A Little Ocular Jocularity

Image from PictureSpider

I’ve had a busy few weeks, giving poetry readings and attending poetry events of one sort or another.  A lot of saliva flies around at poetry readings; have you noticed?  Sibilance by its very nature demands a level of spit not seen anywhere outside of a snake hissing contest.

The result of all that liberated discharge, however, is that at some point I contracted a cold.  I felt rough – really rough; rougher than a cold should make one feel; but I am of a delicate nature, of course, as I might have mentioned once or several hundred times.  I was useless for the first three days and then the mucus began its exodus and then it eased and then I started with a sore throat and then the sneezies came.

It was at that point, lying in bed feeling very sorry for myself, that I remembered that I had once read that you can’t sneeze with your eyes open, or your eyeballs will fall out.

Now this is one of those things that I believed I didn’t believe, so when I felt a sneeze coming on, I decided to try to keep my eyes open.  The things we invalids have to do to keep ourselves amused.

When it came to it, however, I chickened out. Apparently, I do believe that if I sneeze with my eyes open, my eyeballs will fall out. I was assailed with a terrible image of a huge sneeze and…plop…plop…stinging eyeballs caused by carpet fibres (apparently you can feel carpet fibres even though your retinas are literally detached.  In my world, anyway).   I could hear myself screaming at the Hub, My eyes!  My eyes!  Don’t stand on my eyes!  

There was I at three a.m., 52 years old and afraid to sneeze in case my baby blues fell out. (My baby blues are actually hazel, but ‘baby hazels’ doesn’t have the same ring to it).  I think may have overdosed on the cough medicine.

Tell me you’ve got a similarly ludicrous fear; please.  Eye don’t want to be alone.

Mrs Chestikoff Has Entered The Building

I don’t mind the coughing so much; it’s the loss of bladder control that’s upsetting.  Not to mention the extra washing.  Still, the streaming nose and eyes seem to have abated a little, though I was bad yesterday.  I made sandwiches and it was a case of butter bread – blow nose – wash hands – butter bread – blow nose – wash hands – butter nose – blow hands – wash bread – butter wash – nose bread – hands blow.  It got a little tedious and I was fainting with hunger by the time I’d made them; then I didn’t finish mine because I’ve got no taste at the moment and it was like eating a McDonald’s.  I’ll be glad when I’m back to my normal, healthy self and I can stop boring you with my woes.

The thing about a cold, of course, is that you are not ill enough to lie on the couch and watch tv all day without criticism from your dirty, starving family; so I still had to walk the dog.  He didn’t like delivering leaflets at first; I think he found it a bit dull.  Thankfully, he made his deposit in the street and not in someone’s garden.  I had to juggle it  a bit because I had him on the lead, a bag of leaflets and his bag of poo in one hand, and used my other hand to open and close gates and negotiate stiff  letter boxes.  I made an elaborate showing of picking up the mess so that everyone would know I was a responsible dog-owning Conservative.  It didn’t occur to me until I got home that the solution for a full left hand is not to pop a bag of dog poo into the same bag of leaflets that I was posting through voters’ doors.   Good job I double-knotted it.

I was supposed to be at a family christening this morning but I didn’t want to spoil it by spluttering germs all over the baby.  I could have gone to my own church instead but most of the congregation is elderly and I don’t want to decimate it.  I opted to lie on the couch and watch tv, catching up with last night’s Over The Rainbow.  Although Steph is my favourite, I thought this performance from Jessica was the best one of the night:

I don’t really see her as Dorothy but I could definitely see her as Sally Bowles.  Jessica has also been ill this week but gave a fantastic performance; it left me thinking that if she can put on a show like that, the least I can do is get dressed before three.  I ought to make an effort anyway, because it is Toby’s second birthday.  He will be celebrating with a load of tasty treats, a walk and a bath.  It is also the birthday of one of my favourite sisters-in-law – happy birthday, Ann!  I wonder if she will be celebrating in the same way?

 

 

Ooze Update

I’m still feeling rough but at least I’m only having to blow my nose once every fifteen minutes instead of fifteen times a minute.  Who knew there was that much mucus in one woman’s body?  My right eye has opened up again but aches; my left eye won’t stop crying.  I can hear in one ear now.  I hate colds! 

There are benefits, however: today, I am going to be leafleting in my area for my local Conservative candidate.  We are in a strong Labour ward.  I am confident that I will escape physical abuse from outraged socialists because they won’t want to catch my germs.  Would you risk punching a snotty nose?  Me neither.

I had a nightmare last night: I was taking a writing and wallpapering class on a winter beach and everyone was mean to me.  I slunk away with hunched shoulders and they all got swept out to sea by a freak wave.  Do you think it’s a message?   I should lose interest in politics and everyone will vote Conservative?  You never know.

Sorry if I am a little incoherent: I didn’t sleep well.  Not just the nightmare and nose gunk; the last thing I did before turning off the light was listen to a dramatisation of Daphne Du Maurier’s The Birds on Radio 4.  No sign of Tippi Hedren, but there was an over-protective husband who was too unwell to work and determined to protect his family no matter what…then the Hub came to bed.  No wonder I had a nightmare.

Sweet dreams, dear reader.

 

 

I’b Godd A Code

You bay hab sub trouble understanding be today; I’m fud ob a code.  I hate habbing a code.  By face leaks, by eye is swoden shut, I can’t sleed and I cough so buch I need reinforced bloobers.   If I eber see dat man again, I may hab to kid him. 

I followed Viv’s excellent advice (see comments) and kicked the Hub out of bed in the middle of the night to make me a hot toddy.  He is a master at the art of mixing alcohol and hot water, and it’s one of the reasons I won’t let him escape.  I am seriously sleep deprived this week, in spite of the revivifying properties of rum and lemon, and I am a little disappointed that the mucus wouldn’t let a poem in for the penultimate day of napowrimo. The prompt was to write about something in the news, but yesterday was a slow news day, if I remember correctly: nothing going on but a little political fallout from the most inept politician of a generation; and in the evening, just three blokes chatting about what they’re going to be doing next Friday.   However, writing poems about events in the news is one of my favourite things to do, so I have a few that I have written over the years to share with you.

The first one was originally a series of senryu that I wrote as events occurred; once Mr Blair resigned, I thought they would work better as an overview of his time in office.  Apologies to my non-UK resident readers, who may not understand the references or the reason for the invective.  Also, apologies to those who may have seen some of them before because they have already been posted on my blog (I’m not too worried, though, as I only had three readers when I started).

Ha!  Talk about a Freudian slip – I accidentally left out the ‘s’ when I typed ‘Mr Blair resigned’; look what’s left: ‘Mr Blair reigned.’

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Lies, Damned Lies and New Labour

The Blair Which? Project,
One: EC or not EC? 
Was it a question?

The Blair Which? Project,
Two: To bomb or not to bomb? 
Iraq’s the question.

The Blair Which? Project,
Three: To loot or not to loot? 
Why, without question.

The Blair Which? Project,
On Going: To freely duck
each awkward question.

Blair’s Bonus Project,
Ongoing: To harass the
usurping PM.

Coda  

Prime Minister Brown’s
Day: so many decisions,
so little spine.

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 This one refers to the huge row over MP expenses.

Parliament Fiddles as Britain Burns

Marx is writhing in his grave:
Government is the
odium of the masses.

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 Michael Jackson Died

Troubled man.  Childhood
fame is not worth the gravestone
it is written on.

 

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An Explanation For The 1000 Students Taking The 2009 Politics Exam Who Complained That It Was Unfair Because They Didn’t Know The Meaning Of The Word ‘Despotic’

Despot
Pol Pot
Bad lot

P.S.

Future of Britain:
Worrying

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Good News 

Idi Amin’s dead.
Enough said.

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Today is the last day of nablopomo (National Blog Posting Month).  I succeeded in writing a post a day but failed miserably in the task of commenting on at least ten other  nablopomo posts; but I did squeeze in a few posts on the theme, ‘BIG’.  I failed because I was overtaken by my enthusiasm for napowrimo.

Sadly, today is also the last day of napowrimo.  I won’t be posting a daily poem anymore, though I will revert to my habit of posting an occasional one as the mood takes me.  I have thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of having to write a poem a  day.  I’m not sure I succeeded, but it was fun trying.  I would like to thank everyone who commented on my poems and the rest of my regular audience who don’t care much for poetry but tolerated it anyway.  I would also like to thank my husband my children my dead mum my dead dad my deceased nans my dog my dead cats (3) my time in South Africa awful as I sometimes found it cheese & onion crisps chocolate (love you forever, darling) BGT this country’s ridiculous government toilets bees You Tube snoring Shakespeare Mango Groove my determined to help me get a job Launch Pad tutor and the town of Stockport.  Sorry if I missed anyone out.

Determined to stick to the principle of writing and posting the poem on the same day at least one more time, I cobbled together this from the final prompt, ‘free day,’ as in, write whatever you like; you’re on your own now, dear. 

Just when I think my South African collection is finally complete, up pops another prompt to remind me that I really ought to see a therapist to get my time in South Africa out of my system once and for all: for me, the word ‘free’ always conjures the image of the first free and fair South African election, in which the Hub and I queued for twelve hours to vote – bizarrely, one of my happiest memories.  Tory Boy was also there but Spud Bud was two years and one drunken night away (just kidding, sweetie pie, honest). 

It is actually called ‘1994’ but the underline cuts it in half.  I typed the number out for the blog and I’m thinking of keeping it because I like it’s Orwellian overtone.

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Nineteen-Ninety-Four

Free at last!
Free at last:
random deaths;
the odd bomb blast.
Carjack, rape,
home invasion –
all in the name
of emancipation.
Burglar bars,
security gates,
armed response…
…packing crates.
Free at last.
Free at last.
South Africa –
I’m free at last.

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