Follow by Email

Monday, 20 June 2011


There comes a time in every woman's life when she instinctively, and against a strong research base, KNOWS that there painkillers in the world that parade as other forms: Designer heels, cashmere, unscrupulous divorce lawyers, bonzai, jewellery, the list is endless ...
Mine came as a  magic lamp. Well, two in fact. Red, mosaic, hand-crafted, arty and rich, creating an ambience of mystery and romance. By all accounts Bitter Irony as the romance kinda ended when I realised that sadly, Pierre is one of the The Others.

Playing the field with reckless abandon with whomever happened to be crossing the field at that time. And so one may wonder how he got to be soooooooooo talented and soooooooooooooo charming and so one-of-the-girls in a very masculine way. And the answer to that, such as with many other things in life is: Dedication and Practice! He has been around the block. In fact,  I suspect he owns the block. He's certainly been in every unit on every kitchen counter in every position. Making the naked chef look like an amateur.

I am not trying to reconcile his ability to make me feel like the only woman in his life whilst trying to make my budget balance. I am happier instead to christen my magic lanterns - Rhyme and Reason - and to rationalise their existence every time I think of the cost. Opportunity cost - I mean they really make divorce look Runway Hot or is it a sunken cost as I recall the times I had to go down to hitherto unexplored depths ... or is it simply an investment in ME? That thought immediately catapults me into crazy, euphoric antihistamine bliss. I feel light. I am light and the congestion is all gone.

So I've never been too big on social network sites and could do without the constant logging in, anticipating that someone, somewhere has reached out to me .... but I thank all the e-Gods that made me log into Facebook on Saturday morning to access Pierre and in scrolling down, whilst matching bedcovers to bed runners (irony was beyond me at that time) and then in an instant it felt as if everything was happening in slow motion. I read and re-read the In a Relationship with ... part and tried with as much pre-menstrual restraint and logic as I could muster to  not scream or laugh or curse whilst brides-to-be were eagerly finalising their registries! I double-checked the details in case I dispatched the assassins to the wrong address, and then calmly replaced the bed runner where I had found it. With pure cougar wisdom, I realised that without jumping (or pumping) any guns it would also help that I not be the one to lay Pierre gently down onto a bed or a slab into the near future. For that we have trained medical personnel and formaldehyde ...

But I also realised in that moment that of all the options to action (maim, kill, deceive, suffocate, beg, restrain and interview) all I really wanted to do was walk away. I just felt that if anyone was going to be a cheat and a liar, it could by rights be anyone but Pierre. Everyone was allowed at least one transgression in my book, but he was precluded. I wanted him to be the friend, companion, lover, wardrobe coordinator, domestic so-and-so toolbelt bearing demi-god and not one of Them. And I allowed myself for the briefest of minutes as I waited for the electronic queue manager to direct me to 'Teller 4 to the right' to feel really stupid and girlish and violated and badly in need of truth. And therein was the suspense because as he uhmm'd and oh well'd I saw my resurrection and restitution in the old sage: pure, unadulterated retail therapy. I felt that tingle as my extension was massaged ...swiping never felt that good. I languidly stroked the pin-pad as I surrendered my password and in a moment whilst those rubber numbers opened up under my nails that I was cheating. That I was open to any number of possibilities. And at short notice I tell you. I did not want to go out and drink cocktails I could not pronounce from glasses that reminded me of small intimate island getaways. I did not want to call an urgent and desperate caucus with the girls to share horror boy stories of the Wrong Turn and Hostel variation. I wanted to wonder anonymously from one designer location to another, gently rubbing, prodding and eventually offering up my pin as my trolley filled up and Miguel needed to be on stand-by to carry off all my Phoenix (watch the dog burn) purchases.

I sent him a congratulatory SMS which I admit was a tad Disney, but I needed to let him know that I know and stood with the Persian rug salesman holding my hand as I listened to Pierre telling me that yes, indeed she is hot, but when will I be able to see him!!!!!!?????? In a blind rage or through all this red I wondered!!!????? Or through a sniper rifle?? Just checking....

Anyhoo, I have to go. The delivery guy has just called ...

Life Lesson: Love and Live Fabulously. Don't take it personally and don't expect people to do what you want or need them to do. Everyone is merely doing their level best. Whether or not I am ready to be one of Pierre's friends or just someone to hang around out with (get thee hence image of executor) I cannot say. All I know is that there is no rhyme nor reason to much about love, but it is greater than all of us, and that it was here before we arrived and exists beyond the grave ... so let's not sweat the small things!

And through this revelation, I have walked from the darkness of deception into the most marvellous red light(s) ...

Tuesday, 14 June 2011


So I've added to my EasyAccess-Feel-Good list the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition series. It is one of the few programmes that I can watch for hours, re-runs and all and still feel completely inspired and at home, no pun intended. And Pierre would often find me sobbing uncontrollably, consolation beyond even the Haagen Daz as I feel the love and support of strangers reaching out to the destitute. Strangers in blue overalls I tell you! With picks, axes, spades and power-tools not intent on violence or destruction. Only in that moment does wallpaper, ceramics and Italian sanitaryware really look great inside a cardboard box! And last month when I stood in front of the mirror and realised that my detox had in fact Not gone as well as I would've liked or that a reduction in more ample parts was still under construction, only they could help me say: Bus Driver, move that bus!

I think of all the things that need renovation in my life, and whilst I've been told more than once, in varying tone and states of undress, that my staircase does not need human intervention, I cannot but be inspired. A change is as good as a holiday, but Pierre advises that the fare in the local psych high care facility was not much to write home about, even if it is a brand new home with a spiral staircase that costs enough to feed the extended families the building crew for at least a year!

And whilst I haven't managed to convince him of many things, I have found a new vocabulary of opportunity. So Under Construction remains roadworthy for all manner of issues related to To Do or Die lists, Wellness Plans and approach to creepy stakeholders and literature reviews. Everything needs a Project Plan and for hectic weekends, Floor Plans. PMS hormonal ebb and tide has strategically and within budget, been reframed to highlight Scope, range and Customisation of Product

Dramatic outbursts contrasted with smooth, delectable ice-cream may now on a solid foundation, co-exist for the betterment of the community and love and perseverence will never look the same again.

It inspires me to know that all is not lost, and that from nothing comes something so infinitely large and solid. The direct link to small high caloric portions resulting in the same is not lost upon me. In fact, loss related to scales remain Under Construction for imminent future. And  I could go on and on about bony, skinny nymphs cleaning up the buffet at the office party and still looking good to go in 20 knots of island wind, but the scales of justice I've decided are Under Construction too!

Anyhoo, I have to carry on and spring clean and renovate, and instal more vents to let the good stuff in and the toxic stuff out. My neighbours have wind-chimes and that sound helps me to coordinate my wardrobe without even getting up.  I have a mantle-piece to remind me that Santa has never counted points, eaten for his blood type or briskly walked the reindeer and still fits through the chimney! Ever year since before self-help! What a gift!

So every time I come into the bedroom and consider my ample everything, smooth wooden floors, firm and functional headboard, pack-horse pedestals and tool-belt bearing Pierre, all I can say is Oh My G---!