I’ve just opened a work e mail that says:
‘Hi Astrid….pleased to meat you’ and ‘hear in Dallas’. Exsqueeze me? UPDATE:Just had another e mail from them saying: ‘Please excuse the typo. Not intentional’. Made me laugh and feel a bit bad I’ve blogged about it now. Oh well – there it is for all to see…
Ie: clumsy and crap at explaining anything and should be barred from speaking or uttering anything again! Further to my previous post – mainly a flippant and not particularly serious remark re: why do Americans call those in authority (including their Dad) Sir? Wavy Davy Gravy or whatever he choses to call himself which changes on a daily basis by the way, was right when he politely pointed out that it is a stereotype perpetuated in part by mainstream tv. I agree – my images of people speaking like that generally are conjured up from films as opposed to real life. Although I was called ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Miss’ quite alot in Memphis when I visited there. When I went to visit my great afore-mentioned friend Wavy Wobbly Gravy (or whatever he calls himself) in Boston last year he called me ‘ashtray’ (a play on my real name – and one I quite like actually). Oh, and once in Bakersfield I got asked for my id and then was asked ‘your not from around here, arr yuuu? Er, no my good man. Good morrow and fair thee well.
Blimey. I’ve had two hits and 9 page views from Corpus Christi Army Depot in Texas today – no comments as yet though. Aaaaat ease. SIR! Why do Americans always call their Dad sir? I cringe when I hear it every time.
self portrait
Originally uploaded by rockmother.
This is what we do in the school holidays. Take stupid photo’s of ourselves mucking about and make my upside-down eyes look like a really weird manga character. It’s fun and better than watching telly or making things out of plasticine – especially now it doesn’t smell like it used to anymore. I can hear my son singing the chorus to 20th Century Boy/T-Rex in the other room. I’m impressed – he’s only just five.
Soul Train
Best clothes. Best dancing. Legendary. Wish it was still on!
Ten Things That Make Me Cry
In no particular order:
1. Seeing babies being born – have witnessed one real one – my god-daughter and seen a few on tv although strangely I didn’t cry at my son’s birth – too off my head on legalised opiate I think 2. Homelessness 3. Cruelty to those unable to defend themselves 4. Jane Eyre (the book) 5. Michael Buerk’s original news broadcast from Africa 6. Several Van Morrison songs 7. Bette Davis in Now Voyager 8. Not being able to call up my dear friend Abbie anymore who I nursed until she died last year. I really really miss her and it gets me every time. 9. Rod Stewart singing ‘Have I Told You Lately’ Live – the faltering crack in his voice 10. With happiness – at weddings and curtain calls at the ballet/theatre etc – had that since I was a child I cheated once – when the siamese cat Jason died on Blue Peter I made myself cry to get attention from my mother. It didn’t work – she told me not to be so stupid and that it was only a cat. Sounds a bit dysfunctional now I come to mention it…. I’m sure there are lots of other things that make me cry – onions – that sort of thing. Have to go – there is a documentary of Blondie on BBC 1 – can’t miss that or I really will cry!
I listened to a shuffled selection very loudly in my K reg
(not my charming bungalow in this picture!)
on my
via my
Leaving Wells Street W1…..
1 . The Rocker/Thin Lizzy ( No wonder he died – the energy in that song – you’d need to take copious amounts of drugs just to get through singing it – I couldn’t keep up – it rocks)
Heeeeeeelllllllllp!
I’m meeeeeeelllltttting………..
Right – that’s enough about toilets and car parks – George Michael will be my guest blogger before we know it.
Here’s a lovely picture of my friends kitchen in France.
I went to visit him a couple of weeks ago. He is a 52 year old Belgian-Greek-Jewish-Gay ex-Restuaranteur. I’ve known him since he gave me a job as a washer-upper in his restaurant – I was too young to serve booze much to my chagrin! I then worked as a waitress for him for the next 10-12 years on and off. He is a fantastic person and brilliant cook. He was previously living in London with his partner for nearly 30 years who unfortunately and very suddenly died nearly six years ago. In hindsight we now know he died of MRSA but little was really known about it then and so he wasn’t treated effectively in time. Heartbroken, he sold everything and de-camped to his little ‘2-up 2-down’ as he calls it. Of course he is joking – it’s a massive 22 room, rambling chateu in the Dordogne. He is an amazing character and speaks English with the most ridiculous accent – after living more of his life in England than anywhere else he still gets the inflection all around the wrong way. But that’s what makes him him and he is a wonderful, funny, childishly naughty and outspoken person with a huge heart. I know he’s really bereft at the moment as the anniversary to his partner dying is looming. He misses him terribly and is living the dream they had together which I know is very hard for him sometimes. It’s beautiful there and so is he. Here he is:
We hadn’t seen each other for around three years but that didn’t matter. True friendship means that you can pick up where you left off no matter how long a gap. He has always been there for me as a friend and kind of surrogate parent really. It was like going home and I love him very much.
Hi, alright? He got off with a suspended sentence. (Louder) I said he got off with a suspended sentence. Yeah. I know. What? No. I’m on the toilet (cackles). I better go. Oh fuckinell, I forgot. How long’ve they all been down there then? Well, we’ll just give them chips then is it? Alright. Ok. Oh god. Ok. Bye then. Bye.
Overhead in the nextdoor cubicle of a ladies loo on Level Four of an NCP car park in Kingston last Thursday.
Rockmother 