Both she and I have decided that it doesn't get any better than this. However, prudence upon both our parts would stop us doing anything precipitate.
Logistical decisions will no doubt have to be made. I shall have to find some way of looking after the Mother too.
Anyway, she's met the mother. I have to meet her people, which may be more of an ordeal.
Nick and Em like her very much too. We went to supper at Nick's on Saturday, and drank Champagne and Margaritas. Stephen couldn't get away from his disabled mother and so didn't show, poor lad.
As for She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed....we haven't set a date yet, so don't put out more flags.
Well, I hope I've managed to convey the shape of things in a few sentences.
Hellish few days ahead.
Pete's Stag night on Thursday, Gig in Cheshire (300 odd miles away) on Saturday evening and on Sunday afternoon I have Pete and Sancha's wedding to attend. Milady is of course busy when I'm not, and vice-versa, but that's just par for the course.
Of the piles of books on the floor, I came across two that I lost myself in, rather stupidly, and now am rather behindhand in the Spring clean. For me this, like most things, is a leisurely activity; I rarely exert myself overmuch. Proper laziness is doing exactly as little as is required, which leaves more time for the thinking [read: solipsism, or self-regarding stupidity of a certain kind - ed] or reading.
Most of the books are on shelves, which is nice. The TLS's are all in boxes. Some of the clutter of my life has been removed enough to hoover. Slowly my habitat evolves into a civilised state. Finding the proper place for everything becomes more time consuming when trying to put a quart into a pint pot. Shifting books requires a Rubik's-cube-like set of manouevres, with the shifting of other books and other things.
I've kept the navel-gazing to a minimum because no matter how closely I've watched, I've yet to see a holy lotus spring forth therefrom.
Rather looking forward to Milady's return; but I would say that wouldn't I?
As I have been known to claim, I am delicate from birth and not suited for drudgery, yet, when absolutely forced into it by shame (that great motivator) I have been known to drudge.
Somewhere in my past I took a wrong turn and so I find myself at forty-six, and without a valet. Now to many of you, being robust coves at heart, this is a mere bagatelle, a frippery, a....superfluous and needless civilised appurtenance that backwoodsmen would spurn and all 'true chaps' would eschew out of sheer manliness. But I ask you, how many of us pick up our own socks? Regularly? I mean I'm as familiar as the next man with a washing-machine-device, and they all have simple instructive pictures on 'em which match the simple instructive pictures on clothes labels and detergent: so I don't need to know much about the process thereof, but it's the fucking repetitive regularity of it all that defeats me. I've tried ritualising the operations attendent in making a house/flat/apartment function at its most efficient, but boredom eventually overwhelms any good intentions.
However, these past days have wrought some small change in me. Apart from old not-quite-flames popping out of the woodwork asking how I am (why does that happen the minute one starts a new relationship?) which has amused, I'm also changing in other ways. I hardly smoked anything at all in Milady's company. No spliff dudes.....Of course, as she's off skiing at present, the bad habits have crept back, but.....this bodes well.
Do women socialise chaps like me? Without the company of women I will revert to a caveman unless I have money for staff. Which is not that they pick up after me overmuch: more that they keep me to civilised standards, so I have to pick up after myself. I begin to understand why many hermits were lice-infested, hair-shirt-wearing, filthy, smelly old people. I refuse to become one of them, my dears. Besides, I am addicted to the pleasure of bathing; I still think of the two novel bath as the absolute pinnacle of sybaritic indulgence; especially if also graced by a handmaiden, caviar blinis, and a chilled Château d'Yquem.
Today could either be amusing or difficult, or both. But such are all days in the Ninefingers world.
May you all find some fun in your day.
The day of the judgement in his divorce, Sir Paul popped in for a session. So straight from the court to TPA.... Mark Ronson was also in with a few of his famous chums and was presented to Macca, if that's the way of describing the etiquette of the thing.
Steve K is a coming man....and TPA Studios are going to do well, I reckon.
Found a new luthier. Her name is Celine Camerlynck and she works out of Luthier's Corner, 3rd floor 21 Denmark Street WC2H 8NA.
She was recommended by Vintage and Rare Guitars, and I understand why. My no.1 Strat needs a good set up and fret job, and my battered acoustic needs a new bone nut. I have the feeling I'll be sending a bit of work her way. She does appear to really know what she's doing.
On another note (and about another lass, and one interested in me rather than my guitar) I checked on various kinds of art exhibition whilst I was at TPA. I am under instruction: no angels.
Looks like it's the Royal Academy and the Russian collection, which she went so far as to inform me she hadn't seen. Will call her later and suggest that it seems to be the best we can manage at short notice. Wonder if I should book a restaurant?
Spoke to She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed (at least as far as the linguistic form m'dear is concerned) and laughed for a considerable time. I have to investigate late afternoon/early evening art for Friday, then supper.
The important phrase here is laughed for a considerable time. In fact I'm still smiling. This has to be some sort of win, surely. I'm verging on happy....almost.
Helo birds helo trees helo sky it al a part of life's rich tapestry, sa fotherington-tomas who is an utter weed and a wet.
Guilty as charged m'lud, and I'll come quietly.
I've got a second date with the lawyer woman whom I like very much next Friday. Call her Milady for now. We arranged it by text the day before yesterday.
Today, I was in a chum's studio and Uncle John rang my cell-phone: he has to go into hospital for a check-up and can I possibly sit with Geoffrey on Friday.
We were going to be doing some art during the day and then supper. I fear it shall have to be short on the art as Uncle John won't get out from his check-up until 3.30pm odd.
Duty first, dammit: duty first.
I hope Milady understands. I'd introduce her to G & J if she were able to deal with old posh disabled gay folk: but it's not something I've asked as yet, and it seems a bit unmannerly springing it on a person. Faits accompli (if that's the plural) aren't really second-date behaviour.
Oh well. Fingers crossed that I don't step on Milady's toes.
his little home. First with brooms, then with dusters; then on
ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash;
till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all
over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms. Spring was
moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him,
penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of
divine discontent and longing. It was small wonder, then, that he
suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said 'Bother!' and 'O
blow!' and also 'Hang spring-cleaning!' and bolted out of the house
without even waiting to put on his coat. Something up above was
calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which
answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals
whose residences are nearer to the sun and air. So he scraped and
scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and
scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little
paws and muttering to himself, 'Up we go! Up we go!' till at last,
pop! his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself
rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
Easter weekend seems to have its own program this year. Given that next Friday I have a second date I'd better clean the flat.
[Puts head in hands contemplating the task ahead.]
There are things worth rejoining the world for, but I never knew spring cleaning was one of them.
Anyway, I always wanted to be Ratty: and for a time I suppose folk thought of me as Toad, but I never thought I'd turn into Badger, who lives in the country and doesn't go into society much anymore.
Mole will do.
She bought me supper. We argued about the bill and she browbeat me....uncertain of how to take that.
Also she isn't too keen on having poetry quoted at her....doesn't know her Shakespeare that well and has a distinct dislike to being called "m'dear" which is alas one of my default usages.
She is very clever (whew, some relief there then) and v. cute.
She also thinks I'm too posh. Tried to disabuse her: "it's just my voice" didn't really convince.
The Pub was too loud, and I was still slightly hearing impaired after the flight back from Nice.
Escorted her to London Bridge Railway station where she took the train. I took the tube back to Balham and overland from there. When I got out of the underground I found I had a txt message on my mobile:
"tks for fun evening. Can't believe I spent at least 5 mins queuing for a ticket and could have got a free ride! Give me a bell if u feel like getting out of the bath and need more than a book for company....I might turn up. S."
I think that probably counts as a win. Will txt her back today, without bath related comments. I wish I'd never mentioned the two-novel-bath as proof of sybaritic tendencies. I wonder if company extends to.....shall speculate no longer.
Also got another txt message almost simultaneously from Em, which was much ruder. And if you're reading this Em, the answer is no. I do understand how first dates go. I am a gentleman. I am no longer the young man for whom women were prepared to do that sort of thing on a first date, really. Just because you don't mess about, doesn't mean the rest of the female population are as....practical as you.
The lawyer woman I met whilst hungover on Friday afternoon has agreed to go for a drink and moreover has threatened me with wit, forsooth. This is a challenge not to be taken lightly and I look forward to crossing blades with a sensible lass of adult years. I don't know anyone from 'Cats' so can't ask about possible bunny-boiling tendencies: besides which she's nine years younger than me, so.....half a generation ain't much but....
Uncertain as to the omens. A solitary Harlequinned messenger (ergo, Melpomene's) plonked itself in my path, and I warded the little fucker off, but really....Why not two for joy, my dears, why not two for joy?
It always ends in tragedy anyway, but this rather begs the question. Perhaps I should just go back to bed and forget about it all.
Of course, I'll go and make a complete fool of myself, so the omens will be proven right, unless that is there's worse than that to come. Those whom the Gods wish to destroy, they first make happy.
It would be nice to get to the happy bit, even fleetingly.
Accomplished rumpy-pumpy wouldn't go amiss, either.
Sticking plaster on I loaded the car and drove to the gig, taking with me that wonderful guitarist's salvation: superglue. When I arrived I removed the plaster and applied a layer of superglue across the wound (please don't try this at home unless you really need to), and completed the soundcheck. I don't normally take painkillers, and I've never taken painkillers with alcohol, but there's a first time for everything. An hour before the first set I took two ibuprofen washed down with a large can of 'wifebeater' as Stella Artois is known in these parts.
The first set was pretty painful, but still manageable.
The wedding audience were hell-bent on enjoying themselves and had been drinking copiously, and many were dancing like madfolk of the nicest kind, which rather took one's mind off things.
Half-an-hour's break and we were into the second set: wound on finger still superglued shut.
The audience were by now considerably drunker and really enjoying themselves. Some of the women were getting...a bit...(looks for euphemism) frolicky. After the set a particularly attractive (but hugely drunk) woman collared me as I got off stage and started talking in a somewhat slurred fashion. Honestly, thought I, why don't the sober ones ever try to engage me in conversation? However after five minutes or so when I still hadn't made a pass or anything (am still a gentleman and drunk women....well, they're off limits) she said to me (and this shows just how drunk she was, because she can't have been focusing properly)
' You're so beautiful (hahaha), I know just the man for you.' [Falls off her chair and hiccups.]
I tried, gently, to explain the fact that I preferred women, in fact am exclusive of my own gender when it comes to the physical. Finally managed to extract myself from further humiliation and packed up my kit.
Sometimes it just seems that whatever is ironic in life is always destined to be the piano that descends from above at 9.81 metres per second per second acceleration to land squarely on my head, Wily E Coyote style.
Fuckit. I'm not gay yet, but the enemy gender certainly have a talent for making me wish I'd been made slightly differently.
There's always chastity, which I deem to be somewhat better than demeaning myself with such folk.
What is it about Dilbert? Why do I respond so?
Is it merely my crap relationships with women, or the alienation of the specialist/expert, though I'm a bit of a faker when it comes to expertise: I'm much more the sort of person who will make do.
I think this comes from the production jobs I get from time to time - budget constraints necessitate adherence to schedules, etc. Sometimes a performance, though not as good as possible, does everything it's supposed to do, and it's a wrap, so to speak, and move on to the next bit of tracking or whatever.
A good time was had by all until I mangled my conjugations and declensions, but weed was involved before conversation, ergo I was a bit worse for wear.
Set up my digital freeview box for the TV.
Still some last minute shopping to do.
Notwithstanding global warming, I like bonfires and fireworks. And, actually, am none too proud of my Catholic heritage - most of the time the Church were Fascist murderers anyway*, whether they admit it or not. So might go and light a sparkler or two, deplore the need for violence and torture, and then drink some beer, as I am single and there's no one to complain about it.
Might have to take The Old Man to hospital today. He's not any better really. I've never known him so weak and low. Wish I had some sort of magic wand to wave to make things better. Fingers crossed that it's only temporary.
A singer chum of mine has been on the 'phone pouring out her tales of woe. I will admit it's not just women who treat chaps unfairly, most chaps seem to need a horsewhipping as well. ARgh...other people, as Sartre opined. Whatever happened to honour? (But why does she still emote over the little shit? We do have some tendancy to caress the hand that beats us, but honestly...)
I think I sympathise with Dante's profane lovers: despite their self-dramatising, they at least treated each other with love and courtesy.
I'll take TS Eliot to the hospital and continue trying to get 'Little Gidding' by heart to crown a lifetime's effort, or whatever.
Not enough practice and too many spliffs.
The 1st Crusade and the Massacre of Jerusalem
The 2nd Crusade
The 3rd Crusade
The 4th Crusade and the sacking of Constantinople
The Albigensian Crusade and the Cathar Extermination (Which was more complete than the Nazi's final solution - not a single Cathar escaped with their life.)
The Inquisitions (which is a whole set of chapters listing the crimes, not detailing them)
Alexander VI and his ilk
The burning of heretics (which is all Protestants, as well as any other heretics that could be found - old women with warts, for example)
I suppose she has a good heart. So shall accept and try not to be at all sniffy. I am sure, however, that I have at least equalled her in kindness and good manners, and ergo am strangely comforted. No doubt I shall have to ask if she needs driving to Heathrow with all her goods and chattels, and will be in jolly mood even if strained to point of hernia. However, when I return home will no doubt spend two hours swearing at TV, or re-reading Catullus. Odi et amo indeed.
Reminds me of a poem 'what I wrote' about affair with inappropriate woman some years previous, filthy and not entirely appropriate, but sums up mood: however Glamorous recent ex's sins are somewhat different (as I suppose are mine at present). If you are under 18 and/or not familiar with Catullus's oeuvre, I'd advise you not to read on (because either it's very dirty indeed, or you're so incredibly jaded it smacks of old school solipsism).
If Lesbia were Clodia, I would be Gaius Valerius Catullus.
Even your spit is more poisonous
Than strychnine, and as addictive
As heroin. I wouldn’t trust your word
To hang a man; provide an alibi;
Or determine who’s the father of your children.
But then, Clodia, who listens to a word you say:
I look and salivate instead,
And dream of you, wanton, on my bed:
Piss-flaps spread, arsehole pouting,
Your spittle bathing my prick,
As you beg for a routing
Or some other magical trick.
I think this someone else’s dance.
The stuff we do for moral advantage (and to save face).
Still to come:
Increasing myopia and then darkness
All avoided so far.
Still hetrosexual despite aversion therapy (Women...ARgh...Women...Arghh! dumbstruck by a combination of anger and confusion our hero beats himself about head with clicky ba' resulting in the normal concussion experienced by having anything emotional to do with the enemy gender - I know what they've done to me in the past, so I might as well beat myself up first, at least I'll be on the winning side.)
I still wonder why women prefer thugs to gentlemen. One forgets just what a turn off manners and courtesy are to the modern woman, or at least the modern women who, for some unknown reasons, I find attractive. My chum Hazel reckons its all self-selecting - I choose the mad ones because I need something to complain about, or in some unexplained way, the madness is the sexy bit. I'm beginning to dislike my subconscious in the same way that one begins to dislike a drinking companion who, though good fun, leads one into increasingly embarassing situations, like attending a society wedding with Courtney Love as one's date. 'Wax my anus', indeed. (Represses slight shudder - can you actually imagine shouting that to your PA down a busy London street? I know rock'n'roll folk are meant to be a bit OTT, but couldn't she just be a bit more tasteful, like Keef for instance.)
The Old Man's a bit weak today. He has spent lots of it in bed. Finishing up his 4th bout of Chemo, and right at the nadir of the cycle. Mother has local ward meetings and selection committee stuff to do and I have to be about for Dad until our sitting MP has been reselected or not. Doesn't affect me - I resigned from the Party over the war, so I don't get a say anymore - perhaps impotence has come earlier than I anticipated.
Again lifted by news from across the pond. Think the US will get its act together and do something about present situation. I have faith that now many of the issues are being openly discussed, spin will count less in forming the US electorate's opinions - even Fox News got a visit from R Murdoch (prop). Will not expect Volte Face from Fox, but if Roops is agin the war and the Republican position, then its bye-bye both houses, hello lame duck President.
My family have fought in the military for a very long time. One member was (famously) Wellington's ADC at Waterloo. One (a member of the British Upper house) died at the Somme. Both my Father and his elder brother fought during WWII, my uncle being mentioned in dispatches for work behind the lines in what is now called Iraq - he lost the sight in one eye and was physically broken by the ordeal. My brother and I are the first generation not to have served their country in over 200 years, and I used to wonder if I should have continued with a family tradition. Feel v.glad I didn't. I think it's different with conscription and von Clauswitz's concept of total war, or defensive war.
Which is of course why in any contest between defensive war, which is Athene's province, and invasion or aggressive war, which is Ares': Athene almost always wins...eventually.