring shhhh! after a bad dream.<br />
<br />
But! To stretch and swim on cool sheets, to curl and roll, listen to my radio, speaking out the answers to Round Britain Quiz, read, snore, and occasionally weep, without JP tutting, or shouting out as I disturb the equilibrium of his sleep and he has a nightmare, jumping out of bed, rushing to save the baby, or me, or whatever disaster is unfolding in the nightmarish world he inhabits by night [yet never remembers by day]<br />
<br />
We had been married fifteen years or so, fifteen years of broken nights. Of me waking, irritated, not only from lack of sleep but from the wide-eyed and bushy tailed look of my mate. We tried twin beds, and that solved the problem of my movements disturbing him, but not my sounds. A sneeze, a snore, a creak of the bed and he would sit up, switch on the light and stare at me, his eyes red and angry, yet he was still asleep. I quickly learned that shouting at him was not the answer, as it only served to power whatever situation he was living. I had to soothe, gently; 'It's alright Cherie, go back to sleep.'<br />
The next house move gave us an extra room and reluctantly he decided to move into it. We both thought that it was against all the laws of 'happy married life'. How wrong we were. <br />
<br />
Added spice, actually.<br />
<br />
He still shouts out occasionally. 'I've left the back door open!' or 'What are you doing down there?' Now I just sing out...'Alls well old thing.' and he goes back to sleep and I stretch and roll and swim on my crisp cool sheets and think...Is this the secret of a long and happy marriage?<br />
<br />
Well, it is in this house. </div>Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-61636113715429331762010-11-02T22:09:00.000+00:002010-11-02T22:09:11.963+00:00Now we are TWO.I have my old site back. Hurrah! Bells are ringing and I feel such a sense of relief. Although it is empty, my old posts are not lost and I shall try to get things back to normal bit by bit. Almost two hundred posts to edit and illustrate [though I might be a bit picky and use a virtual red pencil.<br />
<br />
I think the fact that I was <em>not</em> at home blocked all my creative juices, such as they were and I was beginning to feel a sense of panic...could I write? On what subject? Did I really want to start from scratch? <br />
<br />
Well, I think I can. And I shall.<br />
<br />
If only I could remember what I had in draft at The View.<br />
<br />
I'm going to use this blog for new things and take the time to bring The View up to date, so for those who are new to me and want to start at the beginning that is where the old posts will go.<br />
<br />
Thank you all for your patience in hanging around, and for your encouragement.<br />
<br />
MoannieMoanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-65271689213101257732010-10-27T14:39:00.001+01:002010-10-27T15:21:35.819+01:00THE ART OF HAVING THE LAST WORDSometimes it seems that we agree on very little. Perhaps it is simply a ploy to add a little spice to his day, or perhaps he just loves to argue, and have the last word.<br />
<br />
Well this time the word was DAMP.<br />
<br />
It was a very grey day, the clouds were thick, smothering the sky. The morning chores finished, grate cleared and re-laid, ready for a match to change the mood of the room. Lunch over I took Milou for his afternoon run, well walk, a brisk round the houses and back sharpish as it was cold.<br />
<br />
JP. OK?<br />
Me. Yes, but cold.<br />
JP. Can't be cold, not with clouds that tick.' [not a spelling error]<br />
<br />
He has this idea that if it rains, it can't be cold because if it was cold the rain would be snow or sleet.<br />
<br />
Me. Well, it was, and because it is damp it seems colder, a clammy cold.<br />
JP. You mean, Humid? [actually he said 'umid ]<br />
Me. No, it is only humid when it's hot, Damp when it's cold.<br />
JP. And you are the one with a BA? <br />
Me. Now you are becoming annoying..It is my language, surely you can admit that I must be right. It was cold and <u><em>Damp</em></u><br />
<br />
I dug in the bookcase and carried the Dictionary into the kitchen, thumping it down on the table.<br />
Me: There, <strong>Damp</strong>:[oh oh] <em>Slightly wet......</em><br />
JP. Yes...like 'umid.<br />
Me. <strong>Humid</strong>.It says...[oh bugger!] <em>Damp.</em><br />
JP. Both right then?<br />
Me. Well, I still believe it is not correct to say that it is damp. For instance during the rainy season in Mexico, and the air is full of infinitesimal amounts of water - what it is then - is Humid. Muggy and Humid.<br />
JP. So if I go to the garden now and sit on the bench....the seat will be 'umid?<br />
Me: No. Damp.<br />
<br />
JP. [In high dudgeon] Perfidious Albion.<br />
<br />
Later on I run to the village shop for ciggies.<br />
<br />
JP. Was it damp or 'umid.<br />
Me. [with a grin] Moist!<br />
<br />
My score, I believe!Moanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3792816329078803570.post-40462458425609389212010-10-23T21:26:00.001+01:002010-10-23T22:23:45.897+01:00HOME AGAIN, HOME AGAIN.well, almost20<sup>th</sup> October. <div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Either way there was going to be rejoicing.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TMNJaOif60I/AAAAAAAAABY/YZGj5DQeah0/s1600/for+the+blog+160.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nx="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_6kPT2RsuP0A/TMNJaOif60I/AAAAAAAAABY/YZGj5DQeah0/s320/for+the+blog+160.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><u><strong>Where it all happens</strong></u></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I had planned to write: ‘They gave me back my blog...hurrah. Thank you Google and thank you Sara. Thank you Gatsby, whoever and wherever you are for searching out my blog, lost through my own stupidity, into the vast and empty space of the unloved’. And thank you too the lovely friends who wondered where I had gone.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">One tiny, almost involuntary movement of my left index finger, one thoughtless click and it was gone; cached for a while, but then gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was beside myself . [A daft but apt description of my state of mind] My blog belonged to me, so much work and heart had been written into it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Then an email came to say I could not have it back...not enough proof that it was mine. Who else could it belong to?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can quote chapter and verse. Who else has a JP, the Champion Bodger?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who else had their second honeymoon in a swish cliff top hotal in <city w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Acapulco</place></city>, or crossed a high railway bridge on foot at seven years old. Who ran to <country-region w:st="on"><place w:st="on">Switzerland</place></country-region> with Germans shooting at him? Who danced with GI’s at <place w:st="on"><city w:st="on">Margate</city></place>’s Dreamland Ballroom?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Who sat under the stairs during an Air Raid, more terrified of the spiders that lived there than she was of the bombs falling around her?</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Sazzie said ‘wait’. She will be here tomorrow and together we will try once more.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">23<sup>rd</sup> October.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Then it turned out that she couldn’t make it. </div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I tried to put the whole idea out of my mind, read a book, did some tapestry, watched endless telly-but all the time my brain was buzzing, needing to be back amongst you all.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Else be forgotten.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">I can do this, I thought, surely I can do this small thing without sending myself off into outer space again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">So here is a new place for me. Rather bare, no ribbons or bells or fancy doodads, but Saz will fix it up. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For now it is enough for me to be online again and hope I can be found.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">Hello to all my friends out there, talk soon.</div><br />
MoannieMoanniehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04930281883709871326noreply@blogger.com31