Getting There

In my search for the Spirit of Christmas, I came across these stories:-

At a school in Derby, three six year olds were playing the wise men in the school play. As they came to Mary & Joseph at the stable, the first one handed over his present and said "Gold", the second presented his gift and said "Myrrh", then the third one gave them his & said "And Frank sent this."

Or from another school, two little girls were talking about their roles in the Nativity play. "I'm going to be a virgin." one announced smugly. "That's nothing" replied the other, "I'm going to be an angel". "Well my mummy says its much harder to be a virgin." retorted the first.

Or what about the boy who only had one line to say in the Christmas Play, which was "I am the light of the world". On the night though, he froze at the sight of so many people, but his mother was in the front row and she started to mouth the words for him. Following her cue, he summoned up his courage and shouted "My mother is the light of the world!".

I'll report back with anymore I find & I'll also finish the Jongleurs story!

Jingle Bells at Jongleurs

Now about this Christmas Do. I distracted myself by talking about minicab drivers & their lack of direction. Driving-wise that is, not career or life-wise. I just couldn't believe it when he asked me the way! I gave him the full address and I'd even printed a map from the Jongleurs website, but he still didn't have a clue. Eventually, he went as far as he could go in Watford High Street, then dropped me off outside a lap-dancing club. Now I ask you, is that any way to treat a lady?

So there I was, dressed up to the nines and all alone, down a dark side street, outside a lap-dancing club. I suddenly remembered the wonders of mobile technology, but decided not to pull out my cute, pink mobile just yet. I needed to get past the tall guy in the shop doorway, hiding his face beneath the wide brim of his hat & turned-up collar of his long, black coat. He was glancing at me, furtively, from the corner of his eye. "Maybe he's a pimp" I thought, "on the lookout for that much-sought-after genre of females: middle-aged, reasonably well-preserved & desperately in need of a few bob to get their kids through Uni". But I wasn't having any of that... "Oh No Buster, you make one move on me and you're pussy food.... I mean cat food, kitty litter, whatever....just don't even think about it, OK?" So with those words in mind, I tottered past him, in my high-heeled boots, & out into the main street, where I pulled out my phone. "Kerry, help me!", I whined, "The driver was a moron & I don't know where I am!". "Where are you?" she said helpfully. Frantically, I looked around for landmarks. "I'm near Burger King" I said. "Oh No! Flossie... you're quite a long way away!" Great! You wait till I get my hands on that driver! Or better still, I'll make friends with that pimp & get him to do my dirty work! But in the meantime, I had a Christmas Do to attend, so off I trotted, as fast as my spaghetti legs could carry me (damn you Shelley... can I never forget?). Down the High Street I went, under the bridge, past Chicago, like Kerry told me, & there it was.... at last, the bright lights of Jongleurs!

The Knowledge

It amazes me how many minicab drivers don't know their way around. They should be forced to do "The Knowledge" like proper "black cab" drivers. Do they seriously think I can give them directions? This is the woman who took 3 hours to drive from Feltham to Epsom & was finally shown the way by a deaf lady. That was shortly after I'd driven through the gates of a large mansion house, hoping to get directions from the butler. After parking beneath some trees, I walked nervously across the crunchy gravel drive & stared at the imposing front door. I then wondered whether I should look around the side for a Tradesman's Entrance, but as I walked past an enormous bay window, I couldn't resist the urge to peer through it. I pressed my face lightly to the glass, with my hands held up to shut out the sunlight. It took a few seconds to focus, but then, to my deep embarrassment, I saw several people seated around a large oval table, gazing back at me with various expressions of bewilderment & confusion. I smiled weakly & drew back a few inches, as a man rose awkwardly to his feet. He'd only taken a few steps, when the others began to push back their chairs & stumble, frantically, towards the window. It was then that I realised this was no ordinary family gathering and no ordinary posh house in the wealthy commuter belt. It was a mental home, or to be more PC, a residence for the mentally challenged. I will refrain from further detail, but I think it's fair to say that I gave the poor devils a bit more excitement than they would normally experience during Sunday Afternoon Tea.

I decided it was unlikely that these chaps could give directions to the Polo Club Barbeque, so I jumped back into my old MG & reversed, pretty sharpish, down the drive & shot off down another country lane..... which was where I met the deaf lady.

Goodwill Hunting

I'm trying hard to catch that illusive, wispy thing called Christmas Spirit, but with my father-in-law going blind & my sister-in-law's husband dying from some horrible, Alzheimer's-like disease, the task is even harder than usual. In addition, my colleague's father died 2 weeks ago & the mother of my brother's 2nd ex-wife died yesterday. Do more people die at Christmas, or is that just an illusion, created because we have such high expectations of the "festive season"? Perhaps it just seems less of an injustice at other times of the year. Christmas is supposed to be a time of joy & goodwill, so what's with all the sadness? The word "supposed" is probably important because, to a certain extent, it's up to us to make the joy & goodwill, but there's not much we can do about death & Alzheimers.

ANYWAY, I'm going to move on & resume my search for Christmas Spirit.... and I don't just mean in the drinks cupboard! In my next post, I shall tell you about my Christmas Do at Jongleurs. Bet you can hardly wait!

Free Love

To my friend, Stefan: My conscience? I hope not. I hate my conscience. Admittedly, it stops me doing things I would probably regret at some later date, but these days it stops me doing things I would only regret a little, in the short term, but in the long term, they'd make great stories. But is life about stories? If the stories are real, I think it is.

I don't remember a red dress. There was one my Mum made from a revolutionary new material called fibreglass, but that was a beautiful pale apricot colour. The design was a variation of the tent-dress, with a front pleat & mandarin collar, edged in gold braid. Trouble was, halfway through the medal presentations, it began to itch like crazy. Mum later discovered it was only meant for curtains.

Believe me Stefan, you're not the only one to think that the age of free love passed you by. I was lucky, but I hasten to add that love is never entirely free. I think part of my luck was due to my Mum being pretty "hip". I remember her telling me "Say Yes to everything and as often as possible!". Fortunately, I was sensible enough to realise the dangers of taking that philosophy too far. Can I thank Gumley for that? Probably not. Norah lasted there longer than I did, but she was pregnant by a married man at 18 and dead from cervical cancer at 30. No, in truth, it was my parents who stopped me from going too far. Their love for me was total & the thought of letting them down unthinkable.

Last Tango in Hanworth

Ah yes.... the last Tango with Trevor. It was sad that it all had to end, but 14 is a special age, when you begin to notice the opposite sex and realise that your ballroom dancing hero is really just a sad, middle-aged man, with no life outside the Hanworth dance hall. We had some good times though, spinning round the dance floor in dresses hand-made by my Mum (me that is, not Trevor) and those gala nights, when we were presented with our medals in front of the applauding crowds. Of course, it might have been so different if the partner Trevor had offered for my professional future had been just a tad more attractive to my boy-hungry eyes. In hindsight, he wasn't actually bad looking, but oh so horridly clean-cut! He was the sort of polite boy my Mum would have loved, but compared with the wild hippies & dangerous skinheads that I was starting to consort with, there was no way I could have spent the next 5 years foxtrotting my way to ballroom stardom with him. The Night Clubs beckoned, with their heady scents of Brut, Youth Dew & Special Brew.... how could I resist?

The last I saw of Trevor was 4 years later. I was on my knees in the kitchen, washing the floor for my Mum, when a familiar face appeared at the open back door. He was shorter & balder than the debonair dancer I remembered, who had tutored me through countless, dizzying Waltzes, frenetic Quicksteps, hip-swaying Cha-Chas & tempestuousTangos. I looked up, embarrassed at the situation in which he found me. I laughed nervously and said "I'm washing the floor for my Mum". "She shouldn't make you do that" he said. He seemed taken aback; I can't think why. He was calling to say he was starting a new dancing school in the Social Club hall round the corner & he wanted me to give dancing demonstrations with him. I said I would go, and I did, but ended up wishing I hadn't. Things had changed. My nights of dancing at Kew Boathouse & The Castle had made me stiff - that's what reggae does to you! In 4 years, the closest I had been to ballroom dancing was one night at The Boathouse, when Lincoln, the black guy I worked with at the Hounslow Grill, said he'd show me how to dance "properly". His idea of dancing properly was two bodies pressed tightly together, swaying & grinding in unison, until the music became quite secondary to what you were trying to achieve! Dear Lincoln, I wonder where he is now.

Back from The Marches

Perhaps I was in a minority, when I didn't know what The Marches meant, or even where they were, but for the ignoramusses who still don't know; the word "March" comes from the Anglo-Saxon word "mearc" meaning boundary. Hence, The Marches is the boundary between England & Wales. So I'm just back from a few days in Ludlow, which is an ancient town in The Marches, in the county of Shropshire, & very pleasant it was too. Shropshire borders Herefordshire, which is apparently unique, in that it has 3 of the 4 pre-Norman Conquest castles in England, as well as being one of the main cider-making counties in Britain. So needless to say, I gathered some jolly nice bottles of cider & perry, to enjoy at my leisure between now & Christmas.

I so love medieval history. A few months ago, I read a book called The Greatest Traitor, which is about the life of Roger de Mortimer. He was the guy who, though married to Joan de Grenville (not to be confused with Joyce Grenfell), took a fancy to Queen Isabella, the French wife of King Edward II (rumoured to be gay). He not only persuaded her to leave him, but colluded with her to have Edward murdered, using a rather unpleasant method involving a poker. Despite this brutality, Roger appears to have been simply a man of his time and, believe it or not, for most of his life, he was far more decent than most of those around him. Read the book!

PS to FF: Referring to a previous comment of yours, regarding gender, you are obviously male, as it would be strange for a female to use that sort of innuendo. I may comment further on your blog.

PPS: Last Tango in Hanworth? I'm going away to think about that one.

Dreams of Yesterday

It's true there was a certain Max Romeo song involved in my expulsion and I can assure you Sister Jo did not intend my departure to be temporary. "If I wasn't a nun, I would beat you with a leather belt! Now get out of my school & don't ever come back!!!" Does that sound temporary to you? But we'd never have been caught singing it if you..... She had just done what she was told & swept the damn corridor! An innocent game of badminton, that's all it was, and a jaunty bit of reggae to help us concentrate, and look where it got us!

So you were there in the Big Freeze of 1963? To remember all the fun we had on the snow-covered green, you must have been a resident of Sparrow Farm or the surrounding roads?

A Frosty Reception

I can't believe it.....Shelley Monaghan! Well I never did..... well not as often as you anyway..... only kidding darling! D'you remember the day when Batty Murphy & I were singing loudly & banging out the beat to "It's Good News Week" on the desks, and the Novice Nun walked in with a face like thunder, so Maggie Dowd stuck red knitting needles in her hair to detract her attention from us? When the Nun asked if the style was appropriate for school, Maggie said her step-father was Japanese and would be deeply offended if she she didn't wear it like that!

And then there was the time when dear Norah & I were expelled, but when Sister Jo repented & let us back, you ran down the steps to greet us & fell a over t all the way to the bottom! I assume you were running to greet us anyway. I'm sure it was nothing to do with the guilt you were feeling, about not sweeping the corridor, which was the catalyst to the whole sorry affair. But we shan't talk about that now, shall we..... not for the time being anyway.

So keep in touch darling. Maybe we should get together some time? I've heard we're in for the coldest Winter since records began, so you never know..... it may freeze over yet!

Too much pasta?

Spaghetti legs? How dare you! Wait a minute..... is that you Shelley? Always so quick with the witty comments.... well, maybe witty isn't quite the right word, but.... how are you? Still chatting up the boys/men/whoever happens to cross your path? Well, you had the figure for it darling, being an early developer & all that. Trouble is, the earlier you develop, the earlier you go to seed. Not that I'm talking about you, darling! Just a general observation...

Dancing in the Rain

Cassius is settling well, although he's still sleeping upstairs & last night stayed on the bed till 5am, which meant I had to arrange my legs around him, in varying positions. So yet again, I am not well rested. That apart though, it's all sorting itself out.

So now what?

As you havn't answered my question Wai, I'm going to assume that it's you, until you tell me otherwise. So how's your life been so far? Did you ever get into the National Team? I have to admit I wasn't a great rugby fan in those days, so once our paths parted, I didn't keep abreast of developments for the All Blacks. Hey, did you keep the tattoo? I'll understand if you had it removed... I know you didn't have much space left. We were lucky to find those few inches as it was!

Gotta dash now Wai, duty calls. It's pouring down outside, and rather dark, so I don't suppose I'll be going far. Reminds me of playtime at junior school, when they made us stay in the classroom if it rained. Dark, damp & dismal. Of course, there's no-one keeping me in now. I could run into the garden & dance around naked, like the pagan hippie I used to be! The men in white coats might arrive after half an hour or so, but that would be long enough! Mmmm, but maybe not...... my hair would go frizzy.

So Tired

I'm so tired, I havn't slept a wink, I'm so tired, my mind is on the brink, I wonder should I get up & fix myself a drink? No, no, no! Well, maybe just a small Horlicks.... Hey, I just found a website with Irish drinking songs for cat-lovers. The first one's called Wild Kitty, which is sung to the tune of Wild Rover. I could have done with an Irish drinking song on Bonfire Night, when my dear brother plied his unsuspecting sister with a double measure of tequila & some dodgy brandy. The last thing I remember is trying really hard to have an intelligent conversation with my sister-in-law, but my mouth seemed to be moving in slow motion. Right now, I'm drinking some jolly nice Pear Cider from Sweden and it's only 4.5% alcohol, which means I can drink the whole 500ml without going over my limit. I don't want to live too dangerously!


PS to "Flossiesfriend": Cheeky Pete's? D'you meanThe Castle in Richmond? When were you there? Not the night I was carried downstairs by the bouncers? (Yes, it was a bit painful.) You're not the Maori rugby player are you? The one who threw me over his shoulder, after the other one fell down the stairs? It's all flooding back now ..... you & me on the riverbank in the moonlight. The haka is still my most popular party piece. Is that you Wai?

New Contender

The new contender, in the ring of names, is Cassius... as in Cassius Marcellus Clay. I still love the name Merlin, but I have to admit that Cassius is appropriate, bearing in mind that he's black & beautiful, with hands that look like boxing gloves. Plus I've already been on the end of a pretty nifty southpaw! But the odd bop aside, he's happy with the humans, but how the heck am I going to introduce him to the others, without all hell breaking loose? I've already had a taster of what's to come, when Maisie barged into the bedroom, a few minutes after Cassius (or whatever) was installed. Fur spiked & much spitting ensued, until I manouvred her out of the room. Any suggestions from the world of cat-lovers?

Kipling or King Arthur

What an amazing cat!!! His extra toes aren't evenly spaced, they stick out at the back like thumbs, or stabilisers of some sort! He's black as night, with bright yellow eyes and, right now, he's langorously stretched across the dressing table. They called him Baghera, after the panther in Jungle Book, but I like the name Merlin. He certainly looks magical! If we call him Baghera, it'll probably be shortened to Baggy, which doesn't suit him, but Merlin.... you could shorten it to Merl, but that's kind of cool. I think so anyway.

Bouncer Required

Hey, I passed the test! Had a visit from the RSPCA to see whether I'm a suitable candidate for another cat. Hoping to see Bagheera tomorrow, with a view to bringing him home! I'm in desperate need of a bouncer to ward off uninvited toms. Oh... and the blue burmese from down the road, who purports to be a female, but I don't believe a word of it. That cat is nuts!!! She just broke off my cat door for the 3rd time in 6 months! Apparently, Bagheera has extra toes, so very big feet. Can't wait to see him give her a wallop!

Bye for now folks!

PS: "Stefan", I'm sorry I missed your birthday, but bearing in mind I don't know who you are and therefore have no idea when your birthday is, it's hardly surprising is it? And by the way, another type of fishing is phishing, which, according to wikipedia, means "a criminal activity using social engineering techniques. Phishers attempt to fraudulently acquire sensitive information." So what are you phishing for Stefan?

Trying Hard

I suppose I'll just have to try really hard not to say bad things about people I know. It ain't gonna be easy, but I'll try.

Anyone out there interested in animation? Saw a couple of funny short ones recently. First is called Barrista (from buenothebear.com I think), which is in Episode 1 on Channel Frederator (what a great site!). Second was a really amateur-looking, but great-all-the-same one on YouTube. It's one of the thousands of "alternative endings for Lord of the Rings" and the makers are called filthycajun films, which sounds like a porn site, but it's not .... when I last looked anyway. And of course.... the not so funny, in fact seriously creepy, Cat with Hands! Look on YouTube.

Hey, guess what? I think I'm being cyber-stalked! Someone calling himself Stefan has started a blog called Flossiesfriend & he said he forgives me for not sending him a birthday card. Who is this person? I know I need all the friends I can get, but it helps to know who your friends are!

4,000 holes

Woke up, got outta bed, dragged a comb across my head..... found my way downstairs & had a smoke, somebody spoke and I went into a dream.... aah aaah aaah aaah. Yup, that's pretty much how it was yesterday, except for the smoke, which I don't... more like a cup of Earl Grey, but other than that, exactly the same. Come to think of it, it's like that most days. Will I ever get punctual? Probably not, too late for this old dog to learn tricks like that.

New girl started, ho-hum. Met her once before. She's the friend and ex-colleague of a colleague, if you get my drift. We went to see her pole-dancing. No... sorry... Morris dancing. Strange hobby for a young girl, especially as she's Scottish. Isn't Morris dancing an olde English sort of thing? I think so. Anyway, she's quite sweet and very impressed with her large desk and the fact that we're left to our own devices most of the time.

Hmmm, there's so much I could say, but I'm still worried about other people reading it. I mean people I know. This is a problem I will have to get over, if this blog is to be anything like interesting. I'm going to go away & mull that over ..... wish me luck and watch this space!

It's a First!

Hi Chaps, this is my first ever entry on Flossie's Blog!

Now...... what can I say....? Hmmmm, harder than I thought actually. Not much happening at the moment. Boring Sunday afternoon, no-one's emailed me, no-one on MSN. It was my turn to cook Sunday lunch, so had Jamie for main course and Gordon for dessert. Hmmm interesting thought. Maybe it should have been the other way round. Whatever, the food wasn't a resounding success, but perfectly edible. Now I've finished my Frome Valley cider and I'm bored. I've updated my family tree on Genes Reunited. Discovered that my great great grandmother had a son outside of wedlock, before she married my great great grandfather. Such disgrace and besmirchment to my family name! So there's a whole parallel line of family members that we knew nothing about till this morning! OK, it may not be a life-changing discovery for me, but I bet it was for her, poor woman. Or maybe she wasn't a poor woman... maybe she planned it that way. Maybe she was a 19th century rebel.