Jade

I have been following all the Jade Goody news, which hasn't been good. I'm not sure I ever liked Jade much, someone who signs up to Big Brother, well it's not as if they're doing something awesome. But I must admit Jade's stuck in my mind ever since I laughed so hard I almost wet myself, with her tragic words, "Rio de Janeiro? Ain't that a person?". Geeze Jade, didn't she ever go to school. Her mangling of the English Language didn't score points with me either. She was just a single mum, a loudmouthed single mum who just wanted the limelight. And she took the limelight by storm. Because we hated Jade Goody for what she represented; the tragic decline of the average British youngsters. And yet we secretly loved Jade for all her in your face confidence she managed to effortlessly pull. I remember once, I just wondered how nice it would have been to be Jade and have all that money. Now I don't want to be Jade anymore. Who the hell would have thought that this ex dental nurse would be dying at 27? That's too young to die. It is so unkind, a mum with two young boys, a mum who will be six feet under in a matter of weeks. No, I don't want to be Jade one bit. I don't care about her 1million deal with OK magazine. I don't care about her white wedding. I find it so strange. Why go to the trouble of getting married when you know you don't have much time left? But then maybe Jade's so sad that she's creating positive things to at least make the best out of her last weeks. I'm so sorry for loudmouth Jade now. Life's smiled at her only to deal her the cruelest frown of all. All because of cervical cancer which I wasn't even aware of. I thought things like these happened to old women. It seems they don't. And through all the mass criticism because Jade has chosen to make her passing away public, I on the other hand, bow to her courage. She's doing it for one reason, her boys. She is just a parent who knows her children are about to be orphaned, and she wants to give them the best possible chance in life. That means, that at a time when it should be all about her, she's thinking of her boys. And I can only applaud a girl like that. And cry. I really don't want her to die.

Keyboards

It's a Saturday evening, a day which I like, and a time which I love. I am here seated, typing at my keyboard which needs a brilliant makeover. No, better still I need a new one. Keyboards with me have a shelf life, and it's not a long one. First of all I have to do a tour de keyboards to find an ultra flat one which will then be expensive, which will get filled to the brim with cigarette ash, which my claws will wear down in constant torture. Keyboards.. beware. I do try to treat them with tender loving care, but it never works for very long. If I were a keyboard propped up prettily in a PC shop, I would really try to make myself lost if someone like me came along. Firstly, the claws, never a good sign. Secondly, the sleepy trance, yet again not a good sign. The size... no comment. I have lost count of the number of keyboards I've bought in life. Most of them are still shoved into a cupboard somewhere because I can never bring myself to part with them. So I make sure that I at least give them a proper burial. And now I'm thinking, I'm not sure thinking about keyboards at this time of the day is a good thing. I'm risking having dreams where I am alone surrounded by all the keyboards I've used in life, and they're singing tantric songs and attacking me.... URGH!

The God Theory

On a day like today I bless the world's oldest ancestors. Because they came up with the world's biggest excuse to take time out for merry-making, and holidaying. And they didn't have Internet back then. And although Carnival does nothing for me, it provides me with a very well-deserved break. I think it's lovely for little people to be able to dress in fancy costumes, wear makeup and masks. But for adults? And then again why not? If masking people's faces is what takes their fancy, I can do without setting my sight on some ugly people. My face... oh no, it needs no mask, it's the one perfect thing I've inherited and I'm not about to cover it up. My twin and I have a theory about the timeline God used when making us. We are sure that God started constructing his feet, legs, waist, abs, and neck. Then God proceeded to leave my twin to dry and started on my face which he painstakingly constructed with precise chiseling. Such was God precise at doing my face that it exhausted him. So God took a nap. And the bloody inexperienced angels took over, giving my brother a less than perfect face, and using all the wrong tools to make the rest of my body. Perhaps it was a lesson as in, you really cannot have everything in the world. One rude, rich and old woman, who had lipstick-stained teeth once decided to give her uninvited opinion. She took one look at us and said , " Oh, so it's true with twins, one gets the body (and she looked at Joseph) and the other gets the face (and stared into my eyes)". Well in her case it seemed as if she got neither but such was our surprise we didn't have the energy to talk. The most damning thing is that it's not so very long ago when I too had the perfect body. But what is the perfect body? What would be the opinion of a limbless person I wonder? And so we have to make do and be thankful because it could have gone a hell of a lot worse. I learnt a harsh quick lesson at the Razzett tal-Hbiberija swimming pool. There was I desperately trying to cover up my legs because I didn't want anybody to see the orange peel effect. So I stayed sitting down waiting for people to go. And in sitting down this young woman was seated not very far off from me. And she too was waiting, for someone to help. I could have helped, but I didn't want her to see my cellulite. And she seemed nice enough so I told her so. Her answer made me feel so small. The conversation was like this, "Hi, sorry I can't help but I'm waiting for people to go because I'm shy about my legs. Because people will stare and stuff". That was me. And this was her, "Oh I see, I'm waiting for someone to help because I've got no legs. And because people will stare and stuff. "Such was I concerned about the stupid orange-peel effect, I hadn't even recognised this girl's needs, partly because I was obsessed about myself, and partly because she was cleverly draped in a big white towel which hid the things which weren't there anyway. I always thought hiding meant concealing things which are present, such as my cellulite. Here was a girl who was hiding nothing and everything. In just 5 seconds I had learnt a big lesson in life. I bet she would have wanted to trade places with me and my orange peel. I still remember that girl from time to time. She made me feel so small and angry at myself, which was not her intention. Where was God when He made her? Did he trade a nap for a coma? And which angel was it who decided to play such a sorry trick? I'll never know. But I know now to shut up, face the stares and get on with it. Because it could have been worse.

Supermarkets

I have just been wasting my Saturday morning; shopping. I love shopping, but I've just shopped at a place I hate; the supermarket. It's usually the Mister's job, but since we were passing by and since he smilingly asked that I accompany him, I didn't have the heart to refuse. Supermarkets are the world's ugliest place for shopping. For one thing, they are places where people shop for their needs, and not their wants. That is a killjoy enough. I like shopping for what I want and not for what I need. Secondly supermarkets are divided into sections none of which make me at all excited. While I see other women picking up things, putting them down, picking them up again and putting them down again as if they were diamonds, I really wonder what the awe is all about. Why do women have to smell all the detergents on show, why are they so excited by fabric conditioner, it's not as if it's going to smell anything like D & G is it? Am I really about to wash my delicate white skin with something off a bland white supermarket shelf? And they're all so sickly stacked that it's as if they're staring at me in the face and giving me the finger because at least they found a shelf to hold them, while I have not even been lucky enough to find a shelf my own size. They're like weltering soldiers in the army called offensively rude. And how the hell do people even go close to onions, cabbage, apples? They actually touch the dirty stuff. I can never picture myself doing the same. My lovingly manicured nails touching something so filthy. Oh dear, that's one big no. And what about the queue at the delicatessen? Why do they call it delicatessen anyway? The word makes me think of delicate lace and pearls and satin and velvet and cashmere and fur, a far cry from the cheese, ham, sausage, beans, garlic this and garlic that. And people are actually ready to queue up for stinky things like these? Waiting in a file just for that? Then there's the freezers. So cold that I'm sure one look down them can make you actually catch the cold and get a cold. And so manufacturers really think I'm actually going on deodorising my underarms by something bought out of a supermarket? Or that I am about to put on my face something labelled a face mask but which looks like mud? Hand cream and wait for it, the most offensive of the lot... Vaseline which has now such notorious connotations that it's suddenly being called petroleum jelly and on which jar (it's always in a jar isn't it?) it says that it's a terrific make-up remover. I'd like to know where the woman who actually smears Vaseline on her face lives, just so I can behead her for safety standards. Where have our standards gone to girls? Mine have not gone down the supermarket lane, they never will, because the hatred I have for places like these turn me into a monster. And I guess the ones who love supermarket shopping because they're insane will be lurking on my blog and think that I'm one spoilt brat. And I probably am. A very special spoilt brat who will hate supermarkets till my time in this world is up. One thing in men's favour though, supermarkets are becoming the new place for pulling pick ups. So many women in there, so little men. Perhaps that is another reason why they're open from 7 till 7.