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June One. June is a lovely word. I like it immensely. I like Jane too. June, Jane, January. All the J words make me happy (smile), if they also contain an N. Juggernaut, joke, jagged, are not so nice. (Shrug, insignificant point. Who cares!)
But, anyway, June 1 passed in a slightly hung-over haze. (Slightly, ha ha.) Rain has set in for the foreseeable future. There is mould growing on the mould and some very evil-looking black mould on the shower curtain I have not seen the like of before. It is all very depressing.
It is a damp Sunday.
Another thrilling day: work and Monday combined are a fabulous combination. Add rain and the prospect of a week more and it just gets better! I somehow failed to set the alarm properly and didn’t get out in the morning to walk the dog… that’s two days running. Then a few calls once home from work, interrupting the cooking of the chops – not the kid’s favourite, but that’s tough! A bit of TV, washing dishes, hanging clothes to dry in the lounge room, and to bed to read a book.
This scenario is totally imagined and not based on fact.
Three days in a row of non-dog-walking! Until tonight when we ventured forth to a surprisingly mild and non-raining night. He had been jumping around, hassling the cats and altogether too full of beans, and now he is quiet and happy.
The kid & I borrowed some DVDs. The same guy was in the video store who was there when we first started going some ten years ago. The guy mentioned a book he read at school and kiddo said later it would have been a hundred years ago. I pointed out he is probably the same age as me.
I was given a present which I left in the boot of the car. I retrieved it tonight, some beautiful New Zealand wool. It is still raining and miserable out there. I thought of going out but it is too blowy and wild. Kid A is still out there, I hope he comes home soon. I bought a new umbrella. It is full size, red with black and white lady bugs, and a kind of crocheted edge. It practically jumped out at me from the shop. I love it because I didn’t have to look for it. It found me.
“Do you have an umbrella I can borrow? I’ve left mine upstairs.” I was asked. “…!” I said. I didn’t want to lend it. Oh, what to do. This is a friend. So I leant it and felt bad as it was obvious I didn’t want to, and I felt mean as well. All the girls loved the umbrella. The last person I invited admiration from said “Now, that is an umbrella you wouldn’t want to loan.” I didn’t feel bad about my reluctance after that. No one normally would ask! I shall keep the old umbrella as a loaner.
The rain continues unabated. That’s a bit ‘it was a dark and stormy’! It abated during the day rendering my umbrella purposeless. I carried it to lunch, and out after work, and home again safely. I had a glass of Shiraz at the pub instead of a schooner of beer and that engendered a drinking problem. The well-worn bend of elbow to bring glass to lips needed altering to fit the different glass size and shape. Like wearing a new pair of shoes with tricky heel, or putting on a new pair of prescription glasses. The automatic switched to manual.
The car windscreen continues to leak. I discover I have left a hole uncovered by tape. Fool! I have honed my list of things to do – my life list no less - down to five, and fixing the rust is one of them. It is that important. I have achieved happiness but have not fixed the rust in my car. I did not tape over the hole as I feel it can wait... I also forgot. You see, today for some unknown reason there was no rain. And… I didn’t take the dog out. Life, you just can’t predict it.
It’s raining again. The car leaks. The car rusts. Soon it will be too late, it will become a convertible. This is now number one priority, to be seen to sometime this week, no? I taped the bit that was lifting up on the corner and retaped the original hole, which is now huge. I cooked roast beef and watched a bonnet drama on TV. Tomorrow is a holiday and we will shop and I will look up car repairers. I don’t know where the list is that I had prepared earlier as it was so long ago. Good night.
On a scale of one to ten, five comes about half way. And sometimes, it can be years later you realise what actually happened, as that last penny drops and leaves the truth exposed like some terrible wound… if luck has it, far enough along the track that it doesn’t matter any more.
Is it denial, naivety, wishful thinking, narcissism, stupidity or all of the above? The real mystery is what causes the cloud to suddenly lift leaving the actuality out in the open, plain and unmistakable. Are all mysteries exposed thus, given enough time? Ping, ping, the pennies drop.
Keep those pennies, examine them and learn of their mysteries. Give them back, pass them on, put one under the pillow. Nepotism is rife. Keep your head down and don’t go over the top. Laugh loud and often and send cute cat emails. Check the pennies and remember their lessons. Scan trivia and ephemera for authenticity. Always use fresh ingredients. This doesn’t mean anything, so… don’t waste time trying to work it out! Sometimes that’s just the way it is, there is no meaning. Of course there should be a meaning here, but it just hasn’t worked out that way.
The telephone rang and Jake jumped. He reached for the handset and gently placed it to his ear. He tried to listen over his heart pounding. He could hear a soft metallic clink and what sounded like an ocean wash…
“Are you there? Help me,” came the voice, raspy this time, and muffled. Was it a woman?
At first, when the calls first started, Jake had hung up, thinking them a prank. Now he was scared, and he didn’t know if he was scared of the caller or for her.
“Where are you… how can I help you?” he whispered.
Benito never felt much liked. He didn’t fit in, anywhere. He always felt, deep down, like a fraud. He felt that sooner or later he’d be found out, and that there are people who know it and have never been fooled. He was always been happier in his own company than in the company of others. “I don’t understand other people. I feel like an alien. Sometimes there is a person I can comfortably interact with and be myself with. I can count the people I have met who are like this on the fingers of one hand,” he whined.
Wayne phoned Sheree, “Got anything planned for tea?”
“No,” Sheree felt panicked, a failure by being unprepared, “I didn’t get anything out of the freezer.”
“What – you want rissoles?”
“No – RSL”.
“Oh, that’ll be nice!” The RSL does good food.
When the plan is a good one, don’t change it.
Wayne arrived and suggested the local pub, newly renovated and untried. It was tacky like an RSL, all gaudy lights and with a forest of potted palms and lots of pokies.
The menus and tablecloths were dirty and the tables empty, but they ordered anyway. The chef couldn’t cook.
"And when was it you first noticed these feelings of anger and hatred?"
"When I discovered my best friend was a teapot - not a cheap one – Victoria’s Basement quality – a teapot that did not pour properly."
"This upset you?"
"Yes! You just wouldn’t expect to have to keep mopping up spilt tea (tea does stain) when using a supposedly quality item. The whole modern experience of things that don’t work is so very frustrating!"
"Mr Johnson, are you aware that you have just referred to people as things?"
"I have just told you my best friend is a teapot."
Miss Mock took a walk along the same path every day. She enjoyed seeing the same things that always made her feel happy… the friendly cat, the lovely garden. One day as Miss Mock followed her usual route she came to a fence that had been erected across the path, with a sign attached that said: “pedestrians” and an arrow to the right. The detour took Miss Mock along unpleasant streets with noisy, speeding cars, until once again joining the familiar path. This would not do. For the duration of the works, she would need to find a new walk.
The next day Miss Mock followed her nose. She was immediately delighted by a lovely garden she was sure she had not seen in years. Everything was new and Miss Mock thought she should perhaps vary her walk in any case, even when she had no further need to. One morning Miss Mock met an elderly gentleman who wished her a good morning and enquired as to her health. Before long they met each day and Miss Mock invited him for tea and scones. They soon married and moved to his estate in the country where the walks were divine.
Joe looked up through the branches of the conifers that towered overhead. He squinted as the sun flickered through the tree tops, and closed his eyes as the trees started to spin.
He turned his head and opened his eyes to see the ground careen away from him, sparkling and white. Strangely, his head seemed to be at ground-level. He shut his eyes tightly and spots swam behind his eyelids. He could remember snowboarding down the black run, feeling so light and free he could have been flying. And now he is lying flat on his back in the snow.
I looked up and saw four laughing kookaburras perched on telegraph wires. The kookaburras flew off one at a time. They didn’t laugh. The day before I saw a grey bird flitting through the trees. I had seen him before but couldn’t quite identify him in my book of birds. He warbled very prettily, like a magpie. I memorised his markings and identified him – he is a butcher bird. Today I saw a spoonbill, a grey heron and two ibis pecking on the oval. They flew off together, circled around and flew back. So much for birds of a feather.
. Ha ha ha. The Telegraph. It is such a gorgeous old-fashioned word that is positively entrenched in the vernacular. Tele, from the Greek =
; and graph =
. Those poles outside on the streets however, carry, I believe, wires of electrickery witch is for other purposes other than far speaking. Quite interesting. Nowadays everything is in anagram. The TPs carry the ESs, or something like that. The WPs carry the H2Os. Ha ha. It is all very complicated and better to keep ye olde terms scattered about to keep everyone sane.
I need to write 100 words. Eek. I walked into the laundry and stepped over the footprint-sized blood stain on the floor. I looked around for the dead rat or bird. There was something small on the floor that turned out to be a nose (with whiskers, and a mouth). Then I saw a little balloon-shaped object. I don’t know what part of the rat that was, but that was all that was left. The little killer had disposed of the rest. It could be worse. It has been worse. This small murder was relatively easy to clean up.
Two guys, in their forties or fifties, joined the line at the supermarket checkout. The thinner one wore his ginger hair in a big curly mullet, with the back tied in a thin, messy pony tail. He wore a black skivvy and long black shorts. The mullet drew the eye until the bigger guy turned around showing off his big hairy belly. He wore a jacket open at the front, no shirt. The two were not self conscious at all in spite of this very odd exposure. Are there laws against this sort of thing? It wasn’t a pretty sight.
Christopher said to his mother, “Last night I saw a ghost.”
She waited for him to explain the joke. He looked serious and so she said “When… where… what happened?”
He said he had come from his room and he thought his mother was coming from the lounge room toward him – it was about her height, and he said something, thinking it was his mother. It went “whoosh” past him.
His mother asked, “when did you realise it wasn’t me?”
He said, “When it went “whoosh”.”
“Were you scared?”
“I was when I had to go back to my room.”
Mondayitis can sneak up on you, especially when you’ve scrubbed mould from your bedroom walls with a bleach solution the day before. Sleep in there and get sore eyes and a rough throat, on top of Mondayitis. I have no clothes because I haven’t ironed anything for so long. I wear to work unironed pants and a black t-shirt with a bright, white picture of a bull behind bars, with Spanish letters that say something about a cat. I like it because of the bull and someone who speaks Spanish told me about the cat. I should iron those clothes.
Tuesday is a wee bit better because there is no Mondayitis and the bleach eyes, sore throat has cleared up. I tell someone about the ghost and feel better. I don’t tell anyone else. I believe it but it is a strange thing to believe something that people will not believe. I can’t tell anyone who will stay here at the house. I should have slept in the lounge room after the bleach, but I couldn’t. As time goes by it gets easier to accept that there was a ghost in the hall and I’ll turn the lights off again.
Wednesday is normally a good day if I go to knitting at lunch time and have a coffee in the afternoon. Today I did neither of those things. I have people walking up to me wanting something all the time. It is almost a front desk position I have, on call, unable to concentrate. I am sure none of them have any idea what it’s like. I cleaned the mould from the little carved wooden elephants and big cats too. I need to polish them and glue some legs on. I am getting things done in my home, sweet home.
Avoidance of procrastination is a very common goal among those bent on self-improvement. Being a common goal, it follows that it must also be a common fault people have. Good! Because I have it! However, in recent weeks I have resolved to stop it (hence my discovery of the common-place nature of this very goal). I have had a modicum of success. For example, today I drove my car a reasonable distance to purchase a 3.25mm circular knitting needle (possibly known as a “set”, if so, take as read), instead of adding it to a list of things to do.
Continuing on, the rationale behind not adding the requirement for a set of 3.25mm needles to a list (many apologies for the uninitiated… a set of double pointed is the requirement of the pattern, however, my preference is for a single circular), is that the purchase of said needles may not happen for some time if the purchase must fit in with a busy schedule. Strike while the iron is hot and make hay while the sun shines, et cetera. It is also a way of reducing clutter. The “to do” list is clutter, while the thing done is gone.
There’s nothing I like better on a sunny winter Saturday than throwing on a hand-knitted cardi and heading off for a morning’s grocery shopping. Today was a little different as I have started to spend to a budget again. To stop all the mindless extravaganza. Something I should have done ages ago when it was still a choice, not necessity. I will never change, I am sure. There has been some bad luck. There have been some large expenses. A veritable money drain. When things are let go they don’t go away, they stock up and hit you for six.
… eating a bag of marshmallows, small soft pillows of pink and white. They are “Fat Free.” It is true. There is a bottle of creaming soda in the fridge and a tub of icecream in the freezer. More raspberry and vanillaesqueness. Hmm, well, half a packet or even less. I am not silly enough to eat the whole pack. The avoidance of gluttony is another worthwhile goal, quite frankly. The removal of a daily reminder of the seven deadly sins is very possibly not a good thing as, left to my own devises; I revert to the habits of children.
Just say you have generation after generation of idiots and over time there is a non-idiot born to the family. The record scholar was born in 1933. That means even though there is an extremely unusual smartie born in 2003, he or she was not the smartest ever. This isn’t making any sense at all and I’m not sure it’s going where I want it to. But it is piling up the words. That comes to seventy three, and counting. Apparently, there was something dodgy going on in Iraq re the US and money. I missed it however because I was
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