Category: Guest Weeks

(Posted by Fi)

I can’t stand silence. Silence is either justified by the amount of time it takes to load a new CD, or the break in the argument where you scrabble for a better foothold. I associate long silent pauses with the intake of breath before I’m lectured for leaving a fork in the microwave, spending all my money on clothes or stepping out onto icy lakes. Well, it looked solid enough!

Perhaps I’m part of that generation that needs constant distraction before anything can be done, but I can’t concentrate without music. I spent a week studying for my finals without music and it was the longest, most boring week I have ever spent. Now, I had the honest intention of continuing this article, but I suddenly feel quite silly typing the merits of music and how I can’t live without it when Buni is doing such a good job of it and Quarsan did last week. So instead I shall expand on Melodrama’s piece below.

Perhaps a more important thing to talk about than my fantasies of being swept through a crowded ballroom to the open dance-floor and twirling to the Blue Danube Waltz in a satin gown and gloves with Bruce Campbell is the nature of relationships. What makes two people want to tolerate each other, share themselves intimately, disclose deep, dark, potentially-dangerous-after-the-break-up secrets?

I don’t want to cause a fuss here, but let me make it perfectly clear that men are not complex. They do not have the same intricate inner workings of women and they are not unfathomable pools of emotions swirling effervescently in a bubbling turmoil of feelings and needs. Brian O’Halloran simplified what men want out of relationships quite simply: “insert someplace close and preferably moist; thrust; repeat.” If a man stays silent in a relationship it’s because he has nothing to say, if a woman stays silent it’s because she’s run out of things to complain about and is wondering what’s wrong with the man. They don’t have enough to think about and we have too much.

Men as partners are easy to please, in general of course, take these guidelines and tailor them to suit your man;

1. Provide regular meals, don’t question where they end up, provide air freshener of a scent that you like since he never seems able to smell anything wrong with the bathroom.

2. Keep a running total of every anniversary, birthday, event and Saint’s day that he’s forgotten to celebrate. This is ammunition and works better than hollow-point nine millimetre shells in the war that is argumentation.

3. If he sleeps late, let him. Make your own breakfast and remind him that if he wanted pancakes and maple syrup with bacon and scrambled eggs he has to be up early enough. Be sure to leave enough on the plate when you’re finished to show just how good you make it (even if it’s out of a packet). On the mornings that he does wake up early, tell him you’d like breakfast in bed.

4. Stay silent. Play music if you’re angry about something. Make the music suit your reasons for being angry but complain about nothing until he asks. If he asks, he cares, if he doesn’t then you’re entitled to do just as bad back and when asked why, justify it with rule number 2.

5. If you want kids, leave handy reminders everywhere. Childhood toys to remind him how much fun kids have. Point at kids in buggies and wave at them, then turn with your smile turned all the way past cute to dangerously sweet and say “how adorable!” Asking outright is the polite way to ask for a break-up.

These five rules obviously aren’t set in stone, they’ve been handy guidelines for dealing with men. The basic sleep, eat, sex pattern is 99% universal, albeit not necessarily in that order, more like, eat, sex, eat, sleep, eat, perhaps skipping the second eat every second time. My mother always claimed that the key to a lasting relationship wasn’t patience, but tolerance. Because any annoyance can be countered, but new ones will constantly crop up here and there. If you set a limit to how much you’ll put up with and reach that limit, it’s time to reassess your position in the relationship and what you feel you’re getting out of it. Now, quick guidelines for living with women;

Volume I, chapter 1, paragraph 1;

1. You are never, ever, ever, to think for one second that you are right, be you male or female. Even if she is wrong, you can never make a woman admit that she is wrong, which is why we argue the way we do.

2. If you think that the secret behind women can be named, categorised, analysed and unlocked, then you’re living in a dream world…

If you want to extract a moral from this piece, it’s simply put that the ballroom fantasy must remain rooted in reality to have any sort of meaning. Even were I to be lucky enough to get Bruce Campbell into a dinner jacket and find a ballroom with polished floors and ornate golden chandeliers, reality would step in and make my shoes one size too small. Everything depends on your breaking point. How much can you put up with before things start becoming a problem and how much do the little things matter to you when you’re dancing with the man of your dreams?

(Posted by Mark)

Bones are brittle, hearts are fickle and promises are made to be broken. Whatever the act of severance, be it physical or emotional, the effects of breaking can be as hard to mend as years of yearning or as simple as a two week plastercast. Sticks and stones, if used with enough force and malevolent intent, may well break my bones, but sadly the playground wisdom requires correction when it comes to the part where words can never hurt me. I’ve had a few broken bones (leg, ankle twice, wrist) but they were healed far more speedily than the little scars which I believe we all bear from words. One of the worst sentences in the English language? Easy: “I don’t love you any more”.

Breaking the routine
Matt Bellamy (no relation to David or Craig) sings “Change everything you are, and everything you were, your number has been called” and I’m not about to disagree with him. Life can be a drudge unless you are very careful to perforate the tedium regularly with changes to the timetable or variances to the pre-established way of things. My own little train tracks of despair are easy to map: home, work, pub, home; in a little five-day cycle which is broken fewer times than I’d like. This isn’t a lament – it’s up to me to break the cycle and I know it.

Breaking a habit, whether it’s the usual series of events every day or an addiction like smoking, takes a measure of willpower; furthermore, most people have a habit of some kind or another, and yes, the less harmful habits count too: biting nails, ice cream, your favourite “can’t miss” TV show – they’re all habits and our acceptance of them in others varies, depending on our own particular vices.

How do we make the change? Well, that’s the prize question, without doubt. You can get patches or gum to combat your nicotine cravings, but unless Ben and Jerry are holding out on us, an ice cream obsession may not have such an obvious escape route. Perhaps if we are to break out of our patterns of living, it’s the smaller things we need to adjust first. Sound easy? Of course it isn’t. When I’ve finally quit smoking, I’ll let you know how it went.

Breaking the ice
Whether a social lacuna has opened up and is threatening to absorb the entire company into the black hole of dullness, or whether you have just arrived at a gathering and know absolutely no-one there, you will need to somehow introduce yourself, get a dialogue moving with some of the people around you and generally begin to integrate into the rest of the party; to adopt a rather overstretched and ridiculous metaphor, you need to break the ice of silence with the icepick of your wit to reveal the fresh-flowing pool of conversation which lies beneath. (I’ve just re-read that sentence. I might need psychiatric help.)

So, how can you go about relieving any awkwardness or discomfort when a silence has lasted just that little bit too long and the expectations of the next speaker have built up to levels where only Churchillian rhetoric would be able to fill the void? Try some of these and see what you think:

• “I hear that the Pope is actually a woman.”

 

• “Who here have I not told about my operation?”

 

• “JFK isn’t dead, you know. Neither is Elvis. They live together in a bungalow in Kings Langley.”

 

• “Did you know that the fastest land mammal is not the cheetah, as believed, but actually my mother-in-law?”

 

• “Do you say ‘lattay’ or ‘lartay’, out of interest? I only ask because I read this piece …”

With any luck (and you’ll need luck), the response to any of these all-gold nuggets of ice-breaking will be either (a) open and ill-controlled laughter, or (b) some kind of considered and sincere response. If it is option (b), then you will be able to ridicule your respondent successfully for the rest of the evening and you stand a very good chance of being regarded by your peers as a god of comedy. Either that or a very mean-spirited and sarcastic person, but the difference between the two is very fine.

If surrealism or outright lies seem inappropriate for breaking the ice (a first date or a funeral are good examples), then you may be forced to sit back, concentrate fiercely, and fake some sincerity. Sincerity always plays well with other people as it gives the impression that you actually care what they are saying or whether they are breathing, and people like to feel cared about. Really the only trick here is the old husbands’ favourite: memorise the last five words the other person has said, then ask a question based on whatever information those five words have contained. The other person will be sufficiently enthused that you have bothered to do even that much that they will witter on for hours, like as not. You’re on a hiding to nothing if they don’t.

Breaking promises
Some promises don’t really count – we all know that, so it’s no use pretending that every single promise you ever make will be held fast and true for the rest of life and unto eternity. Just as there are big lies and little lies, so there are important promises and minor promises and we all have our own ways of distinguishing between them. I would suggest that there is a great difference between breaking a promise that you will be able to give someone a lift to the train station and breaking a promise that you will be faithful to your partner. There’s a sliding scale and although I or you or your partner or your best friend can choose a point at which you shouldn’t break promises of such-and-such level of importance, the only person who really knows what they would and would not do is you.

Not only do we break the promises we make, sometimes we also make promises which from the outset we have no possible way of keeping. Herein lies an unbreakable: optimism. You hold your lover’s hand, stare intently at the face which makes you want to be a better person, slide the back of your hand down their cheek, brush away a tiny fleck of hair back over their ear and say to them: “I will never hurt you”. And you mean it. At the point, at that frozen moment, you mean it with every sinew straining, every nerve tingling, every excitable heartbeat. But one day, you will hurt them. You may not wish to, but you will; it’s unavoidable, but it won’t stop you promising.

Breaking your heart
Breaking your heart invariably involves the breaking of promises; some important promises and some less important. I’m sitting at the keyboard thinking about what I can write about heartbreak and I have just realised that my stomach is churning a little bit, I’ve stared into space now for a good few minutes, and I’m thinking about tidying up a few things. I don’t want to write about heartbreak, because that means I’m going to have to relive it, doesn’t it? And that’s the last thing anyone wants to do; however happy and settled you may be right now, however in love with your current partner, however comfortable in your current stage of life, you don’t want to think about the time when you had committed so much and then had it all destroyed.

Perhaps that’s why, in serious break-ups, both people cry. The breaker and the broken both cry for themselves and for each other, for the pain they have caused and the pain they are feeling. Amid the tears, there are justifications, counter-arguments, pleadings, denials, arguments, old ground retrodden, infidelities relived, memories burnished and then sullied – but there are definitely tears. I wonder whether it would be possible to go around the world and let each person visit places they have lived or seen and allow them to place a small red plaque at every appropriate place, with the plaque reading: “A part of me broke here”. And if we could do that, would there be any other colour than red anywhere?

But we bounce back from our disappointments and from the aching. Although the science of breaking is generally a negative one, there’s always the possibility that whatever has been broken may one day be fixed, good as new.

 

(posted by Zena)

I’ve spent my whole life on a diet. Well, a series of diets. I’ve probably lost and gained my entire body weight two or three times.

Motivation’s always been an issue: the latent-ardent-feminist within abhors the get-thin-for-men school, and I’ve just never had the willpower to get by on two lettuce leaves and half a stick of celery (which I have just realised will surely be the name of my Spike-alike production company).

But something happened.

It’s a long story, but I’ll try and give the seven-inch version.

On March 7th I went to stay with some friends for the weekend. No big deal; friends from church who’d been inviting me to hang out for a while. D, I’d known since I was about fifteen, and M, his wife, I’d met in the last few years since they’d been together. While we weren’t best friends, it felt like we had a hippy-searching-style understanding of the world, and I was looking forward to a relaxed, chilled weekend. Also, I’d heard she was a good cook, which is always great. I’d had a crazy day at work, running around, and was starving when I got there, as I hadn’t eaten all day.

When I got there on Friday night, D was already a little stoned – which in itself doesn’t bother me that much – and M had taken the kids somewhere and would be back shortly. D told me he liked to chill at the weekend, and I thought, that’s cool, so do I. I’ve smoked a small-to-middling amount of dope in my life, and don’t really have a problem with it. Just, like most women, I get slightly morose rather than giggling at the cracks in the pavement.

D offered me some hash cake. I said I’d never had it before. He said it was better than smoking: smoother, faster, no munchies. Sure, I made an error of judgement, I could have said no, blah blah blah, but I trusted him, and I’m an experimental type of person. I get off on new experiences, and I figured this would be one. And it was.

Later, I found out that putting a hundred quid of stuff in one little cake is not so smart. And about the vagaries of cooking, and you don’t know how much you’re having, and all that jazz.

After ten minutes, when I wasn’t bouncing off the ceiling, D offered me a second piece, which I sensibly declined. After half an hour, the room started spinning a little, and everything felt slightly muzzy. By the time M got back with the kids, I couldn’t really focus. We sat down for dinner, and at 9pm – about an hour and a half after I’d eaten it – I was overcome with the most death-defying paranoia ever.

I was convinced that I was going to die. I remember sitting at the kitchen table, and shaking it so violently that the plates broke. I remember trying to put my hand through their glass kitchen cabinets. I remember my heart beating so fast I thought I was having a heart attack. I remember feeling that I couldn’t control my bodily functions.

D and M handled it badly. He was so stoned that he couldn’t really deal with it. M kept saying “D, she’s your friend, you sort her out.” All I wanted was for someone to hold my hand or give me a hug and tell me everything would be alright. D kept telling me to sleep it off and it would be fine, but I knew I would die if I went to sleep. I clearly remember M saying “D, this is the third time this has happened, you have to stop giving this to your friends.”

The kids – 5 and 7 – seemed pretty freaked out, and who wouldn’t be, a strange woman coming over and trying to wreck your house. I wanted them to call an ambulance, and remember them having a huge row, as they didn’t want to get the authorities involved. Later, I found out that I was lucky not to be hospitalised from the amount of dope in my system, and lucky I didn’t end up cowering in the corner of some small room for three months.

When I really lost it, and started shouting and smashing things up again, they pushed me outside – it was raining heavily – “to walk it off”. I didn’t have a coat, and I was freezing, and scared. After about ten minutes, I begged to come back in and said I would “behave”. They put me in their spare room with a couple of litres of water (D had said early on to keep drinking or I would dehydrate, and I was paranoid I would die).

It was about 11pm – the room was overtaken by Aztecs who wearing my skin inside up, which was pretty unpleasant. (I’d just seen the show at the Royal Academy that week). I remember thinking to stay calm, and it’s only the drugs, but I couldn’t. I tried to go to the toilet, but couldn’t co-ordinate myself to get up. Around 11.30, I remembered that I had some friends. Called my boyfriend, his phone was switched off. Then I called a good friend, S, and she realised straight away that something wasn’t right, and I told her as best I could what had happened and how scared I was.

S got the address, and came over to collect me. By this time, D and M were in bed, and I just walked out of their house in my pajamas, and S gave me a hug, and took me home, and cosied me up in her spare room. She stayed up all night with me, talked to me when I got scared again, and was a better friend than I could ever imagine.

By Saturday, the paranoia was coming in waves, and so I had periods of lucidity which was good, but I was petrified I was changed forever in some way. My boyfriend came round and hung out, and on Saturday night he took me home. I was weird for at least a week, couldn’t really go out, and he stayed with me and looked after me. Usually I’m the looker-after and needing things from people, feeling incapable and delicate was a scary, new feeling.

That week, the handful of friends I told were amazing. People came over and cooked me vegetables (I was petrified of putting anything unhealthy in my body), and were just nice to me. It took about a month to realise I was completely back to “normal” – whatever that is.

D and M? They woke up on Saturday morning to find me gone. The last they’d seen of me I was trying to kill myself, and D finally called my mobile about 5pm. I couldn’t really talk to him. He said it was my fault, as I should have told him I was on anti-depressants (which I’m not), as that’s why I had a bad trip. He wasn’t at all apologetic. I decided that I didn’t like how he behaved and didn’t want to talk to him again. For a few months I was angry: I wanted to call Social Services because I didn’t think living with stoners was good for the kids (he told me they come home from school and say “are you stoned today, Daddy?”). After about three weeks I told him that if I ever heard that something like this had happened to anyone else, I would have no problem calling the police. And also, that I never wanted to be in contact with him again.

I learned things, though. One: always have breakfast. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been so bad if I had eaten something that day. And – related – that you only have one body, and you really need to look after it. It’s within your control, you have choices, and I felt like I was so near to death (all paranoia, I’m sure, but real scary nonetheless) that I wanted to make the most of the time I have left. Two: what good friends I have. Like lots of people, I occasionally feel friendless and insecure, and this experience showed me how much my friends really value me.

For two weeks, I only wanted to eat steamed broccoli (strange, I know), and lost some weight. Then I thought, I could eat in a way that looks after my body all the time. And that, folks, is how it all started…

(posted by Buni)

Oh god Mike, you do ask them don’t you?

Do I like the things that life is showing me? Hmmmmm. >>rubs chin<<

Have you ever seen that scene in The Fifth Element where Leeloo, the Supreme Being is watching visuals about war, genocide, poverty etc etc. It feels something like that sometimes. I’m not saying I’m like ‘The supreme Being’, (that’s far too modest) I’m saying I would watch the TV or catch something on the internet and it just cuts me up inside how awful things can be. Last May the tube went on my TV and I just couldn’t be bloody bothered to go get a new one. I don’t miss the TV either; I am able to filter things through the internet.

Earlier on in the year, I went on a stag weekend to climb Mount Snowdon in North Wales. I had my reservations about the weekend; after all it was my first stag. I wasn’t sure if I’d make it to the summit either. That weekend was really very special for me in many ways.

Firstly, we were all there because a very good friend was getting happily married to a wonderful lady. It just goes to show that love and happiness is out there, you just have to find it. That’s the fun part.

Secondly, for years I had struggled hopelessly with vertigo. I would avoid heights at any cost and break out into the most terrible sweats. I thought I’d managed it by bungee jumping, which scared the living crap out of me, but that failed as well. When we began the ascent of the mountain, I could feel the bile rise slowly at the back of my throat, my heart and stomach were being pounded by a herd of elephants and to top it all, I had no bloody cigarettes. I was up a mountain with vertigo and no bleeding baccie. Nightmare. But I managed it.

The third and final part of this is that when we got to the summit, it was the most beautiful sight I’d ever seen. Miles and miles of some of England’s Wales’ finest countryside; an eagle flying close to the summit soared past us and I just thought, this is it, this is beautiful.

Of all the things that life is showing me, those are the things that I take notice of now. Everything else can go whistle in the wind for all I care. The past, the present, it’s all miniscule compared to events like that. We are tiny.

(Posted by Melodrama)

Before I begin my list, let me clear up some misconceptions that I fear a few of you might be harbouring. I get to post early because I am on another continent, a continent that is more to the east than your piddly (adjective not applicable if you’re an OOSAn) continent and hence rise and shine and check email/ get to work/ blog earlier than most of you. Now that my geographical coordinates have been well-established, I can proceed with my post.

(i) Use a camera film container as an ashtray. Shut it tightly and leave it sitting innocently where it originally was and let your girlfriend/ partner unit/ wife open it at midnight on the bed to have cigarette ash and gunk cascade all over her nice, white, clean sheets.
(ii) Tell her exactly at the stroke of midnight when she’s about to sleep, how much you have accomplished today and how organized you’ve been all through the day.
(iii) Remember that you’ve forgotten to book her tickets for her trip the next day.
(iv) Tell her that your sister has invited you for the weekend and you have accepted and that you are extremely sorry you can not make it to see her parents this weekend despite the fact that their invitation is more than a month old.
(v) Remind her that she has to wake up early to go jogging because she is beginning to put on an awful amount of weight.

(whoops: posted by Zena)

I grew up in an industrial city outside of London, and arrived in the smoke about twenty seconds after I graduated. Anxious for the fun and frolics of urban/urbane life, I left my close-knit family behind. We’ve been through our ups and downs – whose hasn’t? – and they’ve never quite got over my leaving our six-digit postcode area.

But life moves on.

My brother and sister-in-law are about to have their umpteenth child, and as a result of a host of medical complications, it’s arriving tomorrow, by cesearean. For my other nieces and nephews, I hopped straight on a train, laden with gifts, to share in the big day and greet them personally. I would count holding my first nephew in my arms as among the top five most emotional experiences of my life: the miracle of new life blew me away.

Originally, my brother said don’t bother coming, we’ve had so many kids. But I thought that in the future, this kid’ll ask me if I was there when they arrived, and I’ll say “naaah, hardly worth coming up for you.” And the advantage of planned ceasars, is I could book a relatively inexpensive ticket weeks ago.

I was kinda planning on it being a surprise – they thought I wasn’t coming, and then I’d appear, laden with gifts for all the other kids (you know those books that say the other kids have to get gifts so they don’t feel left out? I got my own – Freudian – carry cot and baby doll when my little sister arrived. She was good at shopping, even in the womb.)

But I’m not great at surprises, and when I talked to my brother this afternoon, and he said he’d call me in the morning, I couldn’t help myself, and said, “I’ll be there. I’m on the ten o’clock train.” He was cool about it in a slightly reserved way, but called me back tonight and said that R, my sister-in-law “isn’t accepting visitors” tomorrow at all, and I shouldn’t come.

I feel a mixture of emotions: over-ridingly, that it’s her baby, and I obviously don’t want to create any extra stress or tension during what can be a difficult time anyway. My other siblings have apparently already been told they can’t go tomorrow, but because no-one was expecting me, I wasn’t in on all that. I was only going to go for five minutes with my mum (grandparents are allowed, apparently).

So now I’ve got a zillion large gifts from the Early Learning Centre sitting in my hall, and a ticket I’m not going to use, and a terrible feeling that somewhere on the worthless-stupid-unwanted continuum.

For me, times like this are family times: a whole brand-new person joining our family. And wanting to share that with my brother and sister in law, and nieces and nephews and parents and unles and aunts. R calls the shots, obviously, and if she doesn’t want me there, I’m not going to go (my Mum said I should just visit for the day anyhow, and not see the baby, but that’s just stupid).

I feel hurt. And rejected. And times like this make me realise quite how alone in the world I really am.

(posted by Buni)

Of course I have you silly boy, I’ve loved many women, just never shagged any of them that’s all. All that fanny batter and lips and stuff, jeeeeeess.

One of my first loves was a girl called Dawn, I think. She had a dark, bobbed haircut and dressed like a boy (perhaps an early indication of something to come?) She also had the most enormous collection of gingham shirts. It was summer of, oooh let me think, 1975 or 6 (when was that heatwave?) and I don’t think the girl wore the same shirts twice. Though she did climb the same trees twice, that much I do remember. I remember her most of all because I have a scar on my head as testimony to her amazing female strength.

Do you remember when you were kids – or you may even still be doing this as adults – where you stand back to back and link arms, then one of you stoops forward so that the other person is going backwards? Well, as we didn’t have computer games in those days, that’s what we did and I think Dawn forgot her amazing female strength and pulled me straight over her head. I went flying backwards, arms flailing and all I could see was the teacher’s desk coming over the sunset, whereby I cracked my own head on the corner of said desk and cut my head open. At first I thought nothing of it and then a girl called Zoe started screaming and pointing frantically at me. I just stood there like, “Chill girl, all I did was have a flying lesson”. Then the teacher piped up, which had the rest of the class screaming and there was I, looking at everyone in my class looking at me and pointing and screaming.

Then I felt it. A very slow warm substance was running down the side of my head. I lifted my hand to the part of my head where the feeling was coming from and all I could see was red.

At that moment and no other, the panic set in and I can still remember now thinking to myself, “Just…..got….to….get….to….nurse” like out of a cartoon where they can’t……..quite…….reach….something. The school where this all happened wasn’t a particularly large school. Along one side of the building was a corridor and all the classrooms and offices fed off of this main corridor. To get to nurse I had to walk down the corridor, passed all the classrooms to the end near where Mr. Matthews the Head, had his office.

There I am, walking ever so slowly (as I didn’t want to mess up the shiny floor) down the corridor, arms held out like Jesus Christ, palms up, horrified look on my face and blood absolutely running down my head like its going out of fashion. I swear it was like a dominoe effect going down that corridor; past one class, the screams started, past another, more screams, then another, past the games hall where I recall all of a sudden the pupils just stopping and their balls just slowly stopped bouncing, they just stood there staring and screaming while I walked past them.

I call this my Carrie moment.

In the end it was just a little gash, but very deep and it turns out that at the top of your head is like a reservoir of blood. I needed a couple of stitches.

(Posted by Mark)

cor•re•spond•ing adj. 1. similar in character, form or function; able to be matched, joined or interlocked; 2. dealing with written communication; having this responsibility; having an honorary association with a group, esp. at a distance (from the group’s headquarters).

What an arid description; I’m not sure that I’ll continue reading this dictionary (I have a sneaking suspicion that the zebra did it in Zurich with the zucchini). The science of corresponding is about much more than a simple match – most matches I know (other than the ‘strike well away from the body’ kind) are complex and intricate things, demanding subtle interpretation and an appreciation of nuance. Readers who have actually met me are allowed to begin laughing with derision at the previous sentence … 3, 2, 1, now.

People
“Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match, find me a find, catch me a catch.” Well, quite. Often a third party interceder is the best way of securing some form of romantic relations between two people who are apparently unable to manufacture such unions by themselves. In other words, some of us need a meddling interloper to come in, rearrange our lives a little bit, serve up a potential partner on a plate (not literally) and then nudge us towards the happy ever after ending. Others of us prefer to take the bull by the horns (again not literally) and make our own matches. It’s not so much the process whereby people correspond to each other in a relationship that interests me as much as the way that friends view couples; especially if/when their loyalty conflicts with their honest opinion.

Recently, I met the new boyfriend of a good friend. I chatted with new bloke Peregrine and my friend Drusilla (names changed to protect everyone) for a little while before we all circulated and I saw him occasionally during the evening. The next day, a mutual friend Constance (name again changed etc) asked me what I thought of him. Aware that Constance and Drusilla were friends, I ummed and aahed for a little bit, offering up the usual platitudes, “He seemed very pleasant”, “I liked his shirt”, “A nice speaking voice”, etc, etc. Constance then asked me the same question again, having realised that I was attempting to sidestep it. I fell back on the slightly pathetic but nevertheless heartfelt “She seems happy”.

Friends are simultaneously the best and worst people to ask about your relationship, or to have commenting on someone else’s. They are the best because they will be able to recognise similarities, correspondences, reasons why you are with somebody which you might not even realise yourself; they can see personality points in the other person which you find endearing and confirm your own opinions, they can provide examples of things your partner has said or done which you didn’t know but which reinforces your thoughts about them. All good positive, life-affirming stuff.

Your friends are also the worst people because they will, assuming you have good friends, be honest with you and there are times when it’s a lot more convenient to fool yourself that the current relationship is perfect for you when it patently isn’t. Such denial, though undoubtedly convenient (and I feel sure that most people have fallen prey to it at some point or another), might be acceptable to you but, to your friends who have either to listen to you try and put a brave face on things or watch as you construct and maintain your façade, denial is not an option. The brutality or care with which they take you aside and chat to you is, of course, entirely up to them, provided it graduates beyond the “What is she wearing?” stage.

This is a question which could never be asked of Drusilla herself, who is always beautifully well co-ordinated. She is very much aware of corresponding one item of clothing to another; colour, shape, texture and shade all interwoven together to splendid effect. Mixing and matching one’s wardrobe may often be the subject of as much gossip as the matches one makes with partners. I will confess immediately that I am hopeless with fashion and clothes. I know what I should be wearing, but somehow it never quite works; whereas my father could wear virtually anything and make it look stylish, I am keenly aware that I make an Agnès B pullover look like secondhand M&S: I’m just more Lada than Prada.

Letters
There’s a world of difference between sending or receiving a letter/email commencing “Dear Sir” and any form of correspondence starting “Oi, Sparky”. The conventions we follow when communicating through the written word are intriguing, as they explain a lot about us before we have even started the real purpose of the message. The former example indicates to me that my bank are wondering about my overdraft (again), whereas the latter signals that my friend Alex has got back into contact with me and is wondering whether I’m going to his birthday bash this year. Especially in the case of the bank letter, there’s often no need to read further.

What else do letters tell us? Quite a lot, though there is often ambiguity in the meaning. A long letter may mean that the correspondent leads life in the social fast lane with a hectic evening calendar, and thus has plenty of rip-roaring tales to relate, or simply that they are a less-than-frequent writer, saving up several days’/weeks’/months’ worth of news before sending a message of epic length. A scrawled and poorly spelled missive may demonstrate that the sender prizes the content over the style or they may simply not have taken very much care over the letter, regarding it as a duty rather than a pleasure to compose. An email with plenty of acronyms and abbreviations may refer to a shared familiarity with the concepts within the body or it may show that the writer has tried to get their chore completed as quickly as is possible. To confirm or deny these varying interpretations, the recipient will read the content and apply their own prejudices and foreknowledge of the sender (not necessarily in that order).

Regardless of the content of the epistle, there is still something exciting about receiving an email or a letter from someone close. It means they are thinking about you, and however much of an egotist you may or may not be, it’s somehow exciting and affirming to receive a message, however correctly spelled, detailed or frequent the messages are. Often at the beginning of a relationship, there is a certain sense of nervousness about the sending and receiving of text messages, emails, postcards or letters. There is perhaps a certain freedom in the written word which is constricted when speaking to them, either directly or by phone. Apposite sentences constructed from the perfect word choices may express your feelings or your thoughts in a more elegant, direct or poetic way than a stumbling half-conversation conducted over a crackly mobile phone line.

And then there are the decisions. How much can I write without giving too much away? Will this message be kept for posterity or will it be deleted immediately and never considered again? Will the other person realise what I am hinting at? For all that written correspondence can manage, a subtle undertone and feeling is probably the hardest to achieve. Sincerity and sarcasm alike are finely balanced on the page whereas they are evident in a person’s voice and demeanour. It’s a lot more difficult in writing than in speaking to get the perfect juxtaposition between what you want to write and how you want the other person to read it. But therein lies more the art than the science of corresponding.

(Posted by Fi)

One of the recurring non-sexual fantasies that plagues my life, along with what I would do were I taken back in time to certain eras, is what would human life be like if we had tails?

It’s not a new idea to me. As a child I wanted to grow up to be a cat, they have it easy; you feed them regularly, stroke them a few minutes a day and they’re loyal loving pets. This future career choice was forgotten as soon as it became my chore to empty the kitty-litter box. From that point on cats were just as smelly as humans were, except that humans have better waste-reprocessing facilities.

I’m not talking about dog-tails that are more like wire coat hangers dipped in a Hoover-bag, but prehensile muscular tails that rival limbs. Tails you could dangle from trees with. Tails you could carry that extra bag of shopping with when your fingers are going numb and breaking out in blisters. That’s the sort of tail I’m after, but what sort of consequences would it involve? For a start, as with every new invention or discovery, the sex industry would find a way of exploiting it. Cat suits would have greater appeal for one thing. Hardcore would involve a new appendage to be inserted into any available orifice. The height of kink would be a shaven tail with a pierced tip dangling provocatively between the male star’s legs. However, it wouldn’t be an exclusively male addition. Women performers would have them too, solo performances would be totally different, and a 69 would become an 88.

Would this lead to a ban of tails being shown on television at anything higher than a 45-degree angle? Would a new type of condom be invented to avoid rug-burn from the fur? Once the adult entertainment industry had exploited every possible use for tails, the more day-to-day uses would become apparent. Opening doors with both hands full wouldn’t be so difficult anymore. Dusting while hovering would be a cinch. Scratching that bit in the middle of your back you can never quite reach would be as easy as pie and having to slap guys who pat you on the rump would become a thing of the past with the new whiplash backlash technique.

According to Darwin, humans once had tails. So where did they go? Did we evolve to the point where eating from trees was no longer necessary? Did each generation’s tail get shorter or did they all fall off one fine day and the creatures turned and looked at their asses and collectively said “Aw hell, what do we do now?” before bludgeoning a cow to death with a large obsidian monolith?

If you’re more inclined to believe the Adam in the Garden of Eden theory of origin then reach round and feel the base of your spine, just at the coccyx. Isn’t that the perfect place to put a tail? Human thinking would change too. Instead of being confined to bipedal walking around in two-dimensions, a third dimension would be more accessible to us. Not as easily as if humans developed wings, but then that’s silly, we’re not descendant from birds. However, being able to climb up and over pipes would change everything.

Department stores could fill up all that extra space, replacing the floor with giant mattresses for those of us too inept to stay aloft. You would thread your way up and through giant jungle gyms to the stall or desk of your choice, making bumping into people even rarer as you can get there at different altitudes. Hanging onto a pipe with your tail you converse with the sales clerk as she hands you various samples to try, you hold one as you try the other, ten metres up. Office cubicles could be stacked on top of each other for extra productivity per cubic meter. Apartments with high ceilings would be the home of the elite or those with big families.

It’s not all roses though. A serious re-thinking of things as simple as clothes and chairs would be required. Creatures with tails either rest on their stomachs or hunkered up. I can’t imagine that this would be very comfortable for humans, so would chairs be forgotten altogether in favour of the “Human-o-frame”©? A metal construct like a kiddie swing but without the swing part, from which you can swing happily whilst watching television or typing? Nobody would want the seats on buses, instead we’d fight for the handholds and the over-head bars, and buses would go past with people swinging like carcasses on meat hooks.

Clothes would need redesigned, obviously not the top half or anything below the knee, but would pockets within clothes be designed to store our tails in, or would new holes be required so we could retain the use of our tails while out and about?

None of my skirts would look good with a tail swinging about underneath. G-strings would need to be totally done away with altogether. Seams and stitching would need to work around this new hole at the back of underwear and outerwear and you’d never be able to put slacks on the wrong way round without exposing a little too much.

How would criminals be restrained? A third cuff would be required to restrain roaming appendages. Would barred cells become a luxury and be discarded in favour of vertically walled pits? Would the military create special ordnance for this new body-part; clip-on night-vision binoculars, tail-mounted grenade launchers, and camouflaged blades for close-quarters engagements? Would everyone have access to clip-on accessories like blender-attachments, the new improved tail-held whisk, the tail-controlled electric carving knife, and the specifically tailored for the tail mobile phone? Hands-free everyone, its the way forward.

Tail design and accessories could become big business, with companies competing for the most aesthetically designed tails. Would we want hair-covered monkey-style tails? Leather-skinned, dragon-like demonic tails? Bare pink skin tails like arms without hands attached or sectioned chitinous tails as though we had giant millipedes protruding from our behinds?

At any rate, my cats don’t complain about their tails, but then they can’t talk and I can only be thankful of that. Maybe I wouldn’t dream about this so often if I’d had mine stepped on as often as they have.

(Posted by Mark)

Nosce te ipsum. Know thyself. While Francis Bacon has been attributed with that stalwart of business training session slogans “Knowledge is power”, I vastly prefer Oscar Wilde’s opinion on the subject of knowing: “There are only two kinds of people who are really fascinating – people who know absolutely everything, and people who know absolutely nothing”. And so, perhaps to counteract the art of guessing, we have the science of knowing.

Knowing trivia
My name is Mark, and it’s been two days since I last played a quiz machine. I just couldn’t help it; I saw the bright, flashing lights, the sounds of coins dropping and electronic twangs and bumps and I was drawn towards the touchscreen. I know it’s a problem, but with the group’s help, I know I can fight it. Actually, I know no such thing. There is something wonderful and at the same time slightly shameful about quiz machines. I think it’s because after years in primary, secondary and higher education, I now use my knowledge not to find a cure for cancer, nor to broker a peace settlement in Northern Ireland, nor to write a Nobel Prize-winning piece of literature, but rather to remember how many goals Peter Beardsley scored for Newcastle United or when Ramsay MacDonald was Prime Minister.

The way that my (and it’s not just me, it’s also other people’s) eyes light up when they see a Cluedo, Trivial Pursuits or Who Wants To Be A Millionaire? machine in the corner of the pub is, I realise, a sign that my social life may need some form of enhancement product. I would defend quiz machines simply by stating that they are, in fact, intensely social. When three or four are gathered around the machine desperately trying to put car models in the order in which they were produced, it promotes team work and friendship. The occasional shouting across the room to the guy who you are positive will know Pele’s first name manages to draw other people into your circle as well as make them feel good about themselves because they are regarded as an ‘expert’. It’s a feelgood thing. Being able to draw disparate friends with different spheres of knowledge together in the noble pursuit of getting rich quick is certainly a talent, and while I might not be saving the world in style, I am doing my own little bit for society. Well, society in our pub, anyway.

Knowing the score
Akin to knowing how the land lies, knowing the score is all about being up-to-date, to the minute, with the times, with one’s finger on the pulse, being au courant with the latest trends and news. What I am doing writing about this is therefore something of a mystery as I can rarely be said to know the score; indeed often I don’t even know that the match is being played. Knowing the score originates from the Middle Ages when “the score” was a term for the amount owed by one person to another, or the balance of a business account, so by knowing the score you would be aware of exactly how much you owed. As the language has evolved and filtered through the centuries, it now simply means that you know what’s hep, hip and with it, daddy-o.

Of course, if you were to take the term “knowing the score” more literally, you would be able to have the perfect entrée into the average male conversation. “What was the score?” “Oh, 2-1”. Naturally, we will actually need to know what the result of the football, rugby, cricket or other sporting event was in order to participate properly in this, but assuming that you are aware of the tally after the final whistle, you now have a quick way to get acceptance. You should try and back this up with a few other key phrases:

• “Shocking defence” (football)

 

• “It’s all down to the slips” (cricket)

 

• “You’ve got to convert them, though” (rugby)

 

• “Magic arrows” (darts)

 

• “It’s about temperament” (all sports)

After a few careful minutes gauging the reactions and team allegiances of your newfound friends, you will be able to discuss all manner of sporting events with them, free from the fear of being regarded as ignorant or, even worse, uninterested.

Knowing too much
No-one likes a smart aleck, or so the saying goes. I beg to differ. I think that a lot of us really do like the smart aleck mainly because without the person who knows too much, most detective stories or thriller films would not exist. It’s the classic scene and you can pretty much cast and write it yourself. Edward G Robinson is the gangland boss who is attempting to pull off the heist of the century. Alan Ladd is the good guy in the wrong place and the wrong time who has stumbled into the dastardly plot. Peter Lorre is the henchman entrusted with making sure that Ladd is silenced. All you need is a half-decent score, the RKO logo and a gangster’s moll and there’s a sure-fire film noir hit for you.

Too much is generally a bad thing to know, however, for that particular person. As a form of criticism, it is a strange one. Are we not supposed to like someone because they are intelligent? Are we not supposed to like them because they worked hard at school or they educated themselves to a high standard? It’s not really clear, but I think the main reason we’re not supposed to like them is because we’re not supposed to display the fact that we know things. Like Tennyson, we are supposed to be “wearing … learning lightly, like a flower”. It is bad form to be constantly showing off (like quoting Tennyson, Wilde and Bacon in one post, for example; oops) that one has done such heinous things as, well, read books or paid attention. Perhaps it’s better to know too little, but then we return to the cult of the gentleman amateur and, as my mind constantly does, we turn to Sherlock Holmes whose knowledge of literature, astronomy and philosophy may have been nil, but whom no-one would accuse of knowing too little.

If, as is often said, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, then I will end the science of knowing here, hoping that while it may not be comprehensive, it may at least be said to have a little thrill about it.

 

(posted by Fi)

I only just managed to log in. This editing window is far too complicated for me so I’m just going to write a bunch of stuff and push the “post & publish” button when I’m done. Trust me, its better for you and me both if I don’t try and mess with these settings. User Interfaces are not my strong point.

Maybe a bit about myself to start with, since everyone else seems to have settled in already and I’m the one showing up in a tizzy at lunchtime when Mike specifically requested that we sign in at 9 a.m. on the dot (he’s such a taskmaster).

I write. Lots. When I have a spare moment I write more. I write database manuals for a living and articles for websites on the side. The technical work balances out the diverse and ecclectic mix of subjects I am commissioned to write which pay less but prevent me from pushing my manager’s nose through his brain-stem.

I live with my partner and two cats in None-of-your-business and I’m here to write. You don’t have to read, you can skip them if you like, but I’ll try and entertain you along with these beautiful people.

(posted by Zena)

Gee, those other guestbloggers get up early. So here I am. Thanks for letting me type in your space, Mike.

Here’s what I’m interested in: men, women, the “disconnect” as I once heard some very annoying relationship coach describe it as, and how women’s bodies play a part in all of that.

I’ve recently lost some weight. Quite a lot of weight, actually. Nearly four stone. I tend not to tell people how much, because then I become the sort of person who previously needed to lose four stone. And then some: I have a way further to go, but I prefer not to get into that.

I look different – to most people. I feel different – to me. And boy, do men – I’m straight – treat me different. So that’s some of what I’m going to explore this week. But first, chocolate digestive biscuits. Get coffee, come back, we’ll talk.

…and fellow guestees.

(posted by Buni)

Thanks Mike for the intro. x

Cripes, this is all a bit daunting isn’t it, a little like being put on stage at Wembley with an overly bright spotlight shining in your eyes and the crowd just staring, waiting for you to deliver something amazing.

I was kind of expecting this and so considering I also have a 9 – 5, college tonight and tomorrow, and of course, my hectic social life as the Doyenne of Nottingham Café Society to attend to, I gave Mike the opportunity to ask me 7 questions which I would do a write up on over the 7 days. I will be posting in between though and of course, there is always MY SITE. Oops, too loud?

Mike saw it another way, and proceeded to ask me 7 song titles as questions. So without further ado, as I know you all have jobs to go to, I give you ………….>

7 Titles in 7 Days.

1. Do You Know Where You’re Going To? (Diana Ross)

This is actually a good place to start the week as it’s a subject that has been on my mind of late. I’ve always been quite a restless person; I get very bored very easily. As a child I was always out and about with friends, constantly doing things, we were very dynamic. I get very irritated by laziness. We are dead longer than we are alive, grasp the nettle. Take risks. Live life to its full potential and embrace it. Not to do so, I believe, breeds regret. I don’t want to have any regrets when I grow older. I want to be able look back and say what a bloody good time I’ve had and think about all the great people I’ve met along the way.

My outlook on life is to think about where I’d like to be and try to find a way to get there. Being this restless person, it is inevitable that I would have a ballpark idea about where I’d like to go to or a place where I’d like to be. However, they are just that, ideals. I’ve always been this sort of person who thinks ahead, anally breaking the years up into three or four year segments and thinking about what each segment would contain, I would compartmentalise my life into challenges. I am currently at the end of a three year period and, as my friends will testify, I’m becoming restless with semi-structured thoughts about what my plans are.

To understand where you are going to, it’s terribly important to be able to understand where you’ve come from and where you are at present. I’ve come from what could be called a dysfunctional family, my mother having married five times, it was a highly insecure state and marred by family arguments and fights. We moved about a lot, even to other countries, and my sister and I got used to not staying friends with people for too long in case we moved again (and I might add, not getting too used to our step-fathers). It’s only now that I’ve lived in Civvie Street in Nottingham for nearly a decade that I’m not worried about losing friends and can now establish long term friendships. As such, my social life is excellent.

One of my primary thoughts as a young man was to get away from home as soon as possible; I tried at the tender age of 15, running away from Portugal (where we were living at the time) to Manchester and I called my mother the following Wednesday to tell her where I was; I tried a little later at 17, with my parents consent this time, to go and live in London. That didn’t work out and I ended up homeless for 3 months; then after returning from a European Interrail holiday, I tried later on when I was about 19, when I joined the Navy. That is the pivotal moment in my life, where everything changed.

I have to admit, joining the Navy was totally against my belief system. I was a pacifist, against the establishment, war and everything it entails. I was a kind of hippy kid with long hair and a desire to spend most of my days getting stoned. When I said where I was going to, all my friends said that I was mad as I wouldn’t be able to handle the discipline. I had no choice, I had to get away. Also, being the sort of kid who had ‘flights of fancy’ about certain things and never stuck to them, my Mother just asked if I thought it was the right thing to do.

There I was, 19 years old, no qualifications with a stable job and a new ‘home’ at the base. This carried on for about 3 years when I was asked if I wanted to take redundancy. This was a really tough decision as the Navy had been my back-bone and ‘aunt’ for the whole time and I never really considered life outside of the gates. It was ‘us’ and ‘them’. In the end I took the money and ran, to Nottingham to go to university here. University isn’t all that much different from the Navy; you get the social life and the binge drinking; people from all walks of life joining together; and once you’ve got your work done , your time is your own. I graduated in 2000.

That’s really what the last decade has been, through my 20’s; building a foundation to work on through my 30’s. At present I’m really quite free. I no longer have the hassles I had as a child, I have no baggage to validate it either. I also now have the security that was lacking as a child. I’d like the next decade or so to be one of personal growth; experiencing things, travelling and meeting new and wonderful people. There is such a big wide world out there that I can’t possibly imagine only seeing it for two weeks every year and the rest of the time spent in Nottingham. Moreover, I’d like to meet someone who has the same desire that I have. It would mean so much more if I could experience these new and wonderful things with someone.

From reading this, I suppose the first thought that comes into my mind is that where I want to go to isn’t tangible. It’s not a place like Barcelona or some other destination; it’s a place in the mind that you get to when you know you’ve done pretty much all there is to do. I don’t mean making pots of money or anything remotely similar, I’ve had that in Portugal and believe me, money doesn’t bring happiness; you just don’t worry about bills. Happiness in my eyes is from knowing you’ve given it the best that you’ve got, your best shot.

Does that answer your question? I’m going to seek happiness, experience and self-fulfilment and to share that with someone.

Posted by Melodrama

Hello England, or is it Great Britain? First of all, I thank Mike for inviting me as a guest blogger. I stumbled on to Troubled Diva, while I was checking out British blogs and have enjoyed reading his blogs very much. As for your queries Mike, I think there would be plenty of job opportunities for you and I’m emailing a long list of Ayurvedic retreats to you by tomorrow. Now that we have dealt with the stereotypes on to the posts. By the way, the number of referrals you got from my blog is testimony to the fact that India is soon overtaking China in matters like umm… headcount aka population. Alas! We are a many and curious people!

This is my first umm… international exposure, so to speak of and to be honest, apart from the kicks I get from er… reaching out to a global audience and everything, is mostly designed to er… increase the hits on my own humble blogs. Nah! I’m joking, its a pleasure to be here and to do what I enjoy doing the most on my blogs, wax lyrical (mostly about nothing in particular) and have interesting feedback about the waxings. So, here I come, all you Brits. I can assure you, like it or not, I will post often and certainly more than just five times!

Time once again to pipe out the old and ring in the new, as Guest Week Three prepares to launch.

First of all, who could forget my dear, big-hearted, irrepressible, jam-tastic Auntie Cyn, over yonder in Liechtenstein? I regret to say that disturbing news has reached me this week, from well placed sources on the Liechtenstein Mail & Herald, that Cynthia’s days in the kingdom may soon be numbered. Something about export shipments of Auntie Cyn’s Special Herbal Preserve, Made To A Unique Recipe And Guaranteed To Cure A Wide Range Of Ailments & Maladies, and a team of over-zealous sniffer dogs. This is clearly a terrible misunderstanding. However, it does rather explain Cyn’s somewhat hastily announced “Big European Jolly” (see below). Auntie dearest – wherever you are – your loving nephew sends you his heartfelt gratitude for being such splendid company over the past week.

Thanks also to Mac, whose virtual acquaintance I have enjoyed making. What with all my pop-culture Anglicisms, I don’t always do a terribly good job at nurturing an overseas readership, so it’s good to form bridges across the water. I’m equally grateful to Quarsan for waxing lyrical about one of my favourite periods in music – the post-punk era – and for maintaining some directly music-related content on this site.

And then there was John, who I’m sure has endeared himself to us all over the past week. I’m not sure which part of “you should be prepared to make a minimum of five posts, spread reasonably evenly over the week” he failed to grasp, but never mind. I blame the falling standards in our educational institutes, obviously. “I’m just like Jack from Will & Grace, only hotter“, he claims. Clearly no twink, then! Hope you enjoyed having your URL at the top of the page all week, and all that FABULOUS extra traffic, John!

On to next week’s guests, then. They are, in alphabetical order:

Buni, loyal old mucker, confidante, partner in crime, and my stalwart companion on the podium at NG1 on Wednesday nights, when the R&B section kicks in. Many of you have asked me how to pronounce his name: does it rhyme with Bugs Bunny, or George Clooney? The answer is, of course, neither. It’s pronounced Boo-NAY.

Fiona is a twenty-something database administrator for a global internet company, who can still remember the wet paint smell of the Web from the early Nineties. She has written for various sites in various guises, and under too many pseudonyms to list, without ever settling down to blog in one place.

London Mark should need no introduction. Founder member (and indeed sole member) of the self-appointed Blogging Z-List – as he will remind you at every conceivable opportunity – Mark is perhaps best known for his exemplary “The Art Of…” series. For a master-class in The Art Of Guest Blogging, keep ’em locked on Mark’s postings over the next seven days. (I haven’t over-sold him, have I?)

Melodrama is a web mistress and self-confessed drama queen, currently living in Calcutta. Judging by the number of referrals which came my way following her endorsement of this site on her blog – the most referrals I have ever received from a single weblog – she is quite a force to be reckoned with.

Hello India, with your thriving and constantly expanding IT industry! Got any vacancies for a washed up mainframe systems developer? Also, could you tell me more about those Ayurvedic Spas of yours? It’s just that K likes the sound of them, and is considering coming over for a week in November to avail himself of their delights.

Zena is an international woman of mystery, currently residing in London. That’s all she wants you to know for now. Yes, that makes five guests this week. Yougottaproblemwiththat?

Guest Week Three starts….NOW.

Well, it’s been a blast. May I leave you with a link to wfmu the world’s greatest radio station where many tracks that will educate young people are broadcast. Indeed almost every show’s playlist is archived and available to listen to. It is an awesome treasure house.

They also think I have a footnote in musical history for ‘helping to define Post-Punk”

Well, what can I say. It was a wet Wednesday and someone had to do it 😉

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

Hello, my dears. It’s me, Cynthia, again. I’m still here – although not for much longer.

This is my last post on Mike’s site and, you know, this week on the web has got me thinking. Meeting all you gorgeously thrusting young bloggies and bloggettes – even if only through the computer screen – has made me remember all the people out there in the extended Troubled Diva family whom I haven’t seen for some years (because of – well, you know – my colourful past). Great Uncle Boris, who we used to call Great Uncle Bulgaria because he lives in – aha! – Bulgaria; he’ll be about 103 now. The Russian branch of the family – the Divasnikovs – out there in Kiev. And my long lost artist cousin, Pierre, who sealed himself up in a Paris attic almost twenty years ago in pursuit of his artistic vision. The last time any of us heard about him, he’d decided to go one better than his hero and chopped off both his ears. Poor, poor Pierre. Oh, and I mustn’t miss out Cousin Bettina either, who’s still doing her act with the snake and the performing dwarf in Hamburg, even though she must be nearly 70. Bless!

I’ve remembered all these people, and I think it’s time I visited them. So I’m about to embark on Aunt Cyn’s Big European Jolly. Oh yes! I’m not going alone, of course – my driving skills have failed me somewhat since the incident when I ran into a lorry load of plastic garden gnomes. Friedrich, my extremely smooth and muscular German handyman, has agreed to accompany me, to drive the 2CV and regularly service the engine. He’s such a good boy.

I’ll let Mike know how I’m doing and – well, you never know – he might even be able to report my progress here occasionally, with a few photos. “There’s Aunt Cyn in front of the Eiffel Tower, there’s Aunt Cyn drinking beer at the Oktoberfest, there’s Aunt Cyn getting arrested for procuring young men in – ” Ahem.

Oh, and a special message to Mike and K – I’m coming to see YOU too!! Yes! That’s right! You must be overwhelmed with delight! Expect me around Christmas – I’ve already loaded the car with twenty-three jars of jam (Prune & Melon, because I know it’s your favourite!) We shall have SUCH fun, shan’t we? In particular, I want to see the garden – because, ooh I shouldn’t really tell you this now but I’m just SO excited! – because I’ve been making something special for you in my evening sculpture class. It’s your very own p*ssing cherub, painted in gold. Wonderful, isn’t it? I just KNOW you’ll love it. So put the kettle on, Mike, and make sure you’ve got some teacakes in!

Fire up the 2CV, Friedrich – I’m on my way!

Big kisses to all my readers; it’s been lovely knowing you,
Auntie Cyn

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

That young Quarsan fellow has quite enlivened my musical listening in recent days. I’ve thrown my walking stick to the side as I’ve fair pogo-ed round the Parker Knoll to the sounds of the Buzzsocks, Joyful Division and The Runts. How did I miss these golden oldies in the 70s, when I was a comparatively spritely young lady in my early 40s?

But I do feel it’s time that I did a little musical education of my own. And I like nothing better than spending a sedate Saturday afternoon pulling the heads off flowers while listening to my Flanders & Swann collection (on vinyl, of course). Rich Tea biccie, anyone?

(posted by Aunt Cyn)

Thanks to Mike for alerting me to the problem, detailed below.

Well, Opie, I think it’s a sign from Cupid that you and your wife are destined to be together, and you should stop dipping your wick with these other bits on the side immediately. They obviously don’t share the same (whirl)Wind of romance as you and your darling lady wife do. Although these other young nymphettes may flatulate – sorry, flatter – your wilting male ego, only Mrs Opie knows the true pleasure of your passionate trumping, and the breath of (un)fresh air you bring to your romantic liaisons. Return to the marital bed invigorated, and promise her your undying farting – sorry, I meant love.

Failing that, lay off the All Bran.

lots of love,
Cyn

(posted by Mike)

I see from one of the comments boxes that my Aunt Cyn has finally been given a personal problem to solve. The problem in question is, I think, worthy of being plucked from its box and placed on full display.

Dear Aunt Cyn,

I hope you don’t mind if I submit a letter for your attention to the comments section.

While visiting Scotland several years ago, I was invited to a party at a country house. Arriving slightly early due to an error on the invitation, I discovered the hostess and her daughters busy with preparations. I gallantly offered to help.

Unaccustomed as I was to the local cuisine, while bending down to lift a heavy rack of glasses, I broke wind with astonishing force. The hostess emitted a muffled snort. This in turn distracted her youngest daughter, who dropped her rack of glasses, tripped over an untidy garden hose and fell into a small decorative pool.

As a result of this incident, I made the acquaintance of the now drenched daughter. We subsequently fell in love and have now been happily married for several years.

It transpired that our mode of acquaintance was more important than I had initially surmised, however. My wife is uncontrollably aroused by male flatulence during the act of sexual congress. To please her, I eat vast quantities of roughage and drink copious volumes of the fine local ale. Her ardour has had a very nearly Pavlovian effect on me; small toots and flutters begin to slip from me at the mere sight of her, and our lovemaking has become a windy Rabelaisian revelry.

Recently, however, with the renewal of hunger that attends on long marriage, I have discovered the pleasures of dalliance. And therein lies the problem.

For inevitably, as I begin to achieve a thrilling intimacy with a new lover, the whirlwind of my passions is, as it were, aroused. The beast my wife has awakened inside me will not be tamed. I will soon be unable to count my assignations on the fingers of two hands, yet only one brave combatant has stayed the course.

I have tried changing my diet but the response is too ingrained. I am at wit’s end, Auntie Cyn. What can I do?

Yours & c.,

opie

Whatever can he do, Auntie? Whatever can he do?