December 2, 2014

Another Monday* blah blah blah

 

I’ve fallen into the habit of spending some of Monday evening with Penelope and yarn.**  I usually try and feed the frelling-frelling argling-bargling hellhounds—and the perfect, adorable, food friendly hellterror—before I leave.  One of the things that sometimes works with the [muttermuttermutter] hellhounds is that if you get them STARTED and they think, oh, right, food, it’s not sooo bad . . . they will keep eating.  So I’m always on the lookout for dog-treat type things that might tempt them and are free of all the things they can’t have SIIIIGH.  There’s a relatively recent line of tinned dog food that costs more than fresh frelling caviar*** that they will sometimes open one eye and look at thoughtfully.  And there’s a new flavour of it that I gave them a big chunk of the other day which they ate with what passes in their case for alacrity and enthusiasm.†  So today I chopped more of it up in smallish globs and shoved it into their proper food . . . put the bowls down and turned my back on them since they don’t like being watched . . . but there were terrific gobbling noises proceeding from the hellhound corner and I was weak and permitted myself to be hopeful. . . . Nah.  Chaos had merely done his Prehensile Tongue thing which I’ve noticed before makes a remarkable amount of noise, and precision-instrument extracted every small globule of Consecrated Canine Comestible Flavour of the Month, leaving an interestingly pock-marked bowl like an artist’s rendition of the surface of the moon in . . . dog food.  Darkness had decided that this operation was too much like work, and having opened the one eye and looked thoughtfully at his bowl, closed the eye again without moving.

Sigh.

But the day has been not without its small sheepish victories.  I’ve previously referred to the fact that my singing lessons have not been going splendidly since we started up again after summer break . . . there have been goodish lessons and there have been I’M RUNNING AWAY AND JOINING THE CIRCUS lessons of traumatising disaster, but while I haven’t quite got to the point of thinking I should start investigating another outlet for my frustrated musical non-talent†† I have occasionally wondered if I should be thinking about it.  Meanwhile I keep missing church because I’m too blasted tired to get in Wolfgang again and drive—yo, God, why did you plop someone with ME down a forty-minute commute from the church she’s happy in?  I’m sure I’m supposed to be learning something from this tedious piece of reality but, um, I’m too tired—which means I’ve also been missing service singing.  I was signed up to sing this Sunday—yesterday—and I’ve been in unusually-bad-even-for-recently voice the last fortnight BUT I WANTED TO SING and . . . I think I’ve said this before, the awful Jesus Is My Boyfriend stuff does give me a certain amount of freedom from worrying about Mozart or Handel getting special permission to come back and haunt me, and I can just sing, and offer it as part of my service to the church.  I like to think that God hears it the way it’s supposed to sound, like Handel or Mozart sung by Marilyn Horne or Renee Fleming.

I started out last night sounding like a bowl of rice krispies.  If you’re into breakfast cereal that crackling noise is fine in the morning as Morse code for EAT ME but not so much later on in the day with a microphone in your hand.  But something happened:  God, or team spirit††† or alien mind probe or whatever but . . . I started singing.  Indeed I was making so much noise I decided to dispense with the microphone.‡

And I went in to Nadia today and sang How Beautiful Are the Feet, which is the horse that threw me violently something like two months ago and that I have been afraid to go near.‡‡  And I didn’t sound like Marilyn Horne or Renee Fleming‡‡‡ but it was recognisable.§  So I’m putting off running away and joining the circus for at least another week.

* * *

* NOOOOOOOO IT’S DECEMBER NOOOOOOOOOOOO

** Penelope used to knit . . . and stopped for some unfathomable reason.  I’ve been spending even more than my usual amount of time lately hanging from the chandelier^ and screaming ^^ and have therefore had even greater than usual need to knit as a coping mechanism^^^ and Penelope has got re-interested by relentless exposure.#  We even went to one of my favourite yarn shops the other week so she could squodge what she was buying.  But the best part was that WE TOOK NIALL WITH US.  SO HE COULD DO THE DRIVING.  Hee hee hee hee hee hee.  Hey, he’s retired.  He doesn’t have anything better to do, does he?##  I don’t think he’s going to learn to knit however.  He looked kind of stunned in the yarn shop.  Of course I wasn’t paying that much attention because I was on my knees digging through the sale bins.

^ Although I no longer need a chandelier.  Excess of . . . um, excess . . . has caused me to grow little super-glue pads on the ends of my fingers and toes so I can stick to the ceiling like a very large gecko.  THIS MAKES TYPING AND WALKING ON THE FLOOR VERY INTERESTING.  It’s also hard on the finger joints.  Which I need limber and flexible for knitting.

^^ Those of you who know me off line will be aware that I have reason, and that most of the reason(s) don’t get on the blog.+  I am hoping this is merely a phase and what I used to think of as a life will return.  Meanwhile . . . thank God for knitting.  Even if at this rate—as I was telling some friend or other recently—I may never get past garter-stitch scarves and ditto pullover jumpers, the square kind where the body is two big rectangles and the sleeves are two littler skinnier rectangles and you leave a gap in the sewing-up for your head to poke through.  HEY.  IT’S ALL ABOUT THE YARN.  I’ve been saying this for, um, is it getting to be three years now?  It’s all about the yarn.  Cables?  Pfffft.  Lace?  Are you frelling joking?  On a good day with a following wind I can manage simple increases and decreases.  SIMPLE ONES.  ON A GOOD DAY.  But I buy nice yarn.

+ It is now MONDAY night and my new computer gear HAS STILL NOT ARRIVED.

# She is remarkably calm in the face of a ranting madwoman waving pointy sticks in her face.  She raised four children.  Nothing flaps her.

## Remodelling the kitchen.  It will look really flash when he finishes.  That’s when.

*** But I’m pretty sure Darkness wouldn’t like caviar.  He’s not a big fish person.

† If the hellterror ever approached a meal like that however I’d think she was seriously ill.

†† Triangle?  Washboard?  Plastic kiddie piano, the kind with the keys that don’t work?

††† I know about having one’s little ways and so on^ but sometimes my own blinding ridiculousness amazes me.  Last night the one other singer asked me where I wanted to stand.  In the back, I said.  She looked at me pityingly.  There is no back, she said.  There are only four of us.^^  I know, I said, but we can stand farther back on the stage.

And this does it for me.  I have no idea why.  We’re still face to face with the frelling congregation—there is nothing between us and them—but we stand about a foot farther back than—last night—the keyboardist and the guitarist.  I can look at the back of someone’s head if I want to.^^^

^ !!!!!!

^^ Guitar, keyboard, us.  Plus a bass player and a drummer who somehow or other get not to be on the stage with the rest of us.

^^^ Although since the leader is usually on guitar, you kind of want to be able to see his face to pick up your cues more easily.  And yes, so far as I’m aware, all our guitarists are blokes.  Any female Christian guitarists with a high tolerance for fatally maudlin Christian worship music moving to the south of England, I know a church that needs you.

‡ In kindness to the assembled.  The more my life is kicking me in the head the flatter I sing.  Nadia says this is dead common but . . . I don’t want to be expelled from St Margaret’s, or even the band.

‡‡ Nice horsie.  Nice horsie.

‡‡‡ !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

§ I was, I believe, even occasionally on pitch.

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