Panic, Games And Cats

This morning I got up and had ‘Toker’s Panic’.
That is when the street outside your house is crawling with Police and you convince yourself that they have come for you.
The words ‘Personal Use!, Personal Use!’ bounce around your head.
It certainly makes one feel alive for a few minutes!
I had a smoke and a cup of tea to calm down.
Then watched them tow away a car.
Not a crappy old thing either.

I want this game SO bad it’s unnatural!
www.shipoffools.com/kitschmas/05_vatican_game.html
It’s based on Monopoly and it’s about becoming Pope.
A position I should be able to run for, anyway!
“Thou art Sleepy, the rock on whom I will build my apathy.”

When we were grounded as kids, my sister and I used to play Monopoly or Game of Life.
Monopoly got violent when I ran out of money and robbed the bank. Which, obviously, meant punching my sister in the face during the said robbery if she was Banker.
The Game of Life never ended well either, it was a frigging minefield.
There is a square you land on and you HAVE to get married.
Spouses and children were represented in your ‘Family Car’ by Pink or Blue markers.
I always ‘married’ another pink marker.
This used to drive my sister over the edge and she would run to ATM shouting that I wouldn’t play properly.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can see ATM did her best.
“If Sleepy wants to marry another lady, that’s perfectly alright. She can have a pink marker in her car if she wants. Some ladies like ladies.”
She would look at me and ask if I couldn’t have a blue marker, just for the benefit of the game.
The answer was always the same.
No!
I fecking couldn’t!
And while we are at it, I’m not having the ‘children’ markers either.
When my sister used to put them in my car anyway, I would throw them out and shout, ‘Abortion’.
That, as you can imagine, went down SO well.
ATM used to let us out because she couldn’t bear having us grounded in the house together.

There are ‘designer’ cats out there called Asheras.
Apparently they are part African Serval, part Asian Leopard and part House Cat.
Unsurprisingly, they cost thousands; can reach 40lbs fully grown and live 25 years.
My run of the mill Pompey house cats slaughter their way through birds, mice, frogs, voles, rats and, I’m sure, other wildlife that they don’t bring home.
What the fuck would you find on the rug with a cat like that?
Headless foxes? Smaller cats? Kate Humble?
What manner of nastiness would that animal cough up on your bed?
Actually, after some thought, I wouldn’t totally object to Kate Humble.
Ho Hum! Me? A blonde! Who knew?!

Finally, RIP Jane Rule, and “Thank You” so very much.

Blasphemous Joy

I’ve spent my day trying to think of things to name Mohammed.
Both cats now have it as a middle name.
Kenneth Mohammed and Murphy Mohammed.
Everything in the fish tank is a Mohammed and I’m thinking it quite suits the Hoover.
The Laptop is called Moses, the toaster is Vishnu and the TV is now referred to as The BVTV.
The Blessed Virgin TV.

I wonder if there are people in Spain, Portugal and Latin America called ‘Hay-Zeus’, who are ‘not expecting’ The Inquisition at the moment.
Or, The Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith as it is now known.
The Inquisition hasn’t disappeared into the mists of time, it’s just been re-branded.
Trying to move away from their BDSM roots I think.
Tell me this isn’t an early Gimp mask.
For the less squeamish, check out the ‘Pear of Anguish’.
Now that thing, has barely been adapted in hundreds of years and is used during gynaecological examinations to this day.

Freaky shit was afoot on Graham Norton’s show tonight.
Glenn Close can make the most disturbing baby noises using her arm!
Crying baby, angry baby, happy baby etc.
Most scary.
Cats making noises on a TV show set my cats off.
Dogs barking make other dogs join in.
It made me wonder if all the babies within earshot of the TV started up.
He also had a singer called Amy McDonald on, who sounds like she is singing with someone else’s voice.
Although, that could be the weed!

More freaky stuff is occurring in the Sleepy Mansions airing cupboard.
I cannot for the life of me reach the top shelf.
Not without standing on Mohammed the Hoover and that seems a tad blasphemous.
I’m a short arse but I’m taller than Housemate Pat, yet her stuff is on the top shelf!
There is some ‘House of Flying Daggers’ shit going on here and I will catch her at it.

The fantastic news of the day is that Housemate Claire’s surgery was successful.
No more cancer!
She will have to carry on with the Herceptin for a while, as well as having a course of Radiotherapy.
Apart from all that, it’s really good news.
She looks so much happier, a total weight off her mind.
Celebrations are planned!

Connections

Today I have made the strange connection between laundry and toast.
Toast always falls buttered side down.
When you walk through the house with laundry, underwear will always drop gusset side up.
Especially if you don’t notice them escaping from the bundle and other Housemates have visitors.

Another connection.
Are Gorillas good or bad?
In the Cadbury’s advert the Gorilla is an amazingly superb drummer.
In the Harpic ’Rim Block’ advert he is the dirty bastard who stinks up the toilet for everyone.
(Probably best if I don’t relate the image Rim Block conjures in my head!)
What’s the story?
Have one in your band but don’t let them use your bog?

So, on one hand we have this person and on the other, we have this one.
I know which I would rather have Social Services taking an interest in.

See?
Everything has felt connected today.

Housemate Claire had her second lot of Herceptin.
It hasn’t made her as horribly ill as the first lot did but she isn’t 100%.
Tomorrow she finds out whether the surgery has been successful and she is cancer free.

At last I have found something that I’m willing to donate to ATM!
I’m keeping the kidneys and liver portions thank you very much.

Political Nan

I’ve had the Lib/Dem councillor knocking the door this evening.
He introduced himself, double barrelled surname; and tried to shake my hand.
I was having none of it.
I held them up and away from him and said,
“Cooking”.
He stepped back.
“Any problems in the local area you would like to see addressed?” he asked.
That’s like being asked your Top 10 Albums, not something you can do on the doorstep in 30 seconds, from a cold start.
I told him that there probably were but I couldn’t recall them just now, but did he have a piece of paper.
He left a questionnaire and said to put it in the letterbox, it would be collected.
Loads of tosspot questions.
If he doesn’t already know the problems in his constituency, I’m the last fucker he should ask.
One of the questions was whether I thought there should be more trees planted.
Where I want them planted and would I help planting.
Ok. No problem.
Until I get to a later question.
Something along the lines of using ’derelict’ land for building affordable housing.
I answered,
“Sounds good, but haven’t I just planted a load of trees on this land?”
In the less than roomy box for ‘anything else’ I wrote,
“Knock my door, I have some questions”.
Did he?
Did he bollocks.
Took the questionnaire though.
Now, I’m sure, I’m in their ‘database’.
Not that I’m worried.
It’s a bit like the Quakers taking a Fatwa out on you.

Does everyone have a ‘good Nan’?
It came up in discussion over dinner with Mad Matt this evening.
Everybody I know seems to have had a Grandmother who was better than the other one.
One you had more fun with, who remembered your name, or was nicer, or gave better presents or was alive!
With mine it came down to porridge.
With one Nan we got milk, sugar and syrup.
The other gave us water and salt.
That Granddad used to throw a teacup of whisky on it while her back was turned.
Which helped marginally with the taste, but lit up the potentially latent ‘Alcoholic Gene’ like a frigging Christmas Tree.
My question is about whom the ‘Nan’ belongs to.
Which side?
Is it always your Mum’s Mum who is the favourite?

Rant And Regal

Housemates.. If you order something to be delivered, it’s not going to be a surprise to you when it turns up.
It fecking is to me!
And I object to having to get up after 90 minutes sleep to open the bastard door.
Especially when the addressee, is IN.
Do I have to remind anyone of “The Next Catalogue” incident?
Don’t make me shout.
None of you like it.
Also, if you are using the smallest saucepan we have, on the largest gas ring we have; that strange chemical, burning smell will be the fucking handle melting.
If the smell didn’t give you a hint, what part of your porridge recipe said?
“Serve with cold milk and honey once surrounded by thick, black, noxious smoke”.
You complete and utter moron!
The highly empathetic of you may have picked up on my lack of sleep in the last few days.

Weirdest thing I’ve seen today was during the programme, Monarchy: The Royal Family at Work.
We were shown the White House preparing for the Queen’s arrival and footage of a black lady painting it, telling us that there were many kinds of white.
The White House is not any old white.
It’s ‘Whisper’ White, not China, not Navajo.
Whisper.
The irony was not lost on me.

Funniest thing was a posh bloke, talking about some art, using the word ‘interregnum’.
The camera had panned round onto a room full of Yanks and you could tell they were all wondering what their arses had to do with anything!
Prince Phillip was as ever, brilliantly grumpy.
I think he nicked the pen when he signed the White House visitor’s book.
He may have used is own but I really, really hope he robbed it!
I love him.
On a related note, no one wears a bit of bling like our Queen.

Christ, The Noise.

Today’s Mass has to have been the loudest I’ve been to this year.
Kids screaming all over the place, throwing stuff and running about.
We would have been gagged and our hamstrings cut with a nail file before that happened.
It made it difficult to concentrate on the regular nutters and almost impossible to hear the priest.
He’d got a face full of incense and was reacting to it like pepper spray, with the coughing and the streaming eyes thing.
Not a great prospect when you know he is going to be handling a bit of wafer that will end up in your mouth.
The head slapper was there but has had a new string to his bow of unusual behaviours, extreme nose picking.
Although it had a serious ‘Yuk’ factor, it was fascinating to watch.
The hymns this week were chosen from the neglected classic,
“100 Hymns For Organists Who Never Hit The Same Note Twice.”

I love this article.
The Irish cousins have ‘medicined’ me with this stuff.
Believing that an enormous capacity for Russian vodka will in anyway prepare you for Poteen, is folly.
It leaves you with the most basic of Limbic functions.
Working lungs and heart, sometimes in sporadic bursts, but that’s about it.
As something that brings ‘a shock of joy to the heart’? You can’t go wrong.
The lesson I have learned is, never have more than one and never finish the one you have.
Absinthe has a dreamy Fairy associated with drinking it.
Poteen is more likely to be a Lurcher breeding, bare knuckle fighting, Traveller Family.
Not so great for marketing purposes.

This afternoon I watched my Beloved Spurs draw and the film about William Wilberforce, ‘Amazing Grace’.
What a hero.
Had me quite choked up at times.
The football and the film!
I’ve eaten left over curry and had a glass of Indian beer.
Not a bad way to spend a day.

Party And Parents

Last night’s 50th birthday party was a blast.
Everybody dressed up.
I ended up wearing black trousers, my ‘I F Nuns’ tee-shirt, an inverted cross, I had a baby’s bottle full of vodka and a massive nappy over the trousers.
I was Rosemary’s Baby!
It’s bloody horrible wearing a nappy, I couldn’t walk properly but I had somewhere handy to store my cigarettes.
I did get a good laugh handing my baby bottle over the bar and ordering my vodka in fluid ounces.
They got a great laugh testing it on their wrists before handing it back!
There was a scary moment, when I was waylaid by the lady with the wandering hands.
My friends, who could see I was in trouble, did as they always do.
Stood out of her eye line, but in mine and laughed their heads off.
Bastards.

The more I think about this, the more it pisses me off.
All week there has been an ‘outcry’ about lesbians and IVF treatments.
The way I see it is that some one night stand slapper has more rights than people who plan a child for years.
Those who sit in clinics trawling through the background, health history and educational achievements of the potential sperm donor.
What happened to the rights of that one night stand ‘Sperm Donor’ then?
If the child is up for adoption, it must follow that a lesbian couple can adopt it.
A judge has already said that the father has no rights and the Cardinal doesn’t seem to have an opinion on this one.

Don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely no interest in being a parent, foster parent, step parent, I’m a pretty crappy aunt and the cats could probably do with a Social Worker.
But, I’m pro choice.
If that’s your choice, have them, but keep them the hell away from me.

Maury, Footie And Arrange Me

Every now and then I catch an episode of ‘Maury’ (Povich).
Often, when I’m trying to avoid “Cash In The Attic”, or ‘Crap in The Attic’ as it’s known in Sleepy Mansions!
It usually involves some rotund, pram faced teen, crying two tears out of one eye because she doesn’t know the paternity of her child.
Um.
Three words.
You Nasty Slut!
But what is really pissing me off is the term they use.
“Maury, I’m 100% sure, he my baby Daddy”.
What?
He my baby Daddy?
Speak some known language will you and stop fucking up mine.
It’s bad enough you can’t spell correctly.
The first time I hear it in this country will be the day I start planning to leave.
Erin Go Bragh.
Although, after recent travels, Canada has a certain appeal.

Unsurprisingly, Steve McClaren has been sacked as England football coach.
The 2.5 million pound pay off should help soften that blow for him.
He wasn’t the FA’s first choice for the job and he didn’t even make mine or Sassy’s short list.
But is anyone at the Football Association falling on their sword?
Are they buggery!
The whole FA chief executive needs culling.
The players have to take some responsibility for what happens on the pitch.
Bunch of overpaid, underachieving Prima Donnas.
As Sassy, quite rightly pointed out, we were outplayed by a better side.

This evening my eye was caught by the programme ‘Arrange Me A Marriage’.
‘English’ people set up with an ‘arranged partner’ along Indian family lines.
The first show had some ‘Horsey’, career woman who wanted a man who didn’t mind that she hadn’t gone to University.
She wouldn’t consider anyone shorter than 6ft.
Or if they had kids already.
Mmmmm…
Aneela, the woman running the show is a nice Indian lady but, as always, I’m freaked out by Indians with Scottish accents!
She got their whole families together for a ‘viewing’, Mum’s, Dad’s, Aunt’s, Uncle’s etc, which may work for Indian families but with ‘English’ people?
OH DEAR CHRIST!
To quote Will Truman,
“I haven’t seen anything so awkward since the Richard Gere/Jodie Foster kiss in Sommersby.”
When she chooses the one to meet, the Mother’s were introduced.
It was so funny.

I hope they do a ‘Gay’ one!
Can you imagine?!
I dread to think what/who ATM would choose for me.
My Dad would do me proud, too many times we have found ourselves eyeing up the same women.
We then both say,
“Euew! That’s SO wrong!”
And neither of us want her then.
For some reason it doesn’t seem so wrong when it’s my brothers.
How weird is that?!

Today’s ‘Shameless Homo’ award has to go to John Barrowman.
On this evenings Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two programme, he was on the point of drooling while he offered to help Gethin Jones with moving his hips.
Oh, yeah… Really?
You could hear the studio crew pissing themselves laughing.
Well Done John.
Shameless!

Appalling

Housemates, you’d better hope and pray that I NEVER find out who perpetrated the atrocity I found in the bathroom this morning.
I mean it.
It was nasty and I won’t clean up again.

I have managed to avoid making any comment about the McCann’s in the months since May.
I can resist no more.
They are now saying that they thought their family was being watched by a ‘Predator’.
Oh really?
Yet still they fucked off out and left their children alone.
Appalling people.

While on the appalling theme.
(Schnee, engage sports filter)
The England football match was complete and utter shite.
I’ve seen some terrible football in my time but this sucked arse.
Even when they got it back to 2-2 I didn’t hold out much hope.
3-2 to Croatia and we are out of the next European Championships.
England were boo-ed at Wembley.
Quite rightly.

My sleep is very disturbed at the moment.
I can’t settle, I can’t get comfy, I’m too hot, I’m itchy, I’m too cold, the duvet is too noisy and when I do sleep I have strange dreams.
Last night I had a bizarrely erotic dream about somebody highly inappropriate.
Usually I forget dreams when I wake up but this one won’t go away and it’s making me feel a little uncomfortable.

I have to go to a party on Friday.
The dress code is ‘Film Stars’ and I can’t think of anyone to go as.
I’m getting a bit panicky now as it is not something I can’t get out of.
Sensible suggestions welcomed.
Don’t even bother thinking of anyone who wears a dress or skirt.
That, just ain’t happening!

It’s been a miserable day all round and it’s pissing with rain again.

Happy Thanksgiving to the Yank readership.

Cheerful Whistling

This morning I was rudely awoken by some cheerful bastard whistling while he swept the street.
Loud, complicated whistling full of trills, warbling and smug whatnot.
My Dad would go mad if he heard any whistling in the morning and shout, “Dead Man's Whistle!”
We were never sure if that was what was going to happen to the whistler or if it was what the whistling was called.
I think it’s an old Navy superstition to do with storms.
So I woke up with that line in my head, started the day pretty frigging grumpy and wondered if it were possible to 'Channel' someone still alive.

I was immediately annoyed by my post.
Grown women who put hearts or circles over lowercase i’s or j’s need beating half to death.
I don’t care if it is an invite to your child’s party, stop yourself!
I have similar feelings for people who will tell you they still have their first teddy bear, like it is a GOOD thing.
Stop it you freaks and certainly don’t offer to show it to me.
Jeez!

The only teddy I remember, and it certainly wasn’t the first, I set on fire when I was about 5.
Nearly took out the sofa with that one.
My Grandfather, recognising a potential 'Criminal' problem, made sure we had a bonfire every week.
Which I lit.
The regular frisking for matches and lighters began around that time too.
Many things change in life but my Pyromania is a constant!

The good news of the day is that Housemate Claire is home from hospital.
Whoo Hoo!
She looks 100% better.
She has some discomfort from the surgery, one of her arms is weaker than the other and she is a bit stiff when moving.
The diabetes is starting to come under control.
I haven’t asked whether the source of the insulin in the fridge door is Human or Pig.
I’m not sure I want to know really.
But she’s home, and can start getting better properly, without being woken every hour to see if she is asleep.

If I could whistle it would be a loud, cheerful one.

The 33rd Sunday

It has been a vile, cold, wet and windy day. Proper shite.
I thought, sod it! It’s winter and I lit the fire.

There were baptisms at Mass this morning, screaming kids galore.
I try my hardest to miss services involving kids but it appears Depeche Mode were right, G-d does have a sick sense of humour.
A man who sounded exactly like Sean Connery read, ‘Shaint Paul’sh Epishtle to the Theshiloniansh’.
That got my grin on straight away!

I had the ’shouter out-er’ in front.
A lady with quite severe Down’s Syndrome and three minders.
‘Pairs!’ was a particularly loud and favourite one, but I think she was trying for ‘prayers’.
There was no doubt about the next one.
“Holy, Holy, Holy….”
“TITS! TITS! TITS!”
The two Polish lads next to me almost lost the plot.
The three of us dropped to our knees, foreheads on arms and shook the pew in front with laughter.

Behind me, I had the ‘speed freak’.
All congregations of all denominations must have this person.
The one who has to get the responses out first.
‘The Lord be with you’
‘AndAlsoWithYou’.
‘Lift up your hearts to the Lord’
‘WeLiftThemUpToTheLord’.
As though, somehow, G-d will deal with them first.
It’s verbal pushing in and it’s bloody rude.
The mob usually falls into a rhythm when doing the answering bits.
These people fuck all that up.
Well, they do for me anyway!
This is something we are supposed to be doing ‘together’, go on Saturday night if you want the speedy version.

Today’s hymns were chosen from the ‘Universal Book of Hymns No One Fecking Knows’ as opposed to the ‘Book of 100 Hymns Sung Too High’.

Obituaries And Opinions

As strange as it sounds, I love reading the obituaries. I like to compare between The Telegraph, The Times and The Guardian.
Sometimes they have the same names but not always.
The great and the good having their arses kissed one last time.
Occasionally there is a gem.
This is my absolute favourite obit of the year.
They don’t make them like that anymore.
Although, imagine getting this Bloke as your Legal Aid Brief?!

Check out the last three paragraphs of this article.
The Queen of England is married to an immigrant.
An immigrant whose family had been kicked out of their own country, so he was an Asylum Seeking Immigrant!
Brilliant!

Not for the first time, I have had an evening of being asked my opinion, and then the person getting offended when I give it.
Picture the scene.
A knitting pattern.
Yes! Imagine my distress! While football was on!
A fecking knitting pattern was thrust under my nose followed by the question,
‘What do you think?’
It continued like this.
‘Who for?’
‘My sister’
‘Which one?’
Sister specified.
‘Dear Christ, No!’
‘Oh. Why?’
‘Well, that is for a petite person.’
‘She is petite!’
Raucous laughter, lasting until realisation, I was the only one laughing.
‘Are you serious?’
‘She is petite but at the moment it is hidden by several layers of fat.’
‘Then she’s not bloody petite is she?!!’
‘But! She is underneath’
For my own sanity, I had to stop it before the feedback loop kicked in.
So, not for the first time, I have ended a conversation with,
‘Just don’t fucking ask me, ok? Just don’t ask!’

Walkabout Photos

Walkabout Catch Up

I’m back from my Walkabout.
It started off in Wiltshire and moved to the Pembrokeshire coast for a few cracking days.
Jess the hound loved it. Sandy beaches must feel lovely on Greyhound feet.
I'll put some pics on when blogger starts to behave.

A lot seems to have happened.
First, and most importantly, Housemate Claire has had her surgery.
Everything went well and they got all the cancer out.
She won’t be needing the ‘bigger buns’ anymore, about four cups less!
The not so great news is that she is now diabetic.
She is still in hospital but should be out within the next few days.

In Italy, it turns out the Septic might have stabbed the British girl.
They don’t usually get so up close and personal.
They prefer flying past, really fast and bombing the shit out of the British.
What’s really getting on my tits is the Media insistence on calling her ‘Foxy Knoxy’.
She’s not a Topless Model or some WAG; she’s a fucking murderous Nutter!
‘Horny Hindley’?
No?
I didn’t think so either.

At a house in Margate they are finding bodies buried all over the place.
A few weeks ago they were digging up the garden at a house 5 minutes walk from mine because of this bloke.
I wonder how many people have had a quick look at their house deeds, checking for the name Peter Tobin?
I wonder how many Landlord’s around the country are thinking,
‘Oh Fuck! I recognise him!’, and banning all gardening activities?

I went to see the ex Bro in law today.
A few weeks back his Mum asked if would be okay to decorate the house.
I thought ‘Go ahead! Only adds value to my property!’
She spent £2500!
New bathroom suite, tiles, new flooring and the whole house painted.
The full Schwarma.
People, it’s the worst decorating job I have ever seen.
It looks like someone has got hold of an angry, blind octopus; got eight paint rollers and said,
“Express yourself”.
Somehow the gloss on the bathroom door looks like fecking Artex!
How does that happen?!
There are drips, bald patches, thick patches….
It hurts to continue.
I’m not being ungrateful but she spent good money on that and I think she has been well and truly done.

Today has been fucking freezing which means the ‘Hell Mouth’ that lurks in the kitchen has opened once again.
Everything in the cupboards is stone cold.
Opening a drawer releases a frigid blast that’ll freeze the moisture in your eyes, so that opening the fridge is a blessed relief.
Just to send my bile duct into overdrive, it’s poxy Children in Need and the England match couldn’t be more shite.
To top it all off, my beloved QI is a Children in Need edition.
Grrrr…

It’s good to be home.

Gripes And Chocolate

My ‘Lav’ reading at the moment is a book called ‘Pegasus’ by Greg Loomis.
The blurb told me it was ‘as exciting as the Da Vinci Code’.
It may well be, but for me it has been ruined by piss poor research.
Little things, like insisting us Brits shorten ‘Umbrella’ to ‘Brelly’.
Brolly? Yep, I’ve heard of one of those, but a Brelly? I think not.
Then there is Magdelen College, Oxford.
The author snootily informed me that the English pronounce it ‘Maudin’.
Do they really Mr Loomis?
Do they buggery!
He has proper pissed me off with this and like the other American author, who had characters paying for thing with £100 notes, I won’t read him again.

Why is chocolate gendered?
I get many emails from female friends with lots of jokes about wanting chocolate, craving chocolate and needing chocolate and how it cures all evils.
I don’t get anything like this from my male friends.
It’s more football, breasts and hideous injuries!
If I’ve phoned a male friend and they are a bit down, I never say,
“Ok mate, I’m on my way round, what chocolate shall I bring?”
It is more likely to be,
“Ok mate, I’m on my way round, what Vodka and Smokes shall I bring?”
Ho Hum. It was just a thought.
Crisp-e, don’t panic!
I won’t turn up round yours with bars of Galaxy, Vogue and Clinique products any time soon.

I’m off to Wiltshire for a few days.
So the blog will be on pause.
M hates it. Hates it with a passion, hates me writing it, hates the contact with people I have through it and I can do without the outpouring of insecurity, accusations and petty jealousies.
If I wanted that, I’d contact my Mother.
So, I compromise.

For All The Saints

It’s The Feast of All Saints so I went to Mass.
Holy Days of Obligation bring out a whole different bunch of strange Catholics.
Way more old, deaf and breathless men than usual.

The priest, during his solo bit, mentioned purgatory.
He had my attention.
I thought it was gone, like Limbo.
Nope, purgatory is still there.
He described it as kind of waiting room where we prepare to be received in to heaven.
A spiritual quarantine, just until any residual sin has gone.
Maybe it was the smoke and espresso I’d replaced breakfast with, but it made me think of Brits abroad.
Turn up all pissed and rowdy, wearing the wrong clothes. Taking a few days to get used to the food and plumbing.
If at all!
I now have this idea of purgatory as the ‘Costa del Sol’ of the life eternal.
He also said that the Saints are praying for us, but I find that, like Broad Beans, a little hard to swallow.
The smoke didn’t help with the Gospel either.
It was ‘the Blessed are the Cheese Makers’ one, so I was ‘looking on the bright side of life’ until the next hymn.

I decided to focus on the ‘living saint’ in the west of Ireland.
How, daily, she cares for and loves a man who doesn’t recognise her anymore.
Her quiet determination to do all she can to keep him at home.
Her endless patience with his repetitiveness, wanderings and occasional inappropriate behaviour.
How she can still see the intelligent ‘man’ in the child she now cares for.
How she will sit and rub cream into his skin and feed him his tablets in what ever weird and wonderful way he decides.
How she can do all this while witnessing the gradual loss of the love of her life.
A life on mental ‘rewind’, speeding backwards to an inevitable end.
Hers on ‘pause’.
My most fervent prayer was that she will know when to ask for help.

In Your mercy….