Demonstrations.

I am not a very demonstrative person, much as I have always hoped to be.  Maybe I was once upon a time, and got slapped down too often.  I can barely remember.  But I do remember one time when Daddy was briefly home from The War and I nearly hugged him to death.  I think I was about four years old at the time.  So the ability was there once upon a time.

Anyway, such reactions long ago deserted me.  I want to, but I simply can’t.  Probably for fear of making a fool of myself.  Much later I once kissed a female friend who I hadn’t see for a long time, and was so pleased to see, but she was embarrassed and made a silly remark about women kissing.  That just about put the tin hat on that sort of behaviour.

This inability has coloured all of my relationships with men and women.  I even find it difficult to tell someone that I like and admire them, which I so often do, but can’t say.

I never cry.  That would be a ridiculous waste of time.  And all of my children can spot the possible even happy onset of such an emotion, and tell me not to be silly.  Have I somehow deprived them of being able to be spontaneous?

My paternal grandmother was half Italian, and oh my God, she couldn’t half cry.  I can only remember her crying.  I didn’t know if she was happy or sad.  She just cried a lot.

The rest of my family were Celts to the core.  No bloody crying going on there.  What! Certainly not.  Just get on with it all.

But the sorrow of my inability always lives with me.

 

Spirituality.

Now there’s a thing, especially as I have no real idea of what it means.

Do I want a life after death?  Probably not.  I don’t suppose that I would make a better one of that than I am doing of this one.

My main problem has always been The Sin of Pride.  Such an easy one to fall into.  I am kind so therefor I am good.  This thinking doesn’t make allowances for the fact that some of us are just born that way.  And it doesn’t make people who aren’t born that way necessarily bad.  They just don’t know how  to be different.  There you go.  Sin of Pride number one in this missive.

Perhaps I was just more fortunate.  Sin of Pride number two.  It’s a minefield, believe me.

Every bloody thing is a Sin of Pride, so it’s not my fault.  Sin of Pride number three.

My thoughts on the subject have absolutely nothing to do with God.  You don’t need God to tell you.  Whoops.  Sin of Pride number four.

You are all probably wondering by now for why I bother castigate myself.  I don’t know either.  This is almost certainly not a Sin of Pride.  So there goes another one.  If you see what I mean.

Sorry about that.  Just a passing fancy.

 

Winter.

Okay God.  That’s it.  Joke over.  I have had enough of being cold and wet and depressed, and of sleeping for ten hours a night because I can’t think of anything better to do.

I have cut up six boxes of kindling from the Wisteria rubbish, when it wasn’t actually pissing down, mainly because it makes me feel useful and helps to get rid of it all.  I expect I will be pleased about this next Winter.  And let’s face it, I amn’t much good for anything else these days.  Old age ain’t much fun when your bones ache from the damp.

Connor thinks it is a huge laugh and tries to wrestle long strands of it away from me when he isn’t actually tearing it to bits himself, so I spend more time retrieving it from all corners of the garden.  Must try to teach him something about Feet and Inches.  I do talk to him you know.  I say, “Look, you little swine.  I need it this length.  And if you could put it in the box, that would be good.”  Perhaps I need to say it in French, but I shall have to Google Translate that.  And then my neighbour will be certain sure that I have gone mad.  And probably report me to The SPA for animal abuse.

Yesterday, Robin Dominic and I went to Languidic to look at Lawn Mowers.  No, I don’t need to look at Lawn Mowers.  Languidic is only about twenty miles away, but  after we had completely circumnavigated the entire County of La Morbihan, due to Robin’s idea of a short cut, we finally staggered home about three hours later.  Getting home was easier than getting there.  La Morbihan isn’t hot on sign posts.  I swear to God we went through one village at least three time.  But it’s hard to tell since they all look the same.

I gave up short cuts around here many years ago.  You always finish up in some God forsaken place you have never heard of, and didn’t want to anyway.  I mean, who would want to go to Kervagio?  Six houses, a massive great Church, a Car Park and three Bars, all closed, incidentally, which isn’t all that surprising.

So, today I am going to sweep the floor of wood chipping, again.  I ought to do some dusting but I can’t be arsed.  It will all be the same tomorrow.  Bonne Chance.