The gift of giving

At this time of year, it’s supposed to be the thought that counts. I’ve always been more appreciative of a man who knows how to keep a promise.  I considered expensive gifts the preserve of men with a guilty conscience; with too much money; or, for those men lacking imagination. Well, there’s a time and place for some expensive gifts: a royal engagement merits a £275,000 price tag.  I’ve been bought some wonderful gifts; I’m more likely to remember gifts which required some effort. I know that any man who manages to buy me underwear certainly experienced a challenge.  My real size is 30dd, but I wouldn’t put that on here, it would bemuse men. Try buying 32D, and then try buying my real size.  I’m a woman and it’s my body, and both sizes are a struggle.
The best gifts I’ve ever had were either experiences or books. It’s not an exclusive list: Beckett plays and 1950 couture books, demonstrate a man with the use of his ears. Sadly, I have to be careful with this sexist remark. The worst gifts I ever received were from my mother. It sounds really ungrateful, but, I really have no use for a spray tan machine, feather boas or leather skirts.

I received a text from my sister a few weeks ago, now that’s she a mother, every penny counts.  Her gift to the whole family this year is to host Christmas day. She’s a huge fan of Nigella Lawson, who isn’t? But, I think it’s her cooking prowess that my sister admires; I just think she has a pretty face and a fair-sized chest. I’m bemused as to how Nigella’s breasts sit so high in photo shoots, not that I look that often.  I’ve taken my cue from my sister to have a DIY Christmas this year. 

I’ve set about turning myself into Mrs Lawson in the kitchen, and Kirsty Allsop in the dining room. I’ve baked enough cakes and Christmas puddings to fill the cupboard. I laboured in my production line for several hours, with a level of pornographic-finger-licking of cake mixture to satisfy any of Lawson’s fans. I could have gone to Waitrose and bought everything for much cheaper.  But that isn’t the spirit of Christmas. Besides, all the effort required for mixing has saved a few trips to the gym.

This part went quite smoothly, I’m a wiz in the kitchen. There are a number of things I can do that make me almost perfect wife material: if I could stay put for longer than five minutes.  However, in spite of a GCSE in art, I’m not much of an artist. I’ve set about making gift boxes for all my gifts. I don’t think my motor skills developed much further than those of a five year old. I think I went over the lines of all the Christmas tree I’ve drawn. Hopefully, it will be the thought that counts for the receivers of my gifts, and they’ll overlook minor details. Otherwise, I’ll be eating cake until next year.

Happy birthday Scorpio, thirty minus one.

I’ve never quite believed in any of the daily horoscopes that are in the daily papers, or in women’s magazines predicting my day or week ahead. Mystic Meg style predictions elude me; “tonight Scorpio a sexy, tall, dark stranger will ask to meet you.” Go figure….....

But, I do believe that the time of year a person is born has some bearing on personality. My colleague in Tokyo really believed so too; or at least he learnt all about star signs to pick up women and date them. During lunch conversations he often discussed the secretive and dominating side of Scorpio. He knew that it was safe to lend some very risqué books; other women might have started a lawsuit for sexual harassment. Amusingly, I joined him at one particular lunch meeting, he informed about Scorpio sexuality. Apparently Capricorns and Scorpios are most likely to become escorts. Capricorns decide to become escorts for the money and Scorpios for the sex. I nearly choked on my Sashimi.

Here are a few things about Scorpio personality; after reading this, you can be as much of an expert as my colleague.

‘Scorpio is the symbol of sex and Scorpios are passionate lovers, the most sensually energetic of all the signs. Scorpios are the most intense, profound, powerful characters in the zodiac. Even when they appear self-controlled and calm there is a seething intensity of emotional energy under the placid exterior. They are like the volcano not far under the surface of a calm sea; it may burst into eruption at any moment. But those of us who are particularly perceptive will be aware of the harnessed aggression, the immense forcefulness, magnetic intensity, and often strangely hypnotic personality under the tranquil, but watchful composure of Scorpio. In conventional social gatherings they are pleasant to be with, thoughtful in conversation, dignified, and reserved, yet affable and courteous; they sometimes possess penetrating eyes which make their shyer companions feel naked and defenceless before them.

Their tenacity and willpower are immense, their depth of character and passionate conviction overwhelming, yet they are deeply sensitive and easily moved by their emotions. Their sensitivity, together with a propensity for extreme likes and dislikes make them easily hurt, quick to detect insult or injury to themselves (often when none is intended) and easily aroused to ferocious anger.

Whisper something romantic that would melt another girl out of her senses and the Scorpio girl will simply give you an intense, penetrating look that will see right straight through to your real intentions. She’s a human X-ray machine, so don’t flirt.’  If you’re sensitive, don’t ask his opinion or advice. You’ll get the naked, brutal truth. You asked them, they’ll tell you. Scorpio will not pay a false compliment to gain a point or win an ally. It’s beneath him to flatter. When they say something nice to you, treasure it. You can be sure it’s sincere and unvarnished.

You can be sure that heaven certainly has no fury like that of a Scorpio woman who’s lost her normal steady control over those inward, seething, Pluto emotions. She can be overbearing and domineering, sarcastic and frigid- then turn as hot as an oven at 500 degrees Fahrenheit.

Because she’s drawn to investigation of the shadows, she may at first seem to be tempting, forbidden fruit, and the deep, strange expression in her eyes intensifies the impression. It’s true that the Scorpio girl sometimes wanders into dangerous waters in her efforts to penetrate life, and since there’s not the slightest trace of fear in her, her search may indeed take her into some weird byways. But the typical Scorpio will emerge from any discovery still strong and pure.

She could be the keeper of quite a few secrets. It’s surprising how many dark deeds are confessed to Scorpios, though their own inner lives are marked: “Private-Keep Out.” She likes to hear secrets, but she’ll seldom tell anything anyone has confided in her, not even to you. You can also expect her to have a stack of secrets that relate to her personally, and don’t try to pry them out of her. There’s a private part to this woman you’ll never touch, a part of her mind and soul that belongs strictly to her. She’s not untruthful, in fact she’s more often too brutally honest, yet there will always be those special thoughts and feelings she won’t confide to you or anyone else.’

So that’s Scorpio women for you, well minus the jealousy aspect, oddly enough. Dare you meet me after all this…......only if you like a challenge.

The condition of me.

Now it’s official, I have a named condition which explains my whereabouts, or lack of whereabouts. It all seems so magical, whimsical, following my desire to travel to the next place, and the one after that. It has a Greek term, Greek terms are nearly always used my doctors when you have something deadly or embarrassing. Dromomania: the uncontrollable psychological urge to wander, or, to take up different identities, (and indeed, occupations!). Fortunately, there’s no need to show anything to the doctor. I’ve shown enough to doctors recently when I had a mole removed and later, stitches taken out. The difference between physical and psychological conditions is that action can be taken and sympathy directed towards it.

Imagine a new couple at home; WOMAN: “I can tell you’ve caught the man flu, poor you, you should go to bed. You look so red and hot. Could I get you anything to make you feel better?” MAN: (Very happy to spend the day in bed pulling a sick day under the duvet with a caring woman). Then, with the eclipse of twenty years: MAN: “Oh, I feel really bad, I have a fever and my glands are the size of melons.” WOMAN: “Stop snivelling, it’s just a cold or you’d be dead already.” At least a response to a physical condition is provided.

Psychological conditions are dealt with impersonally because no one believes that anything’s wrong. So, lots of people all over the world with the said condition report to strangers to find someone that will listen to them and share their dromomania shame. (I’m writing this blog after all.) I wonder if there’s a meeting for people with the condition, much the same as Alcoholics Anonymous or Narcotics Anonymous. That meeting room somewhere, is full of people in a moldy church or echoing school hall, perhaps Bolton or Las Vegas for contrast, full of people announcing; “My name’s Bob, and/or Sue. I can’t decide to be here or there, or just about anywhere. I’m concerned people are beginning to think I’m omnipresent”.  (I know what I would be doing if I could act and be in many places simultaneously.)

My friends all refer to this period as Louise taking another holiday. I can imagine the conversation in their households; PARTNER 1:“Oh, you know we haven’t seen Louise in a little while, where is she?” PARTNER 2: “Erm, I’m not sure. Last time I spoke to her on the phone, I couldn’t hear her very well. It must have been a bad connection. I think she’s in X and X and X”. PARTNER 1: “Whenever I hear about her, she’s on holiday. Lucky devil”.  I’ve given up trying to tell friend and partner 2, 3, 5, and 1006, that I’m actually working very hard in X and X. It’s far more exotic to agree with them.

Or, take my mother’s example, talking to her friends on the phone; “oh yes she’s still out there, I barely see her in fact. She’ll be back for a few days at Christmas”.  A true dromomaniac does so at the expense of their family, not so much my career in this case, but because of it. Even if I do hear in the odd interview, the sinful word, ‘wanderlust’. The condition’s symptoms affect as a recurring theme in my blogs, my ‘love life’.  You can choose to have men in some ports, Trieste; Montevideo, Boston or Rotterdam. Or, one man in a town, like Bognor Regis or Dudley. A man probably called Dave.

Learning the lines

It’s national poetry day this Friday. My own introduction to poetry you could say was rather comical. I had a beautifully elegant teacher called Miss Smith, she had a grey-silver bob. She dressed her age in pixie browns and greens, it off-set the colour of her hair.  I had a respectful girl crush on her and she expressed faith in me. She introduced me to poetry and debate to much aplomb and consequently, comic timing too. I remember having to study ‘The lady of Shalott’. It’s as long as the conservative budget cuts. Keen to example exactly how assonance was used in the rhyming couplets; speaking before thinking, I read out ‘go’, ‘blow’, ‘below’, from the stanza to prove my point. It was hardly surprising that it raised a laugh in the classroom.

Well, I’m no poet laureate like Carol-Ann Duffy. (I enjoy how uncomfortably close she brings the reader to the topic.) But, I’ve written a few poems; I used to write about rubbish I didn’t understand and later, my somewhat odd sexuality. It didn’t develop as quickly as some people would assume. At the end of my trip to Dublin, the words, after being trapped in my mind for a while: they decided to assault me. Words are a suit of armour made up of newspapers with a lance, poking me at night when I’m trying to go to sleep. Apparently there’s a book in everyone and writers should write what they know. Well there’s a book waiting to come out, but I’ll be seventy-five by the time I know enough to write it.

Well, here’s a book in miniature version just for national poetry day. Enjoy and please share your comments or maybe even send your own in for the site.

In part

I’m your stalker, your thief
Of the digits you possess,
Of the pages you’re gripping with
Finger and thumb.

Your hand disembodied, and I
The owner of your hands
And the book I can’t understand
That you read
On my watchful commute,
There I can follow you.

Your movement I record,
Your seconds become
Second-hand seconds for me to record, replay.

I wonder what else has been gripped
Under those thumbs.

Your thumbs have gripped
Recycled money,
Felt the grains in the pulp.

Inked soaked metro cards,
Breasts and sweat on collar bones.

But I am your stalker.
My eyes are the owners
Of your hands.
I comb my hair with my fingers,
I press strands of hair to my cheek
Do my tips experience the same as yours?

Expat

I can’t decide which country I’m in anymore.
I crunch over flints of black gravel.
The path is English.
The grass, the scent
These are journals of only days,
Playing knife, fork, spoon, up against the hill
Boys try to discover our differences when skirts fly up.

I watch the man mowing, not dropping the idea of England
He buzzes over the flowers, he doesn’t whistle.
Looking at him, I make out the longitude of this place
Stretched up, my head bumps the atmosphere.
England is floating in the sea.

I’m so removed, it is a jigsaw map.
Countries have pegs, each in Technicolor.
Too scared to shift and shake the pots of people
Under blankets of purple, blue and green
I’m not as callous as a god.

Landing on a pavement,
I eek open the gate and close the garden behind me.
I’m running an errand for my Mom, skipping over the bridge.
Is this when I left?
I wake up every day when the moon fades,
A struggle, kicking back blankets.
There’s no satisfaction in all beds feeling the same.
Sinking into fabric, acknowledging, England doesn’t lie next to me.

Thirty-eight degrees

My head bursts
Out of a void, the bells that rang in thrusts over the hill.
Hitting the mercury,
The heat seeps up into a fluster of scarlet in my follicles,
Not able to sit, crouching over blades,
Each with a vein, freezing against my forehead
Contented they don’t have ears.
When the swinging rope stops swaying they will be jealous.

I love silence, clean pauses. Drums can be muffled,
Engines can stall and I don’t have to talk to enjoy it.
Bricks on the hill scratch my face.
There is no blast better than feeling,
Catching the last tolls of the bells,
My muscles boom. Blades dance.

Beat me daddy, eight to the bar.

I’d been so busy going from one place to another that any nerves I was going to have about the night hadn’t surfaced, even whilst I travelled on the train to Wales. That was until my friend called me and said, “You have to curtsey to the lady in charge. She’s received an MBE for services to entertainment in Wales”. I had thought it was going to be a fun, low key event full of deaf old ladies. I hadn’t quite imagined the mayor of the town, the station master and officers all coming along to the event. I took part in the meet and greet and felt like apologising for my performance before the show had begun. I was spellbound to meet this battler of a director, producer, costume designer and performer in her 70’s. Her motto for her audience is to give them songs by the pound, very H.T. Ford. I guessed she’d ticked a few people off in her time, the Alexis Colby of the Welsh theatre circuit.

Concern soon disappeared when she started to show me off to her friends. It helped I had put some effort, as well finding some ‘things’ just lying around, to complete the look for the day. I‘ve now heard more coos from old women than I’ve ever known any man offer over my seamed stockings. “Ohh, how authentic, just like back in my day.” “Look. It’s natural seamed stockings with black seams. Look at the hat, have you seen the hat”. If only I could have just stood around and modelled all night.

Looking at the play list in the changing room I realised I was almost last in the first half of the show. I’d have much rather have performed earlier on and sat out for the rest of the evening. I wouldn’t have had the detriment of knowing how fantastic every performer was to make comparisons with. I’ve parted with huge sums of money to go to musicals in the Piccadilly and was left disappointed. There wasn’t a chance of that for this audience, songs by the pound performed by excellent vocalists and dancers. I had a lot to live up to after turning up looking the part. I realised then I had to perform it too and I didn’t even know the order of my songs. All the globetrotting meant I hadn’t been able to rehearse with everyone, but with my nerves, this was probably for the best.

The best part of the event was seeing such range of ages all dressed up in period clothes. I’d spent so much time in the changing rooms looking at Japanese women, that I had forgotten what female fat looks like. It’s not an ethereal or entirely elegant mix; much sexier and practical down-to-earth raunchiness, which seem to go hand in hand with laughing and talking dirty. I think this was summed up in one of the song the old ladies sang, about getting frisky in the stalls after drinking some whisky. All the women in the changing room discussed the era; how women were women, comparing the glamour of the time with the American white trash look which presently remains popular. This took me up to my turn….

Stepping out in the spotlight, I still had no idea of which song was due first. Aside from that, my only concern was to remember the lyrics; I couldn’t see a thing out of the stage. It was blinding, I couldn’t even see myself. I needn’t have worried about the audience. My nerves were focused on remembering the lyrics, which I still forgot, I continued on with a remix version and smiled. The shift of nervous focus meant that my singing voice wasn’t a problem at all. I recalled my singing teacher’s voice instructing me to breath. I wouldn’t claim it as the most enjoyable moment of my life, I happen to feel that singing is not good for my waist line. I’d worked up so much nervous energy, by the time the interval came, I’d munched four bourbon chocolate biscuits, five cheese straws and a fairy cake. But I was satisfied, I was even more satified when I danced with the dashing members of the armed services whilst making money for retired and injured members of the armed forces.