It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop
-Confucious
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My days are filled with observing you.
I mostly feel alone.
Whilst I chill on me perch . . .
You work from home.
You know what?
I kinda feel double crossed. . .
You give all your attention to that thing Microsoft!
“Whos a pretty boy?”
All that flattery, and you won’t peel me a soddin’ grape . . .
We’re meant to be pals you and I . . .
We used to be great!
Ey up! Nah then . . .
The back doors ajar.
I bet you think I can’t get reight far!
Ha! If only you knew . . . Silly sod should’ve kept it shut!
I’m off to the co-op to get me’ sen my own ‘fruit & nut’
By the way! I’m not missing!. . .
But it looks like you’re missing me! He he!
Bloody humans. They’re so over the top. . .
Can a parrot not nip t’ local corner shop?
In my Yarden of Eden, there be no rush. . . just time to nap by the camelia bush. . .
Bugs, bee’s and birds are welcome. . . May they be friend or foe. . . If you hold quiet. . . You’ll hear the flowers grow!
Maybe you don’t want to smile, but your soul certainly will. . .
In my Yarden, my Eden. . .where time stays still.
Look upon what I stumble-me. . . a humble-bee bumble-bee. . .
I think I heard him buzz “leave me be!”
I oblige before he stungled me!
She asked me…
“Who are you?”
3 years later:
I’m a woman who’s mind is freed, from the constraints and expectations of society
No more crippling electric anxieties…
For I am content, so bloody content that I am me!
A perpetually entwined tumbleweed; gathering the ‘good stuff’ on which my soul needs to feed. . .
It collects some shite too – but let us agree, that these hiccups and bad things are necessary. . .
Just CHOOSE not to let them impeed. . .
OUR GROWTH
I have low tolerance; But high expectations
I work hard; But get lost in hours of contemplation.
I have my answer to “who are you?”. . .
It’s something I love, and something I don’t need to share. I hold it close, I just know that its there!
But I’ll pay the question forward. . .
“Who are you?”
Answer in your own time. . .
And when you know, hold on to this gift …and keep it for you!
The boy said he was hungry and wanted something “proper tasty”
And in these situations we can’t be hasty . . .
So I entered the kitchen to cook up a storm . . .
You know I’m a woman who indulges in food porn.
On this occasion we hankered for crunch, something cheesy and sleezy that packed a hell of a punch . . .
‘Nacho’ average snack . . .
Now, those of a delicate disposition stop right here, those for a penchant for gore . . . keep reading/listen for more . . .
It started as a ‘Hangry dream’ . . . what follows really sets the scene . . .
So as the dish starts taking shape, out comes the cheese, which I begin to grate . . .
With vigour and gusto!
Then whoops! My hand slips, finger straight down the grater . . .
Good bye knuckle . . . I’ll see you later!
In a fuss I stop the bleeding . . .
mustn’t grumble and best hurry, this boy needs feeding!
Then suddenly my finger burns like hell. Wowser! At this point I’m cursing like a sailor.
Fuckers! Those damn chillies! . . .
Should have washed my hands . . . I know what the drill is!
Injury aside . . .
Finally the food is ready, smells delish
The boys tucking in to his “proper tasty” dish . . .
Then suddenly he stops and pauses . . . there’s something on his tongue . . .
“Mum, I’m sorry like, but theres something weird in me tea”
I chortled . . . Ha!
“Son, it’s NACHO . . . it’s me!”
A new week in group.
Feelings check.
All but one knew the sketch.
“Lets start with you”
The group facilitator invited the first of twelve,
to express covertly how they felt.
Gratitude is a common theme.
Grateful. Connected. Fatigued. Present.
Indifferent. Humble. Calm. Giddy
Each person has their own ‘set of words’ and rarely diverts from their own narrative.
Progressively moving clockwise, each taking their turn,
I notice quite quickly that the same word is churned.
It seems that my peers are collectively ‘concerned’!
Grateful. Connected. Concerned.
Fatigued. Present. Concerned.
Indifferent. Humble. Concerned.
Calm. Giddy. Concerned.
At this point I’m feeling quite perturbed.
I’m up. Number 12
“I’m feeling rather concerned myself!” I say in a bemused manner.
But nobody laughed. They just looked at me.
The stark realisation hit that they were concerned for me.
Humiliation hit hard.
The thing I was concerned to learn was the concernment spurned from all concerned.
Feeling check adjourned.
“Excuse me miss,
are you local?”
I turn with subtlety to retort. . .
“you could say that”.
I kept it short . . . I knew what was next
I sit on the bench; you know to get myself comfy
For this jack-a-nory. I already know the story. But I give him his glory.
“I’m not a beggar nor a wino, just 9 quid off you know.
This corona virus has stuffed things up kind of stopped the show…
I sell the big issue. But it’s had to stop.
Just 9 quid off from a bed at the hostel.
A safe place for me to get horizontal.
I swear miss, I’m not on the bottle!”
The thing is I don’t actually have any cash. Just a card.
Covid got me into the habit of that.
The homeless don’t do cashless.
I’m overcome with sadness.
I explain I’m not callous.
He knows as I’m mask less.
He knows that I’m no actress.
“But there is one thing that I can do . . .
I’ll say a prayer tonight for you”
He looked right at me and smiled a smile.
The words received were worth the while . . .
“Psalm 23 Miss . . . that’s my favourite! . the lord ‘IS’ my shepherd!”
“In that case my friend your company will never be bettered and your soul will never be weathered…The corona virus will not cause him fear
2-meter rule disregarded . . . he will hold you near!”
He nods at me.
I nod back.
company parted.
Once again, I hear…
“I’m not a beggar nor a wino”
Another year.
A new decade.
Christmas once again, been and gone.
Did you have your dessertspoonful? tablespoonful? Did you have your bellyful?
Was your Yuletide Superpowerful? Ultrapowerful? Did you keep your pitchersful, tumblersful or thimbleful? More importantly your plattersful? That’s the way to be cheerful.
Were the gifts you received characterful? Nonmeaningful? Distasteful? But the ones you gave colourful, skillful and thoughtful?
Was the merriment plentiful? Wonderful? With another surge of family and friends produces another bottleful, plateful sat around a tableful. Not forgetting the Christmas cracker jokes. Dreadful.
Was the day bountiful? plaintful? We retire to our chairs slothful to watch the queens speech. Dutiful. Hopeful. Doubtful.
After weeks of planning being overcareful, resourceful and foresightful (dare i say distressful?) The anti climax is impactful.
We say it again like the year before: “I’m a little bit resentful and a lot regretful for being over fanciful and a tad too wasteful”. It shouldn’t make us Tristful, dirgeful or avengeful.
We mustn’t become forgetful but remain mindful and respectful, count our blessings and be grateful. Soulful. Joyful.
Remaining to be faithful, graceful and worshipful . . . TO HIM UPSTAIRS! After all he invited us to the party!
Think about it! His life for us merciful . . . it really is quite beautiful . . .
So may 2020 be peaceful.
May your heart be full.
As with many aging individuals, Donald Senior resents God. He blames him for the passing of his late and dear wife. Childishly believing that maybe God awoke that morning; Ate breakfast, brewed some coffee, fired up a quality cuban and sat back in his study. Wearing a white smoking jacket and cravat – meticulously planning his beloveds demise.
To pass his days of pain and misery Donald Senior plays golf.
Donald arranges a ‘4 ball’ with three other golfing chums at a rather prestigious club in south Manchester. The boys are familiar with each other so the banter begins immediately.
As golf is a non-contact sport, a large proportion of the damage is done in the mind. Players trade mental blows, combinations of cerebral jabs and emotional uppercuts and hooks that shake your confidence. Never forgetting that defence is as important as attack.
We Tee off at day break. Its a beautifully clear day and the ground has a misting of dew. Donald is the first to go. We listen to his pre-match excuses and grumblings about a sore shoulder and his bad back . . .yada, yada, yada!(boring). He takes an age to finally produce what can only be described as ‘a pathetic shot’. In the golfing world we referred to these types of shots as a ‘Sally Gunnell’ (an ugly runner . . . sorry Sally!). He had pushed the ball right into a grass verge which is separating the fairways.
His ball was in danger and he knew it!
He then takes a new ball and plays a second provisional shot (3rd) and behold the same happens again! Another pathetic attempt! With 2 balls now in danger and frustrations running high, he is forced to take a third ball and yet another shot (5th). The underhand comments and sniggers begin. Even his own partner is making it apparent that he is finding Donald Senior intolerable.
Unbelievably, in an unlikely turn of misfortune, against the odds it happened again. At this point, Donald knew that the job was f*cked! We continue to play our shots, then as a group we make our way down the fairway accompanying Donald to retrieve and play his 3 balls. To our amusement and Donalds dismay, none of the balls were retrievable. In fact, not one of them were to be seen. How was this even possible? The balls were bright green! Maybe they’d disappeared into the Bermuda triangle of golf balls.
Donald Senior was as discombobulated as we were. But his confusion soon turned into rage. Like his estranged balls, he turned rather green and his eyes were as black as thunder clouds. In a hulk like fashion he began to scream with all the hate and fury he had buried deep within him. Shaking his clenched white fists at the sky, club in hand, he bellowed “GOD YOU’RE A C*NT!!!”.
The words pierced the atmosphere, they echoed off the trees and reverberated back at us with force and vigor. We all fell silent. The 4 ball behind us fell silent. The 4 ball on the green in front fell silent. The birds on the trees fell silent. We couldn’t un-hear what we had just witnessed. We were all just stood there awkward in the shame that he had created. Everyone’s eyes fell upon Donald and were staring at him dumbfounded. Did he just call God a c*nt? Did he? Not only did he break societal decorum, he had obliterated all the rules and etiquette of the course and the game itself.
I felt sad for Donald Senior for being so blocked. It must be very vexing hating something you disbelieve. The fact of the matter was; whilst Donald carried so much anger and hatred with him, he was never gonna win at anything in life, let alone a game of golf!
I broke the silence. The words just fell out of my mouth. . .
“It’s not Gods fault you’re shit at golf!” and in full view of Donald Senior i looked at the sky “Thank-you god!” in reference to our victory!
The year is drawing to the end – praise be, A funny old year for my family and me.
Two diagnoses of cancer a death and addiction, they all come to me with their afflictions.
I’m a pretty strong woman who has her ‘sh*t together’, happy-go-lucky and rarely under the weather.
But ‘Oh my gosh! ‘ my year has been madness, this once savvy lady now consumed with a sadness… I wouldn’t say depressed, no ‘black dog’ lives here, but my anxieties are visible through my continuous tears.
They just won’t stop!…
Out comes the emotion – no more repression, my boyfriend says “Darling it’s a good way of expression. Now stop trying to maintain that stiff upper lip, look after your soul and maybe go get some kip!”
The tightly wound spring is starting to ease . The years worth of strife begin to appease.
But the tears, they’re still coming in spurts through the day, induced by ‘just things’ that get in my way…
I cry at the puddle, the toilet, the car, I cry in the traffic jam and then in the Spar. I cry that there’s no carrots to go with my peas, when I slipped on the ice and fell on my knees. I cry because I can’t find my sons waterproof pants, I cry because I forgot to water my plants. I cry hearing the brass band playing carols on TV and that the cat knocked the decorations off the Xmas tree.
I just don’t stop…
All this crying is good. My boyfriend knows best. Because whilst I’m doing all this crying; I’m certainly peeing less!
RAIN WITH A CHANCE OF SPEEDBALLS