Female flows

Just as I'd imagined, the judge ruled in my royal favour. Of course he did. I am right ain't I? Yes I was, am and always will be. Period. But there's yet another thing which is confusing me again. And it's the period word. And I am trying really hard to look at the situation with objective, no-hang-ups specs. And I still do not get it. I guess I am a moron, a royal moron when it comes to women's DIY gynaecology. And this is going to sound disgusting, at least to me, but it's the truth. Along the course of these four years, I have come to know teachers and their ways better. It really wasn't much trouble, my being the offspring of two other teachers (Yikes!) themselves. But I have never heard my parents talk in the same non-chalante way as do the teachers of 2009. The female teachers I mean. A lot, and I really mean a lot of them seem to think that menstruation, female periods or lack of them, are an interesting subject. Now it's ok, I know I am a private person who is very private about her privates and would never divulge something like that to anybody. But my female colleagues do. And it's not just girls-among-girls talk. No, equality reigns. Fine, I am a misfit, antisocial, and want nobody to know what's going on with me and my female private body. Perhaps I go over the top on being secretive. But that's me. And no, I do not live my life like a nun, never have, never will. And also no, I am no puritan. But discussing the female flows over coffee? And is it really necessary to describe, the length, width, colour, shape, viscosity of whatever is going on down there? I don't want to know. Because I don't care for one. And I find it disgusting for another. And they go on and on and rant and rave even in front of our male colleagues. It makes me cringe. It makes me want to run away. It makes me want to scream. And at the end of it all it makes me want to shoot them execution style. If the subject if going to be about blood, then I might as well as take the gore. Do I understand the whole issue? No. And yet I have to listen, because I haven't been brave enough to tell them to shut up. But I will one day soon. Very soon.

Diet Coke.... AGAIN!

I have an issue. And I could also call it a problem, seeing I cannot understand it. It's called, What's the problem with Diet Coke or Coke Zero? Perhaps I cannot understand it and perhaps I don't want to understand it. Diet Coke and Coke Zero and fizzy drinks, so harmless they are called soft drinks. They contain no sugar, just caffeine. And here I being to put my case to my imaginary judge who will take my side of course because I'm a bad bad loser. We tell little people that nicotine and tar are bad for our health. Fair enough, and this is coming from a smoker, but really, it's very fair enough. We tell them not to eat fast food we we label as junk. A sandwich is fast food because it's done in less then a minute, and yet it's not junk. That's what I see in little people's lunchboxes. That is what little people see their elders eating too. Eating bread every day is not a very healthy thing to do, but let me close my royal eye on that. We also tell little people that alcohol is unhealthy, which might be true if taken to alcoholism. Now this is coming from a girl who could be Muslim in the alcoholic behaviour, I don't drink quite simply because I don't like it. Alcohol makes me sleepy, sluggish and depressed. So let's say that that is bad too. And we also tell little people to drink, wait for it, water, H2O, just H2O. Boring. I was a little girl, and I hated water. Now I'm a big girl and I still hate hate hate water. I like Diet Coke, of which I drink copious amounts. What's the big deal about that? Had it been normal totally sugared Cola I would have understood, but something as harmless as a diet soft drink? Oh come on. I have seen, smelt alcohol poured in Ice Tea bottles, and that's so sly. I say nothing because it's not my business anyway. Why is Diet Coke so bad? Is it because of the fizz, the caffeine? But then people with little people drink hellish amounts of coffee and tea with sugar and milk, isn't that worse? Or is it ok because it's usually in a mug and is invisible to a little man's naked eye? I, a very heavy smoker, will never agree to smoking in front of little people. And I, a tee-total cannot talk about alcohol. I do not ban it because it doesn't interest me. Life's tough enough, do we really want to bring up a nation of just water-drinkers? That's sad. A soft drink is called just that for a reason. Because it's soft and harmless and doesn't interfere. We have healthy breakfasts, where the amount of food consumed really worries me. If I consumed that amount of healthy breakfast every day I'd be twice my size. And that worries me a lot. The diet legend has it that one needs to eat a proper breakfast to be healthy. But that sadly is a myth, a legend. Of course, you could say, look who's talking. I smoke too much, I eat too much at night, and I am a very unhealthy picture. And all along, I was brought up in a family where healthy eating was the order of every day. And look what happened. As soon as I was old enough to get out, I loved all the things which were deemed 'unhealthy', 'bad'. It was forbidden fruit. It just tasted so sweeter. But my Diet Coke habit is a legacy thrown onto me by my parents. And no, it's another legend, Diet Coke does not make you fat ( there goes the f-word). I have been half my size and was still drinking Diet Coke. My opinion, which of course counts because it is a royal opinion, is that banning everything could lead to worse things. Imagine me, a little girl, having to forcefully drink water, eat bread and nothing else during school. How puritan. I would have thrown so many tantrums that I would have been given an LSA immediately and deemed autistic, anti-social (which I think I am), a problem child. What are we trying to do here; bring up the next generation of poor frustrated creatures, whose taste-buds will be even more frustrated? Where is that going to end? In a few years little people will become big people, and what then, do you really expect them to go clubbing drinking bottled water? That's not real. What about the artificial sweetener, the notorious aspartame in the Diet Coke? Aspartame leads to cancer? Oh geeze if we really start believing that then we're going to need psychologists for all of us. Would I prefer to live up to 80 and have lived a very boring life? Or would I prefer to live up to 75 and have drunk something like 1000000000000 litres of Diet Coke? I choose the latter. A poor life this, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare. And here I rest my case and wait for the judge who will rule in my royal aura.

Hungry

I'm hungry. And nobody wants to cook for me. I think I'm dialing 179. Or 151. But that's only for abuse, drug addictions, alcoholism. Isn't it about flipping time they invented a phone line for hungry people? Isn't that a basic need too? It would be just like ordering a takeout, but it would be so much better because you'd have the right to stay anonymous, and this can order massive amounts of food without anybody having your name to call you a pig. I did go to lunch to my mum's today, but I wasn't hungry seeing I'd only just got up a half hour before. And although I love food, I absolutely cannot take food in the morning, or just as I've woken up. That is the problem. I go foodless till 10 in the evening, I don't even think of food during that time, I see other teachers' lunches and get so squirmy that I have to remove myself from them because it's all I can do not to throw up. Daytime is for coffee. And Diet Coke. Please do not remind me that Diet Coke is also harmful because it has aspartame, because I like it too much, I guess I'm addicted to caffeine, and I don't care because we all have to die some day. My tombstone will just read, Here lies the she who died from Diet Coke... and nicotine. Who cares? Because along these four years I've shaken off a lot of temperamental musician habits, but I am still temperamental and still haven't shaken off the Diet Coke and the strong coffee. My problem starts going into force at exactly 11pm when my body decides it's hungry and so say all of us. Then, I cannot have enough of food. And I know eating late is so so unhealthy, but I am not very healthy anyway. So what do I do know? I don't know. It's kind of early to eat, but I have hunger pangs. This summer time thing always has a habit of ruining my day. Always. I never liked summertime anyway. It'll be even more difficult to wake up in the morning. My relationship with food has never been the textbook one. No that's not fair, it's the classic relationship you find on books labelled 'What not to do'. But then so is my smoking habit. And my Diet Coke. All through this Diet Coke, and I've never ever met the Diet Coke man. Sad. That's it. I'm off to eat, whatever it is.

27

I am still opening up the front page of Yahoo religiously the moment I wake up. But I see no Jade anymore. And that is sad. Too sad. Is it possible to mourn someone you have never met? Yes it sure it. How? Well in the same way that we all mourned Diana. Loads of us never ever spoke to her, yet the grief could be felt in the streets of London. I remember. I was there. One could argue that Diana was a true princess. She had a good upbringing, was far from daft, always played the role of the princess perfectly and died suddenly without anybody being prepared for it. She also left two boys. And I remember Earl Spencer's speech at Diana's funeral, a speech so hard on the royal family. I cried, because I was in total agreement. And I cried because I wouldn't have kept my composure so well had I been Earl Spencer and had Diana been my brother. I would have lashed out, not very dignified. Then there was Jade, so loud, so daft, so boyish, so without manners. She swore, she fought, she laughed, and thought Rio de Janerio was 'a bloke innit?' She thought that Cambridge was in London, and I remember reading about this stupid girl who just wanted to be famous regardless. It caught my attention. I never was a big brother fan, but I'd never heard of anybody so dim on camera. And as her eviction drew near, people were screaming, 'Kill the Pig'. I didn't like that. So Jade was overweight, that was not my issue. And I pursued on reading about Jade, sometimes laughing at the shrewd ways she could cook up something for fame. Then I read about her childhood, and I fell in love with this girl. So she was infamous, so what, I still loved her and her guts. I thought Jade had become a staple, that I would always be watching her from then on, till I was at least 70. I thought that then, she'd have become an old woman like me and we'd have died together. Not so. She died at 27. And 27 is a sore age for me. It is an age where I'd hit rock bottom so much that I really didn't care anymore about life. And no I've never touched drugs, I've never self harmed, I have never been a textbook girl who had a breakdown. I know I should hide my past. But Jade has taught me not to be ashamed of things I had no control over. I had no control over my breaking down. It happened in a flash. Never before had I experienced the anguish I felt at 27. I really thought my body would not be able to take the pain anymore and that I would die of a broken heart. When I remember the long days and nights spent on my divan rocking myself (because it was something I'd taken up to relieve the pain), smoking myself to death, calling 179 repeatedly and getting no help at all, sleeping fleetingly only when my body was too wretched to take more, the sobbing, the crying and the wailing which would cause me to wretch I am shocked at myself for having gone through all that and come out alive. I thought I'd never smile again let alone laugh, and since I was only 27 I thought that I'd had so many horrible years yet to come. Life was misery. It's not called a breakdown anymore. It's called a clinically depressed state. No, better still, it is now called Post Trauma Stress Disorder. It might be hard to believe but it should be called a living hell. I wanted to go at 27. Jade didn't want to but slipped away at 27. 27. Such a harsh age for me and for Jade. Perhaps we should skip 27 altogether and go from 26 to 27. It would have made my life a whole lot easier. And it would mean that Jade would still be around. By some miracle, I climbed out of that dingy big black hole and embraced life again. I thought I'd never smile, but I've laughed myself silly. It is still a shadow I try to run from. But at least I made it. Poor Jade didn't. Fuck 27.

Travel?

I am quite fed up. Fed up thanks to a whole lot of things. Then again, perhaps its angry, and again angry thanks to a whole lot of things. Why the feelings? I just need a break from home, not from my home per se. No. It's not that. I need to travel. If I could just up my house and transport it to somewhere else in the globe, then that is just what I'd do. The problem is I've grown so fond of my house. Travelling would mean hotels, and no hotel in the world is as comfortable as my house. Sure they could be grander, but I like my creature comforts just the way I like them and have installed everything the way I want it over here. I don't care about the Heavenly Beds. My bed is heavenly because there are always a few cats on it. It wouldn't be that way in a Holiday Inn, or a Sheraton, or a Westin, or even a Radisson and a Hilton. Hotels creep me out. I never get to know who's been in the bed before, or who's died in the bed before, or who has had loads of sex (meaning loads of spunk) in the bed. Yes, I am as territorial as you can get. I want mine, mine, mine. And I don't share either. But is it time up for me in Malta? It really seems so. This island has grown too small for me, or perhaps I've outgrown it. I want creations, opportunities, and excitement. There is nothing very exciting here quite simply because I've been around everywhere (yes even the infamous Testaferrata street which is nothing to shout about). This isn't London where no matter how many times I roam about Camden I always find something new. This is not Milan where I could safely wear my real fur. And this is not Egypt where I could look at the Sphinx and imagine it were looking back at me. This not even Libya where I would be the talk of the town the the subject of many admirers. Or France, oh that would be liberating. And I think I could be lured away from my creature comforts for excitement. The only problem is, how the hell would I transport my four legged creatures? Oh yes, they're all micro-chipped, but still how does one travel with a 100kg dog, a 92kg dog, six cats and one parrot? It's useless. And no I will not give them away. Because they're all mine too. And no, I will not get a house sitter because a house sitter does no know the way I handle my pets. I know their every move, I know when they decide to get hungry just to get me out of bed, and when they're really hungry. They're spoilt, I know, I've spoilt them, and I don't care one hoot. I chose to bring them up, so they get the best treatment. I'd do the same if they were my human kids, and no it's not funny. And although I'm talking of travel, I'd miss them terribly. Which leaves me no choice but to stay.

Losing it

I have just been on the phone with Melita Cable, or whatever it's called now. One word of advice, if you feel a lot of pent up anger inside, never ever call Melita Cable. I did, I called ten times in a row. And every time I got a , Good evening, Melita, how can I help? So I explained my browsing was terribly slow, definitely not the 20Mb they had promises, so they said ok hold on... and the line went dead. Ten times. Ten flipping times. And by thee eleventh time, that was it. I flipped. After having listened to a get-the-sports-channel ad for a million times, and heard Abba songs so many times that I could sing them from memory, I got another, Hello how may I help. And I said I didn't know if they could help since I'd heard all about the sport channel and listened to Abba ad nauseum and called ten times and I'd had enough of the crap, and that don't they dare put me on hold again because they were just putting the phone down. It worked. The word finally changed. In no time at all I was being called Madam and no, nobody put me on hold. Oh the joys of erupting on someone. The joys of losing one's temper. The joys of getting the service I am paying for. I thought I'd forgotten how to lose my temper, it's been so long. And I'm not sorry. It was another way of therapy. And since I am footing the Melita bill anyway, I'm so glad, glad, glad. I wish I'd said more, but in between dragging on a cigarette and giving them a big piece of my mind, I think I did well. Now... I want more!

The hindrance

I have been thinking about a conversation held between myself and a little man. And I do not know if to laugh or cry. It's funny, and tragic at the same time. Little people are the best, but as always there will be one little person who will make you sweat. You'll never forget this one no matter how many years go by. And I have tried and tried and tried to understand the concept behind this little man's way of reasoning. I have tried being nice, being not so nice, being very not so nice. Nothing works. To say that this little man is a hindrance in all I do is an understatement. And to say that I have to make us of all my self control when dealing with him is another understatement. He says he is into nothing of the sort of things going on in a state school, because, he feels so superior seeing he was in a private school. And he thinks he is something better than everyone because he says he's toured the world. And quite frankly, I hate his snooty behaviour. All the more so because it is accompanied by a let-me-make-teacher's-life-hell kind of behaviour. I wish he'd kept touring the world, maybe in some ship, so maybe some shark would have come by and eaten him up. And yes, I know I'm not being very nice, and that I'm actually being extremely bad, but I come here with the whole truth and sometimes the truth isn't very nice either. When I was a little lady (and I wasn't an easy to deal with little lady either), I would jump for joy at the chance of taking part in any school activity as long as it didn't involve sport. Not this little man. I sometimes think of him as lying in wait to take any opportunity that presents itself. He's smart, and sly. One of my dirtiest looks doesn't bother him in the least. I have tried ignoring him. That doesn't work either. I know what would suddenly work, but I do not believe in corporal punishment. Is it really a spare the rod and spoil the child? I like to think it's not. But sometimes I just like to think about it. I'll never do it, but thinking about it never harmed anybody.

Loving it

I have been doing what I love the most; i.e. being surrounded by many little people all day. And I inevitably am looking back and thinking about myself. Yes I can get narcissistic sometimes. All about me. But in all honesty I don't blame myself for thinking about me. I rewind things to four years ago. I was shit scared, with a million doubts, and so so not sure about having made the right decision. The one thing which kept me going was my mum and dad, because since I am the offspring of two teachers, then wouldn't I at least have inherited a tine bit of that? I don't know what I have inherited, but I know now that I made the right decision. That scared girl is scared no more. I had no clue about classroom manners. I had no clue as to how to say hello. I had very little experience as to how to deliver to little people. I was scared of them. I needn't have been. Now I know. Now I can deliver, no problem. Perhaps it is also because I am not scared of little people anymore. It is a subject which crops up in my mind so very frequently. It's a big why and how it happened. Because I thought I was just too big to be around little people. But it's not how it happened. Big or small is not an issue. Can you not love people who love you? Can you not smile beneath a frown when little people are up to their antics? I once was told that strife gives way to happiness. And that I'd look back and sigh and think it was all worth it. And that has proved to be so very true. Millions of people have to go to work to make a living and out of these millions, other millions do not like what they do. I am lucky. I like what I do the minute I go into the building. I guess I was made to do what I do. If only I knew it before. But experience is experience no matter where it comes from. You just have to know how to talk to those little people.

Couches

Sometimes I get bouts of happiness, then something happens and I am thrown into the sadness. I know it should be just sadness, but for me sadness has to be called the sadness and not just any other sadness. I refuse to call life a bitch because I have plenty going on for me. And yet there is the cloud of yet the sadness again. I really do not know how to put it into words, and yet that is exactly what I doing. It's either my blog, or years in the couch. And years on the couch do not work for me, since I'm not sure the couch would be able to take me, and also since I'm not sure I'd be able to take the couch. I'd want a red plush couch, full of integrated motifs, just like the ones Marie Antoinette probably sat on before they took her head off. But mine will be a couch which is not head hungry. Years on the couch are also done through appointment, which is another thing I cannot take. I do not like appointments quite simply because I cannot keep them, and also quite simply because they take out the lasser-faire, spontaneity of whatever it is. And for some reason I never understood, just one couch session forces me to dress up, mask myself so prettily that I can see any therapist's bewilderment. I can read their eyes which say, surely this girl doesn't need the couch. But we all do. We all have our couch therapy. For my mum, it's going to church and behaving like a puritan. For my dad, it's doing The Times crossword, going for long walks and running his Gambler's Anonymous at Caritas. For the Mister, it's the dogs and the endless professional stuff which is constantly on the increase in his studio. For me, it's the music, and better still, my cats. Oh and my blog of course. But sometimes I am short of words. I just stare at my blog and write nothing. Because I have no words. I'm at it again, and that's a good sign. I hope I'll stay. Well, on my couch at least.

Angelic

So let me put Jade apart for a moment. Thinking about her is not doing me any good, it's not as if I can bring her back to life. If that were possible I think she'd use her 4 million estate. But death doesn't discriminate between the poor and the rich. So, anyway.

I have come across (finally!) a beautiful boy with a beautiful angelic voice. And it isn't the childish kind of voice. It is well rounded, nicely finished, and again a beautiful voice. It is also perfectly in tune, in time and in heaven. It is that angelic boys which English church choir-directors try very hard to find. Boys like that do not come in hundreds. I know that. But I have always secretly thought when it would happen in the course of these last four years. It's finally happened. And I'm sorry, because although I do not believe in pointing little people out, I also believe that the very gifted should have their chance to shine. And this is a gift. To this little man, and also to me. And I am going to make the most of it. And I am going to be so dreadfully honest. Of course he is an asset to me. Of course he makes my life so easy. At the same time, would I rest knowing that this man wouldn't have his chance? No. It's not as if I prefer him, although I have to admit that a little man being so brilliant has me in awe, and yes he is also a cutie. I have tried to be as careful as possible. I have tried explaining why I just had to select this young man. I hope I have been successful. Because I love all little people. It's just that I know a good one when I see one.

In Mourning

I have been hiding, grieving, and in mourning for Jade. This has hit me right frontal. And I just have not been able to write. It's never a good sign when I am not here, and it's taken me all the effort in the world to take the plunge and come here again. I never thought it would be this hard. Which is not such a good thing. I thought that I had exhausted the dead people issue. But this is showing me I haven't even gone closer to the subject one bit. I really thought and still think that I am not scared of death. Or perhaps I like to think that. If a close family member had departed to the other world, I would have understood the sadness. But Jade? What is it about Jade that is making me feel miserable? I don't know. Perhaps it's because I think it's such a waste of a life. Perhaps because I think it's such an ironic cruel blow dealt to a girl who finally made it from rags to riches to six feet under. It is also about a girl whom I could identify with, with her hot temper landing her into trouble. And it makes me think about her kids. At 27 she's left 2 kids. If I died and went to heaven now, I'd leave nothing. I'd probably leave pain, but that's about it. And it's such a hard nut to swallow. But it is what it is.

Forever Friend

I have two awesome friends. Actually one awesome friend who got himself an awesome girlfriend, perhaps even more awesome then him (?). He is like my forever friend, I know he will never harm me and I trust him implicitly. And I think the reverse also stands, he knows I will never harm him and that I will never ever deceive him. He is like a second brother, and no he's not gay. It's funny the things (or people) life throws at us and we get so used to it we never really give it a second thought. It also helps that my forever friend is also a professional musician like me, we go way back for something like 15 years. We have given concerts, opera, symphony... anything and everything. He has been there through the baddest (wrong superlative purposely) moments of my life. I always talk about the people going out of my life when in dire straits. This is one person who fell straight in, who actually rang my door bell when he knew I would be opening the door to pain. He didn't mind my crying game. We have been through so much child-like mischief that we have plenty to tales to make you cry with laughter. And it precisely when a friendship has been through all the ups and downs that we acquire a friendship as strong as siblinghood. And as luck would have it, he has been thrown bang into the same college I teach in. Splendid. Not just because of the friendship, but also because he is a brilliant musician with whom I have performed so many times that I can create anything with him, with my eyes closed, my ears closed even. I really think it's fate. My forever friend and I working together. I couldn't have asked for a better deal. And for this, I have to thank the Gods.

Jade's dead

I've woken up as usual, fumbling around for my phone to check about Jade. I guess that will be the last time because Jade has stopped living. Rather then keep looking for euphemisms, Jade has died. And it makes me sad. I never knew Jade. At the very least she irritated me for being so loud, so crude and so academically stupid. And yet, at the best of times, so shrewd. But the minute I knew her life would be over, I just got obsesses. An exact month of obsession. And I kept scouring the Internet hoping Jade would rally on and praying that by some miracle she would pull through. Sadly, she hasn't. And I wonder now how it is for her kids. Just wee kids who have lost their mummy. All along this obsessive month, I have read her biography and can recount it in harrowing precision. Poor Jade. She really didn't have much of a childhood. It's the fairytale of a girl who went from rags to riches, only for it to be cut short by cancer. It could be opera. But it's real all right. I will never know what it's like to have parents who are constantly high on dope. Jade did. She's done her part, and now she's at peace. And I'm grieving. And in mourning. And I never even met the girl.

Lanyards... again

That's it. I think all lanyards have vanished from the island for good. The remaining ones are not even sturdy enough to hold my Rothmans Blue let alone my mobile phone. So I've opted for a pink fufu (sorry no better word). It's a shocking pink fufu which will at least enable me to see my phone in the darkness of my bag. Bu again, there's the uncomfortable question... where have all the lanyards gone? I have been to so many cell phone shops and have felt as if I were a bull in a china shop, just because I asked for a lanyard. For one, these people do not know what a lanyard is, I had to show them what I was talking about. For seconders, I have been given a mystified look. It really felt as if I were asking for tampons at the butcher's. So strange. I remember they came in an array of colours with cheeky words slapped on them. Now.. they're dead. But they can't be dead, they must be stashed away in someone's house. And I keep thinking, they're doing a job they weren't made for doing. And my wild guess is that they're having a whole lot of fun seeing things they weren't made to see. Take the leather lanyard... just like a leather riding crop. Take three of those, and you're in business. And no, they won't be found in stables. As for the other coloured cheeky lanyard which used to be all over the Monti; they're now being used instead of silk scarves, seeing they;'re too small to be used as blindfolds. And they're not being blindfolded. My other wild guess is that these poor lanyards are in dire need of therapy. Sex therapy. Because they've seen XXX rated shows, all unprotected.

Broken

I keep hearing news, not the kind that goes on TV or newspapers. It does sometimes find a place there too, but only rarely. It's death again. An obscure silly kind of death that doesn't make it even to the Obituary section because it's best hidden and forgotten. And every time, I just get so sick inside that only an hour of throwing up can cure. And suddenly I feel broken again. I feel naked, alone and it gets suddenly dark. It makes me think to the time when I was a broken woman and it's so painful that for a couple of hours I am broken again. Perhaps this broken thing stays with us forever. We just become good at showing the unbroken side. Because we've long given up trying to find someone who will understand. They won't because they haven't been there. And it's so not nice of me to sometimes wish that if the only way to get them to understand is to make them face a little of it, then so be it. But then it all goes to see that I'm not a nice person anyway.

Skeletons

I haven't been here because I've been catching up on my really well-needed beauty sleep. Too many late nights school-projecting have taken their toll. So I've been sleeping a scary kind of sleep. It's the sleep which resembles anaesthetic sleep, that deep dark sleep which makes you blurt out all your closely-guarded secrets. Quite thankfully I have been talking about figolli! Not really a secretive subject to go to the Times of Malta about. So far, so good. I've always shied away from anaesthetic. For one, I smoke too much, and the only time I was under the damn drug I just could not stop throwing up. A second reason, there is too much hidden inside. I do not want it to come out to anybody. And although I really write truthfully here, my closet is overflowing with skeletons. I like skeletons, I like seeing them. They make me feel safe, because they mean that under all that, we are all the same. Kate Moss might fetch thousands on the catwalk, the truth is that her skeleton would fetch just as much as mine. Perhaps mine would fetch that bit more, I like to think that my brain is a little more developed. And that means big shit, I'd have the big issue even in skeleton form. And my closet... it's a walk-in closet which is brimming with skeletons. And no, I'm not gay. That is one skeleton which does not exist in my closet. But there are so many more. The big skeleton. The small skeleton. The brainy skeleton. The stupid skeleton. The sad skeleton. And the happy skeleton. Because after all, we're all skeletons waiting for our turn in the post.

Role Play

I must apologise to all decent people for the contents of my writings. My mum would have a heart attack. But well, she's always said I'm indecent and a pastaza so here goes again. This blog is great. I can empty the contents of my brain all over here and have a new brain for more thoughts. So about the role play. I always smile when I hear the word role play. There are other people out there who are worse than me, but you'd never think it to look at them. After years of my own anthropology, I can safely say that most times I know instantly when someone is into or up to something. We all role play. It makes life interesting. And it is through nature that some of us are more dominant than others. So that said, then some of us are more submissive than others. And it doesn't stop at the office, or in the kitchen. Most of us take it straight into the bedroom. But we don't want to be found out so we guard it as our deeply revered secret. I don't blame us. But it still makes me smile. Some men and women role play as the most dominant creatures in the whole wide world. They scare people, employees, little people. They make me laugh. Because for the most part, these extremely dominant human beings will suddenly revert to submissiveness just by giving them 'the look'. They will revert to puppies. No, worse, they will revert to creatures who crave to be dominated themselves. On the other hand, the quiet ones will flip the other way. They will want to slap others into submission. It is the way it works. Because human beings have to have a mental safety valve. And nothing is more pleasurable than knocking an old pompous fart into submission. At the same time, being knocked down into submission has its joys and pleasures too. I belong to one of these categories. All this might sound mad, but it really isn't. There is substantial proof. Think about it.

Hairy

It seems I have been talking too heavily perhaps. Just when I start writing about real true and honest home truths, it seems I am making people reel. It's just the truth, but people do not want to know about the truth. And mostly the truth has a lot to do about role play. Sorry but that's how it is. We play mummy and daddy, we play doctors and nurses, we play power and submission. And that goes one when we are little people ourselves. Then we grow up and think we're too big for this kind of thing. The truth is we aren't. We're still playing parenthood, playing medicine, and playing dominance and submission. We just put on our imaginary gowns to go with it that's all. When you're a quiet woman who doesn't socialise much, a woman who mostly keeps herself to herself and therefore has time to eye people and their behaviour up, you kind of start learning a lot. And as much a I hate Freud for his facial hair, he was spot on. And although I like to think I'm far more Jungian than Freudian, I think Sigmund was very close to the truth. I will never like Sigmund very much, because I do not like facial hair very much. Facial hair on both men and women makes me think that there must be a lot to cover down there. Otherwise why would a person try to hide his face like that? I can understand covering big butts, but faces? No, I keep my face for all to see, seeing it's also my best asset but anyway. I think (and it's just my thinking) that men who have facial hair have a problem with their masculinity. Letting hair grow is disgusting, but it could also be the reason for appearing virile. Women with facial hair, that's something else. I feel sorry for them, and wish I had the guts to guide them to laser treatment. Back to men and their hairy faces, what if there were a whole colony of lice hiding in there? And who are the women who will take a hairy man to their bed? They could get crabs, because I think lice fly and they could fly down there. Geeze what a horrible horrible thought. And so they should have loos for women with men with facial hair and loos for women with men without facial hair. Just because some husband decides he's going to grow a whole bush on his face instead of on his privates doesn't mean I should get the crabs. Because it really is so sad that it turns funny, a man with facial hair means he's got two bushes, one which he puts on show, and another which (I Hope) he hides beneath his pants. I cannot for the likes of me imagine me kissing a man with a beard, it would be just like flossing. Shit this thought is uncomfortable, all that bush against my face, oh hell no. It's one bush too many. And what about the ermmm going down on another bush, that would be a hell of a mix-up wouldn't it? My imagination being what it is, that is incredibly fertile goes a step forward. How would a bearded man look like when he has to go up for air? All sheeny and sleek and slimy? Oh man, that now sounds just like a snake (pun not intended at all), and not the kind of snake this girl would appreciate. Snakes are reptiles, slimy creature, this is becoming impossible to talk about. But I must still write because I have to empty my brain as therapy over here. And let's go morbid. What about a girl getting the big Oh Yes from a bearded man who devotedly offers cunnilingus? Does he get up and shampoo his bush, and oh, does he put conditioner in and comb it through? Would he need a blow dry insted of a blow job then? How I'd love to call in all the bearded men on this island, line them up, tie them up (there goes some more bondage), and wax their hairy faces with a vengeance (more domination and sadism). But I cannot do that since this is a free country and people can decide where to wear their bush. One thing I notice about bearded men though, they like to behave like prima donnas. They think they're the best, and sometimes they can be very good at their profession. Yet they still wear the beards, and I'm not talking about the gay, well trimmed kind of beards, but the unruly all over the place. It's enough to put dental surgeons out of business. A floss a day keeps the dentist away kind of thing. Perhaps that is why I have had enough dental surgery to last me and put me out of pocket for a lifetime. And there it all was in front of me, the blessed beard. It's still a no no.

Lanyards

I have a new mobile phone which I haven't befriended yet. It looks so sleek and professional, I'd say it looks almost sexy, but I haven't even had the time to have a one night stand with it, let alone develop a relationship. I'll try because it really looks as if it's worth the time. But what's eating me up is that I cannot find one decent lanyard on the island. I need a lanyard because I know what will happen, I'll start tossing my phone around in my bag which is big and which carries just about a quarter of my possessions in it. Anything you need, just open my bag and you'll find it there. I have never understood the reason for a clutch purses. They're so small, you can't fit much into them. Admittedly, they look nice, but it's something like glamour over being practical which I can understand when it comes to shoes with killer heels but not with these micro bags. Back to my lanyard. Where have they all gone? They used to be all the rage, it was just as if the whole island had been under attack and invaded by lanyards. First they came just in black, then they started to get prettier. You could get a lanyard for something like 2 Euro. Not now. It seems as if they have died a natural death. Or perhaps people got cocky (pun intended) and realised that they had plenty of staying power (pun also intended) and started using them for some DIY BDSM. I guess the leather lanyards made great whips. And I think the pretty ones were great for sexy colourful bondage. It's something like this... going into an ironmongery store and buying lengths of rope would have raised eyebrows. And anyway, thick rude rope would scare a lot of Mistresses (yet another pun) away. And would a girl really stay if she saw a proper bull whip? My guess is of course not. If I met a guy on the street, went back to his place only to find out he was brandishing real ropes and whips, I'd be out the door in a second. But lanyard material? That looks so innocent and yet it does the part quite efficiently. And you've got instant colour and variety in the bedroom... for 2 Euro. And thus, since all lanyards have vanished from the island, then do we have a very big BDSM community on our hands, all in secret and all underground? Are there many dungeons being decorated with lanyards which do the trick just as well as cuffs and stocks? My other guess is they're all white collar workers who have innocent day jobs...

Pretty Women

I have always found human behaviour to be fascinating. Perhaps I should have been an anthropologist. But I'm not an anthropologist by profession. I'm stuck here. And yet I still think I have a right to practise this profession, well at least on blogspot. Women make men happy. Pretty women make men happier. New women make men happy. And new pretty women make men the happiest. I see it a lot, it is echoed all the more when a new female pops out of the blue. Sometimes the women aren't even pretty. But they have that rounded butt, long pins which make it difficult for men to work and function. But as long as they're happy, does anybody care? Yes. I do. I care if it creates a feel-good atmosphere for men, because my life will automatically become easy since men's eyes are double-glazed. I care because the sudden happy atmosphere is funny. I also care because it is quite entertaining. I care because I wish I could take the men's pulse to find it racing high. I also care because I wish I could find it in myself to suggest that the men take an eyesight exam. Because any woman popping up might have the perfect butt, but she's still no match for me and my pretty face. And yes I know that sounds like bragging, and it is bragging, but there really is no need to put myself down. I think I like bragging anyway. And it takes an honest woman to declare it openly. So yes I know there will be many more women with the perfect butt, but not any other with a perfect face. Some look like horses, some look like parrots. It is really just like Animal Farm. And the men are so happy. They do not realise that had they not been in the chair they sit, they wouldn't have been given a second glance, not even a first. So I sit there, watching, making the most of my anthropological talents. And it's one good show where you don't even have to pay for a seat. Splendid things these pretty women.

An old fart

And thus we didn't retire to our chambers until past two in the morning. But miraculously I still made it on time. It was quite a good day today. Nothing particularly extraordinary, but sometimes I am content with little miracles and little people. Sometimes I like big people too, but what's a girl gonna do if there are none around. Little people keep me out of trouble and that's a big statement. I am praying and hoping that my little people will rally round me and not complain that I am going against human rights. Me... against human rights? Pardon? I like to think of myself as fair, and I also think of myself as a girl who has never grown up. Asking myself 'what if it were me' is always a safe way to never go against human rights. And I'd never push it, never abuse of my power (if I have one anyway). When I was a child, I used to be so happy at any type of concert my class would be participating in. There was one teacher who taught me the game of unfairness. OK so she thought my twin was cuter. That was no reason to leave me out. So she happily gave my twin the best part, she gave everyone in the class something to do and left me sitting down to watch. Just me. And when I asked why (because I could be brazen sometimes) she said that watching was part of taking part. Geeezzze!!! I remember wishing I was an adult so I could slap her silly. But I was little so I just retired to my seat unhappily. It turns out that the same teacher celebrated her 50 years of marriage. And she asked my twin and I to provide music for her celebratory mass. And my first reaction was... oh yeah, of course, I'll sit and watch because that's part of it. It was only after a lot of persuasion that I accepted. And I am mad at myself for having accepted. I only accepted because of my twin. I still think I shouldn't have. Because I'd have got even. I was seven then, and no I haven't forgotten. And at seven I vowed to one day get even. And I had the opportunity. But I didn't. And it made me sick, me providing the music when she made me feel so left out. So I turned a mean trick of my own. Instead of wearing something decent I turned up in an old grey tracksuit. It was my way of saying, there you go you old fart. And after almost 30 years this old fart still hadn't changed. She sent a lovely scented thank you note to... Joseph, of course. Oh why why why didn't I stick to my guns? But I saw my dad getting worried, so I sort of obliged... my way. It also means I haven't changed though. For almost 30 years I've borne a grudge. I still feel the same way as that little girl felt. It doesn't change much. I just am appalled at the audacity of the old fart. But there is nothing I can do except keep the old fart as an example. An example of how I don't want to be. So it's another Celebration Day coming, at least that's what it's called now. I hope I'll do myself justice. I need the little people's help though. Fingers crossed. Because they're my friends.

School Projects

I've worked myself enough again, on yet another school project. Seems they're coming in twos these projects. Could I have refused? I suppose so. But I didn't because I'm a very vain pompous creature who loves showing off. Nobody could do it? Everybody was biting their pencils? Enough, I said, give it to me. Showoff.But I'm so good at this, and it comes so natural to me, although I don't let on. I keep them thinking I'm slaving over the stove kind of thing. Because that's what everybody does. I don't. I just sleep, wake up to a coffee and light up. And there from my drugged state it's a flurry of notes in my mind. So so easy. But difficult to others, I know. I've seen them timid enough. Nobody was making a move. So me the showoff gave in partly because I pitied them, and partly because yes, I love showing off, and partly because I knew my Mister would help out. We make quite a couple. And now, I guess, We (as in the royal we) should retire to our chambers. The problem is we won't, not until two in the morning. Because my TV routine is about to begin. I do not want remuneration. Just that if I happen to come in at 8.35, I would appreciate a blind eye. After all I've been at it (the project I mean) for more than six hours. So please have a heart. I can do music, any music, no problem. I will volunteer while others stare. I will orchestrate, arrange, compose just about anything. You can count on that. But sometimes I'd appreciate a late 5 minutes. Not always. Just the once, or the twice. I am a musician after all.

Fritzl

I may be watching too much news. And since I have to blame it on someone, then it's my dad's fault. He has always liked watching news. And so have I. Perhaps it is because we are very curious creatures who always want to know what is going on with other people. And since we think that eavesdropping is bad, then we turn to newspapers, radio, Internet and television because it kind of satisfies our curious needs in not a bad way. And I am reminded of Josef Fritzl. Bad bad man. And his excuse? He was bullied by his mother who forbid him to make friends. Yeah right. How does that explain him turning into a cruel monster who not only forbade his daughter to make friends but turned her into a slave. And I try to think how this daughter never resisted him. But then I am thinking in my kind of terms. I cannot even start to think of a dad like him, and I am not a broken woman like Elisabeth either. My dad would never ever think of raping me. Oh dear Lord, my dad is such a different man. Now I like to think that I have my perspectives wide open, I know that sometimes slavery is carried out through choice. There are plenty of women who want to be a Master's slaves. And that is fine by me as long as it's consensual. BDSM is fine. We have all practised some of it to a degree, even if it is a little degree such as in role play. But that is play. Not life day in day out, 24/7. Perhaps incest is also fine if it is consensual. It's not my cup of tea, but it happens and perhaps sometimes brothers and sisters and cousins... well, they're kind of the same age, they want it, so they can have it. But a dad behaving like a monster as regards his daughter? Again, perhaps I see it so wrong because I think with my kind of thinking; comparing it to the relationship there is between my dad and I. My dad dragging me into a cell and keeping me there for his pleasure for so many years. No, it would never happen to me. As it happened, my dad kept me overground, for his pleasure which meant making sure I got a good education, living a healthy normal life with other people around me. And that was his pleasure. Not raping. My dad couldn't even rape an insect. And no, it's not because he changes into a big bad wolf which I have no knowledge of. And suddenly my big eternal issue is nothing in comparison to poor Elisabeth's issue. I have been blessed by such a nice dad. And Elisabeth got the monster dad. When I was a broken woman, it made my dad cry. And he tried everything in the book to help me smile. And it was never his fault. Elisabeth's dad turned his own daughter into a broken woman. And now he holds and A4 folder against his face because he's ashamed. And about flipping time he did. My guess is that the world will not be saddened when Josef Fritzl goes to hell. Thank God he's not my dad. Because I have only God to thank for giving me a dad I can proudly call my own. He's the best.

Jade again

I can rest. And I have rested and how. All that digital mastering has taken its toll. I don't know why any type of music just takes itself to the middle of the night. Opera, ballet, operetta, grand scale concerts...as well as digital mastering. But it's done now. And I've paid the price of feeling exhausted. But it's well worth it. Now I should relax, the problem is I just cannot relax. I keep typing Jade Goody on every search engine available on the Internet. They all say the same thing, but I keep looking for a miracle. Of course I have never met Jade. And I never ever wanted to. Not now. I think she could use a miracle. Cervical cancer; something I never even knew existed. Can anybody die of cervical cancer? The answer is yes. I am sure that if there were something Jade could have done to get better she would have done it. Strange thing this cancer, it strikes when it likes. It doesn't say, oh I cannot strike a Big Brother celeb, it just does. And it probably also strikes the homeless people living under cardboard boxes in Trafalgar Square. Only they do not get as much publicity. But striking a 27 year old mum, it makes no sense. Her two sons will only have a little memory of their mum. And that's not fair. Right now I am consumed with this Jade Goody stuff. I don't know why. I just am.

Last touches....

I am down to the final touches of my school project. I am/we are (that's the royal plural) digitally remastering the last bit. Digitally remastering, what a grand word. It means I'll be doing the playing. Mister will be pushing the buttons. Lovely. Everything is on remote here, sometimes it can be quite scary. Off to put the headphones on. Will be back.

Cavemen?

I am trying to get back in touch with the world. It's been a world of too many notes. My Mister has given me a gift of the best cell phone around. And I've done nothing with it, such was I consumed with the too many notes. Miskin. I have to get round to trying it out. But I don't like change very much so it's going to be something difficult for me. Give me the most unplayable of music anytime. But a new cell phone will take some time getting used to. And it's a grand one, but somehow it doesn't make me tick. Perhaps I would have loved living in the caves, although I have never understood why cavemen had to knock their woman out to drag her to the cave. They could have smiled and been polite. They could have also smiled and been rude and vulgar. That would have made them a bad boy caveman and I like bad boys. So I'd have liked the cavemen, no need to knock me out. But then again what would I have done with my caveman's catch of the day? Stared at it? He'd probably have knocked me out even harder. No, it's best that I live in 2009 when I can come here and write. A carcass of a reindeer? No thanks, reindeer are Santa Claus' means of transport, they drink milk, they're nice. I guess I would have been the first woman to divorce a caveman. I really wonder what it was like for women back then. Imagine making out in a dark filthy cold cave, lying on your back with slime all over the place. That would have been seriously dangerous. One would have to concentrate on keeping her footing (backing?) or otherwise risk breaking her neck. And I do not see cavemen being polite and retreating had a woman to pull out the classic headache excuse. Ok, enough, I think the Gods were right in throwing me into today's world. There is no way I would have coped.

I will know

I haven't done much today although I've been out for most of the day. Supermarket shopping again, and again I hate these places full of people. Now it's getting worse. Me, with my all over the place hairstyle in an alien building and I get little people calling me Miss. Noooooo I don't want that, not in such a place. Supermarkets are no place for divas, and they cramp my style. I don't want to be seen dead in there let alone alive. That's it, I'm not going anymore, I hate it too much. I will starve if I have to. But I won't so it'll be ok. Now if someone had to build a diamond supermarket, that would be different. And now I really want to go to Antwerp. I want to go to Milano so I can wear my fur in peace. I don't feel quite right, but then I haven't recovered very much yet. Why the hell does it take so long for me to recover... it must be the Gods at it again. But then I haven't been bad in the slightest, so hey Gods will you give poor me a break. It seems not. But then I won't even give myself a break. Why the hell can't I ever finish anything without going back again and again? Because I have, in my sleep, encountered one other note which will probably not make much of a difference to anybody, but myself. So I will never ever deem my school project finished because I will keep going to add another note here and another note there. Because I want it to be perfect. And I know it's not doing any good to my health. I am not sleeping very well, because notes are haunting me, making me hallucinate. Let me try and be objective, it's one of the best arrangements I have ever done to date, mostly because it has been one of the most difficult. And I objectively and secretly know it's a job very well done, it's also a job which few people, if any, could do. Even more secretly, I'm sure nobody around could actually do what I've done. Because the sleepyhead of a music teacher, roaming corridors in a likewise sleepy manner can deliver splendidly when it comes to arrangements. I may look sleepy, but I'm not. I can be as alert as my cats here. And let me be a little brazen, people have knocked on my door to buy my arrangements. It doesn't surprise me in the least, they are excellent ones. And I am secretly very pleased. But just one note will rudely open the door to my sleep, and that's it, I just have to add another one. I will keep doing it until there is no room for anymore. Then I will rest. I know nobody will ever know if there is an extra note or not. But I will know, and for some reason, although I live in mayhem clutter, my music has to be perfect. Because I will know.

Back here

Gezze I realise I haven't been here in four days. Not because I was doing any follow-up research on Madonna whores. I have been very hard at work on a school project. This always happens at this time. And this time, it's proved to be one hell of a job. I complain, but I love it when it's finished. But it always turns me into nonsense. I have actually smoked unlit cigarettes, puffed on them as if they were lit, because I had so much to do that I actually believed I'd lit up. Sadly, I've also smoked lit up cigarettes, plenty of those too. My Mister isn't very pleased. I think I've got to vacuum his recording studio, all those buttons and sliders; I've overworked them beyond comprehension. But that's what it takes to make a good musical arrangement; me, the Mister, buttons and sliders, headphones, and cigarette ash all over the place. Because I will never be happy with a good arrangement, I want a perfect one. And I think I got it this time round too. I'm pleased, and it doesn't take little for me to be pleased with myself. Oh and thanks to the Mister too, he has a knack of sitting in his chair with his cigar, just like a Mafia Boss and makes me seethe. Because just when I think it's awesome, he's got another idea which is better. Music arranging, the real, the best type, makes you work, sweat, smoke, swear and lose a lot of sleep. Because once you start you cannot stop and continue the next day. You've just got to go on and on. At least that is how I work. It's final now and I'm ready. And looking back, I'm so pleased. People do not realise how much work goes into arranging, digital mastering, and the rest of the stuff. But I don't care. As long as it pleases me, then it's fine. What I will not take is that one day now, another school will ask for my music. And that's not on. I love this school, and I will do it because of that. But giving my work to people I do not know.. that's a no. But whatever it is, I'm back here now. And I have my music which I will not give away for nothing. Sorry, yes I can be very mean. And now I can go back to think about the whoredom of life.

Madonna-whores

I have some really beautiful music straight out of the Romantic era in the background. And I'm still thinking about Madonna-whores. I think every girl should be one at some time or other in her life, if only just to know what it feels like and to reap the constant joys. Because there are never let downs if you do it properly. Who knows how many men rush to the sexologist for the little blue pill? And God knows how many times the sexologist will refuse to prescribe the little blue pill. Because a good sexologist, or let's call him a sexual therapist (it sounds more decent) will know instantly if a man needs the blue pill or a Madonna-whore. Why are we called that, instead of just whores, or mistress whores? Because we have intelligently tapped into a market yet unidentified. A lot of men will fail miserably in the bedroom stakes when with the wife. So they suddenly think something's wrong with their baton, and for a lot of ignorant uneducated men, their baton is their be all and end all. It shouldn't, so many things offer pleasure, but there they go in panic. What really happens then is that things are not right with the wife, so they lurk on the Internet, sadly thinking their and their baton's life is over. So then comes a girl like me (like me in the 90's) who of course will always have time to hear another's sorrows. And the Internet has a knack of easing a person's opening up because of a monitor. We don't even have to wear mascara, we can wear comfy PJ's and say we're wearing nothing. Anyway, so the man will start drowning his worries by telling the girl (one like me in the 90's). They don't let on about their sexual problems (men never do), but a girl like me in the 90's would have known immediately. I remember smiling to myself a 4am when I was actually trying to kiss and make it better... through the Internet. So then suddenly the male counterpart becomes obsessed with meeting. And lays of any sexual advances, not because he wouldn't have liked to, but because he's so sure his baton will make a fool of himself. So a girl like me makes it sound kinky, ties his hands up, and ... kiss it better. And hey presto no baton problems. That is why we're called Madonna-whore. Because we've tapped into the market of the in-between. The poor guy cannot do it with the wife because she's so saintly (hence the Madonna), but can do it until a girl really thinks he's going to drill right into her abdomen (hence the whore). The problem is that then the poor guy thinks nature is telling him what to do, and that is, hook up with the girl. Wrong. Because then he'd go batonless again. I like Madonna-whores, they're so honest, open, nasty and beautiful looking creatures. I like to think there is a Madonna-whore in every woman. But I'm not so sure. At the same time, the most rigid could be the most talented.

The 90's

Now this thing has sent me right down memory lane. The 90's and myself. What exactly was I trying to prove back then? So I started out with a bad boy and loved it. Bad was exciting, I looked down snootily on all the other girls who had boyfriends who had curfews. Mine was so bad he didn't even know how to spell curfew (really), he had only gone to school sporadically, he was illiterate, at 15 he was a grown man. At 14 I was still a child. Numbers can be really deceitful. And he was the best-looking boyfriend around... at the time. Now, he's gone bald, toothless, dirty, a drug addict among many other things. He certainly isn't good looking now. And yet, then he had these beautiful curls which I would have died for. He was my first man, and boy was he sexy, and oh boy was he an expert in the sex department. There was no fumbling around with him, he knew it all. And it was so exciting that it fulfilled my department of being bored. I was getting a degree, he was riding on the horse with the guy 'tal-pitrolju'. True, I swear. Nobody has ever understood my need for this man, it was as if I were on crystal meth or something, the need was that bad. I thought I'd never live without him. I have, I've lived a much better life without him. But I guess I had to exhaust the bad boy feeling. It took 6 years and a lot of tears out of my life. Because bad boys come with excitement which includes them breaking your heart many times. And they promise they'll change... they won't. So I just got out and made him cry. And secretly I liked seeing his tears. There, I'd cried enough, it was his turn. But I'd entered the relationship when just a child and emerged a woman who knew every dirty trick in the book. I knew I had power over the male population. I knew I only had to flask my perfect pins and they'd come panting. I still don't know what I was trying to prove. I'd read enough Hardy, Austen, Greene, Bronte, not in that order. I was now out for the kill. And that paved the way for me starting to behave like a Madonna-whore without even knowing there was a name for it. I am not proud of what I am about to write but what's done is done now. I wanted another bad boy, and since, at 20 there weren't many around, I turned to look at 40, 50, 60 year olds. They weren't necessarily bad, but there was the bad aura about them, because they wore a wedding band. And that made it bad, terribly bad, fantastically bad enough for me. They were starved because they came from another generation and once they found me they were not going anywhere. I know it's bad, but I can smile even now. I became a performing monkey. The lengths men go for a job done, whether it be a hand or a blow one. The lengths men go for a doggy, or for something else which is too wicked to describe in here. And there they suddenly had them on a silver tray and would not withdraw (pun intended). They had it all, including a girl young enough to be their granddaughter, and it suddenly cured their erection problems as well as their imaginary prostate syndromes. And of course I loved the attention all the more because they wore a wedding band, and I would not make out unless they had the sacred wedding band on. It is really a kick if you cheat and open your eyes for a minute and see that the hand that is holding your face has a wedding band on and that the wedding band is not yours. It doesn't matter if that hand is making a mess of your hair, it's got a wedding band, so it's nasty. And I guess I was trying to prove one thing; the power of the female sex. It is really powerful. And that's how it was. But then came the millennium. And Love got in the way. And suddenly perspectives change because the dynamics of life change. And yet again suddenly I was thrown into agony, and the dynamics of life changed suddenly, too suddenly for my liking. There was I, once powerful, then a timid girl chained by her fears. I thought it would never be over. But I guess God forgave my nasty past. Perhaps by being a Madonna-whore God somehow thought I was offering a valuable service. Perhaps not. And perhaps he took pity on a girl hurting beyond description. Perhaps he thought I'd hurt enough. And I slowly walked away from it all... into the arms of another man. I thought he'd be bad again, which was perfect for me. Turned out, he wasn't bad but I loved him anyway. Because the best thing in life is to love and know that you are loved in return. And that's now.

Fulfillment

An anonymous someone left a message saying that mothering is not the only way to being fulfilled. Very good, that is so true. I am no mum but yet I am so fulfilled. And it's not through kids. So many people are fulfilled by so many things. But it seems sex is another big thing to choose as fulfillment. I know what I'm talking about. There wouldn't be so many married men straying. I don't do married men anymore, but ten years ago isn't a lot of years ago. And my guess is that things haven't changed much. There are thousands of men lying in wait and tyring to give the bait. And what for? What is their first reason to do this? Because they don't feel fulfilled. Which in many cases actually translates to.. they've woken up, watched free Internet porn and realised that they've never been given head before. They also have never done nothing except missionary, and it looks cool on screen and want to try it out before they die. They have opened their eyes to us Madonna-whores. It's not really fulfillment they're lacking, but good old sex, which for a lot of people means 100% fulfillment. Which is fine for us pretty young (that's me in the 90's) Madonna whores. We suddenly become like very busy bees, still the Queen Bee may I add, who are going from flower to flower. Well, flower... sometimes it's not a pretty flower, but it'll have to do. And then, us Madonna-whores discover that we don't actually need sex for fulfillment, because in that department we can do without all the blabbing and go for DIY. At least this girl does. I've realised that a good movie, a good book, a good conversation can all be fulfillment, and they come minus the STD's. I really don't know what we were trying to prove in the 90's but suddenly it's all changed. And it hasn't taken motherhood to make us realise it after all.

How many what?

Today I was faced with a rude question. A rude question on Face Book which makes it sound a little less rude but which is just as rude anyway. There seem to be, quite lately, something I'd call the glad-to be-mummies-because-they-cannot-be-anything-else groups. They know not about the new president of the U.S., they have no knowledge of the new movies which have come out, they do not even know about Jade Goody. Their world is full of diapers, bottles, pacifiers and baby wipes (which by the way double as the perfect make up remover). I discovered this by mistake and have stuck to the baby wipes. I buy them in hundreds, people must think I have on hundred kids. But I'm digressing. Back to the Face book group. So, within this mumsy group there are people who have sat on my same bench at school. And it's nice to reunite. It would be nicer if they asked about how I am keeping first instead of the, 'How many do you have?' Right, how many what? There is something I'm missing, it seems so obvious to them and so not obvious to me. How many cats? How many dogs? How many kilos? That would be an even ruder question but anyhow. But , wait for it, they are actually counting babies; human beings. So that would translate to a 'how many human beings have I made?' To which the answer would be none because I'm still saving myself for the special night (yeah right) and even after the special night turned into a mundane night I will not be making any human beings perhaps because I cannot, perhaps because I don't want to. It's something which has had me puzzled, so please don't try to figure anything out. So after having been asked the 'how many' questioned, I of course answered, 'none, zero'. The Face book pause after that was as uncomfortable as if it has been in real life. It was one of those 'what-are-you-waiting-for' pauses. Because yes as one 'comrade' reminded me very well time is running out. But time is not a good enough excuse for me making human beings. Perhaps the time was never right. For some of the girls who sat in my same classroom, 4 or 5 human beings seem to have made them happy. And that's not a good enough reason either. I've got enough on my hands as it is.

Weddings

Love, I'm not quite sure what it's all about. Is it about the delirium of kissing and snogging and bonking all the time? I suppose that's a part of love, the way love starts between a totally unrelated man and woman. It's called the honeymoon period. And it makes me wonder because there's also another honeymoon period after the wedding bells are sounded. I've heard so many wedding bells, mostly out of tune. Perhaps the ones in tune are the guarantee of a happy marriage. And since there are so many being out of tune, I'm not surprised that the amount of failed marriages is on the rise. And am I going to risk bells on what should be my grand day? Not if I haven't yet auditioned the bell ringers. I'm also not very sure why it should be my grand day. I've had so many grand days. I know what it's like to be well-heeled. And yet I've had days when I couldn't afford to buy my branded shampoo and had to do with an off the shelf one. And the money really didn't guarantee happiness although it's much easier to be sad and loaded then to be sad and skint. That much is true. I hate these magnet-fridge things you can buy in a lot of souvenir shops which say, 'Money can't buy happiness'. It's true and so not true. I've loved a rich man, and I've loved a poor man. Money didn't come into the love or not equation. But it's nice to live in silk and satin and cashmere and velvet and fur. It's not nice to sleep in silk sheets, no matter how many commercials try to make us think it is. It feels as if you're being dismembered, just like a boob is going to fall off and just as if you've lost your footing because everything is so slippery. Just trying to sleep in silk or satin sheets is a nightmare, making out is impossible. I find it hard to believe that people get down to it in satin and silk and come out alive to tell the tale. I'd put the 191 number as close to the bed as possible because you're really risking breaking your neck, or your hip, or something else! So there's one thing where I will not be needing the luxury on my honeymoon. Cotton is just fine. But then again there's the problem of the blushing bride. I've never really understood that. Why should a bride blush unless she's got some medical condition? Is all the blushing really all because of the night to come? My guess is plenty of couples just fall into bed and sleep on their wedding night, exhausted from their big day. That is just what I will do when my turn comes. And I'll be no blushing bride. It will be a nice day, but it will not be my biggest day. When it comes to things like these, I behave exactly like a man. I will not be staring at glossy magazines sprouting top models in impossible dresses. I will not be whining because I cannot find souvenirs to match the theme. I won't even have a theme. I will try not to be a kill joy and wear ear plugs so as not to hear the sighs of relief when I go down the aisle. Phew, she's made it... at last. Oh well I'm just 35 years young.

La patria mia

I'm thinking about Normal Lowell. Not that I really agree with all he says. But he never fails to make me smile. Sometimes I laugh, and sometimes when it really gets bad (or good), I am holding my groin because it hurts from all the laughing. Which is not very nice of me I know. But I have a feeling he is a natural at drama and knows extremely well what he says and does. It's still not very nice of me. But then I must not be very nice. But this time I'm thinking about old Norman because perhaps he is right. Ok perhaps he's not right in everything. And I do not like the hatred coming out of Norman's mouth. He has all the right to be uncomfortable, but instilling hatred? No, I don't want that. It's not with the hatred issue that I agree. But it really seems that we don't have much time left and we will be foreigners in our own country. What I think twice about saying, these people coming from third world countries seem to think they have the God damn right to say. What would I do if it were me? Well, I certainly would not be keen to step on anybody's toes. But I'm suffering litter strewn on my porch every day, and I've seen the perpetrators, it's the refugees I'm afraid. I do not think that refugees should be overworked and underpaid. I believe that every living thing has a right to its dignity and that includes refugees. They make my heart break every time I see footage of them being rescued on TV. I mean, they must be pretty at their wit's end to board a tiny boat, leave everything and embark on a voyage between the seas and the skies. And it's only right that they are rescued because I would want someone to rescue me if it were me. Of course I do not agree with Norman who thinks they should be left to die. What is troublesome is that we're getting invaded by people from third world countries, and the problem is they're getting cocky, too cocky for our own good. If it were me, I'd just speak in a whisper and thank whoever it is who took pity on me and let me in. Not these people. Which also perhaps explains why people coming from ex-Communist countries were so hard to work with. Now I can be a handful, but these were so temperamental they made some people's lives hell. It really seemed they took it out on us no matter how nice we tried to be. And it's happening again. Someone just got their Visa and suddenly they've turned cocky, too cocky. They want to analyze us and say we have issues? Pardon? Sorry but it's my country and you do as we do. No more, no less. Because we're Maltese, and not Maltesers.

Bagheera ... my boy.

So the bad night is over. I knew it would be bad, I just didn't bank on it being so bad. It could have been worse. I could have been all alone. As it was I think I also wrecked the Mister's night seeing I woke him up at least ten times for the nebulizer/oxygen thing. But he's not saying anything. I am in a total mess. I sit here on my bed under the duvet, with a blanket over my shoulders. I guess I should be sleeping, but I have to write. The fever is not as bad as yesterday, maybe those little soldiers are fighting the infection. I like to think that they're not male soldiers in camouflage, but pretty females in tiny skirts and heels with witch they pierce the infected soldiers to death. Just what I think, I probably haven't graduated much since my cartoon days. Dad has been again. And I've warned him to keep away following his op last Monday. But I don't think he cares, about the fever I mean, not about me. He cares about this old girl all right, he wouldn't be going for walkies all these times a day if he weren't. He has also been amazed by my Bagheera cat. He thinks it's a beautiful cat, and he is also amazed that this cat doesn't leave my side. I don't know why. All I know is that I have never found an answer as to why this cat got thrown out of a speeding car in the middle of the night. It was meant to be, I never usually pop out to take a look at the street before closing the door at night. Turned out I did, and saw this cruel act. So I figured if he was thrown out, then I'd let him in. A black cat in the black night. It's been one and a half years now, and this cat is the most silky, adorable cat. His behaviour is so sweet and funny, he is lonely because the other cats dislike him a lot. So he has us, he's like my boy. But I still don't feel right. And I'm hiding the mirrors. I look dreadful. Now where's that Diva got to?

At home

I had to call the doctor again. This isn't getting any better, and I pleaded with him to let me stay at home. Please no Mater Dei. And he's relented because I told him I would go completely psycho. I really would. Staying in bed with the cats and the dogs is a much better idea. And I promised I'd be a good girl, no smoking. I don't think I can smoke anyway, this breathing problem is driving me round the bend, I just cough for dear life and now my ribs hurt. It's as if my ribs have gone horse riding or on a long hike. Or perhaps someone has walked on them with high heels without having been invited. I hate hospitals, and nurses too. I wonder where the nurse fetish comes from. Certainly not from me. And I don't like the beds, the bedding, the compartments which mimic privacy. What privacy? If I just so much as sneezed, I'd be heard. That's no privacy. I hate the smell too. Deviant smell. It's the smell of corpses' deodorant. How the hell could I breathe that? So I'm staying here. I'm in for a terrible night I know. But at least it'll be here in my own home.

The thinking

I am finally up after a really bad night. Mister says it was really bad because I spent most of it in the bathroom. I have no recollection, except for the fact that I had to change my clothes and take a quick shower. So I suppose he's right. It is something like hysterical sleep, drifting in and out of consciousness, shifting the duvet because it's hot, then suddenly feeling so cold that i think I need maybe 5 duvets at the same time. This is bad. And I told the little people to keep their coughs to themselves. I don't think they did, I have one bad cough, a wheezing cough which tires me out and makes me helpless. Then I just let the Mister take over, he knows how to do this nebulizer thing which makes me a little better. So thank God for Misters.

I don't know what last night was all about. But somehow, in a very rude sense, I remember what I thought about last night. All last night. My dad. And no, please don't think I am pushing it. It's just what is happening. Perhaps there is a lot of guilt there. I've made him happy. And there have been times when I've made him sad and sick with worry. It wasn't my intention to make him worry, it's just that I suddenly stumbled upon the world and became a tearaway. I made him cry. I remember that. He cried silently, but he still cried. And now I'm overcome with guilt. And I remember one instance when he thought I was dead. He threw every single bit of caution to the wind, including tearing at the yellow police ribbon. I saw him from behind the window. And no police force was stopping him until he saw me with his own eyes. And I remember seeing the shock and relief on his face. He didn't care, as long as his daughter was alive, the world could die. That's just what his eyes said. Only now, years later, do I understand. And perhaps, only him, years ago, understood it all. And now he's concerned about the bad daughter being down with bronchitis. He's forgotten how bad the daughter was. He's on a to a fro mission to see how I am. He's bringing squeezed oranges with him. And he smiles and tries to joke to make me smile. And he does. Life hasn't exactly been very kind. But then we tend to forget the good. I had no choice, no say as to whom I was born. If it's luck, then I got so very lucky. I used to see other dads and was mystified as a child. My dad was nothing like that. And I'm still mystified because my dad still isn't anything like that. And perhaps people think I'm daddy's girl because I try to take him to a lot of places with me. And I don't do it just out of kindness, but also because he really is good company. My dad likes travelling to Verona in summer, for the opera at the Arena di Verona. He's been asking me to go with him for ages. I've never gone. But this year I'll be there with him. And I really don't care what people think. It's what I think that matters.

Daughtering

I'm thinking. I don't want things to change. I still want to be a daughter for as long as possible. I want to be a daughter for the rest of my life but that would be very selfish because it would mean making my mum and dad daughterless. And no parent should ever have to bury their child. Yes I know, I'm 35, but I'm still their child. I wonder when I'll stop being a daughter. Life's been so good to me in the daughter stakes. Very good. I saw my dad today, bless him, what a man. A man going through his own woes and concerned about his daughter's fever. And he touched my head, he touched my hand and he also touched my hair, just like when I was 5 years old. My dad has a lovely touch, his hands are so soft, and they impart love. And I loved it but it made me sad at the same time. Will there be a time in my life when I will not be able to turn to my dad because he won't be around any more? Me, dadless? Crazy crazy thought which I cannot even manage to imagine. My dad with whom I can carry the most lengthy of conversations with just one look? My dad who has had eyes for me only as long as I can remember. I'm proud of my dad. There is not one person who has said something negative about him. Sometimes, at work, he is mentioned. And I stay silent, I do not let on that he is my dad and I his daughter. And I hear only praise. He is praised for being kind, for being a nice chap, for his eagerness in his work. And then I make the people do a double take, I let on that I am the daughter. Yes, ok ok, so we don't look alike. But people do not know him some 35 years ago. I do not need a DNA test to see if he's my daddy. We sleep in the same foetal manner, we eat in the same manner, our fingernails grow in the same manner. I have his hair (underneath all that dye), I have his eyes, his freckles. And yes dad was big too, very very big. It's hard to imagine now, but I remember a very soft cushioned daddy who was told to lose the weight or he'd lose his life. And my dad being my dad could not bear to lose his girl, so he shed the weight, a massive 70kg+. I have a trim, slim, athletic dad now. But he's still the same dad I knew when cushioned. And back then he was my only friend because I, unlike him, do not socialise very well. He never was the normal father figure. I was never scared of my dad, I always patiently waited for the minute I heard the footsteps walking up to the door. I never could understand a stern patriarchal figure because I never had one.We went out together everywhere, we made music together, and he is responsible for me having gone the furthest possible in my music studies. He wanted his daughter to be the most quailified ever. I wanted to make him proud. I think I did. And I remember one day, when a classmate's dad died. I was so scared, so scared it could have been me. And the feeling stuck, I was always so scared it would be me. The fear is still there and it makes me sick. I don't know what has brought this all about, perhaps it's the fever. Perhaps it the fact that things aren't medically well with him either. I just hope he's at least around till he's 100. Only then, perhaps I can let go. I can write freely here because my dad is the most computer illiterate person I know, so he will never read this. I wouldn't want him to think I needed a favour or something of the sort. He's done so much. And I love him a lot, a whole lot. My kind dad deserves to live, so that I may never let go of him.

sicko

I have just managed to get my head off my pillow, and oh dear it feels bad. It hurts so much. There I was thinking it would be just a cold, now I have bronchitis and my doctor is threatening to send me to Mater Dei if I don't stay in bed. But staying in bed make me feel so ill. I have a fever, a massive disgusting cough, very disgusting shallow cough which makes my head hurt. I wonder why I have been such an easy target for this thing called URTI which developed into bronchitis in a matter of hours. But I don't want to go to Mater Dei. I would be put into a ward with a lot of snorers and farters. I wake up if the Mister so much as turns in bed, imagine all the snoring and the farting and probably the burping. No, I'm staying here, and I'm going to obey the doctor and stay in bed, if that's what it takes not to go to Mater Dei. My bedroom may be boring but at least it lacks the snoring and the farting. And there was I yesterday, joking with little people and telling them that they'd better keep their cough to themselves because I didn't mind if they didn't share. Yeah right. I got one too. But mine is worse, because it is accompanied by the helplessness brought on by fever. Ibuprofen is a magical thing. It is what's allowing me to write a little bit, propped up by a couple of pillows. I am not a very good patient. I rant and rave and moan that nobody loves me and that I'm going to die very soon. That's what I've been doing all day. Because that is how I felt all day. The truth is, nobody has left me on my own because I am way too sick to get out of here. My dad came three times, my mum another three, and the Mister... oh he could qualify for the best Florentino Nightingale. I'm resting a little bit now,too tired to write.

Thou shalt sweep?

The Gods are at it again. I have now caught the most beautiful cold ever. Prosit Gods, I cannot even breathe. A small price to pay though. But I'm thinking.... if I had to write an entry against butts, would the Gods remove mine? Or give me a small one as punishment? And if I had to write against small bellies, would they give me a trim one overnight? And if I had to write and make fun of small people, would I get small suddenly? It's a thought, one worth thinking about. But since I have to be true, then I cannot write such stuff. I do not mind small people, small butts or bellies. So I cannot suddenly declare war against all that is small. It cannot get any worse than this I hope, I just cannot breath...

But then again perhaps it's another form of punishment by the Gods for having laughed my butt off for a whole half hour. Now I am so not domesticated, but if someone gave me a broom, I'd know just what to do with it. Me being Me, I'd go off to Fairyland, because me being me, then I'd be the queen witch. A nice witch. But having kept my feet firmly on the ground for a whole half hour paid off. I got to watch a half hour tutorial called, "How to use a broom" as in landlubbers' broom. And I laughed my butt off, and had a pretty good time, and didn't pay a thing. I saw a very patient man showing another lazy man how to put a broom to good use. How the hell can someone over 50 not know how to use a broom when he's actually being paid to do it. And how the hell does a man remain so calm, cool, collected and very patient when it's obvious that he's being had? I don't know. I just know that had I a tub of popcorn in hand, it would have been funnier to watch than anything showing at Eden Century. What a comedy, one that should have lasted 5 minutes which turned to 10, to 15 to 20, to 30+. And there I watched, in disbelief. Happy disbelief. Because come on, even for a Diva like me, with hands as soft as a baby's bottom because I do no housework at all, a broom tutorial is hilarious. Especially if the one on the receiving end has probably been employed to do it for years. And more especially when the one on the giving end has better things to do and is seething and swearing under his breath. I laughed my butt off, but I was sly enough not to allow the perpetrator see me. Because it's lazy old him who opens the elevator for me. Which probably makes a lazy old me. But I don't care, I'm the Diva, he's nothing of the sort. And this time I'm not so sure I'll be punished by the Gods. I wasn't laughing at the expense of someone unable to do a little job, but of someone pretending he couldn't do the job. And that makes all the difference. May we all sweep forever and ever... AMEN.