More please

We live and we die, we laugh and we cry, so that makes it... we eat and throw up? I certainly hope not. I have been to dinner with some amazing conversation, because really, what makes a good dinner (apart from the food), is the conversation. Of course good food helps, a lot. I have eaten so much, but it's ok because that is part of the celebration; the celebration of a brilliant mind. It's a female one too, just in case anybody reading starts having any ideas which go to their well-rubbed ego and to their brain. I will never grumble that I lack the quantity of close friends, because having known quality I go for that. Good food, good conversation, a good friend, a terribly good evening. There was not one stall in the conversation. Which is not surprising, I wasn't expecting any. Now I don't exactly hang out with half-wits, but this, oh dear, this is a sight for sore brains. Brainy people? Not like this one. Yet so human. So laid back, easy going, and still the feisty girl in there. People really do not change, they just develop and their essence becomes even more concentrated. This time round, it's good. Because prodigies develop into genius. They might not be very aware of it, but it's all there. And I'm lucky enough to bask in that glory, permission granted of course. And I want more...

Hands

My hands hurt. And it's not fair. Because, outside of this blog, I am really quite a polite lady. I certainly do not gesture with my hand in Sicilian style, I do not keep touching people when talking to them i.e. I don't talk to people much anyway and when I do I will most certainly not touch them again and again. I know one man who does that, he makes me so irritable that I want to thump him and cry at the same time. He should know better, he's soooo highly educated and thinks that people should bow to his very existence. But he still keeps on with the touching, and people do not bow to him (I would go as far as to pay them so as not to bow to him), but he still thinks they should. This man thrives on power, little power as to where he sits on the table (which is not my table thank you), who gets the first glass of wine, who lights up the first cigarette. And he's not young by any means. Back to my hands, I am quite composed, I keep my hands pretty if it's the only thing I keep pretty. My hands will be always polished, no nail polish chipping, that thought on its own is makes me want to throw up. And back to that man. This is sounding as if I'm going back and forth, which I do a lot not just in writing. The man's hands are striking, although not for their beauty. Beauty has two facets, what turns one on could make another run a mile. I'm not sure if I hate them, but I don't really like them. They are so pale, hairy, and pale and hairy. And pale. Mine too are pale, but they sort of match me. This man's hands don't match him. Clinical hands that look as if they've been given a lot of scrubbing by stern mother who caught her son in the act; in The act. I have been brazen enough to ask, he denies anything of the sort, I'm not too convinced. Or perhaps latex gloves are the ones with powder on the inside, a lot of that every day would make them white I suppose. Still very unsexy. Clean white hands... I like the rugged type, but then I don't exactly go for plumbers and farmers. His hands carry no rings, bands, wedding band. Mine carry a lot of weight, but not enough. I would love to carry an 8 carat around, no matter how much my hands hurt. That's a nice idea, one which I will pursue till death do me part. I'm certainly not the type to be happy with a small little ring, which men have made women called 'dainty'! Men are crafty, they have also somehow installed it in women's heads that big diamonds are loud. Misericordie! I go for the big ones, because in diamonds bigger is always better. I just don't care if I am called loud. It's just envy because my hand is a siren, a flashing siren. Then again, maybe my hands are screaming for a break, because they hurt under all that weight.... yeah, dream on.