I mended the hammock. Now clear off.
Showing posts with label I am very brave. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I am very brave. Show all posts
Friday, 12 July 2013
Saturday, 12 November 2011
Recovery
It has been a difficult week. Somewhere in it, I bin sick. Proper exploding eyeballs, shiveryshakery, drop down dead bed at 5pm sick.
It must have been bad. I am told that Daddy Dig came in, took a look, then went off to cook dinner.
Lying there, wound in my sheets of sorrow, alone, listening for the knocking of the reaper, I wrote out my last will and testament in my buzzabout head. All was archangel poetic in there until it dawned on me I don't have nuffink to give away except 15 pairs of Tesco value knickers and a twelve-year cycle of depression.
So I went for the long shot instead, and took a good long sleep and 2 litres of honey-lemon water.
The next day I saw that I did not die.
Did anyone notice that? I did. I feel it is one big medalworthy achievement.
Even more of an achievement (or maybe the self-sacrificing to-the-slaughter triumph of motherhood) was that, within 24 hours of not nearly dying, somewhere in this same week I raised myself up from my death-bed and took Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to a Chemistry workshop that involved balloons.
Discovering that I was not yet dead a second time, I then bought Tiger a pair of trousers and cooked pasta pie.*
That final act, I have to say, wiped me back to square one, so off to bed I went.
But I do not know whether to congratulate myself for this week dragging myself from a death bed to fulfill a promise, or whether I should be beaten severely, since I have surely infected half of Hong Kong with my malicious virus, even now joyfully wriggling its way up the escalator handrail in the IFC.
In either case, damn me or applaud me, for the next day or two, I'm taking it easy.
*Pasta pie is this family's recipe concoction. Not recommended. It looks like vomit.
It must have been bad. I am told that Daddy Dig came in, took a look, then went off to cook dinner.
Lying there, wound in my sheets of sorrow, alone, listening for the knocking of the reaper, I wrote out my last will and testament in my buzzabout head. All was archangel poetic in there until it dawned on me I don't have nuffink to give away except 15 pairs of Tesco value knickers and a twelve-year cycle of depression.
So I went for the long shot instead, and took a good long sleep and 2 litres of honey-lemon water.
The next day I saw that I did not die.
Did anyone notice that? I did. I feel it is one big medalworthy achievement.
Even more of an achievement (or maybe the self-sacrificing to-the-slaughter triumph of motherhood) was that, within 24 hours of not nearly dying, somewhere in this same week I raised myself up from my death-bed and took Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to a Chemistry workshop that involved balloons.
Discovering that I was not yet dead a second time, I then bought Tiger a pair of trousers and cooked pasta pie.*
That final act, I have to say, wiped me back to square one, so off to bed I went.
But I do not know whether to congratulate myself for this week dragging myself from a death bed to fulfill a promise, or whether I should be beaten severely, since I have surely infected half of Hong Kong with my malicious virus, even now joyfully wriggling its way up the escalator handrail in the IFC.
In either case, damn me or applaud me, for the next day or two, I'm taking it easy.
*Pasta pie is this family's recipe concoction. Not recommended. It looks like vomit.
Monday, 31 October 2011
At last we can lay it to rest
Grit's misery whinge-fest is almost complete.
Only one plastic pumpkin head, one half-chewed gingerbread house daubed with the special hell that is black icing, and 2,456 items of cheap candy to dispose of in the trash, and I can be done and dusted until next year.
But first, the party. Better get it over with. In a process which feels not unlike clubbing baby seals or beating up the Labrador, Squirrel makes me prepare by dressing me up. She says we must decide between the horns...
or the bats.
When they have chosen, and humiliated me better than I can do for myself, I get my own back. I say now you have chosen my lovely costume, if you want to go to this party, you're walking. It's a two-hour hike, over the mountain, past the glorious concrete factory, through the splendid building site, and round the amazing fish farms, so get your boots on.
Squirrel retaliates by insisting that I wear my horns of shame. I get one over on her by smiling all the way.
And then we arrive! Admittedly not before I have had a little grizzle about how I would be happier if Hallowe'en were about poetic slants of shadows, shades of light, strange unbidden noises, gentle curling leaves, and familiar nature, taking us by surprise. Not blood and splatter, for which there is no need. No one takes any notice of me.
There's more delight to be had with a spooky theme beach party alongside a dozen home ed kids than with ole mama misery guts.
See? There was a three-line whip on the costumes, and there was no escape.
But I get a little of my wish too, because when it's done, we have to walk a while to catch a ferry: up the hill, down to the bay, in the quiet and the dark, through the humid jungle night.
Only one plastic pumpkin head, one half-chewed gingerbread house daubed with the special hell that is black icing, and 2,456 items of cheap candy to dispose of in the trash, and I can be done and dusted until next year.
But first, the party. Better get it over with. In a process which feels not unlike clubbing baby seals or beating up the Labrador, Squirrel makes me prepare by dressing me up. She says we must decide between the horns...
or the bats.
When they have chosen, and humiliated me better than I can do for myself, I get my own back. I say now you have chosen my lovely costume, if you want to go to this party, you're walking. It's a two-hour hike, over the mountain, past the glorious concrete factory, through the splendid building site, and round the amazing fish farms, so get your boots on.
Squirrel retaliates by insisting that I wear my horns of shame. I get one over on her by smiling all the way.
And then we arrive! Admittedly not before I have had a little grizzle about how I would be happier if Hallowe'en were about poetic slants of shadows, shades of light, strange unbidden noises, gentle curling leaves, and familiar nature, taking us by surprise. Not blood and splatter, for which there is no need. No one takes any notice of me.
There's more delight to be had with a spooky theme beach party alongside a dozen home ed kids than with ole mama misery guts.
See? There was a three-line whip on the costumes, and there was no escape.
But I get a little of my wish too, because when it's done, we have to walk a while to catch a ferry: up the hill, down to the bay, in the quiet and the dark, through the humid jungle night.
Thursday, 28 July 2011
In preparation for visitor
Aunty Dee is coming to stay for le weekend. She will have one big shock. She will be able to walk in this house without having to duck, drop to her knees and crawl, swerve out the way, or be hit in the face with a wicker fish.
Yes, I have been tidying up (chucking out) as all visitor to Gritblog kno.
But while you kno about all this frenzy of Gritwork, Aunty Dee will be aware of the enormous quantities of crap I have lifted out this house and deposited in archival storage (landfill) only by its absence! Unlike you, she will not kno of the pain involved, so beautiful, clean and tidy is this house now.
Yet there is more! Not only will she be able to walk over the floors, she will have a choice of bedrooms! The White Room (rotting cellar) or The Garden Room (curtainless shed tacked onto back of house, once hiding hole for gardener).
But I am still not finished. The struggle of my own psychology and the demons of the cleaning process yet continue. There are things that remain undone. This is what I must now do.
Show courage. I must be fearless. I must enter the disused office toilet and empty the entire contents of a squirty duck into the monstrous porcelain.
Fear about this has paralysed me so far, but I MUST DO IT. Those stories I tell myself about evil red-eyed rats using the toilet bowl as a portal from Hell are NONSENSE. From this point on, I will repeat to myself: I can do it. I will not be intimidated by toilet bowls.
Show strength. I have the body of a reasonably feeble woman, but this shortcoming must not prevent me from mustering all my muscley power to take an axe to the piano. (Musicians, do not chew your soul in pain at this destruction. The piano is crap, broken, and was sold to me for a tenner by a man who couldn't stop laughing.)
Show resolve. Yes, if the children shovel in soil again to the schoolroom floor I will shovel it back out again! I have a RULE. And the RULE is, The outside stays outside and the inside stays inside. Unless I say otherwise like flowers.
I will be firm and resolute and determined, and not like last time, when I merely look at the pile of soil in resignation and sigh, Whatever, sure, fine, okay, I guess it is a nest for parrots, like you say, even though the only parrot we have got is made of polypropylene.
Show wisdom. I must only pick fights with Squirrel over really important matters like the RULE, and not over everything.
If I fail in this wisdom and start picking a fight over the glue gun, then I will only create pain for myself, i.e. the struggle about whether it is worth going to prison or should I experience the satisfaction of knocking her into the middle of next week when she starts with the eyeball rolling, lip curling, and general disdain, contempt and mockery. (Where she inherited these character defects from, I do not know. Dig, probably.)
(And that last one is nothing to do with the tidy-up, but is an ongoing issue.)
Now, I must stop blog and start toilet duck.
Yes, I have been tidying up (chucking out) as all visitor to Gritblog kno.
But while you kno about all this frenzy of Gritwork, Aunty Dee will be aware of the enormous quantities of crap I have lifted out this house and deposited in archival storage (landfill) only by its absence! Unlike you, she will not kno of the pain involved, so beautiful, clean and tidy is this house now.
Yet there is more! Not only will she be able to walk over the floors, she will have a choice of bedrooms! The White Room (rotting cellar) or The Garden Room (curtainless shed tacked onto back of house, once hiding hole for gardener).
But I am still not finished. The struggle of my own psychology and the demons of the cleaning process yet continue. There are things that remain undone. This is what I must now do.
Show courage. I must be fearless. I must enter the disused office toilet and empty the entire contents of a squirty duck into the monstrous porcelain.
Fear about this has paralysed me so far, but I MUST DO IT. Those stories I tell myself about evil red-eyed rats using the toilet bowl as a portal from Hell are NONSENSE. From this point on, I will repeat to myself: I can do it. I will not be intimidated by toilet bowls.
Show strength. I have the body of a reasonably feeble woman, but this shortcoming must not prevent me from mustering all my muscley power to take an axe to the piano. (Musicians, do not chew your soul in pain at this destruction. The piano is crap, broken, and was sold to me for a tenner by a man who couldn't stop laughing.)
Show resolve. Yes, if the children shovel in soil again to the schoolroom floor I will shovel it back out again! I have a RULE. And the RULE is, The outside stays outside and the inside stays inside. Unless I say otherwise like flowers.
I will be firm and resolute and determined, and not like last time, when I merely look at the pile of soil in resignation and sigh, Whatever, sure, fine, okay, I guess it is a nest for parrots, like you say, even though the only parrot we have got is made of polypropylene.
Show wisdom. I must only pick fights with Squirrel over really important matters like the RULE, and not over everything.
If I fail in this wisdom and start picking a fight over the glue gun, then I will only create pain for myself, i.e. the struggle about whether it is worth going to prison or should I experience the satisfaction of knocking her into the middle of next week when she starts with the eyeball rolling, lip curling, and general disdain, contempt and mockery. (Where she inherited these character defects from, I do not know. Dig, probably.)
(And that last one is nothing to do with the tidy-up, but is an ongoing issue.)
Now, I must stop blog and start toilet duck.
Tuesday, 19 July 2011
In the end, killed off by kindness
Going to the dentist is piss easy, isn't it? I can't believe I spent the last nine months fretting about it.
Fretting is an understatement. There were times when anticipating childbirth had less fear riding on it than the thought of what could happen to me in thirty minutes lying in a dental chair.
And it's not a fair comparison. Childbirth? I almost looked forward to it. There were comforts to be had, thanks to modern technology and chemical cocktailery. There were excitements ahead! I would be able to drop as many drugs as medically possible and my brain would freewheel while my body went numb. Ideal. No way was I at all interested in experiencing the ecstasy of childbirth thank you very much. Nor proving my female credentials with my bodily yielding of joy and pain. Nor winning any motherhood glory from the off with the enormous size of my ripped apart doodah to show in comparison at the new mother weeping circle. Nope. Thanks anyway for suggesting that, ye glorious natural motherhooders with the water bathing and the ylang ylang oils. You can forget about persuading me to cook and eat my own placenta as well.
But the dentist! THE DENTIST.
Anticipating the dentist is the stuff of terror.
For a start, they are still ripping teeth out medieval style by means of iron pincers and in dungeons with blood-spattered walls lit by flaming torches, of this I am sure. And even if they have got electricity in those surgeries, and the equipment has changed a bit, you don't know who those people are! They look normal, sure. They have a head, legs and arms and stuff. But what if the dentist I get is a crazed psychotic killer dressed up as a dentist? What if they have nurtured an angry festering grudge all their lives and are now so bursting with pent up fury they can no longer sublimate their pain into dental drills and antiseptic mouthwash? What if they suddenly want revenge? Or maybe they just have some sort of mental breakdown and forget what they are doing and disembowel me by accident?
Even if the dentist is strangely normal, what about the rest of the experience? They rip out teeth! What if they get the wrong tooth? The numbing injection will fail! The drill slip and pierce my cheek! I will swallow the mouth-hoovery-end by accident! I will surely choke to death!
I have thought of every horrible scenario involving dentistry and I can say, after the type of sleep where you keep one eye open, any one of those outcomes is perfectly possible in your thirty minutes with the dentist.
Except the one where the dentist is a lovely lady who is so calming and soothing, that within ten seconds she can be my mum, except she is younger than me, which is a bit weird, and she is also Eastern European and pronounces tooth as toos, which makes me want to smile and give her a cuddle in a strange over-protective impulse. I could go on, praising her genuine concern and quiet unhurried manner and the simple kindness which made her take time and even hold my hand.
So not at all terrified. And no thrashing about with funny muffled screaming like the time when the other dentist with the big arms actually sank back in his chair with a profound sad sigh and suggested, that at the next appointment, maybe then I would feel better about opening my mouth.
Nothing like that at all. Not even any pain thanks to the remarkable advances they have made with electricity. I will merely see her again in a year's time and she will say in that very gentle, concerned voice, How ees ze toos? and I will smile and think, Why did I ever worry?
Fretting is an understatement. There were times when anticipating childbirth had less fear riding on it than the thought of what could happen to me in thirty minutes lying in a dental chair.
And it's not a fair comparison. Childbirth? I almost looked forward to it. There were comforts to be had, thanks to modern technology and chemical cocktailery. There were excitements ahead! I would be able to drop as many drugs as medically possible and my brain would freewheel while my body went numb. Ideal. No way was I at all interested in experiencing the ecstasy of childbirth thank you very much. Nor proving my female credentials with my bodily yielding of joy and pain. Nor winning any motherhood glory from the off with the enormous size of my ripped apart doodah to show in comparison at the new mother weeping circle. Nope. Thanks anyway for suggesting that, ye glorious natural motherhooders with the water bathing and the ylang ylang oils. You can forget about persuading me to cook and eat my own placenta as well.
But the dentist! THE DENTIST.
Anticipating the dentist is the stuff of terror.
For a start, they are still ripping teeth out medieval style by means of iron pincers and in dungeons with blood-spattered walls lit by flaming torches, of this I am sure. And even if they have got electricity in those surgeries, and the equipment has changed a bit, you don't know who those people are! They look normal, sure. They have a head, legs and arms and stuff. But what if the dentist I get is a crazed psychotic killer dressed up as a dentist? What if they have nurtured an angry festering grudge all their lives and are now so bursting with pent up fury they can no longer sublimate their pain into dental drills and antiseptic mouthwash? What if they suddenly want revenge? Or maybe they just have some sort of mental breakdown and forget what they are doing and disembowel me by accident?
Even if the dentist is strangely normal, what about the rest of the experience? They rip out teeth! What if they get the wrong tooth? The numbing injection will fail! The drill slip and pierce my cheek! I will swallow the mouth-hoovery-end by accident! I will surely choke to death!
I have thought of every horrible scenario involving dentistry and I can say, after the type of sleep where you keep one eye open, any one of those outcomes is perfectly possible in your thirty minutes with the dentist.
Except the one where the dentist is a lovely lady who is so calming and soothing, that within ten seconds she can be my mum, except she is younger than me, which is a bit weird, and she is also Eastern European and pronounces tooth as toos, which makes me want to smile and give her a cuddle in a strange over-protective impulse. I could go on, praising her genuine concern and quiet unhurried manner and the simple kindness which made her take time and even hold my hand.
So not at all terrified. And no thrashing about with funny muffled screaming like the time when the other dentist with the big arms actually sank back in his chair with a profound sad sigh and suggested, that at the next appointment, maybe then I would feel better about opening my mouth.
Nothing like that at all. Not even any pain thanks to the remarkable advances they have made with electricity. I will merely see her again in a year's time and she will say in that very gentle, concerned voice, How ees ze toos? and I will smile and think, Why did I ever worry?
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