Have been looking at old photos today which has been a real trip down memory lane. One of the Housemates, I have known since I was ten and her brother from the day He was born. Their Mum was my Maths teacher and general saviour. She clocked that something wasn’t right with my home life and took pity. I was kept behind after class one day and she said, “I know something is wrong at your house and I can’t do anything until you tell me. I also know you will never tell.”
At this point she put a front door key on the desk and pushed it towards me.
“This is the key to my house, use it whenever you want”. I never did, I always rang the bell but I became part of their family. That is why two of her kids live here. (After H died their Dad, who had met someone online and fucked off after 35years of marriage, sold the house out from under them. They had nowhere to go) They had to come here.
It is a debt of honour. I have some, even if their Dad hasn’t.
Being brought up by my Grandparents has given me a kind of old fashioned outlook on life. If I give my word, I mean it and the concept of ‘honour’ was big with my Grandfather. According to him if you stripped people of their money, houses, and possessions, personal honour is all you have. Dr Johnson’s dictionary describes honour as, “Nobility of soul, Magnanimity and a scorn of meanness”. What pisses me off is that his ‘idea’ of honour is attached to men. A woman’s honour is to do with the maintenance of virginity for the single and monogamy for the married. So a woman’s word or promise means absolutely nothing?
How could murdering a female or gay relative do any good for a families honour?.
Where is the honour in killing for G-d? Where is the honour in discrimination? Where is the honour in watching people be homeless?
Oh well. On a lighter note.
I usually heed all warnings pertaining to the chopping of chillis but today I got careless. I forgot that the ‘sting’ has a half life akin to Uranium and can live happily in and under your nails for ever. Unfortunately, I came into contact with a particularly sensitive part of my anatomy during a comfort break. JEEEZUS it fecking smarts for some considerable time but is on a slow release timer. It wasn’t until 10 minutes later that I started spasticated break dancing around the kitchen, at one point trying to out run my own crutch. Yogurt doesn’t help and neither does lime juice, or coriander, (Three things that were to hand!) the upside of that is every now and then I get this kind of ‘salsa’ aroma! A fiesta in my drawers, Cinco de Mayo in autumn! Whoo Hoo.
Am halfway through my second bottle of French wine called Red Bicyclette. I know, I know, I hate the ‘French’ but that is historical, their wine though, is the dog’s bollocks.
12 comments:
And this applies to honour..... How?
uh yes, chillis. my gay friend Dale, who is South African but lives in London, told me a chillis story when I was there. Seems he too didn't use any protection.
oh boy. His fingers were stinging so he put them in his mouth.
Then, um, a little later, he went to um, oh boy, giggle, harumph, etc., well he gave his boyfriend a little happiness and his boyfriend's little happiness started stinging.
- Karen
p.s. - thanks for the drug offer, I still have some left. very kind though. helping me move though, that is a must.
Believe me Karen, when I say it's beyond stinging!
What benefits other that Irn Bru and crisps do I get? Schnee promises me dishonourable intentions!
Man, do I know the song you're singing! It stays under your fingernails for days. I wear rubber gloves when handling birds-eye or habanero chillies because they're literally too hot to handle.
You may be sat there watching the TV, reading a book etc; the next thing you know, you’re idly biting your fingernails or rubbing the sleep out of the corner of your eye. By the time you realise, it’s too late!
absolutely there will be dishonourable intentions. First, we will find the studio of the L-Word (I think I know the address), we will drive in front of it and wait until perhaps Jennifer "bow down at my feet, you peons" Beals comes out. We will make her help me move, naked.
Then, we'll go to the bar, I believe it is called milk and honey or something and watch the lovely lesbians of Vancouver.
I will find a lesbian strip bar of sorts and Schnee and I will give you loonie coins to stick down thongs.
Finally, there will be Canadian crisps and I know where I can find Iron Brew in this town, baby.
- Karen
Karen! .... Crikey! as they ay i Pompey..... You have pulled!
Big time!!!
Gosh, I leave you children for a few hours and when I come back your all playing with each other.
Ah, honour, I swear that you and I are psychically connected Sleepy, I swapped a few lines about honour with a friend this morning and for the rest of the day I've been thinking about it. I'm going with the online dictionary's number three definition, 'doing the right thing.' I think it's unbelievably important to us Brits. You are a particularly honourable person.
I have a theory that one of the strongest underlying reasons why the English distrust the French is this question of honour - we see them as dishonourable.
As for the chillies - it's the reason I give why we have a box of latex gloves in our cling-film drawer. And I'm sticking to that.
I have tried to prime Karen about what we drink when we are helping people move. So, not beer Karen, but Sleepy will be yours for Chablis:)
Oh, and I understand she's very good at bed.....moving.
Sorry, your = you're
I was distracted by the heat...honestly officer....
French and Honour?? Oxymoron Schnee!
I am very good at bed........................................................................... Moving!
Mmmmmm.... Send me more pics of Karen!
Got your leg over there Sleepy. Hope you can keep awake and that your wife/husband/partner doesn't find out! Some people seem to have all the luck!
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