Gay sisters and rosy red apples

I had cause to have ‘the conversation’ regarding injuries and recovery with a colleague yesterday. The nature of my job is such that I see a lot of people so I still have these conversations fairly regularly. My technique is a basic introduction followed by recounting a couple of blog posts, seems to work.

Yesterday’s conversation was in a car and I watched the screwed up face and physical discomfort that always accompanies description of the actual damage. Once through that I was met with the hilarity that accompanies, on this occasion, squeezy marmite (thanks Jo), press ups and sneaky cast removals. This is perfectly normal for me, there is rarely a time when I can’t raise a laugh from one of the darkest and most scary times in my life. At the end of the conversation my colleague remarked that my attitude was astounding, my answer was that ‘once it’s done, it’s done you just have to get on with it’.

Walking back to the hotel that evening I wondered whether there was something odd in my attitude to life, do I approach things differently? I can’t think that I do, doesn’t everyone laugh at their own misfortune? That old saying of “laughter is the best medicine” has a lot of truth in it surely?

I have a thought from facebook for you this morning, feel free to skip this if your hatred of social media necessitates. The morning’s concern is about the apparently constant need for approval that blights so many young girl’s lives. This can be seen in the millions of ‘selfie’ pictures posted online, what else would posses you? When these pictures get negative comments we are told that this is wrong and that it can lead to depression and ruin lives. This is a public forum, if you post a picture then you must intend it to be viewed. If you haven’t proofed the photo or hell you’re just ugly then remember this is the real world, people have no obligation to be nice!

The reality is that these pictures garner two generic responses, lovers and sisters. There are the guys who will comment positively but who would be too tongue tied to pass a compliment in the flesh. This is basic, and often missed, facebook courtship. Then there are the girls who will be “stunned”, declare “love” and wolf whistle, unless you’re gay I would suggest that this is an experience you wouldn’t want repeated in real life?

Ultimately though the craze for self admiration can be blamed on poor childhoods, can’t everything? It is an absence of fairytales that makes this seeking of approval seem ok. You see when we were young we were told stories of wicked witches consulting mirrors for approval about their beauty. Ok it may have made us ever cautious of rosy red apples but it also taught us that if you keep canvassing opinion the results won’t be good.

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Maidens, mini planes and Brighton

I have written about this subject before but it really seems to be leaping out at me again over the last couple of weeks. I don’t know if this is a reflection on my observational skills, chance or the fact that it is becoming even more common but there we go. We continually hear from women how they are waiting for their prince charming, how men don’t appreciate them or nurture them and generally how rubbish the hunt for a decent partner is and I appreciate that this is all true, to some degree. On the flip side I see a continuing decline in the femininity of the opposite sex, is it only me that can see the connection?

Prince charming was a fairytale character who protected the damsel in distress, this was the guy that rode in to sweep sad maidens off their feet. Do you honestly believe that prince charming could exist today and if he did then sweeping ladies off their feet is no longer socially acceptable, if you can find a lady. Read the fairytale and you will not find mention of prince charming sweeping the fair maiden up onto his white stead before lifting children of varying lineage into a waiting carriage. The charming yet downtrodden Cinderella did not have to leave the ball in order to get home before the babysitter demanded overtime. Try and picture prince charming sitting with the other princes in a singed cloak and declaring “and I slayed that dragon to capture the princess but my quest against the CSA and JobSeekers continues” doesn’t quite work does it?

If our prince was to ride his glorious white stead out to rescue most of those who dream of him he would have to be early. If he were too late then he would meet Smirnofferella who would most likely try to knock his horse out before vomiting on her shoes. If he tried to aim younger, within the strict legal code of course, he would have an even harder time. What clue would our prince use to determine the maiden? the traditional visual indicators have gone and he would be as likely to end up with a shell suit clad lad on the back of his horse as a girl. I have no idea when young women started looking in the mirror at the fragile beauty with which they were born and thinking “soon sort that out Gangsta stylee”. The world seems to be a sea of back to front baseball caps, funny hand signals and offensive language. We had sign language when I was younger, 3 or 4 offensive gestures and a whole language if you were deaf but if you could watch today’s youth on mute you would think that they were landing a squadron of miniature planes.

But back to our harried and dusty prince, who by now has been sworn at, punched and vomited on and is desperately trying to work out what language Smirnofferella is speaking. Is there a fairytale that explains how he subdues the wobbling maiden, straps her to his horse and returns her to his castle before fending off her clumsy drunken advantages and setting her to bed? No worries here of the old pea under the mattress trick, she would sleep through a war, but our prince would be wise to rotate her not only to save her choking on her vomit but because kebab breath beats dragon’s any day. And so as morning broke and as the sun’s golden rays illuminated the land Smirnofferella stirred in the princes strong arms, she lifted her head and gently pealed the pillow from her face, wiping half a pound of L’Oreal from her flaxen skin and coughing like a coal miner she growled “Jesus that’s bright and who the f*ck are you?”

So allow me to explain why you don’t find your prince ladies, it is not because there are no princes, there is no shortage. But whilst uncontrolled feminism has turned you into Smirnofferella your prince has been down the gym keeping fit for you, while he was there he met his prince and they had a lovely ceremony on Brighton beach!

 

 

Rude inclusions and the winter wash

For those that don’t live in the luxury of such close proximity to the sea allow me to share some of the ocean’s majesty. Last weekend I was looking out over a mill pond calm ocean at this time, so flat it looked like you could walk on it. At the end of this week the east coast has had a wintry turn and there is nothing that reminds you of the strength of the ocean better than a windy day. Despite being a sun lover I watched enthralled as the ocean was whipped into a viscous and unforgiving frenzy last night.

Near horizontal winds howling along the front gave the perfect opportunity to meet neighbours in the alleys and side roads that criss-cross the town. The brown, foaming waves spent the night smashing over the promenade, tearing at mans rude inclusion in their path. For me this mornings view is the first one of winter. There are no tourists on the beach, indeed no people at all since the dog walkers have not yet ventured out. The sand that is so gently lapped by summer seas is now bright and clean. Like some great industrial washing machine the ocean has hurled all of the beach around in a maelstrom of rage and cleaned every trace of the summer.

It is like nature is washing off the grime of the summer and refreshing itself. The sun is breaking over a much calmer see and there is little witness of the fury which whipped such waves up overnight. But there in the middle of the beach, as if to warn us of its power, the ocean has deposited an enormous tree root. This is not the driftwood that you see in shops this is the root of some great tree. I like to think that, like a tired mother, this is natures way of telling us that if she ‘has to clean our room one more time’.

I apologise for this line which will mean little to most of you but is important nonetheless. Today’s value is 4363 because I slowed at the end of the week discipline, it would seem, is a must.