Pillow talk

Today is one of the best days of the week. It is a day when I stay up late not worrying about getting up tomorrow. I will perhaps go to bed not earlier than 3am, draw the curtains to ensure a night of total sleeping pleasure. Before that, I will be watching all the Forensic, Medical Detective programmes on TV, together with CSI, Criminal minds...because Friday night is Crime night over here and woe betide anybody who dares even think about having the remote control. That is my property, especially on a Friday night. It might seem boring, ten years ago I would never have thought I'd stay in on a Friday night. But oh dear how things change as you get closer to your time-up alarm. Before, Friday night would mean a clubbing night pulling this hunk and that, the more foreign the merrier. You see, I never liked pillow talk. I never understand why women grumble because their men sleep after the you now what. That should make a woman proud. It means she's got her man so relaxed that he can drift off to sleep. Ten years ago, all I wanted after the you know what was to take a shower and make a quick exit. I was never one to spend the night, because by some freaky morbid intrinsic characteristic, I behaved very much like a black widow. Of course I did not kill the other party after the you know what, but I always suddenly went off the other party immediately after the big Oh Yes. I did not want anybody to hold me, talk to me, and basically listen to a load of crap. Because hunks do not necessarily have brains. Nor do the ones who are less gifted aesthetically. But then I wasn't after brains anyway. I see pictures of myself at 25 and I cannot believe how hot I was, but at the same time understand why I never went hunkless. Now, in a stable, steady relationship, I still do not like pillow talk. Now I'm in love, I never want to make a quick exit, but I do so want to sleep. My Mister thinks pillow talk is appropriate, because I have bagged an extremely kind, selfless and nice man... finally. After years of grasshopping from one man to another, which I like to think of as research, I have found the brains, as well as the heart. Perfect. But I still think that my pillow was made for sleeping and not for talking. And although sometimes being vocal in the bedroom is probably normal, it doesn't mean that it has to carry on to the pillow. I do not think that pillow manufacturers take into consideration that someone's bound to talk on them. I think they want to provide the most restful sleep possible. I'm not so sure about bed manufacturers. But that's another thing. It never occurs to me that cuddling up is a part of sleeping. I will always be mystified why mattresses come in double, king size, or queen size, when two single ones joined together would be just as good if not better. That way, if your partner is about to have a restless, tossing and turning night, you needn't be bothered. The you know what would work just as well too. And seeing that it doesn't have to happen in bed, then it could work all the more just as well. That would eliminate the need for pillow talk, because bathrooms, kitchens and sitting rooms do not have pillows. Hmm it's just a thought, but a valid thought nonetheless...

Joseph and Baklava

So Xarabank is all about the Eurovision Song Contest. This is getting sad. Why is the ESC so important to the nation? It's important to me because I like listening. But is it that important to everyone? Well, it seems to be the case. And this year, since dear old brother darling decided to give his voice a go, well it's kind of a something because I would really love to watch him. I'll watch him and remember that little boy I always felt so sorry for because he couldn't even master the art of holding a pencil at 9 years old. We were 9 and he couldn't even write a number 9. I could write a 999 and there was he always struggling. One day perhaps I will write his biography. It will be the story of a little boy who struggled to do everything, yet aimed high and scored even higher. And in this biography I will be a big feature (why the fuck does everything have to be big about me?). Because it was I who helped that little boy up every time he fell, I faced his bullies, I patiently taught him a lot of things both in academics and in music. I gave him my all from the word go when he would talk a strange kind of language only I would understand and translate to other people. I stood up to his bullies and sometimes even got physical. They never bothered him anymore then. It was I who patiently guided him through violin technique, interpretation, and mastership. It just seemed as if I had this addendum whom I had to watch constantly. He made it. And I couldn't be prouder. I still am the one to guide, criticise and praise. AndI wish him all the luck for tomorrow. But most importantly, I promise him all my love for the rest of our lives. It's always an our when you're dealing with twins, never a my. So go Baklava, Go...!

Some Infamous 10 Minutes

I have learnt something new today. I have learnt that there are human versions of churchmouses. Yes I know that it's mice, but these individuals do not deserve the correct English plural of the word mouse. They are odd people, scared, timid, they sweat to do their job and they are grossly incompetent in human relations. I am not very good at socialising myself, but these beat me hands down. They are also very white; they are whitely pallid as if they were a victim of some big illness. And they are. Their pallor comes from the big illness called inflexibility. Perhaps they also haven't progressed from Freud's little-boys-touching-their-thingy. Only now they don't touch their thingy (it's still a micro tiny weeny thingy) because they have been told it's inappropriate, so they clutch at a stopwatch for dear life instead. And just when I thought that the adult world wasn't about telling mummy and daddy, I learn that for these people, it hasn't changed. They still go telling mummy or daddy because of course they do not have the balls to confront anyone, especially a big girl with claws like me. Their stopwatch thingy never seems to be useful, but on the one occasion when it is, then they will jump up and down in glee, their thingy having finally found an opportunity to sway left and right just because of a measly 10 minutes. And then the Catholic Church wants to make us believe that we are all made in God's image. God's image? Hardly. I think of God as a powerful, macho male whose privates would take any woman more than ten minutes of pleasure-scrutiny. I really don't want to think of a God who has a thingy, that's not the picture in my mind. And I do the thing I always do, I ask what if it were me? If it were me I would never go to daddy, I would just tackle the problem on a one to one basis. 10 minutes is really making a mountain out of a molehill, but then molehills are probably gigantic to mouses (not mice). Everything is relative, if you're small then normal looks enormous. And this makes me cry tears of frustration, at least I've learnt to channel anger into tears. It's unfair but then I can never see things from the point of view of a churchmouse. And of course a churchmouse will not confront big me with dangerous claws. It is best to leave these mouses alone. Because somehow when it's a previous ten minutes their stopwatch never works. Perhaps what they want is relief, but then again, talking of time, time is precious, and nobody will waste their time to relieve a microscopic thingy. I am in no way trying to be callous. It's just that Freud had it so very correct as in the behaviour of men according to the size of their thingy. I have also learnt that it seems quality is not appreciated. I would like a mummy or daddy to sit in one of my classes. I would never break out in a cold sweat as churchmouses would. It would be a pleasure. But it'll never happen because I know that the content is supergood. I think churchmouses and their thingies are best left alone. 10 minutes. I never did it on purpose. I wasn't even aware. Now I am, and I won't forget.