Vouchers

I didn't get that very many Christmas gifts this year, although the price of them increases every year. Quality over quantity. Or perhaps it's because when you're getting older people think you're too old for gifts. Humbug, that's not true. Nobody is ever too old for a gift, and I am not. But among the not very many Christmas gifts I got this year, one envelope (and I hate envelope presents at least if they don't come with Euro inside) had vouchers inside, as well as a little book explaining where I could exchange these vouchers for whatever I needed or wanted. Ok, that much is cool, there must have been a thousand shops to choose from. But I just happened to want one shop which wasn't included in the little book. Bad luck, I thought I'd try more shops out of the little book. But to do that you have to be out and about. I wasn't banking on becoming housebound, and I wasn't even ready to be drenched in last Monday's rain, hair, socks, shoes and all. And so I keep looking at the little book, prettily glazed and prettily propped up against my monitor as if I loved punishment. I don't, I just let it sit there to motivate me to get better. But now I don't want to look at it anymore, it's as if it is the bad omen which has robbed me out of three evenings which I could have spent shopping, choosing shops from this pretty little book. It's the size of a man's black book, only it's not black and I don't think that trying the phone numbers in there will guarantee me a 'oh hi honey how are you, are you up for tonight'? At the most I will get a polite good morning/afternoon/evening, how can I help you?'. I'm not sure which answer might perk me up a little bit. But if someone is willing to buy vouchers aren't their alternative even better?

Syrup

I've slept yet again. But that should be it now, only the last dollop of cough syrup left. Hateful cough syrup, it tastes so bland, it's so think and and pink. The pink is there to take the piss out of the patient, pink things are usually cute. Well this isn't. It's so gooey it seems as if it's some slug thrown into the liquidiser with a little bit of pink colouring. And I love animals, as well as slugs, but there is no way I'd pop one into my mouth. This syrup is also like some stretchy amoeba, the one being a sole organism, the one who reproduces on its own. I've always been fascinated by this organism, I just never thought I would find it in a bottle bought from the chemist's, the syrup really looks like one of them dressed in pink and about to hit yet another Friday night in Paceville, dressed to the nines, in pink. And then after bracing myself for three solid days to try and swallow the unattractive half-solid thing, I'm not sure I'm better. Oh well I've done worse things to get better, sometimes the lengths I go to just to get better...

Schooling Hospitals or Hospital Schooling?

I'm not too sure I like doctors very much. And I shouldn't say that because they are the people we go to when in distress. My doctors are very nice people, all of them. But this year has been like one merry go round of physical distress. Thanks to the little people. No, that's not very fair. Thanks to the guardians of little people who must think that school is some kind of hospital. It's not fair on the little people who come flushed, coughing, sneezing and feeling unwell. I feel sorry for them. Poor little people, they should be in bed all cosy with someone to read them a nice little fairy tale. But it's also poor little me, and yes I feel sorry for myself. I am the one left to face all the coughs and sniffles, and inevitably this and that virus spreads. And as in another merry go round, that makes me sick and I have to stuff myself in bed with nobody to read me a fairytale either. It also makes me stay away from the little people who so fill my life, I love them and yes, it might make me look like some boo-hoo, but I miss them. So the little people go to the doctor, the same as I do. And we get better after a couple of days. So then we go back again to face yet another round of coughs and sneezes, and bang there I go again, back to the doctor. It's not fair. Not fair on the little people who have rights. And not fair on me, who, being a human being also has rights. Schools have one purpose, and that is for them to be filled with little people to learn. They have another purpose and that is for people like me to be able to teach. Not to get sick again and again. Schools are not some addendum of Mater Dei. Nor are they a recovery place. So to all those responsible to little people, have a heart on them, home is the place they should be when they're not well, and that would in turn enable people like me to have more days surrounded by those amazing little people. Don't worry, they will not miss the syllabus, I'd take care of that no problem.

Keepsakes

Just to continue on the same thread as my last post, I love men. I just don't love or like the little man who has taken to digging at the insides of my head. This man I absolutely hate, if only I could make him go away, even kill him or something, or at least find him a rock he could dig on happily ever after. But not my head. But if wishes were horses I would be on the longest ride ever, so I just have to rely on dear old Paracetamol and antibiotics. Having a little man would be so nice, but not in my head thanks very much. Sometimes he digs at the same rhythm I type, and that is fast. I have never learnt typing, but I have my own school of typing which is that being a musician is extremely handy when you want to type. It makes you a pro at typing in a probably dangerous and odd manner, but gives results nonetheless. Long nails don't help at all, but then you also can get used to typing with long nails. It's amazing at what the human being can get used to, and that's about anything. After years of surfing the net I can now type, smoke and drink at the same time. Amazing. What very versatile creatures we are. Sometimes I can also talk on the phone if it's on speakerphone. Ok I'm also becoming a brag. But I've been cooped in here for way too long, my only outings being out on the terrace for a couple of minutes. That's no outing. I want a grand big outing so I can wear my fur. Do not ask if they're real or fake, I have both. And yes I know that animals go through a great big ordeal for their fur to be taken, but I have never bought the real type myself. They were a present, and although I should throw them away according to my my love-animals-to-bits standards, it so happens that the one who gave the gifts isn't here anymore, so they're my keepsakes. I know it's wrong, but I will never find the courage to bin them myself. Because sometimes, although it might sound silly, a tiny part of us never lets go. At least a tiny part of me doesn't let go. And so keeping the gifts along with the gift cards is the only way to go. They could have been anything, I've also kept silly note cards, all of them. I've kept the diamonds too, it just turns out that some gifts were made of real fur. Had they been fake fur I would have kept them just the same. I've also kept shoes, more jewellery, clothes and that special place in my heart which will not go away, not even if I try to look at it with the mind-over-matter philosophy. I just am a sucker for keepsakes. I will lose the things I buy through a lot of carelessness, but never keepsakes. I have even kept my first teddy which is made of fake fur although it's hard to believe because the fur has been frictionised by loads of bashing about with my twin's same teddy bear but in a different colour. And they are still there on the mantelpiece, the white versus the brown. Of course mine is the white, it's more stylish and I knew that from the beginning!:) Keepsakes; I have so many, but so very few mean a lot. Each one means something, the latest ones mean the most. And that's not very bad because it either means I've stopped growing old, or that it's been quite a long time since sadness. Because my keepsakes tend to grow sadder over the years, with a massive sad grief which stops at the real fur. It may look as if I want to hold on to the sadness. But no, I don't. But I really cannot change the past and the keepsakes which come with it. Because the past is what makes me what I am now, together with the keepsakes. Sadness has been a part of my life. But then without happiness there wouldn't be sadness. It's a ratio, a parallel. Without the grandeur of happiness I would never have felt the deep sadness. So it's been a happy life too.