Dear Sophisticated Ladies
Well I really am challenging myself today; its 1020 pm and such is my commitment to you I am writing your weekly missive despite being exhausted. I had thought I’d watch Waking the Dead after finishing the gardening and then whip off a few nuggets refreshed from an injection of Trevor Eve!
Unfortunately darling Trev sent me to sleep and not in response to the delicious performance he always delivers! He has come a long way since Shoestring days; my mother loved Monsieur Eve as did many (then) 40 something women across the UK. I fear that in order to understand the concluding episode of the series (for ever), tomorrow, I will have to consult BBC iPlayer’s watch again facility.
I have taken full advantage of the weather and treated the garden to a prolonged spot of TLC (that would, of course be tender rather than Ms McCutcheon’s tummy, loving care). The pots that decorate the front door have looked prematurely tired for some weeks now and have frankly became an embarrassment.
Given that my little red brick terrace has a weenie forecourt it hasn’t been possible to distance oneself from the primroses whose pathetic performance smacks of a genetic flaw! The whole endeavour, far from being victorious, was doomed from the first flowering. The Morrisons box selection was purchased on the basis that all were the same colour, as this is aesthetically desirable.
Imagine my distress when instead of a display of purple blooms I was taunted with a white petal (irritating but OK), followed by a gaudy ghastly YELLOW! Anaphylactic shock was a distinct possibly as I simply wasn’t prepared for this cheapening of my pots! Every time I entered and vacated the premises, I attempted to avert my gaze but to no avail as the mocking laughter drew my eyes downward!
So you can appreciate the urgency with which I needed to address the (crisis) situation. Now I have an array of pleasant, and pleasing, florals that solicit a calming sigh after the trauma if the last few weeks. White and purple Viola’s with little smiling ‘faces’ say ‘hello sophisticated lady’ rather than ‘yo bitch!’
Yesterday I tackled the upper terrace of the patio giving it a through clean, sweeping away the copper beech leaves that appear from who knows where every autumn. I suspect the culprit resides in Porthkerry Park but I can’t prove it. Why does sweeping require SO much energy? This is a task that never ceases to ‘knock me up’ for the day so by three o clock I was reaching for yet more drugs to allow me to ‘function’ after a fashion!
A select few of my dear readers have already been made aware of the significant, life changing, decision I have made this week. The time to welcome another feline companion into my life has come. On visiting my Godson’s four week old kittens I met the little grey/white bundles who clinched the deal.
And so the naming saga has begun. My late Duchess TT who left me bereft 18 months ago lived up to her regal name of Theadora. She and her brother Oscar, (who had a short life courtesy of a close encounter with a car on Marlborough Road), marked the beginning of my love affair with the feline fur.
Irritatingly I can’t recall how I selected these names. I am toying with a range of names for the new kitten but the problem is choosing one that can slip easily off the tongue at 11 pm when standing at the back door. My friend’s boyfriend called his cat ‘Keith’ and this caused a myriad of problems with the neighbours. No one would believe he was calling his cat in for the night. Keith I ask you!
My favourite thus far is ‘Gigi’ from the Colette novel. It has a pleasant ring to it and makes me smile without risking humiliating the kitty in company. Of course I am clear that I should be a responsible owner and have two kittens to avoid loneliness; the problem is I am not drawn to any of the others in the litter. The easiest thing would be to select a matching companion i.e. the other grey and white one. The problem is I can’t remember the gender of the other one and I simply must have a female!
The Voices of the Partition event I told you about last week went very well with an audience of 50 being attracted to hear the academic from De Montfort and traditional singer from Birmingham. Given that the topic was Women’s Experience I was surprised to see so few local women in attendance. The history needs to be told as the trauma inflicted by the British Empire was awful; we should be ashamed of this period.
I concluded that it is something we need to choose to remember as rape continues to be used as a weapon of war today. Such behaviour inflicted on the most vulnerable is shameful. I for one am without doubt ashamed of this period in recent history.
Quite how I can move onto to lighter topics I don’t know but move on I shall! I have been working on the next Salon that I hope will be in May. The two harpists Elinor Bennett and Catrin Finch have given me a date; it is the May Bank Holiday. I think this is possibly not giving you enough notice but I will correspond further on this matter separately.
Some of you will be relieved to read a shorter missive this week as I am plagued with the late evening muscle spasms that make it difficult to avoid typos!
I have a notebook full of nuggets to share with you, not all of the golden, but they will have to wait for another day! I hear my electric blanket calling down the stairs to me and I doubt I shall pause to remove today’s makeup; please forgive this shoddy and a little less than sophisticated behaviour. Fatigue overwhelms me…
Yours in sophistication