. . . 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.

Again, I’m in this space where the public written word is sparse.

I’ve written in my diary – the paper one that I type up – I type it up for a sort of convenience – I always think I will save paper by typing it up – and I’m always surprised at how much there is, at the end of the day – I am thinking in terms of my descendants wondering what to do with it all.  At least I have started talking about it – saying that I would like it kept for future generations in the family.

At least that.  I would like a wider audience, but I need to think more about that.

It has been a troubled time – is May, also (like March and April) a difficult time for me?  (I know it’s June now, but that crept up on me.)

Or has it just been this May that – I’ve met that awful woman again (with her two dogs this time) and my mouth went off again – saying all sorts that was not tactful – and I’ve had a guilt trip about it all – though, working it out on paper (my most familiar medium) (have you noticed how it is beginning to get spooky in here?) – but, having written all that down – oh, here – this is it (in [. . .] brackets), from my paper diary:

[I’ve been feeling guilty – I saw that woman (with the two dogs) again – and this time – she did have the dogs with her – it was her, not her twin.  The dogs seemed to be slightly larger, and darker, than I’d remembered them – I don’t know the breed.  I don’t hate dogs but I’m not that bothered about them – there’s a ‘Dogs’ League’ fella in the Centre sometimes – “Do you like dogs?” – “Yes, but I couldn’t eat a whole one” – but that’s an old joke – I wouldn’t actually cheapen myself by saying it – ‘cheapen’ . . .

Just watching my language here, and there is more than one context coming in – ‘context’ seems all-important – it is important, but there can be more than one at play.


Woman, tall, blonde, two dogs – one jumps up at me (they are of the variety of ‘small dog’) – “Oh, I have chicken in my bag,” I say.

I mean ready-cooked chicken, which I’d got for an easy lunch.

“Oh, they get plenty, don’t worry,” she says.

I’m not going to explain this any further.

I shall avoid that woman, where I can.


I’ve got to get more – ? – somehow (forgotten what I was going to say).  Get more specific, anyway.  This is despite what I’ve said above.



But it’s as much as I can do just now.

. . . I know that rationally.

But I suspect . . . if I overstep bounds before I know what I am doing.

This is so important, what I’ve just said.


Oh, that woman and her dogs – I didn’t want the dog that jumped up to get my cooked chicken.

But she turned the whole thing around (with no hesitation, no thinking about it) to be about her and her dogs – “Lovely, aren’t they?” she murmured – and it was ‘murmured’ as though she was in some cheap – melodrama.

She thought I’d be worried about whether her dogs got enough to eat or not!

I’m explaining here, which I said I wouldn’t – but the cheek of that woman.

And I was feeling guilty because my mouth had shot off again – she was being ‘so brave’ (her words) over her hip – and I told her much (not all) about people I’d known (including Mam) who’d had hips done.

I didn’t say Mam’s operation hadn’t been initially successful – but I did say she’d fallen and broken it – and that she couldn’t see (partially sighted) and so hadn’t gone on to the two sticks from the walking frame.

I think that woman had no idea what happened after the operation.


As though I would invite her dog to eat my food!

You can see where I’m coming from, can’t you, when you consider . . .

I like some dogs.

It’s as though it’s a duty, actually, to like dogs – if I’m truthful.

No.  Stay away from that woman with her two small dogs, and who thinks the entire world revolves around her, and who is a basic bully – avoid her, anyway.


Oh – got to say – she began the story of her hip as though it hadn’t been decided she would get it done – she’d been to the doctor and –

She was sent to the hospital for a check and –

I can’t remember what she said, but she made it seem that they hadn’t yet decided whether she was getting it done or not.

I asked, “So, are you getting it done?” – there was confusion in what she’d said and it was a question you would ask, given those circumstances.

“Oh yes!” she said, as though I’d been stupid for not realising.  “I’m getting it done!”

That was probably why I’d gone off into all the horror stories (they weren’t all horror stories) about hip replacements, and what I knew of them – doesn’t everyone know what I know?

Apparently not.

She had asked me to feel her hip – how hot it was – I’ve got to avoid that woman – it’s too much ‘touch-touch’ – and it was hot, her hip – very.

I’d immediately thought she shouldn’t be out walking on it much – if she could avoid it – “I’m out every day, walking the dogs!”

I hadn’t seen her the entire winter!  Only her twin with the bra strap.

“And then I was on my way home,” she said, “and I realised the tears were running down my face with the pain – so brave – keep on going – you have to, don’t you?”

No – she’s got a bad hip, enough to have an operation – but she is playing for sympathy – I can’t explain that any further.

But I’m well over my sense of guilt – run a mile from that woman where I can.  I don’t know how she was out with a hip that hot.

She’d had an ‘ex’, and he had been the most helpful, and even ‘she’ had – kept to the side.

Sorry, Missus – can’t be talking to you like this -]


I know this seems obvious, but if I don’t get something written down, I won’t.




Yes, you with the motorbike!

I could have had a motorbike you know!

I did once!  In a story, I had a motorbike!

It was a full-length romance, and I went in as ‘she’, and when she ran away from a sticky situation – and ended up at the mansion (would be) of he who was to become the hero – she saw something in the pond in front (it was a lake but I called it a pond) and it turned out to be a body, floating face down.

I couldn’t help it, writing that!

It was a romance but it was turning into a horror story!

Writing itself, this story – the heroine entered the mansion, which was undergoing renovation work, and she went along passages, and she found his sandwiches tied up in string – no, in paper (the string belongs to another story) – and she thought they must belong to the workman who was doing-up this place (she came from the slums) and then she bumped into him (literally) and – he wasn’t the workman at all but the haughty lord who was handy as well as supercilious!

Anyway, she had a motorbike and full leather gear – to escape away.

No.  I didn’t keep that story.



I’m a writer, first and foremost.

I write every day – day in, day out.

It is a rare day wherein I do not write.

Even if I am away – for a social occasion – I have my notebook.

I have reams of writing, which I am going through – to see what is there.

I am up to ‘February 2016’ now – from the diary – and so I get close to meeting myself here.

My writing isn’t a game.  It is deadly serious.

I play games – Nintendo – when I need to come away from the writing for a while – but the writing itself . . .

What rot!  I was going to say that the writing itself is not a game but, sometimes, I play games with the writing.

I am blogging to find out precisely what I am willing to let into the public sphere, and what I want to keep private – I know that much now.

Eventually, it all may go public.

I saw a woman on the bus today with two children who had Down’s Syndrome – they were twins.

You take what life gives you.

Sometimes, you choose.