Horn Solo

Walking through the park this morning, I passed two road-workers, resting on either side of the small road that runs through the park.  Having a little break from laying paving stones.  "Sandwich?" one said to the other, quietly.  Now it was only 11am, which seems a bit early for lunch.  The only other interpretation I can come up with owes more to my hormonally-charged brain than reality. 

What they say about women of my age appears to be true.  I stare at half-naked workmen, out the corner of my eye, on the Rondpoint Schuman.  I stare, sometimes actually stare, at men's biceps on the metro.  Fortunately they probably think I'm just a motherly sort who is worried that they have come out without a cardi.  You can get away with quite a lot if you are a mature and respectable-looking lady.

Presumably once the great crashing symphony of my hormones winds down in a few years this bit will end.  (Does it?  Let's ask Joan Collins...)  But I'll bloody miss this movement of the symphony.  I don't think I've ever enjoyed the horns quite so much.  Perhaps this late surge is to give you something colourful to look back on when sitting on a commode in an old folks' home in Kent.  

Tarting Around

I've arranged a date.  Even with my maths I can work out that, at 25, he is precisely half my age.  I do realise this has complete fucking disaster written all over it, but bear with me.  I'm looking for a relationship, and I've made that clear on my dating profile.  This, clearly, will not be one.  The difference between this and my most recent balls-up is that I'm aware of that.

It's like you are walking to Waitrose to get the ingredients for a really fantastic dinner - probably something in a Nigella book - and you pass this patisserie, and the most amazing huge tarte aux framboises lures you in and then follows you home.  You can't say no to a tarte aux framboises, can you?  Because there may come a day when there are no patisseries open and you cannot get a tarte aux framboises for love nor money.  Of course, the walk to Waitrose is still on the agenda, and the shopping list remains folded in your purse.

It is true that I'm not very good at these casual things.  But I just hate to pass up a treat.

If in a couple of weeks this young chap is found face down in a pool with a bullet in his back, you'll know that my transformation into Norma Desmond is complete.

Heads Up

To the doctor again, for more sumatriptan.  This time it was the French-speaking one and, barring a few gargled verbs, I managed a conversation.  The trick was not to think it out in advance.  Or maybe all I can talk about in French is migraines.

Again I was filled with the terror that I would not be given my drugs.  Perhaps I can explain this more fully:

For the most part, I'm sickeningly healthy, except for this one thing.  I got my first migraine when I was 12.  A typical one would go - wake up feeling like someone had buried a machete in your head during the night, and then start vomiting.  The machete would stay there all day, sometimes shifting position a bit.  The vomiting would be roughly every half an hour, all day.  Nothing would stay down, but it's surprising how much stuff an unfed stomach makes.  When the vomit started being greenish, I knew the attack was coming to an end.  Normally, the attack would last all day, and was accompanied by sensitivity to light, to smells, to sounds, and an inability to talk coherently.  Some might say that the latter is normal for me anyway.

For most of my life the attacks were roughly every three months which was sort of manageable.  The attacks themselves, however, were utterly dreadful and had somebody offered me euthanasia during one, I would probably have accepted.  This went on for about 35 years, and then they became more frequent.

Fortunately somebody had discovered sumatriptan.  Unfortunately I couldn't take it because I was on mental tablets (SSRIs).  Once I was off those, I started the triptans.  Without exaggeration they have changed my life.  If I catch the attack early enough, I can ward it off.  My only concern is that the attacks are very frequent.  Oh, and the fear of being caught without my meds.

I recall coming back from Paris on a train, train, ferry and train a couple of years ago (broken Eurostar) with a migraine that lasted three days.  I spent the entire day with my coat over my head.  Never would I be caught without meds again.  Finally I went squinting to Boots and they gave me something over the counter without question - I can only think I looked so fucking ill that they took pity on me.  Normally you have to fill in a questionnaire.

So that's it really.  I need to see a specialist.  But in the meantime I have a prescription for shitloads of drugs.

Chipping Away

Mondays are the worst.  I suppose that is a fairly universal truth - unless you start work on Tuesdays.  You've had a whole weekend to remember who you are supposed to be, and to do things which might form an armature for future sculpture.  And then Monday arrives and sucks big donkey arse.

The Boy is a sweet child, but possibly the most boring person I've ever met.  His vocabulary is still mainly pointing and grunting.  His favourite activity is throwing everything.  I try and have conversations with him, but it's a bit one-sided.   And before you know it the morning has shunted into the afternoon like a pile-up on a motorway.  The Girls are, at least, very entertaining.  When they are not fighting, kicking, hitting, pinching or biting each other.  Or screaming at each other.  I tell them stories about cats, and things my daughter did when she was little.  H wanted me to catch a pigeon to take home.  My throat is sore from being a lion.

The Agency has now sent my file out to five employers.  I suppose the almost possibility of almost getting work where I could possibly wear a skirt and type stuff, just makes things a little less tolerable.

I did tonight what I've been promising myself for the last week - bought frites from one of the best stands in Brussels and ate them in the rain on the two mile walk home.  Greasy and excellent.   

Goldilocks and the Three Eyebrow Pencils

Once upon a time there lived a - well, we can't call her a girl - lady with such lovely blonde hair that everyone called her Goldilocks.  In her dreams.  Anyway.  Back in the days when eyebrows meant business she had to employ a small team of full-time gardeners to keep hers under control.  See below, age 13.  Apologies for the gormless expression.

Now, whether it be through exhaustion, over-zealous pluckage, or medication which I'm no longer taking, quite a few eyebrows in recent years just gave up and went home.  Thus began the search for the perfect eyebrow pencil.

The first one was toooo grey.  The second one was tooooo ginger.  (Who wants ginger eyebrows?  Do ginger people even want ginger eyebrows?)  The third one was jusssst right.  I think.  Sort of eyebrow coloured.  The idea is to make people not even notice you have pencilled them.

And then all these bears came home so I ran away.

Flying Fuck

You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down -
Ray Bradbury.  

I thought this was quite inspiring.  Never knowingly read a word of Ray Bradbury's while he was alive.  Then suddenly the internet was a crawling mass of his wisdom once he'd carked it.  As is often the way.  Anyway, as someone pointed out, there aren't any cliffs in Belgium, get a grip.  And as someone else (on the Dating Website) commented: It's not a terribly good quotation. I didn't enjoy his writing.  So never expect others to share your feeling of inspiration.

I've jumped twice in my life, and built my wings on the way.  The first time I was 24, had nowhere to live, no partner, and was pregnant.  I won't try and pretend it was easy, but it worked out.  The second time is now.  Each day I'm slowly putting together some sort of way of flying.  I'm a bit like the coot babies with their stumpy little fluffy wings that don't work properly yet.

My File has been sent to four employers now.  And in two and a half weeks I start my French course.  It is going to work out.

Mirror Mirror

It just so happens that in both households where I work, they have recently had a delivery of big mirrors from overseas.  Now, I like to choose my mirrors with care.  At fifty, the surprise reflection can throw back your dad in a bad wig, or Jabba the Hutt on a good day.  I approach mirrors with stealth and the best lighting possible.  This afternoon I've been sat opposite a mirror that made me want to cry, or dissolve fattily between the floorboards.  OK, nobody looks good on the floor, it's true.  Unless it's dark.

In other news, My File at the Agency has been sent out to three companies who are seeking staff.  This made me laugh in a sort of reckless, giddy way.  Fucking bring it on.  Presumably I wouldn't have to sit on the floor opposite a large mirror in any other job.  Unless it was some weird, niche, exotic dancer job.