Monday, December 19, 2011

the spoilsport sort

I have long been the spoilsport sort
who isn't interested in going to Graceland while I live
or to Heaven when I die,
who gets tired of the Christmas tree  
after a few days
and would prefer a large pot of hyacinths.

But it is good to live with a household of people
who are enchanted by the fairy lights, 
swathing themselves in wrapping paper,
inventing chestnut roasting devices, 
and constantly counting how many sleeps till Christmas -
Six! Only six!

And it is also good to be here among you bloggers,
you who so zealously,
so admirably,
are baking mince pies,
the good ones with suet
and the good ones without suet,
sewing miles of red and gold bunting,
applying glitter to everything in sight,
stalking the robin for your snowy image,
adding the last jelly to the gingerbread house,
and mulling batch after batch of wine
to get the ratio of cloves to sugar just so.
Yes, I'll sample a glass. Sure, why not?
Thank you, bloggers.

Wednesday, December 14, 2011

a sad day for the Lead Rabbit

The tearing winds flung so much salt from the sea up against our windows during that latest storm that we can barely see out.

Indeed, we can't go out either, as Pink Daughter is poorly and staying in bed.  She was to be the Lead Rabbit in tonight's school play, but some other rabbit will be first to the lettuce-field instead.

[angel, not relevant to rabbit]

It's a sad day for a six year old who had memorized everyone's lines and schemed long and hard to be allocated the best ears, who is peering feebly through the salted white windowpanes at the headlights making their way west: carloads of unfeverish rabbits and their proud parents heading for the parish-hall stage, and glory.

"Life will yield many opportunities to be the Lead Rabbit," I assure her, but she is not convinced.

Friday, December 9, 2011

an illustrated gift guide

I'm honoured to feature today in Shell Sherree's series of illustrated What I'd Like for Christmas Gift Guides.

Shell, whose enchanting drawings exist at the point where the worlds of Audrey Hepburn and PG Wodehouse meet, has been my comrade almost since first I tentatively tinkled a vintage silver fork against my crystal glass here in Blogtopia.  She does the colour pink justice like none other while never neglecting the other important pastels, and her lightness of touch with words always elicits a smile.

[click here for a larger version and links to all the items]

Vicki Archer was the first person to get the benefit of Shell's gentle idealism with her choice of gifts, then came me (Me!)...

[Me (Me!)]

... and I'm eager to see who will be next.  You'll be rushing off now, I know, to see where you can buy that dainty little milk-pan, but do take a moment first to say hello to Shell and admire her Tom Ford frock.

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

a Hidden Hurt

I was tweaking a wonky quatrain in a newly composed Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt when the phone rang.

It was X, wondering what progress I'd made with her present and why I'd unfriended her on Facebook.

"In fact," I told her, "that was another X, as I have two best friends, but the present I haven't got for you yet is even better, albeit undeliverable."

It's true. The French company from which I ordered it got in touch yesterday to say that my address doesn't exist. This came as a blow to me, as I've lived here for six years and received packages from all over the world in that time, including several incredible giveaway wins and, only last week, a Lifetime Achievement Award all the way from the Taiwanese High Consulate, as I told France vehemently.

And I hadn't unfriended X, but rather deleted my account on Facebook during the summer. You should see the great peace that has descended on me since then, no longer in the thick of things, unaware of everyone's sprightly activities unless they themselves tell me about them.  I've ceased to be pressured into Liking everything and can revert to my sullen self, not liking most things very much, except, as ever, your lovely hairstyle.

So that leaves X with little prospect of a present from me, down from 367 to 366 in the all-important number of dear Facebook friends, and forced to listen to the Blogtopian poem in which I hint at a Hidden Hurt.   "It's not hidden enough," she said. Who can blame her?
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