Thank you for your understanding...

There is a certain something which is interfering from my being completely at peace. It's like the kind of interference you get on your mobile phone when driving right through the Santa Venera Tunnels, only this is worse. The legend of I don't know what says that when this happens it means you're in the wrong. But I have tried and tried and tried and tried again to think if I have done something wrong, and I'm not getting any closer to finding why. I haven't done anything wrong, except for the smoking and caffeine habit which happens everyday and which I don't really think about. But there's a hell of a lot of unfinished business. And it's making me uneasy. And helpless. I have told my twin that I love him countless of times, perhaps I should also tell my parents that although their reaction will be one which makes my blood boil. Apparently, 'children' who are 35 and have flown the nest are committing one big sin. Go figure, nothing will convince them otherwise. But I know I have failed to tell one little person about my feelings because I was scared shit of the consequences; not of my consequences, but of his. I just wished I could scoop him up and away and tell him. But I get the feeling that I am not allowed to do that, so, cowardly me, didn't say Carpe Diem, didn't face the music, and just played safe and kept her distance. Now I wish I hadn't. I'm not too sure it would have been so detrimental. But I still kept my distance, and now, if I could, I'd kick my own ass for it. I could care less about what would have happened to me, we're in Malta and there is no death penalty. And really, I would love to see the day I was handed a criminal sentence for hugging a little person. But I was too scared of how it would have affected the little one in question, too scared of the possibility of never being able to see him again. So, like the good girl I am not, I obeyed. And obedience is not really one of my virtues, yet that is what I did. And now obedience doesn't sound like a very good thing. I have seen hundreds of little people, I have liked all of them and I have struck up a close relationship with dozens of them. But I have fallen deeply in love with just the one. I somehow had a clue that it might not be very easy. I have had enough of emails signed off with a "Thank you for your understanding". No I do not understand, shit is shit regardless who it's coming from. I do not understand because someone just said so. And thinking that I will be in awe and immediately understand is the most presumptuous thing one can do. And no, I do not exactly have learning difficulties, nor do I have a low IQ. I am no yes-girl, on the contrary, I will stand up to be spoken. And although I have been brought up to respect authority because the ones with the authority usually know what's best, well I also think respect is a two-way thing which sometimes requires clarification and explanation as opposed to the " Because I said so". The trouble is I forgot to ask Santa for a manual, a shit-interpreter, and a couple of very understanding Spanish Flies. Because that's just about my level of understanding. I have never understood the flies, which are not really my style anyhow, but I have a perhaps mistaken idea that they propel things into action, and that might mean my starting to understand what's happening. Because thanking me for my understanding is the biggest lie ever told. Oh... and thank you for your understanding.

Christmas Breakfast

I am trying to book some place for Christmas breakfast. I thought that judging by the people buying very thriftily here and there, it wouldn't be a problem. Wrong. It is. That's already four places fully booked. Where did the credit crunch go all of a sudden? I know I should be pleased because this means it will be good for the economy, but it's leaving me stranded. And I like Christmas breakfast and I've never broken the tradition. We'll see, my other half is trying desperate measures and if he cannot sweet talk someone into putting one extra table than nobody can. I certainly can't. I'm bad with phones. The minute I dial a number I break into a sweat, and the minute someone answers I turn into an extremely shy wallflower. Him... you'd think you were talking to the President of the United States. And Him... he gets results. We're a funny couple, and it works, because together we create equilibrium. Something like the see-saw thing, except that I have never liked see saws because it never works with anybody else. I get stuck firmly to the ground while the other person concerned gets so mad at me for keeping him in mid-air for quite a long time. But Him... he could really sell ice to the Eskimos and sand to the people inhabiting the Sahara desert, if there are any people living there to begin with. That's all him. Me... I couldn't even sell the biggest diamond for a couple of Euro. Or perhaps it's because I would keep this biggest diamond all to myself. And although you are constantly sharing everything when you're a twin, seeing you don't even get to have your own birthday cake, no, I don't share. Not where diamonds are concerned, and not when the other half is concerned. No I don't share my man, I don't even share my twin. I suffer from the dreaded tom-cat territorial behaviour. It's all mine. And talking about breakfasts, woe betide anybody who thinks it's funny to try and steal just one hash off my plate. Or one miserable baked bean. Lay off or you'll be having a sharp fork stuck into your arteries in no time at all. I don't even like sharing my bed very much. For one, I like a lot of space, secondly, I take a lot of space, and thirdly I don't like anybody rolling around and waking me up. Space invaders are not for me. Except if the space invader can cook me a Christmas breakfast to perfection. Then maybe I would think about it, don't get your hopes up high, I'm saying I might just consider it... perhaps it's why I actually share a bed with my other half, because he is so good in the culinary department.

The Crying Game

So much fighting has been going on. So much trouble, it's becoming like something out of a cowboy movie. But it's not. It's the Christmas 2008 scenario in Malta. And I thought I was wild, but these Country and Western going-on make me pale in comparison. I am wild because I've got the guts to go blond, or because I love heavy theatrical make up, or because I used to love the bad boys. But never have I even thought of using a firearm, not even on the worst day of my life which I know the time and date perfectly. I just thought of lighting up a cigar. That's all. And of course that's not very much against the law, especially when you're doing it in private and bothering nobody with the smell. Just what is happening here? Is it the credit crunch, recession, depression, a touch of paranoia stemming from schizophrenia? What the hell?

I am not trying to make myself as a very pure angel. I never used a firearm because probably I was brought up by people who didn't even know what a gun looked like. I am no thief because I have been brought up by the same people who didn't steal. And I do not kill because I have been brought up by people who never killed. I guess I was lucky. Of course I get angry sometimes, and maybe raise my voice a little and cry copious amounts of frustration tears. But tears never killed anybody. It's might not be the grown up thing to do, but crying never left anybody half dead. It just dries out the eye lubrication which is replaced immediately once you stop. Of course I have been brought up to stand up to be spoken, but never to stand up to kill. Never. And again, I guess I have been lucky. It could have been so easy to be me instead of someone else firing a gun. It could have been me who, like Jean Val Jean stole the loaf of bread to feed his family (although I like Jean Val Jean and I don't think he was doing such a wrong thing). It still could have been me, especially because of my liking the bad boys. I was lucky, because I got out in time. Or perhaps it is because you always return to your roots no matter what. But what if the roots were in some filthy, dangerous swamp? Would I have been the same? I guess not. So I can only thank fate, destiny, God for providing me with my own healthy roots. It's true I have messed them up a little bit by the smoking, but never by crime. It's life, and I'm one of those who just got lucky and cried instead of killed.

Mowgli...

It's a fact. I am surrounded by boys all the time. The female touch is in a minority in this house. We're just 4 girls as opposed to, let me count, 7, plus another two who knock on my door regularly, that makes them 9. It's always me and the boys, it's been that way for ages, and it's not going to change now. I don't mind. Boys are ok, especially my boys. It's been me and my boy ever since I wasn't yet seeing daylight. It was me and my boy being born. And I have been so very very blessed by my boy, a playmate at first, then a companion, and now inseparable twins. Then came the boyfriends, and yes, yes, I know my taste in men when in my teens wasn't good. I loved the bad boys. Perhaps because they provided a multitude of excitement, so from one bad boy to the next. I finally made it somehow, with a good boy who still provides the excitement. Then came the dog, the cats, and a parrot for good measure. It's like a recreation of the Jungle Book in here. I even have my very own Bagheera who might not be as big, but just as slinky as the one in Kipling's book. It is my boys who kick my ass (very gently) when I start falling into a dangerous rut, it's my boys whom I allow to hear me cry in desperate situations, it's my boys who pick out the jewellery (most of it anyway), it's my boys who do my hair, it's my boys who do everything.

A Jungle Book. It just needs a Mowgli.....

Magic Wands

I have finally decided what I want to Christmas. There is something which cannot even be called something which or who I'd love to have not just for Christmas, but I'm going to refrain from actually spelling that out of obvious reasons. My blog seems to be doing great, I think it wouldn't have had this much popularity had I published it in a book! And I never even meant it to be this way, I started a blog just on a whim, to write all the silly things which cross my path. But like all thing unplanned, it's going stronger than ever for what reason I have yet to discover.

Anyway, I want a magic wand for Christmas. No broom, just some fairy dust, wings, a preferably an iced pink costume, although that is going to be extremely hard to find seeing that fairy body shapes are discriminatory because they come in tiny, micro-minutes sizes. Oh well, will just have to do without. As long as I have my magic wand. Or perhaps I could trade my non-existing costume for a crystal ball. That would be just scrumptious and I promise I'd put it away carefully very time I used it, since my six cats think that anything shiny is a new toy. Perhaps they have inherited my enthusiasm for shiny objects, as I do with diamonds. They're my cats after all, so that's no surprise.

I want to wave some magic, which could be naughty magic too. Oh God, that sounds desperately wrong. By naughty magic I mean mischievous and not bad magic. I would throw a couple of stop signs just in front of a couple of people whom I know, I'd throw some magic snowballs at the heads of some other people I know, I would deplete the electricity system of a couple of other people I know. Why? Because perhaps it's the only way which would get them to think, seeing they would be shit-scared of supernatural happenings. Oh and of course I'd throw a special star... for Peter Pan of course, although I'm nowhere near Tinker Bell....

Data Protection

So it's the holidays. One good thing, I woke up at my very own body clock leisure and not at the seven screaming alarms which I never fail to never hear. And I could just stay motionless there for a vital five minutes during which I try to remember where I am, what I am, and who I am. It's confusing sometimes, when it's all one mad rush. And so I should be so pleased to have a fortnight of holidays stretch in front of me. I should be very very pleased, and in a way, the no alarms thing does make me pleased, but and but and but, I am missing the little faces for whom, making the gigantic effort of getting up is all worth it. I am missing the enthusiastic little faces who ask, ask, ask about everything in the music world, and also about everything which has nothing to do with the music world. I am not missing the few big people who think that the sunnier it gets, the more they hate their job. They are just a handful, but it's wise to avoid them. But in all truth most of the big people do a very good job of it, and it must not be easy handling some 25 little faces for six hours a day. But they manage it, and they score a hundred marks in that. But if I were missing the big people, it would be easy; I would just call, email, text or whatever. But not the little people, because they are shrouded in this Data Protection Act policy. So am I, but I could waive it away. And while I understand that this policy is there to protect the little people as opposed to hiding them behind it, well sometimes it makes life, my life at least, so difficult. And while I understand, well, perhaps it is acting like rusty, sharp barbed wire and while the privacy is respected, the freedom is paying a price. Although, in a place like Malta, it is quite difficult for anybody's privacy to be respected, and it needn't be paying a private eye to do the work. Everybody is into everyone's business, and that might not be a good thing, but it still guarantees the same result, and for free. Add to this that sometimes little people themselves decide to have a good old cry and talk, and there, without asking comes the info which you might not even want to hear because it's so difficult to deal with. And then with the info, comes the dreaded, debilitating feeling of helplessness; that of wanting to do something and that of knowing you can do nothing at all. That's the Data Protection thing explained in a nutshell, at least, in the way of whoever explained it to me in the first place. And while the this Data Protection thing might have stemmed through noble and good reasons, well, you cannot deny that the road to hell is also paved with good intention slabs which are uneven, sharp, and a nightmare to walk on.