Mega Oops.

Oh my good grief. I forgot this blog altogether,.. for how long?

I imagine posting became more and more delayed as I continuously intended to read more of Bleak House. No, now I trawl through the time-dust, I think I set it up out of vanity, out of a desire to mutter and vent about real life, or at least to speak plainly about it, but was spotted almost instantly.

Apparently I have a writing style and obviously its peculiar to me.
Presumably 'style' is a subjective term which may simply mean being peculiar.

I am (not) blogging somewhere else, and if you find me, its not really me, its me trying to be clever and to follow two separate sets of 'how to be an SEO whizz and make people like you until they buy stuff' instructions, one under a one-off payment and one under continuous licence (so at this rate THAT may not last very long...)

Look at it this way, as a special needs mum who's been parenting under 16s with issues for the past 27 years, I've been struggling along paying more attention to emotional health than financial for far too long.

I've also been a moderator / forum specialist at a homeworking advice site for four or five years, where the main focus has been on guiding noobs away from signing their life savings over to get-rich-quick schemes and promises of online typing jobs for a zillion dollars an hour 'if you'll just send us your house, your firstborn and your left foot to pay for this oh so secret information".

I may just be like one of those mental nurses who has spent too long in the asylum and starts to think that Rocking Johnny is making an awful lot of sense, or it may be that immersion eventually leads to discernment even for the very dense (case in point).

Either way, I am off on a jolly adventure, on a go-see learning curve. The proof of the pudding, etc etc.

At least I would be,

if my neighbour wasn't a sandwich short of a picnic,

if my son wasn't coming up to his annual statement review, his GCSE module exams, his college selections, his work experience,

if my daughter wasnt busting out all over and discovering not just boys but romance and deep sighs and hugs and giggle clusters and BFFs forever, and taking too many photos, and smuggling eyeliner to school

if my house didn't look like the burglars had been through and left again in disgust

if my mother wasn't old and sick and manipulative and also silent since my younger brother moved back in, and I can think of three entirely different possible reasons for that..

if I wasn't having far too much fun faffing about,

• rediscovering this blog,
• playing way too much Mafia Wars on facebook
  
• filling in funding applications for my volunteering thingy I do
• praying praying and praying (I find talking to God & general meditating makes much more sense than winging it)
• generally having an inner fight with myself about whether I am pretty darn special actually / oh no you're not you conceited, broke, middle aged fool who wont get off the computer chair.

Right.

So while I'm here I thought I might write a few 'how to's. Because someone said I should. I just wish I knew 'how to what', because as my 'real' life hasn't led to me a place where people rush to me for advice, I don't actually know what (if anything) I know, that others
a) don't, and
b) might want to.

Oh damn. I'm an eight hours kinda gal, but was up until 2 am filling forms on a deadline and up again at 6 to get the teenager out of his pit. He rolled back over and said that the thing he'd 'desperately needed to be up early for' could wait.

So I am definitely typing this on auto-pilot and may just about be making slightly less sense than the aforementioned Rocking Johnny who I imagine to wear a hospital gown and pick at his thumbnail a lot. In corners.

Does it show?

You ain't seen me, right?

I have no desire to connect the two identities, but if you know who I am, I've gone back to being me and am blogging over there, again, hopefully on a regular basis.

Life is too short for cloak and dagger.
Sod propriety, even.

I want to make a space where I can be honest, where I can be me and if I have to hide to that extent for fear of being googled then I am giving in to fear and insecurity.

Not gonna happen (any more).

See you there, please?

Harumph.

This is an awful blog.
For a start, it's PINK. I don't have anything particularly against pink, honestly, just that it is not me.
Its a disguise.
One that didn't work.
One that chafes badly.

The worst thing about Google buying everything up and then making you combine your identities, attach this log-in to that, that persona to this, (aren't they after Twitter, now?) is the way that the social media world is shrinking. Real blogging, real anonymous dumping of passing thought or irritation, is being squeezed out by the way that this increasingly homogenised, monotone facility is making us traceable, locatable, identifiable.

Once the core of my blogging friends were the holders of my silliest secrets - the ones that would make me too odd, too vulnerable, in real life.

Now it seems that instead of being a freedom, this is the one place where we should temper every single word we say; well, write.

We stand to be judged. We stand to be held to our words, to be analysed by employers, employees, friends, would-be enemies, nosy neighbours, our children's friends, our children. For something we certainly never addressed to them, even for something we thought, very briefly, days, weeks or years ago. What about change? Growth? What about being all things to all people, to having many hats? What about this being an outlet and not a display case?

That's not on.

Besides which, if I MUST be pigeonholed, categorised, dismissed as mono dimensional and fixed in time and space, then I refuse to endure it in pink.

Bleak House 1-3

I am 'doing' Bleak House, with Zilla. I chose that phrase very carefully.

Today I had an hour to give over and managed to get to the end of chapter three, doubling the amount I had read since taking this on.

So far

Ch1:
London is a hell-hole. He doesn't mention the cholera outbreaks nor the numbers that used to die of the fogs, but he paints the atmosphere so well.

Lawyers are out to bleed you dry whilst using very long words and treating you like children. Don't tell me its an old joke, I don't suppose it was that old when this was written.
Merciless, scathing observations; pure joy.

Ch2:
A very bored, very proper fashionista who allows the Victorian version of the paparazzi to follow her every movement, is married to an old bloke with loads of money who can't get it up and can't be accused of conceit simply because he has such a total blind faith in his own rights and opinions that he's never stopped to anything as tawdry as comparing himself to others, who simply don't factor except as general populace needing his guiding hand and unimpeachable logic.
The lady wife may or may not be up the duff (in the family way), with her first ever fainting spell occuring just after her time at their country place, where she was very bored, watching virile employees. She left there after a particular virile employee looked happy to see his wife and child.

Even after laughing at the pomposity and fallibility of these two, now I am on tenterhooks and know now why this succeeded so well in its original format as 19 episodes for a London periodical.

Ch3: We meet Esther. She is, at least in her early days, a simpering twit, and I would like to slap her. However I forgive Dickens, because her unbelievable saccharrin piety (which reminded me of the act put on by Puss In Boots in the Shrek movies) was absolutely the best foil for his descriptions of the two women who dragged her up - both complete cows.

I wonder if he likes to cameo himself in his own books - I wonder if he was the man hidden by the outsized fur coat, being kind and observant yet 'floored' by his own creation. I wonder how long it took to get a pork pie shipped in from France, and what their shelf life was.

School was a narrative to explain her change from foil for the comedy of the old cows to Saint and frail heroine with shades of a backbone, and the bit in court is a filler to get her introduced to the cast and off to Bleak House.

I know some people like Jellyby, one of them was a local Magistrate. British eccentricity even hits the women, sometimes. Very intelligent and as batty as, well, a batty thing full of bats. (To quote Blackadder, I suspect.)


I am thus far and no further.

Zilla, am I doing this right, kind of?

Gratitude

So there I was this morning, finally mopping the kitchen floor, something I've avoided since signing the permission form for my cat's extermination. "Euthanasia permission form", it was called. I am a moggy murderer. He pulled his front leg away as hard as he could as he saw the needle approach, but was too frail to do more.

I feel like such a cow. It doesn't seem to matter, from this perspective, that as his system shut down the poisons building up would get further into his little brain and cause him fits and all sorts of yucky side effects. There is no palliative care, for cats.

Anyway, the sight of his muddy paw prints from the cat flap to his bowl, then the discovery of cat biscuits that he'd scattered under the fridge, all caused me a moment of self pity and tearfulness, for which I was grateful. Although my youngest daughter has cried every night, since his loss (she used to take him to bed with her for half an hour or so), I haven't managed a wet eye of my own since that day.

I took the opportunity, then, when the floodgates creaked open this morning, to have a proper wallow.

And then DOH got in touch.

He's trying to postpone a 7-week training course he has to take, half way up the country - this morning he was sent notice that one of his best friends at work (DOH is on secondment right now) is losing a battle with cancer and has only weeks to live. The funeral and the currently scheduled training course will clash.

Damn, but how to take the wind out of your sails, your lungs - how to take the blood from your arms and the bones from your legs.

I am so, so grateful. Things, creatures, people are so fleeting, so transitory, and yet, if we're lucky, as we hurtle through, we get to be touched by them, we get to have fond thoughts of them and to know the world is good, because of them. And even when it hurts like hell, sacrificing that connection is just not worth thinking about.

And now, for posting this, I am late for work. But who cares - some things make others pale into insignificance, and that's what life's all about.

Bleak House

I appear to be in an online book network with Zilla, who has invited me to read Bleak House by Charles Dickens.

I really don't know what else I'm supposed to do apart from contract to read from start to end, but I ordered a paperback copy from Amazon for the princely sum of £1.99.

It arrived today. It looks MUCH larger than £1.99's worth of paper and print.

Zilla, can I start today? Please? Are we supposed to set a time limit, or agree to start on the same day, or anything like that?

See what I know?.... absolutely nothing.

To my shame (I like Dickens, as a rule) I've never read the book. From the first few paragraphs, available as a 'peek inside' on the Amazon product page, the wonderful, evocative description of polluted Victorian London in all it's choleraic putrescence, makes me wonder how the house of the title could be any more bleak than that.

The print I bought is from the series of Wordsworth Classics, which I now find are written for the student, with a full, heavily biographical introduction followed by ten pages of small print about the historical context and setting. I am dutifully ignoring both, in order to enjoy the story, first.

In other news, my cat is ill. He is almost eighteen years old and has taken poorly with a stomach ache this evening. I am not on the poverty line so do not qualify to call out the PDSA or other charitable body. On the other hand I do not drive, nor do I have at my disposal the £26 initial consultation fee, the £50 'out of hours' surcharge and the minimum £50 taxi fare for a round trip to the nearest town with an all night vet. That's £125 ($176) before we even get to the cost of any meds or other treatment.

I am probably up tonight, fretting if not also nursing him until the morning, when the local vet will open for business. I feel so guilty and useless. He's settled, if lethargic and off his food, until he tries to move, and then he sounds so plaintive that my bones mourn. I love him to bits.

So I could do with a book.

Bleak house, indeed.

Twilight

This week I read the whole Twilight series - all four books. I've not bothered with the movie.

YD (who had spent the entire half term week in her room, achieving the same) had begged me to read the story, and had been far, far too bouncy and excitable about it, almost squealy, as if there were dramatic emotions rushing through her little heart that she could not voice except to someone who had 'been there'.

It turns out she skipped through the touchy-feely bits (although they were very discrete, very tactfully worded), as she was not quite ready to accept a detour from the rest of the book, the 'real' action and adventure, as she saw it. Well that's a relief, then.

No, she was all wrapped up in the martyrdom, terror, loving self-sacrifice, uncontrolled fury, heroes and rescues and constant, constant drama. She was totally identifying with the swooning teenage heroine who gets it all, bigger and better than she'd ever imagined, but not before volunteering to go without, to save the day and face nearly certain death again, usually whilst running headlong into an entirely unrelated rescue at the same time.

The "I am not worthy and if I say it loud enough others will rush to correct me and give me everything" masochist Cinderella theme was worryingly predominant, even though the action ran close to Romeo and Juliet. Bella was teary eyed, determined to be the bait on the hook and spent all of the action scenes declaring her willing sacrifice and general lowliness. Predictably she came out best at everything in the whole 'saving the world against all odds' arena and had to blushingly accept effusive hero worship. And awe, can't forget reverential awe.

There was lots of fainting. Lots. And fashion.


Now, where'd I leave that bucket?...