Ah but it's nice to have some free time to blog again. I miss it if I don't - the whole blogging thing. The connection with my well 'connections' although I don't really see my connections as mere connections. I see them as friends. I know it is crazy but so what. And I know that if I don't blog I don't get to see them, get to connect.
There are days, I must admit, out here in the windswept, rain sodden bog that I wish I could pop over to Katherine G's flat for some tea to sit by her window and watch the squirrels' antics in the oak tree and speaking of said squirrel, I know that I can never call Sue G up to beg her for her recipe for Squirrel Casserole and maybe request a squirrel or two from Gerald's trappings. Of course Rebb would be the ideal companion to open a bottle of wine with and get into deep water about life issues and I definitely think Jane W would, as well as being available for free legal advice, (god forbid I should ever need free legal advice,) would be a great dinner party guest, happy to regale all present with her evocative stories from her past and oh the music would have to be supplied by Barbara F guaranteed to have us swooning by midnight. Annette T would have a poem or two about the Connemara sky at dusk and dessert supplied by an early bake off with Judee F and myself. Judee, a warning, easy on the chocolate!
I could go on about all the people I've met throughout my blogging history. It is marvellous. They are always loyal. Leave comments and most importantly respond to the ones I have left on the blogs they have taken the time to write. But there is something vaguely haunting and haughty about the individual who does not respond to a comment you took time to leave on their blog. Haughty? I hear you say it out loud. Haughty? Yes, haughty. Like the woman in the photograph. It's a nice old-fashioned word that goes a long way. Haughty is akin to the woman I encountered yesterday, in a store in Galway. There happened to be a sale going on. Of course it wasn't a real sale, it was a contrived sale. A contrived sale is when they charge what the garment was meant to be in the first place without the extortionate prices added on for greed. Prices the store owners thought they would get away with but then realised because austerity rules we never even buy a teabag in this country nowadays without deep consideration. So there I am deciding I don't like a thing in the store no matter what the price and a woman comes in like she owns the place. Maybe she did except she was wearing a big raincoat and boots to boot. She walked around as if she had a mission, a tad like Maxwell Smart and appeared completely unaware of anyone else. She practically stomped through the store and with her very broad, trying out for the forty niners shoulders look, almost knocked me down. She kept on going and rattled franctically through the clothes. She never once apologised. I raised my eyes to heaven, the ceiling, whatever and wanted to scream. I took a deep breath. I resumed normality. She came close to me again and I dodged her canonball frame just in time.
I feel better now. I got it all off my shoulders, my chest, my heart. Sometimes people lose the run of themselves. They seem to think they are better than the rest of us mere mortals. They never see the others. The world that we all happen to share. I think they forget we are all checking into the same motel when all is said and done at the end of the day. And if anyone is reading this, well feel free to comment. Response guaranteed. And if you don't want to comment, well damn well say so!
And to finish, Jefferson Davis, a fantastic looking man by the way, said;
'Never be haughty to the humble or humble to the haughty.' Now I wish I could have that man to dinner. I could even make a memorable humble pie for dessert. Applause. Ciao!