I am an Arse.
If I'd woken up this morning thinking "hmmm, my wallet's looking a little dirty," then I could have understood it. Even subconsiously, the seed would have been planted, and the whole thing would have made a little bit more sense.
But I'm secretly proud of the slightly seedy patina that my wallet has gained through years of selfless service. It was a present from my Mum and Dad - apparently, for vaguely abstract "luck" purposes, a wallet or purse should always be a gift, and it should never be given with nothing in it - this charming little slice of dead cow skin ticked all the boxes, and looked pretty good as well. For its benefit, I always made sure I was never in a position to overstuff it with notes - that took some careful career planning - and I always made sure I had just enough plastic cards to fill it, even if I had to make some of them myself out of old ice-cream cartons and strips of VHS videotape.
It only takes a moment of thoughlessness to lose an old friend. Even as I slammed the door of my washing machine and set the cycle to "Economy Wash" I had no idea that I'd sealed the fate of my leathery little buddy. It wasn't until the suds rained down that my hand suddenly flashed to my right hip pocket and felt only a telling emptiness, and by that time it was already too late. Short of a fire axe, there was no way of freeing my wallet from it's dizzyingly spinning death.
Hours later, I still I had to wait for the spin cycle to subside and the water to drain away before I could finally rescue my faithful friend from the watery grave I'd consigned him to. A papery shadow of his former self, even mouth-to-mouth would have been fruitless. His lustre gone, I tried propping him up on on a radiator to dry him out and see if he'd regain his former glory, but he still looks sad, shrivelled, and accusingly frail. The twenty-pound note he was faithfully holding for me has been ground up into its constituent fibres and absorbed by all my pants and socks - I'm pretty sure even all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put it together again, and that dumping a load of wet laundry onto a bank counter and asking for a tenner and two fivers in exchange probably isn't going to work.
But who knows - my wallet's a resillient little bugger (he's weathered many a financial famine and still come out on top), so maybe he'll take this in his stride and come back fighting. I've already massaged him with vegetable oil in an attempt to nurse him back to health - it's touch and go at the moment, but I don't want to lose him yet...
Snow. It's Just Rain That Got Lucky...
I woke up yesterday to a marshmallow world.
I love snow. Living in Scotland, I'm well used to rain - a constant fine drizzle seems to be the norm, apart from five minutes of summer in July, or thereabouts.
So snow is just rain with character. Rain with personality - raindrops are like uniformed paratroops, but each snowflake is refreshingly unique. Thankfully, they also don't all scream in unison when you shape them into a snowman (a tragic stab at lasting fame that's always ultimately doomed to failure) or a snowball (a brief, fleeting career that's bound to end in tragedy, one way or another).
"Aye, you're not so unique now, are you," say nameless legion of kids, as they mash thousands of airy flakes together into something a bit more substantial.
I love snow. Not too big a fan of it when it hits me in the back of the head and swiftly turns back into cold water, though.
Dropping Like Flies...
Is there something in the air? After my last post about Linda (who?) Smith, today I find out that the legend that once is but now was Ivor Cutler has also popped his clogs in the last week.
Despite myself, this blog seems to be turning into an over-sentimentalised, "tributes to people I never even even met" kind of thing. And I hate that kind of rubbish.
But Ivor Cutler was a true one-off - you were never quite sure if he was being funny or if he was being genuine. Here's a couple of his poemish things:
Coming to Terms With Being a Moth
When Sarah's powdery wings appeared from behind the headboard, we attacked. The old man lay supine, helpless, breathing irregularly but heavily. Fluttering along the thermals rising from between his thick dry lips, we tickled them till his arthritic claw rose to brush us away. We rose swiftly, then landed at the huge runway at the top and walked around till the claw rose and fell, and smashed Sarah. I flew over to see if I could help, but she whispered, "Go! Save yourself!" then perished, a pathetic splat. I flew off, sad yet happy, buoyed by the knowledge that the transmigration of souls would bring us together again, and soon.
Reading
Swalows swank along the sky, braking and skidding. Hear deep thudding in the sky as flies smash against the back of a birdie's throat and plop into the gastric stew. There is a little light down there, just enough to see your chums floating on the top, rubbing their skulls and cursing their luck, or lying on their back, calmly reading their wings.
The man was a genius, and more of an influence on me than I'll ever care to admit.
A Wee Tribute to Linda Smith
Just found out that Linda Smith died the other day. Most people probably won't know who she was - she was a superb commedienne who was a regular presence on Radio 4 in the UK. Her own show was excellent, but she really came into her own when she was just being herself on the News Quiz. Particularly if Jeremy Hardy was on the same bill - you could feel the affection between the two, and when they bounced off each other, it was comedy gold.
She made me laugh a lot. This tribute doesn't do her justice, but is stil pretty funny.
