I just need to remind myself here –

I have a post adjunct – the possibility of one – about Hortense – she has, in her name, that French influence which seems to be so important to me – I’ve written something about that – I thought I’d post it.  I’ve linked her with the French teacher from Marseilles, but I’ve written of the French teacher elsewhere, and if I put it more or less where I’m up to in the blog, it wouldn’t so much be writing, as informing potential readers of aspects of myself – that isn’t what the blog ultimately is for.

Oh, remember, also, watching the ‘Henry . . .’ – was it 5th? – film behind the curtain – up on the stage at school – the French princess he marries.

It’s just ‘Hortense’ is another link in with this lot – and ‘Michelle, ma belle’ – the Beatles song that we asked that French mistress about – for a translation of the French words in it – she was scandalised, really, that we couldn’t translate it ourselves – she didn’t think much of us – French girls were so vastly superior.

However, I’m not at all sure that would belong on the blog.

I said all that (I’m going to throw it out), but the final paragraph is important, and would have gone into the blog if the rest had – it says something else of who I am: ‘And so we cannot dismiss  her . . . [Hortense] . . . so easily – she fits in there somewhere as agent (of one sort or another) of – the mess I fell into – I was going to say ‘got myself into’ but I don’t think it works in that essentially moralistic way.  I am no Kantian.’

(‘Kant’ keeps on coming into my writing, also – I know very little of him, but ideas I have of him are important to me in some way.)

Of course, there were those who . . .

didn’t believe me.

In the end, that was it with Ruth – my champion – she was my champion – I told Hortense that Ruth – did I say she was my expert?

As though I had her working for me, or as though I would be, by choice, working in a team.

Hortense, however, was the sort of person who would work in a team – and be interested in positions of expertise – and it isn’t that I don’t recognise how important expertise is, but – where I was and where Ruth was – we were worlds apart.

I can’t explain all this without giving away what we were doing at that time, and I shouldn’t worry about it (I tell myself) but if I say that, it could be a means to identify.

How much identification do I want?  How much do I want to disclose about factual matters?

It is the emotional baggage I’m interested in.  A tutor said to me once that you couldn’t write the emotion, not the emotion itself.

I puzzled over that for many a long year, and it is only now that I can say – I can write some words about my emotion, and readers may relate to those, identify (there it is again) with me in that, guess at least, how I could be feeling.

Been there – people might think they had – been there.

We impart how we feel as we can, with words.

People are reminded of situations that they were in, when you use words.

But I understand also what this tutor was trying to imply; things themselves are not in the words.

Okay, I’m on both sides of the fence now.

But – when I think back, Ruth stopped acknowledging what I said – it was Ruth who changed her position – she acknowledged what I said to start off with.

It was as though she thought I was nuts – well, she did – in a way where I wasn’t actually nuts.

I was nuts, but not how Ruth saw me.

She thought she was so much the expert because she was writing a thesis on it all – the madness question.

I wasn’t mad, but she thought I was hearing voices!

I wasn’t hearing voices at all, just listening to aspects of myself – I was writing my life-story, after all . . .

Ah, the eccentricities of literary people!


What do I say?

The characters described here bear no resemblance to real people?

This dying business – I’ve always thought that living was there to get to know stuff.

As a philosophy, I’ve heard that, many times.

And I seem to have internalised it to an extent where I haven’t thought about it much, even sneering to myself at the very idea – how simplistic that seems.

But it’s there, that idea, in me, floating around, not so easily dismissed; we’re here to learn.

I think of Dad (and Mam, though she is further away, having died so long ago now – it is as though when people die, they get further and further away from you) – but Dad and Mam – I envisage (and it is that – I see them in my mind’s eye) – I envisage that they know, now, all about what troubled me.

Maybe they know more about it all than I do.

Or maybe have them there, knowing, so that I can have this dialogue with each of them about it – on-going as I discover, more and more, what is there in my mind, and what I remember.

. . . well, no, I don’t feel very forgiving, if I’m honest with myself.

If either of those (not them – those) – if either of them tried to make an entrance now, I’m not sure what I would say.

Could I trust them ever again?  How many years has it been now?

No.  I’m not talking of Ruth or Hortense, but another two –

Pearl.  And Dean.

But – sorry, I can’t push this.


Sometimes, I feel as though I have a death’s-head.

I know.  It’s not very nice, is it?

But, sometimes, my mouth stretches in a snarl, and I bare my teeth.

And I’m like a skull-gone-wrong.

Sorry.  It’s not so pretty, but it’s what I live, sometimes, and I feel as though I do need to apologise . . .


You mean I’m not supposed to show my feelings?

I’m supposed to keep up a pretence at all times? – who me? – yes, I’m okay – oh no – it didn’t bother me.

Not at all.

I am so sweet-and-innocent . . .

. . . an interlude, I suppose.

What was that I was thinking there, talking to myself again, telling myself stories that were really true –

That friend of mine once, who used to parallel-talk with me – Ruth – I’d be telling her of the latest troubles of my life and, instead of responding to that, she’d talk about her problems.

She was a believer in love, a perfect love to be found somewhere, some day.  She told her girls that one day, they would fall in love . . .

She disappeared at a time in my life of great crisis – she couldn’t cope with that – that is my belief – she had to abscond or go under herself.

Mind you, lots of people I had known disappeared then.  You wonder what it was you’d done, exactly.

And there was that one, who wanted to come back, trying to catch me that day when she was with a new friend – I ran into her in the village – and it was this, and that . . . and she said, “I know!  Why don’t I come round to yours one day, and . . .”

And I said, with no hesitation whatsoever, “Oh no!  I couldn’t go through all that again!”

I’d wondered what I would say to her if we’d met, and that was it.  It was just what I thought, and what I said.  I didn’t even consider the new friend next to her.  She didn’t even signify.

No.  This woman – Hortense – this old friend of mine, had done me no good whatsoever, and I wasn’t going to fall for that again . . .


I’m starting to dream the person I am.

It’ll take some time, but I’ll catch up with my person.

Everyone is busy.  Let them be.


I had a dream once where I was running, carrying a burning handbag.

I couldn’t do what someone wanted me to do because I had to put out the burning bag first.

I said this.

I know what this dream means, now.


I know someone who is dealing with her problems as I was, long ago.

If she doesn’t put aside that stick she’ll never walk.

Although, I am reading my problems into hers.

There is the woman, also, with the ugly small dog who lives in a house behind neck-high wooden fences on the other side of that road into the village.

She can positively run from her house if she sees you – across a garden – desperate to see someone.

Her forehead is low, in a manner that foreheads are sometimes described – it is one of the salient features of her – her hair is well-oiled – I’m not sure what she puts on it.

She is a kind lady, would help me if I was in need and went to her door, and knocked, and asked.

But she is also desperate for herself.

So many lonely people.

There is her on that side of the road, the awful woman walking her two dogs, with her hot hip, on the other side.  I can’t avoid them both.  I can’t cross over the road to avoid one and run clap-bang into another.

I must be able to deal with these people – not today, I can’t stop today – hip okay? – yes or no – is that your dog, that small, ugly one?  I thought at first you were looking after it for someone.

It seems to be small dogs that get me most.

I won’t mention the woman, further up the road, who has two large graceful dogs that do not bother me at all when I meet them, and her.

One of the dogs I knew in my extreme youth was a big black Labrador.



Some partial thoughts. . .

Monday 3 June 2019

There is a dangerous man in the neighbourhood.

Word has got around.

For me – I must get more deliberate in my movements.


On another note: Ivanka knows how to find, and play to, the cameras.


I’ve got to dig out the old pond today – there is concrete, which is going to come out, left under a pile of soil.

When it does (come out), that will help the drainage at that end of the garden.


It’ll all be in the papers, but I wondered which tiara the Queen would wear.

It had red stones – and the necklace.

They will have been some famous gems.

Camilla wore a tiara, which I was pleased to see.

She holds her own and gets on well with everyone.


What do I know?  I wasn’t there.  We were getting some (?) [can’t read my writing] – having been taken in by all coverage – interminably – on the news – especially the men didn’t seem to know their arse from their elbow (sorry, she murmured).

Katherine looked very nice in an all-over frilled dress – she is so naturally slim she can wear this sort of thing (that adds bulk to your silhouette).  She smiles well.  She socialises well.

I didn’t see Melania going into the banquet – I’d finally given up on the news – were they never going to get down to the speeches (which we, as viewers, were waiting for) and then eat?

If I was invited to a State Banquet (I’d go), I might decline – I’d never sleep having eaten so much (which I would) so late.

These are mere notes and in no way accurate.

Oh – I saw that it is okay to shake the hand of the Queen.

That is disappointing.  When did that come in?

Debutantes used to go and curtsy to the Queen.

There is in no way, now, the respect there once was.

I won’t put all of this into the blog.

I’d curtsy.  I’m sure people do still curtsy and bow – I suppose it depends on what they (and she) are doing – I’m sure I’ve seen them bowing when she is giving out knighthoods and such . . .

No doubt, I’ll catch up today on who wore what.

Attack on Sadiq Khan, but did Sadiq Khan start it?

There are widespread protests and that is not fake news.