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Saturday, 28 November 2009

Messages from Outer Space

I am a great believer in messages...from Outer Space, footprints in the sand, wherever I least expect.
By strange coincidence...or not...I got on my bike again today. The first real ride since my spectacular panic attack on the beach wall in April. A sapphire sea and Mr Parkinson (as I call him) shaking and trembling towards me. Allow me to translate roughly.
"Crikey, it's you."
"Yes, " I reply. "Beautiful day." (Please don't mention the panic attack).
"I thought you'd died."
"Em, no."
"You looked dead. Layed out like that on the wall."
"No, no...just a drop in blood pressure."
"Well, I thought maybe you had died or been taken back to your own country?"
"No, I'm fine, honestly."

At which point an equally elderly collegue shuffles up to stare.
"This is the one I thought had died," Mr Parkinson says.
"What? She's dead?"
"No, I thought she was but she isn't."
"That's right, she's not."

"Well, it's lovely to see you." I say. "I'll be off now."

"You're still very guapa, " says Mr Parkinson. "And my hands are still very shaky. It's a buggar. Have a good ride."

"Thank you," I say but smirking with delight that he thinks I'm guapa. Got to take any compliment going these days.

Anyway, the reason I had gone down to the beach was to finish writing a song about Captain MacKenzie which I didn't because I was too busy repeating brain cloud mantras to prevent panic attack possibilities, and then when I open up the Spottydog blog today I find a message...

about shoes...and songs.

And here's a small person who is going to be very big.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Peace Train

Which led me onto this...

Tea Lady reduced to no furniture at all in the sitting room. I'm more or less wedged into a corner here amongst a pile of cardboard boxes. I have tried many times to paint the walls. I am not a natural at this so after thirty years of painting walls on and off, someone else is doing it. A professional painter...a perfectionist. Unfortunately the father of his sister-in-law just departed this world so today he is at his funeral.

Jordi, the guitar teacher, is mad at me for not practicing enough recently. It is the trio tomorrow and I haven't been able to even take my guitar out of its case. I cannot hear when I am not in time with the metronome. I seem to have slid to a halt.

Well, here's what I would rather be doing...