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'Kick the sodding fanta out of you.'

Well, it's almost what he said.

Here is what he actually said:

As the Beast of Bolsover declared, 'Well done.'

Meanwhile I have a faint and stumbling cat here. It is distressing to watch. Had to take him back to the vet. Good news, no tumours, no stones, loads of meds. Bad news... he's still groggy from the sedation. I wish he would just sit down, but he insists on trying to get around. I am not putting the fire on, don't trust him not to fall into it. Poor puss.

Rodent Wisdom

The dream was odd. A man with whom I had a real life acquaintance was shmoogling up to me. This was a surprise as not only was the gent a deeply unshmoogly sort, he was certainly never my cup of tea, and the feeling was mutual except for one time when he got very drunk and gave me what could best be described as a signal. He was smashed beyond coherence so chances are he thought I was his girlfriend, but in any case, it was a matter of surprise, both in real life and the dream. During the latter there was a way out of something, but it entailed climbing up towards a window or vent, in which I could see a big brown rat. I don't mind rats really - I find them sensitive and intelligent creatures - but I didn't fancy putting my face close on a level with it. Transpired that was unnecessary as said rat ran out of the window straight towards me bringing with it a whole bunch of gerbils or hamsters who had been eating a face/ massive puppet head or something. They scattered, never touching me, though they made me question the wisdom of heading in the direction they were so frantic to leave. In the dream it wasn't horrible, though I appreciate it's grim when written down.

Seen it before

This is my entry from  May 6th 2016http://smokingboot.livejournal.com/657588.html The image is the most  important thing.

This is from last Friday's Der Spiegel:

This post isn't about political opinion or astrology, beyond their places in the Great Library, a note of how mythology echoes, imagery repeats, and a story begun before the first century of the Common Era, returns in a time unimaginable, a land unknown.  It may be changed, or distorted, but we are the pattern makers and we have known this story for thousands of years.

Lettuce Rejoice!

On FB, a friend of mine put up this juicy tidbit from the Sun:

We are all about looking after our own and no-one else suddenly, and we get to be insulting and downright racist to foreigners cos we like that, but now the Spanish aren't sharing their lettuce with us! It's so unfair! How can they be so mean? They're doing it on purpose. They made that bad weather happen just to give us all scurvy. This is their revenge for the Armada!

Lettuce is hard to grow in the UK without heated polytunnels, an expensive option. So eat local produce in winter, and try to stave off scurvy by eating limes. Do we grow limes? We do not. Where do we get limes from?

Damn these foreigners, selling us their produce, giving us choice of food throughout the seasons and helping us stay healthy! Who needs vitamin C anyway? Damn them, Damn them all!

Living It Large in Peckham

Wow. It takes something for a restaurant to persuade me into eating so much I can't bear the idea of a coffee yet. Last night, we celebrated a friend's birthday in The Begging Bowl at Peckham, nice area too, which just goes to show. I was completely unaware that there were nice areas in Peckham! The food was good particularly the selection of greens in a delicious garlic gravy/jus whatever. I've eaten small mountains of rice, and it's not even my fave carb. My stomach is still in a state of distended shock. Everything came out in delicate but dangerously repeatable little portions, so we had no idea we were eating ourselves into oblivion before it was too late.

I have to pull myself together as we have a masseuse and a chimney sweep coming this morning.

But not yet.

Lying down

Well,that was a difficult day.

England, not my England

So the HoC decided to stand behind the government's first reading of the article 50 triggering bill, because the MPs are as cowardly as the Leave campaign was dishonest.

I was born in an English town. Since Roman times and before there's been a settlement on the spot; here Queen Matilda held secure from Stephen for a while, and ruled the South West from this, her little capital. Here the folk supported Parliament against King Charles I, and Roundway Hill, right close to the town, is one of those sites where phantom battles are still heard, ghostly cavaliers and roundheads fighting til doomsday. I was born some eight miles from Avebury Stone Ring, some fifteen from Stonehenge. Silbury Hill and the haunted long barrows were part of the landscape of my birth. If there's anything of heritage in the land you fall out of your mother's womb onto, then part of mine is England, early, old, odd, magical.

But what is that worth? I'll keep the good, the poetry and plays and stories that inspired me. But this tatty nationalism, this pandering to racism and delusion? I'll have none of it, nor treat it with anything other than contempt, and no, I am not going to unite with fascists to create Airstrip Fucking One.

Fuck Brexit.

The Monster In Spring

After the combat
I found my horns tangled
With cunning snowboughs
My claws had grown long,
Ice-tipped, crocus scented.
Lanterns were moving
On the lambing fields
While a wren gave me direction,
Pointed me at the blue woods
And the light of a frozen lake.

Wishing any who celebrate the season, a very beautiful Candlemass/Imbolc.

Lack of a Long Spoon

Symbols have power. Whatever happens to Theresa May now - Theresa the Appeaser as she was called in the House of Commons - that close up of Donald Trump's hand in hers will be something always connected to her. It is not a good thing to be seen as a tyrant's best friend.

Seems Brenda's a bit dismayed at the State visit etc. I have visions of Trump greeting her with a friendly crotch-grab, only to have Philip shoot him with his old hunting rifle ('It was the orange...I thought he was an escaped tiger...') then scooped up by Buckingham Palace cooks and after a couple of hours, brought to table like a proper hog roast with an apple in his mouth. Then we have to apologise to America, and they can thank us quietly when no-one's looking.

Even forgetting Donald's interesting tweets about Kate Middleton's nude sunbathing and his belief that he could have copped off with Diana, the Windsors really do not need any more affiliations with fascist-alikes. And this offer is unprecedented - presidents do not get invited to dinner with the queen as soon as they park themselves in the Oval Office. It's flattery,and desperation. Turning away from Europe, May sees us as doubly disempowered if we lose our powerful ally to the West as well as the East, so she grits her teeth and panders, which just goes to show that the first time one dines with the devil is never the last. If she hadn't supped so close to her party imps in a way very likely to harm the country, she wouldn't have to share a plate now with this far more dangerous demon.

She knows how bad it looks. The Times tells us that there was an attempt from Number 10 to blame the arrangement on some random on a committee somewhere; the claim is dismissed across Whitehall. May is the queen's principal minister,it was down to her. And it will always be connected with her.

Which leads me back to the hand-holding. Strange how an accident can look so awful; If Trump, or anyone, had a severe phobia about ramps and they slipped or whatever, who wouldn't hold their hand out, who would pull away if they were grabbed in panic by someone in fear? Who would let that terrified person slip and fall? And I do feel sorry for her,if that is the case. It's a skin crawling image, but what can you do if someone needs help, even if they don't deserve it? And of course,it is the politic thing to do as well as humane; safe to say UK/US entente sinks without a hope if the PM sees the President stumbling towards her and screams 'Get away from me!'

May has never been a fragile flower, but I do feel for her, just this once. The devils have taken their seats at the banquet, a banquet that may use the world as its table. There are no spoons long enough.

'A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.'

I saw Dad for a split second last night.

He appeared in the most cliched way, out of the mist. He was standing on a wooden quay next to a little moored boat and he looked at me, his expression serious. The trouble with these things is that once the picture is there, the mind starts creating a story/conversation, possible extrapolations, the kind of thing he might say. So I put that to one side.

But this is the second time I have seen him in my minds eye, as opposed to a memory.

Next time I shall be more Hamlet-like, though cheerful having no Elsinore to baffle me. But like Hamlet, if he speaks, how do I know it's not just me talking?



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