Creative Destruction

I turned on the tap and I allowed the warm water to hit the heaped dishes in the sink. Then I put the liquid soap on the sponge and began to wipe the ancient meals from the plates.

You were sitting, propped up on the laundry basket, busy sorting something out and giving me a little bit of time to show you what I can create.

I can create a clean dish now. I can’t do this often. This is how you are good for me. I don’t feel worried when you are with me. I don’t think of it as destroying but of creating.

Building up the mess, it was security for me. Now you are giving me that confidence to let go of these things. Gradually I am peeling back the protective layers that I have placed over myself.

As I take each item from the pile I get closer to exposing myself to the world. But I trust you and you allow me to use you as my support. I know it’s OK because I can offer this also to you.

I create as I destroy.

NOTE:  I have been puzzling about whom I was referring to in this piece, which I wrote some time ago. I know however that it refers to my dish-washing phobia perhaps as an allegory. It’s a pity I can’t ask myself. I found it here as an unpublished draft and just hit the button.  p.s. I have now got a beautiful lime green SMEG dishwasher and my whole attitude to dishes is resolved. Why didn’t I just get one before?

p.s.  ahaa! now I get it. It was my laptop sitting on the laundry basket. I think I was talking about my avatar in SecondLife. In other words, my duplicate Me. Talking about myself as usual.

Too much information

‘Business means Poo’ says Pammy Chuckles.

My mother has always been suspicious of business men. Now aged 82 she has just shared with me the dark truth about businessmen that she has known since the age of five. It is this… business means Poo. She knows this because her parents would say to her ‘have you done your business?’ every morning. Doing one’s business involved going into the bathroom for a while and it needed to be done every day or Granny would do something ultimately worse involving introducing warm water into an unmentionable orifice.  When Pammy Chuckles first found out that some of her friends had fathers that earned a living through ‘business’ she was understandably horrified and rather nervous to be around them, though she knew it wasn’t their fault. Business men wear a uniform so you can spot them in the street. I feel pretty much the same about avoiding business men. Nowadays there is the even more terrifying Business Woman. They are the ones that stare at you and fire questions at you about statistics that you are supposed to know the answer to without consulting your computer. Business Women are why I don’t go to work anymore. Rue and fetishes worn around the neck help but Citalopram works best. My mum is right though, Business definitely means Poo.

NOTE:  A facebook friend made the following comment: “I can remember that same saying when I was young and wondered why anybody would ever stick there nose in somebody else’s business. “

emmerdale coronation street eastenders football sex and cuddly dogs trying not to sleep at their desks

Well, now you are here you might as well read the other entries on my blog hadn’t you?

How to please my readers

All the hits on my blog these days are from people searching on the problem of falling asleep at their desk at work. I know this because I have a statistic counter that tells me. For instance, this week I was found by people googling ‘How to avoid sleeping in office’, ‘avoid sleeping in office’, ‘avoid sleeping at the desk’ and ‘responses if your (sic) found sleeping at your desk’.

There is obviously a gap in the market here that someone, who is not me, would find profitable to exploit. I felt particularly warm towards the last person, who I think has either just been caught or feels it might be imminent. Well I know how it feels, though I took it once step further and used to lie on floor in a patch of sunshine and snooze away without a care in the world. I never got caught. Anyway, it was caused by ’stress at work’ as I am sure is the case with all those people who are searching for a solution. After all, if you were happy in your work and weren’t trying to block it all out you wouldn’t feel sleepy probably. I certainly never did when my environment was packed with exciting and unpredictable happenings.

So, I am going to try an experiment. I will create a few posts with catchy titles to see if I can attract a more diverse set of readers. I once tried putting football and stockings in a title and it worked wonders. Then, once I have caught their attention maybe I can persuade them to stay for a while. It’s worth a try.

Of course, if you are a publisher and you think I should be creating a masterpiece off line rather than casting my seed on stony ground do let me know.

Random Hugs

Every day in Harrogate a set of people clutching clipboards lurk in the main shopping street. They are collecting for charities; a different one each day. Harrogate residents became tired of this years ago so the poor collectors have to work very hard to persuade anyone to stop and talk to them.

I am one who does stop but explain from the outset that I am unable to commit to direct debits (which is what they have been sent to obtain) due to the enormous debts I managed to create not so long ago. It’s always jolly to have a chat though and I do love talking to people who have come from ’somewhere else’.

One day I had the unexpected bonus of two delicious hugs from a lad from Manchester who should have been signing me up for a DD donation to something. I just wish he would come back and give me another one. I didn’t deserve it but I certainly enjoyed it.

As I emerged from Bank Station (City of London) on Friday, having shaken off my male companion, I was greeted by two lads who looked as if they were getting the best out of their evening. One had anticipated the fun by wearing a diabolical pink cashmere sweater. The other grabbed me in a generous hug and kissed me on the lips with the joie de vivre that comes from beer. A stag do I presume. I do enjoy stranger hugs. I mean, hugs from strangers… though of course strange hugs can be pleasurable too.

You may deduce from these two snippets that I am dressed as a whore. I am sure I am not. Anyway, it happens on the phone too. Also on the internet but we had better not talk about that. I think it has come with age. I have reached the stage where I am perceived as ‘a mature wise woman who knows secret sexual tricks that can be taught to young men’ and perhaps ‘a rich older woman who owns a house so would be able to afford a gigolo’. Needless to say, only one of these statements is accurate.

Kingsbury Nights

The seating fabric was harshly spiking my legs through my velvet strides which were gently steaming as the under seat heater of the tube train warmed them. My hair was also wetly dribbling down my neck. It was a freezing London evening as I headed towards a sweltering den of sweating bodies with long hair lashing and imaginary guitars thrashed.

I had only been able to eat a biscuit that day. Food repulsed me. I knew I needed it for fuel but I would have preferred to take it in pill form or as a constant intravenous supply.

It was several stops from Finchley Road to Kingsbury and the train was empty. I had left it rather late as usual. It had been a busy day. There had just been time to wash my velvets and myself before dashing once more from my parents flat to my suburban hall of bliss. I was filled with anticipation as the train slowly moved forward, stopping and starting at empty stations, nobody on and nobody off but me. So I ran up and down the central aisle of the carriage and swung on the monkey bars by the doors. It didn’t make the train go any faster but it kept me occupied.

At home, my parents and my younger brother were still sitting around the dinner table talking and no doubt agreeing with each other how much of an idiot I was to be rushing out at this time of night wearing wet trousers and not having eaten. I would of course catch my death of cold and regret it in the morning.

I couldn’t help it though. Even if I had decided not to go for one night, I would suddenly leap up and declare that I couldn’t stand it and rush out of the house. I had to be there in that dark and dirty room with the incongruous decor of a wild western film. The bar was on one side and the other was like a building with a veranda made of wood. I imagined that I would arrive and tie my horse up on he wooden railings. Then I would drape myself there for a while as I surveyed the room. Neil Kay was the DJ and he was the Man. It was the Soundhouse. We were all family. Heavy metal music was out of fashion outside these walls. Inside was a complete world. I had bottles of Guiness at strategic points around the room and I spent my time sticking my head in the speakers till my ribs throbbed, headbanging with my hair swishing about and my naked back being lashed by someone doing the same and hugging sticky bikers who smelt delectibly of sweat, dirt and beer.

If you hang around long enough your life starts back at the beginning.

OK, so I haven’t written anything for a while. According to my statistics counter my audience is entirely made up of readers looking for information on ‘How not to fall asleep at your desk’ so I suppose I needn’t have written any of the others. Not to worry, I am quite happy to talk to myself.

I’ve just got back from a trip to London which was centered around a book launch for Pete Silverton’s wonderful new book ‘Filthy English’ which you can find on Amazon Books. I haven’t seen Pete since I worked at Spotlight Publications (in 1976 I think) which published ‘Sounds’ music paper where Pete Silverton was a writer. I wasn’t a writer, I was just sitting stupidly in reception. Letting all sorts of dodgy characters through the door who were very often coming to see Pete. I took a friend from Iran whom I haven’t seen since around the same time.

I tried opening up a conversation on the train with some plasterers who I had joined in sitting on the floor (it was a busy train, I wasn’t just being strange) by announcing that I was reading a book about swearing but they just looked at me and said ‘And…?” which shut me up.

When I got back to Harrogate I went straight to ASDA to buy fresh greens for the 70 guinea pigs in case my feeder servant hadn’t been generous enough with the rations. I had just sat on a bench in order to organise my purchases and stuff them into my purple lizard print suitcase on wheels, when I received an offer of marriage. I would say ‘an unexpected offer of marriage’ but this seems to be happening on an almost daily basis lately. There are variants of this phenomena but this was obviously one of the ‘I want to fuck you and I am not even going to bother to take you out to dinner’ type. My suitor didn’t get very far though because he rather ill advisedly told me his name. I said ‘I know who you are’. He said ‘Ah well, you will have heard of me, most people have’. ‘No’ I said, hoping that I would sound mysterious, compassionate, forgiving and menacing.’What I mean is, unfortunately you have already ‘had’ me. You locked me in a cellar in 1975′. He, somewhat predictably, said ‘No I didn’t’. I countered with ‘You have a tattoo of a dagger on your arm’ and rolled up his sleeve to show him, in case he had forgotten. I gave the poor old chap a hug to make him feel better and then I went home to feed the guinea pigs.

All my animals were quite happy although 8 of the guinea pigs had been partially digested by their compatriots so I think I had better be a little more specific about their dietary requirements next time I put someone in charge whilst I go gallivanting off down south. Incidentally, and a typical Harrogate occurrence, so hardly worth comment, the dagger tattoo man turned out to be friends with my animal feeder servant (who is also a tattooist though not responsible for the dagger).

So, in the past month I have met up with three people I once knew around 1975 – 1977. I am curious to know who else may be lurking round the corner.

Postscript:  Someone in Miami Beach just posted a pic of a guy who filled me with drugs circa 1973 and did pretty much the same as the cellar bloke only I was practically comatose. There is definitely a theme going on here.

Where is Milly?

If you are wondering where MillyToast is (as she hasn’t written in here since September 2009) please send her an email to MillyToast@mac.com and complain.

I passed my Test, ‘Where’s my ASDA voucher?’

Today I popped in to Learn Direct’s office in town to sit my English Proficiency Level 2 test.

Having completed the suggested ‘Brush up on English’ online course I felt ready to sit the test and claim the advertised ASDA £25 voucher about which I had learned from a piece of paper stuck on the door a few weeks ago. However, having passed my test with a score of 97% and sticking out my hand for the voucher I was told ‘Oh that finished at the end of August.’  Today you may note, is the 1st of September. Do you think I feel cheated?

I said nothing at all but my facial expression must have been effective as the Learn Direct tutor said he would ’speak to his boss’ when she gets back from her holidays. I should jolly well think so too!

What shall I do next?

OK, here’e the problem, let’s see if anyone else has any good ideas on what I ought to do next.

I live in a house that i like in a town that I don’t like. I have too much stuff to fit into a smaller space. I would like to go back home to London but properties there cost more than here so I wouldn’t have enough space for my stuff. Plus… I have a cat who has a job at the local hairdressers and I don’t want to mess up his life.

My mother needs to move out of her ginormous flat with ginormous amounts of stuff. She wants to spend about twice what my house is worth which is about half the price of the one she is selling. She has too much stuff to put into a place that is half the size of the one she has. She wants to live in a teeny weeny place but she doesn’t want to get rid of anything. She can’t decide whether to come up here to the town that I hate but my sister loves or stay in London or go to the seaside. She reckons she has five years left of life to go and although she is independent now she does not look forward to having a bed-bath offered by any of us.

Everyone else in the family has told her that on no account must she live with me.

Answers on a postcard please.

I anticipate that I have about three months left before I go completely mad.

UPDATE: My mother is now living up here in Harrogate. She quite likes her house, though it’s not a patch on the old flat, but hates Harrogate (no surprise there). She isn’t here much though anyway. At the moment she is in Malaysia. She threw quite a lot of stuff out; some on purpose and some by accident (helpers can never see the significance of important pieces of stick). The entire contents of my 18′ room and other stuff that had migrated into various other corners of the vast mansion flat have now all migrated to my own house and currently take up an entire room in the form of boxes up to the ceiling. No, I am not going to throw any of it away. Old bus tickets can be important you know.