Posted by: scribbles | August 31, 2015

And so it was … No 1.

And so it was ….1- A collection of ‘snapshots’ or ‘sketches’ of life.

I stand at the kitchen window on a dreary, early September morning. Rain lashes the pains and rivulets of water make their way haltingly downwards. I watch this spectacle for a while, as the garden goes out of focus behind and notice that the smaller rivulets have trouble getting past minor smudges and bits of dirt on the outside pane, which turn their course sideways and then down again as each minute obstacle comes into their way. Even gravity cannot pull them down sometimes, until the rivulet becomes a river as a backlog of water pools behind and as I watch to see the precise point at which gravity wins, the trickle rushes down like a mini waterfall egged on by momentum.

I was given an orchid for my birthday which i have placed on the windowsill and I turn my attention away from the rain and look at it admiringly. It’s a very thoughtful present from one of my son’s friends who says shyly, “well you’ve done such a lot for me..” I consider this. Indeed I have. I have put the young lad up for days beyond number over the years, feeding him, finding spare clothes and cast offs from the boys and at one stage even writing a letter to a Beak presiding over an unfortunate episode in court. The lad – C, had unwittingly given a known nutcase, drinker and druggie some left over morphine C’s dying father had been given a short while before. It appeared the morphine was just enough icing on a cake of debauchery to send the nutcase over the edge. The following morning he was dead.
“To the judge – the honourable justice Nibs, I write to you in connection with the tragic (not very) incident of Mr (Nutter) who died as a result of an accidental overdose. My young friend C has been unwittingly caught up in this upsetting (sordid) affair by kindly trying to help Mr N in his hour of need, giving him some left over morphine from poor Mr C’s now deceased father. He has thus been charged with supplying class A drugs to the now deceased Mr N. Whilst the police acknowledge that Mr C was only trying to help Mr N and that there was no malice or financial gain, Mr C, nevertheless, sees it was a huge mistake.

I have known this young lad for many years and know him to be a thoroughly decent boy with good prospects. It would be deeply sad if having got himself into this mess he should then be punished for what was a genuinely altruistic deed, however misguided and would turn what is a sad situation into a tragedy.” Blah blah, creep and suck up a bit more…yours very faithfully.

It worked. What could have been a jail sentence, with the apparent help from my letter (which was actually better written than I have recalled it here) C was let off with some minimal community service. “It was thanks to that letter you know” his barrister advised him later. I think it was also partly because I knew the prosecutor. Another friend of the boys’ father from prep school. I knew I couldn’t approach him directly (and hadn’t seen him since the boys finished school) but I thought when he saw my note to the judge and recognised the name, he would not pursue the matter to the nth degree of the law. And so it was.

I look at the Orchid. I know next to nothing about them. It seems to me to be one part absolutely breathtakingly beautiful and the other part creepy. There is a long single stem and about two thirds up, this thin stick is adorned with eight beautiful pink flowers. They seem to have a ‘face’ cheerfully looking out at me and I am told that they are called a ‘Moth’ Orchid owing to the fact that they look like a moth in flight. They do, sort of. But zoom downwards to the see through plastic pot, it is another story altogether. Here the thin stalk disappears into a very foreign, jungle like mix of bits of bark, dried seeds, flax and who knows what else. But the most creepy bits are the Orchids legs or rather roots. These have pushed their way upwards and are visible around the pot, and downwards out through holes in the bottom. To me a confirmed aracnaphobist since birth, they look like (green) legs of a Tarantula. I can hardly type these words such is the revulsion and fear they inspire in me. I am scared to even look closely at this little pot of hairy legs and weird matter that probably comes from some real jungles of the world. They are after all tropical plants. Who knows if some daring creature in egg form or something hasn’t hitched a secret ride from the jungle to Suffolk with no one any the wiser? I could be harbouring something very much uglier than this lovely bloom and could find myself confronted with real (black) hairy legs and huge crouching body in the near future. The whole thing is too vile to contemplate further. Using a watering can with a long spout, I water it and hope nothing moves within.


Posted by: scribbles | March 21, 2014

Rubbish Blues

 I abandoned my blog ages ago so I thought I would post something lite, so to speak, to get started again.  Here goes…

I was pathetically excited this morning as I dragged myself from the depths of a lazy warm sleep because today was Rubbish Collection Day. It was the first thing that came to mind and I rushed out of bed, dressed quickly and ran outside to double check that the bins had been put out. This is not usually the first thing on my mind but having forgotten the last collection day, I now had two full bins, overflowing with lids nowhere near to closing and a number of black bags to go too. I also have highly strung, highly temperamental Bin Men.

My experience to date with the Bin Men has shown me that they can be utterly intolerant of any misdemeanours or incorrectly filled bins, that is to say, the lids do not shut due to over filling. They are not out on the road, fully visible so that one of the Bin Men knows to jump off the lorry to empty them and the Bin Driver knows to definitely stop outside our house. Or, worse than anything, there are Extra Bags of rubbish that won’t fit into the Bin and therefore must be actually Picked Up by a Bin Man and placed into the Lorry. And this is only the Rubbish collection. The Recycling collection is a whole other situation fraught with rules and wrong doing possibilities. The worst case for me being, An Inspection of my recycling items which has led to them being dumped on my drive as Non Recyclable and even the application of a Sticker onto the Bin with a Warning from the Bin Men and details of said Offence. There have been occasions where, extra bags of rubbish that are not tidily put inside the Bin, have been left behind. Bin Men do not take anything that is not contained inside the Bin. Oh no. Previously on these rare occasions, I have had to ask very nicely (beg actually) to have these offending bags removed and once, I had to ask if i could put them in the Lorry when the Bin Man said he wasn’t going to take them. I threw them into the grinding jaws myself.

I have spoken to these people in an effort to find out quite why they are so hostile to carrying out their job, which is after all, the removal of rubbish. I found that they objected to the way I was seemingly taking it for granted that they would take any Extra Rubbish left casually by the Bins. If I was willing to go out and ask them nicely (beg again), they would be more inclined to Pick It Up by Hand and dump it in the Lorry.  Their reluctance could also be because I have not included them in the Christmas tip department along with the postman, which may have resulted in me spiting myself by cutting off my own nose.

This morning, I knew I would have to be very ready to beg again since there were a number of Extra bags. I had prepared the family for this forth coming event, reminding them that unless we asked them very nicely, we would still have a bin load left after they had been and gone. As soon as I heard the Lorry coming, youngest son and I practically bumped into each other at the front door in the effort to go and humbly and apologetically get the Bin Men onside. At the last minute, I shamefully let him go ahead and watched through a tiny crack of the almost closed front door as he bounded cheerfully into the grinding jaws of death. Well not quite, but nearly. I watched him beam a smile and say a cheery hello and almost leap onto the Extra Rubbish bags and toss them into the Dustcart. Clearly he wasn’t going to ask the Bin Men to Pick Up the Extra Rubbish. He wouldn’t dare.

And what third world country are we living in? Oh yes England of course. Everywhere else, rubbish is collected, any rubbish, in bags or bins, any kind at all, sometimes daily. But here in England, we have to wait two weeks to be rid of it AND smile very nicely at the Domestic Waste Environmental Engineer Practitioner – or who we might refer to as a DWEEP.

Posted by: scribbles | March 1, 2009

Out in the Widerness

It’s almost four months ago that I ‘downed pen’ and closed my blog.  I didn’t make a conscious decision to do so.  After my last entry which I now see was about the American election, I just never came back.  A web of misery wound itself around me as the winter approached and I couldn’t find the spark that had illuminated my writing.  Life has been very hard on me over the last few months for all sorts of reasons leaving me devoid of the will to write anything at all.  Days, then weeks and then months went by and the longer I was a away from the blog, the more courage I needed to return to it.  Several times I have thought about opening it up but I couldn’t quite make myself.

Today, while sorting out bits and bobs on my laptop, I found myself clicking on WordPress and here I am!  I was heartened by the comments left for me, especially yours Rudi, thank you and to Dave and Lynette and AA.  Seeing that people care about me is heartening and so I’m writing today to say I am alive!  I shall collect my thoughts and will be back with a proper post and some updates very soon!!  Best wishes to you:)

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