Tuesday, May 29, 2012

waiting for the rain

At the end of a busy, busy hot day
I am waiting for the rain from the south 
 to reach my parched poppy seedlings. 

The year starts to run away from me when the peonies are over. 
There has been a rush of emails lately
out of the bleu
eager to contribute a guest post to my lovely blog, Pretty Far West,
about home furnishings or environmental concerns or whatever I like;
I am to simply let them know what suits.

One suspects their motives,
and yet,
because I am so weary,
perhaps it is time to stop dishing out the stern NO
and let them at it
with their furtive links to 
affordable sofa plans and 
five star hotel deals
as though we were all a bit dim. 

And I can sit on a stone wall in the freshly plopping rain,
looking at the lights gradually going out over on the islands
while the guest posters beaver fiendishly away.

You people wouldn't abandon me, I know:
you would comment favourably,
perhaps even gushingly,
on the affordable sofa plans
and the five star hotel deals.
The whole blog would still appear normal.  

Monday, May 21, 2012

flowers in the kitchen

Pink Daughter and her charming assistant, Blue Daughter, 
have been ringing the doorbell to sell me flowers from the garden: 
20 cents per mini wheelbarrow
OR NO DEAL, MAMMA.



Now they have a lot of coins 
and I have a lot of flowers.

Friday, May 18, 2012

I wonder who won that magnificent soap?

I know how it feels to lose giveaways. 
There was once a pair of vintage Kate Spade sunglasses 
on which I had set my trusting heart, 
but it was not to be.
Loss followed upon bitter tumbling loss after that
until I could hardly bear to enter at all
for fear of failure:
the beckoning handmade patchwork bunnies
just out of reach. 

Mianra cherry blossom cupcake soap
A kind word and a consoling pat on the shoulder, then, 
to everyone except 
the winner
of a splendid box of Mianra Artisan Soaps;
fairies surely danced at her birth.

How pretty
We live in troubled times
(except Anita).

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

more frequently asked questions


In which I address the three questions that flooded in while I was away, 
plus a couple I added myself to make me feel loved

We're having a get together on Sunday week; would you like to come along to the luxe environment of the Censored Hotel and give a little talk on interiors or how to make yogurt? There'll be cakes!

God no.

Why not? It would be a chance to wear your charming ivory dress, the one with grosgrain ribbon and a sixties vibe.

There is that, but no. I shall have to spring the dress on the ladies of the parish at the protest march against the ladies of the neighbouring parish. Have you tried contacting Justin Timberlake?

But what have you got against meeting people?

They might be just as chirpy and supportive in real life as they are on screen, and I would find that draining. What if they fished photos of their painted armoires and courgette & polenta muffins out of their wallet and then mentioned Jesus in passing?


Dear Mise, we here at Acme Ventures Inc. enjoy reading your blog Pretty Far West and would like to interest you in collaborating with us on a money-making venture. We will insert randomly chosen buzzwords in this sentence. Get in touch if you'd like to learn more! Jemima xxx

No thanks, Jemima. I already have heaps of money.

Can you remind me how to pronounce Mise?

Meh-sha. Like that. It just means 'myself' in Irish.  Tusa means 'yourself.'  That's you.

Why don't you use your real name?

In case people drive past my house, pointing and laughing.


Wednesday, May 2, 2012

where are the people with cakes?

Whenever I read the blogs, someone has baked a cake for their fellow blogger or their child's beloved teacher or for Sadie, who is upset over the lost umbrella, and they have taken a lovely photo of the cake before they pop out to deliver it. By the law of averages, I tell myself, some of those cakes should be on their way to me. But no. I have looked repeatedly out the front window and no one is there at the door with a cake.

"when will the cake be here, dearest Mamma?"

On a day like this, when folding away the laundry is a weary business, not to speak of emptying the dishwasher and being crippled in the attempt to cull my possessions by a fallacious correlation between the price paid for the dress I will never, ever wear and how long I should keep it, cake would be welcome. Why am I being singled out to receive no altruistic cake?
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