Author: Chiromancer

Thinks she should give up self improvement in pursuit of vices.

Chilcot…

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I am so enraged by the public inquiry into the legitimacy of the Iraq invasion. Yes, you heard me right when I said invasion. When you cross the borders of another sovereign state bearing arms it’s usually consistent with an act of hostility. Especially since the rationale for the persistent and senseless killing of our soldiers turns out to be WMD with special properties – dangerous arms that also have the capability of evaporating into thin air – perhaps we’ll call them Weapons of Mass Disappearance, shall we?

At UK taxpayers expense (we don’t yet know how much as our govt is keeping this under wraps until the final report is published) Sir John Chilcot is conducting a ‘public’ inquiry. To establish whether a war that has cost UK taxpayers an estimated £7 billion, left the families and friends of 176 British soldiers grieving, and killed an estimated 95,158 Iraqi civilians – was legally justified.  Iraq continues to be the non-state terrorism capital of the world, suffering more deaths from such attacks than any other country.  And the UK continues to be a more dangerous place thanks to the actions of Blair and Bush.

All this is bad enough, but what has really made me very angry, is that on Friday, Tony Blair took the stand – not to apologise, or even show one shred of remorse for the people who have died as a result of this conflict.  No, instead he was there to tell – in that faux sincere voice which makes me want to slap him – to tell, the inquiry panel how he was absolutely justified in going to war – thereby ignoring a UN resolution and acting against the advice of the finest legal minds in the UK.

Blair and Bin Laden share common ground. Both have ambitions to leave a world legacy. Blair wants the ‘Faith Foundation’ to be how he will be remembered, no doubt Bin Laden’s aspirations stretch in a similar religious direction. They are dangerous men.  What makes them so is not that they have blood on their hands. Or even that they feel no remorse for their actions.  They are dangerous because of the shared conviction they have God on their side.

Ghost Dog…

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Today I went for one of my habitual walks on the beach.  These walks are usually a solitary pursuit – time to myself to think and not think. Wind, waves and the yearning cries of the gulls and guillemots. On my part of the coast,the forbidding British Winter has granted us a sunny reprieve – it’s been clear and crisp – blue sky, and so icy that the seafoam has frozen and the chalk cliffs sparkle with frost. Beautiful, but only crazy people and dog owners are out on the beach. And me…

I must confess I have always been a cat person. However, since dogsledding in Finland I have returned home as a husky whisperer (yes, I know what you are thinking, but no…I don’t have a premium phone line. If I did I’d be stinking rich and living in Hawaii!) It’s just that somehow I’ve acquired an affinity with dogs. I don’t know how. Or why. Perhaps they have an affinity with me… probably more like it, because judging by my personal life its the mutts and the strays who think they have a chance…

Anyway. I’ve noticed something really odd on my walks along the beach.  Dog owners, who are of course a breed unto themselves, keep chatting to me.  Now in and of itself, that would not be weird (It’s England after all and everyone talks to you)…but they all stop and ask where my dog is…like I have a dog! Car keys? Check!… Ipod? Check!… Attitude? Check?… Canine…erm, no!

When they ask me, my defense is to say that I am walking my dog of special breed – the ‘invisible’ dog. Of course this is patently an excuse, as it’s perfectly clear I’m walking myself, but it seems to keep the dog owners happy. And their dogs don’t  mind either.  I’m even contemplating carrying a tennis ball  and a leash – just to look the part!

Still, I can’t help wondering if they see a ghost dog. An invisible mutt.  Now I just need to work on the invisible man. Ha! That leash may come in handy after all.

Boy…

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A few people I know are having a mid-life crisis.  This is evident from their interests. If they are female – in botox and butt surgery. If they are male – sportscars or other unsuitable hobbies seem to be prevalent- some of which involve other people and chest wigs, but not necessarily in that order. 

I managed to get my own crisis out of the way when I was 25, and that sort of thing was fashionable.  Besides, existential angst isn’t attractive when you are over 30. And it causes wrinkles.  So I hoped I had managed to avoid it. Yep, people make plans. God just laughs. So anyway,  I have a sneaking suspicion that I might not be myself of late.  In fact, I think I am probably re-incarnating as a teenage boy.

What evidence do I have for this apparent transformation?

Well, amongst other things…I am wildly excited that they are releasing a remake of the original gamers movie – T.R.O.N.  We never even owned a Playstation when I was growing up, so where this has come from is anyone’s guess.  I’ve started surfing lessons (cue ‘unsuitable hobby’). Also, I am surgically attached to my ipod touch. And I’ve started listening to louche rockbands and having an overwhelming desire to sleep late and mooch around the house on the weekend instead of being a grown up and doing my chores like I know I’m supposed to.

Of course, all of this is really distressing. I’d much rather re-incarnate as Sugababe than a Sugar boy! It’s when I start wearing baggy jeans that hang down my butt, I’ll know I’m in real trouble.

Dharma…

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The one thing that nobody tells you about being an adult is how hard it is to do the right thing.  Matters that were really clear cut when I was younger have somehow developed blurred edges and hues of grey, as I become more of a grown up and less of the shy, spider-legged girl I used to be.

So, what does doing the right thing mean?  Hard to say as its different for each of us. For me…well, I’ve learnt not to judge people any more. (I of course would make an exception for those who would harm children or animals!) Still, everybody has their own spiritual journey, and you never really know what is going on in someone’s head or indeed their heart.  As adults, we become very good at dissembling truth. Grown ups lie for all sorts of good reasons.  Guilt. Fear. Love. Still, I wish people were more honest and up front with eachother. It might not lead to world peace, but it would save a lot of time and agony.

The right thing can also mean knowing when to walk away, and when to stand and fight for what you are passionate about. On balance, I think it is always better to act out of great love rather than great fear. I don’t think it is possible to love what you fear, though perhaps love can turn into hate. Or maybe we just fear the consequences of what we do and think. Another lesson that comes with being an adult.  Taking responsibility. And, knowing when to take a chance. For change. For happiness. For success. Sometimes the right thing, and the hard thing are the same thing.

Nine lives…

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I lost a good friend yesterday.  As with most serendipitous things, Loulou arrived by pure chance.  I didn’t choose her.  I inherited her. It was only supposed to be six months, but ten years later she was still with me… Sometimes its the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.

Designer she was not.  Battersea born and rescued she was.  Lovely with it, though.  Despite being a feline fashionista.  And in case you don’t believe me, I kid you not…

Favourite gay man: Gok Wan. Favourite designers:  ‘Miaouwschino’, ‘Miaow Miaow’, ‘Georgio Armiaowni’ and, of course, ‘Prrrrrada’! Favourite words: ‘Sushi’ and ‘Nobu’!  Go figure. For someone so small and furry, she did have big ideas!

Actually, I could never work out whether she thought she was human. Maybe I was just the Alpha cat in the pack…?  I had many parties where Loulou sat at the table and was part of the conversation.  Not on the table, mind you (we do have standards), just at the table. Daintily perched on a chair. Listening. Observing. Taking it all in. Perfect guest. Good manners, great listener and an even better radar. Could sniff a love rat at thirty paces! Useful skill if champagne has numbed your owner’s common sense, but that is another story…

In the end, Loulou’s exit was quiet and dignified, much like her life. She was much loved and I will miss her sorely. Mostly because when my own life was pretty pear-shaped, she was the reason I would get up and go on. Well…she needed feeding, and  – at that time – I needed a reason to fight the despair that threatened to overwhelm me. And maybe, just maybe…it’s because she is the last connection with a life I had, but no longer aspire to. 

Sometimes, we have to be ready to say goodbye to one life in order to understand what we are to be in the next…

Common language…

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Just finished reading my local paper and spotted something that really annoys me…

No, it’s not the story about feral youth setting the dustbin on the corner of Queen and Main Street alight (btw, that is the the only thing that qualifies as crime in this area, thankfully). And no, not the story of Ambrose, the cat of the week, who needs a new home because their owner mistreated them (poor pussy). The offensive statement was in fact in a half page ad –  ‘Wedding Fayre’ – fair, spelt with a ‘y’ and an ‘e’ on the end.

Honestly! we’re not living in ‘ye olde worlde’ any longer. Brides are not bartered for three sheepe and a cowe. Speak English for god’s sake! It’s like seeing ‘shoppe’ pollute the signage of our local villages. Eeuw! Not erudite (which does have an ‘e’ on the end). Just silly. Frankly the only place where rogue ‘e’ belongs is at a rave.

And please, don’t – whatever you do – call it the ‘specific’ ocean in front of me. It’s ‘P’ for ‘Pacific’ (as in peaceful), not ‘specific’ (as in particular). Of course, if you are referring to a particular ocean, then have the decency to use it’s proper name. You know…Indian. Atlantic. That sort of thing.

We may have spell-checker on our e-mails, but why do we have no common sense when it comes to our own language?

‘Stationary’ does not refer to envelopes and notebooks, unless they are standing still.
Doing something ‘on principal’ is likely to rile the school governors and get you on the sex offenders register.

And a final warning from the blog… if you end up lost in the ‘dessert’…make no mistake, you will be eating custard on your way back to the oasis!

West Coast…

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A few years ago, I bought a piece of land on the West Coast of South Africa. I did it on a whim.  Actually, I had a really frightening experience flying over the Pyrenees (our plane hit clear air turbulence and dropped 300 ft in 3 seconds). I wasn’t ready to die with a bunch of strangers, and somehow, having a stake in African soil seemed like the right thing to do in case it ever happened again.

The West Coast has been described as a high-speed connection to your soul. If you know it as I have come to, this is absolutely true. I’m not the first person to fall madly and truly for the light that brings clarity of thought and peace to a restless spirit.  Endless white beaches where you can walk for miles without seeing another person. The  Benguela current that runs deep and icy along the shoreline, giving winter fog and cerulean sea (sea that is still cold enough to take your breath in summer). Semi-desert scrubland that reveals little of the Khoikhoi and San who were the first people to live here, but that nevertheless explodes into bloom when the spring rains kiss the earth in September. It’s a wild and stunningly beautiful place.

And when – as now – the choices I’ve made begin to get to me (living in a cold country amongst strangers), my thoughts draw me back there. Little and often. Constant. Constant. They say that once this part of the world has crept into your heart, it will never leave you…

I’ll be returning there this year.

Knickers…

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This is just a bit of fun that’s been inspired by the revealing confessions of Facebook friends…

Facebook is running an app that detects the colour of your underwear. Well, I think I can go one better. I’ll tell the nationality of my knickers. At this point in time my underwear just happens to be French. Oui. They may have a president with a Napoleon complex, but they do know their ‘entre’ from their ‘nous’ when it comes to undergarments. Can’t wait for another shopping spree at the Galleries Lafayette!

When I was growing up, one of my mom’s maxims was always to wear clean underwear ‘in case you get hit by a bus’. Yep – I could be bleeding to death on the pavement as long as the underwear was clean…or, in my case, matching.  At the time it didn’t seem that important, but as I become more grown up, I realise having a bra and knickers that go together is as essential as clean teeth and brushed hair. And anyway, if full body scans become mandatory at Heathrow those who are sartorially challenged will need to rely on our underwear to prove our lack of terrorist credentials. ‘I’m a lover not a fighter, guv!’

My friend Lucy Bucket (not her real name) places great store by the concept of matching underwear. It’s not so much that you could get hit by a bus, but you could hit it off with someone yummy  – and so, just as our mothers advised – best be prepared for every eventuality.  I’ve been known to bottle great romantic moments because on the night the knickers were just not right! His, not mine I hasten to add. (And if you were wondering, Y-fronts and Calvins needn’t bother to apply!) Conversely, matching underwear may also be to blame for some of the other predicaments I’ve got myself into, but that (ahem) is the subject of another blog entirely.

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Wrapper…

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If you know what Quality Street chocolates are you will know that everyone has a favourite – toffee pennies, green triangles and what is only ever described as ‘the purple one’.  When I was growing up, the greens and purples had rarity value and ownership of the last one in the tin was always hotly disputed. 

Like these chocolates, people come in wrappers too. I think all of us have an exterior coating. This can hint at what we are on the inside, or disguise how we appear to others – sometimes what you see is exactly what you get, but not always. Some people are an acquired taste, some are brittle and difficult to digest, some hide a soft centre. Others need careful unwrapping before their real flavour is revealed. And yes, you do find the odd nut!

But do we need our foil coating?  Unwrapped, we might melt. Personally, I think that’s preferable to being consigned to the bottom of the tin.

First kiss…

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The first boy I ever kissed, was the same age as me, but in the year below at school.   I was extremely shy and scared as hell, but he was more experienced (Tick) and very good looking (Tick). He was also a good kisser (Big Tick).   He leant across the stable door at the front of our house and kissed me, casually. It was lovely. In fact, it was perfect.

I remember that kiss because it was the first time I had been that close to a boy who really liked me.  Well, that’s not strictly true.  When I was fourteen a boy who really liked me tried to kiss me and … I ran away – yes, literally! I just wasn’t ready to give my heart. And frankly, trying to kiss me in the middle of a department store (in public…eeuuww!) was never going to work, was it? 

 Rodin sculpted it, Eisenstadt and Doisneau photographed it.  Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy princess found her prince by kissing an amphibian. Hell, Heshey’s even turned it into a chocolate! O.K., maybe that last one doesn’t count, but kissing is an intimate act. It’s a way of being close to someone. And maybe a way of keeping out the cold of  loneliness by starting a fire.

And yes, some kisses are rash (no, I really didn’t mean to…honest), some are an affirmation of life (it was a funeral and I was sad) and some are just what they are (in the moment for the moment…I was curious). Some kisses herald the beginning of great happiness (a.k.a. lust – or love – at first sight) and some mean unwelcome obligation (a.k.a. I kissed you and you were so rubbish I need therapy!) A kiss can give you power, or enslave you. (Just think of Judas! )

For me, kisses are a form of divination.  You can tell from a kiss if its meant to be, or meant to fizzle. Some are fun, but the ones that count are the ones that really make you tingle.