home sweet home?

*contented sigh*

it's weird tho, I don't know where anything is. . . cupboards, drawers, closets - it's one big mystery to me! the POVSs think this is hysterical: XCH was very sweet about it, cooked me dinner - taking the time to explain the nuances of the oven - and then departed with a huge grin on his face, leaving me to the discoveries that awaited my every step and turn

I can't remember actually living in the new house and during my absence the remainder of my belongings from the rented house were delivered by the landlord's men. . .

. . .well, "dumped" being the more operative word

so my beautiful space is no more: clutter abounds, boxes of books for which I have no shelves are stacked teetering in piles veering towards the ceiling, boxes of other things similarly. . .

most of these boxes were the ones from the cellar of the rented house, unopened since "we" moved out of the village over a year ago - g*d knows what's in them (I don't!)

Oh, the smell of the bakery from across the street
Got in my nose
As we carried our ladders down the street
With the wrought-iron gate rows
I went home and listened to Jimmie Rodgers in my lunch-break
Bought five Woodbines at the shop on the corner
And went straight back to work.
Oh, Sam was up on top
And I was on the bottom with the v
We went for lemonade and Paris buns
At the shop and broke for tea
I collected from the lady
And I cleaned the fanlight inside-out
I was blowing saxophone on the weekend
In that down joint.
What's my line?
I'm happy cleaning windows
Take my time
I'll see you when my love grows
Baby don't let it slide
I'm a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows (number a hundred and thirty-six)
I heard Leadbelly and Blind Lemon
On the street where I was born
Sonny Terry, Brownie McGhee,
Muddy Waters singin' I'm A Rolling Stone
I went home and read my Christmas Humphreys' book on Zen
Curiosity killed the cat
Kerouac's Dharma Bums and On The Road
What's my line?
I'm happy cleaning windows
Take my time
I'll see you when my love grows
Baby don't let it slide
I'm a working man in my prime
Cleaning windows

.

VAN THE MAN

the art that yearned for me
and my Shaker Noah's Ark

our new hammock
on the roof terrace

.
now you see it
now you don't
.

bay, lavender, thyme
.

lavender, scabious, thymes, thrift
.

daisies, snapdragon, lilies, lavender
.

rusty antique butterflies and birds

a bumble bee
on the scabious

The tide is high but I'm holding on
I'm gonna be your number one
I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh, no
It's not the things you do that tease and wound me bad
But it's the way you do the things you do to me
I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh, no
The tide is high but I'm holding on
I'm gonna be your number one
Number one, number one
Every girl wants you to be her man
But I'll wait my dear 'til it's my turn
I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh, no
The tide is high but I'm holding on
I'm gonna be your number one
Number one, number one
Every girl wants you to be her man
But I'll wait my dear 'til it's my turn
I'm not the kind of girl who gives up just like that
Oh, no
The tide is high but I'm holding on
I'm gonna be your number one

.

BLONDIE

the one in which ILTV goes AWOL

on Saturday I got myself in such a state, that I walked out. . .

. . .all the way home

I don't think I was supposed to do this, because by the time I'd made myself a cuppa, the police turned up

no, not The Police (which is odd really, seeing as I had already chosen the tune for the day by then, so that would have been a nice coincidence. . .), but Her Majesty's Finest. . . two of 'em, young enough to be my children, at my front door. . .

'kay, so I suppose I should have mentioned to someone here that I was off. . . might have been the polite thing to do

ho hum

that wasn't where my head was tho - not that I was being rude. . . dunno what got into me really - I told The Nice Officer that I hadn't been sectioned, and thus was perfectly entitled to walk out if I felt like it

her colleague checked on his transistor radio that this indeed was the case:

"The lady
hasn't been sectioned."

just then the van turned up. . .

oops

I think they would quite like to have repatriated a mad-woman back to where she belonged for want of something better to do on a Saturday afternoon (guess the football season is over, eh) - no such luck! of course, when XCH and the boys turned up a short while later (they had been in the middle of a Chinese, apparently)(yes, it was lunchtime) there was a little more serious conversation and then The Nice Officer and her colleagues left us to it. . .

(altho, they did whisper to The Teen that if mum and dad ever argued, he could always call on them for help) (I had already explained to TNO that XCH and I didn't have that kind of relationship, and in fact were very amicable) (The Teen could barely bring himself to make eye contact with The Nice Officer) (he probably fancied her!)

the most amusing part of it was the message on my mobile from the nursing staff here for my psychiatrist, detailing the fact I'd gone AWOL and that the police had been called and that the "Missing Person's Procedure" had been followed (don't think part of that procedure was to leave the message for him on my phone, but there we go - nobody's perfect)

the most worrying part of it was going to church this morning and talking to one of my good friends and inviting her to see my new house and her saying "erm, I've been over three times already. . ." and realising quite how badly my memory is being damaged by the ECT

Uptown girl
She's been living in her uptown world
I bet she never had a back street guy
I bet her mama never told her why
I'm gonna try for an uptown girl
She's been living in her white bread world
As long as anyone with hot blood can
And now she's looking for a downtown man
That's what I am
And when she knows what
She wants from her time
And when she wakes up
And makes up her mind
She'll see I'm not so tough
Just because
I'm in love with an uptown girl
You know I've seen her in her uptown world
She's getting tired of her high class toys
And all her presents from her uptown boys
She's got a choice
Uptown girl
You know I can't afford to buy her pearls
But maybe someday when my ship comes in
She'll understand what kind of guy I've been
And then I'll win
And when she's walking
She's looking so fine
And when she's talking
She'll say that she's mine
She'll say I'm not so tough
Just because
I'm in love
With and uptown girl
She's been living in her white bread world
As long as anyone with hot blood can
And now she's looking for a downtown man
That's what I am
Uptown girl
She's my uptown girl
You know I'm in love
With an uptown girl
My uptown girl
You know I'm in love
With an uptown girl
My uptown girl
You know I'm in love
With an uptown girl
My uptown girl

.

BILLY JOEL

from a different back step

altho I have no garden, in the traditional sense (I do have a rather splendid roof terrace and a small but perfectly formed courtyard) other houses in the street I where I now live, and that backing onto it, do

(have gardens)

there is a tiny oasis of green (clearly visible from the roof, given that the trees and lawns and shrubs are surrounded on all sides by bricks and mortar and on one by a towering concrete jungle)

ah! the birdsong emanating from this little patch of heaven. . .

a joy to listen to, from my new back step in the four-high-cornered bijoux courtyard of my new home (picture to follow) (but don't hold your breath)

(the courtyard has a little scrap of sky high above, if you look up, for a roof - it reminds me of a miniature prison exercise yard during the day, but at night I turn the fairy lights on and the small space is transformed. . .) (I digress)

other sounds are different - I'm probably not even half a mile from the rented house as the proverbial crow flies (altho given my proximity to the river, it's more likely to be a seagull) but the planes seem to be much much higher on their flight path into Heathrow and I can barely hear them

the underground trains going overground on the tube line, high up on its many-arched perch behind the houses on the other side of the street, rumble past in a very reassuring fashion (the house doesn't even shake); at night, the lights in the carriages and the sparks from the wheels flash at me from the gaps inbetween the houses - as if flickering some message or other into the bedroom mirror

there is no screaming teething baby (that I can hear anyhow) in the house next door; no un/happily moaning Downs Syndrome boy or his ever chirrupy sister and their very patient parents in the house on the other side; no primary school playground filling up with noisy children and their bell-ringing teachers behind; no short-cut traffic driving at speed along the street in front

it's quite quiet actually

apart from the trains and the birdsong

East, West

the traveller's palm

it is said that this plant (it's not actually a palm, but a member of the bird of paradise plant family, thus related to the delicious double oh seven and a half) grows in a certain orientation, thus aiding travellers in working out the direction of North. . .

apparently the leaves spread from east to west: so anyone who is lost who has also lost their compass, but remembers "never eat shredded wheat" from their childhood, will know where North is; and anyone who can just remember things without silly rhymes, similarly

mind you if you are lost without a map as well, perhaps knowing where North is won't help you a jot - in which case the plant collects rainwater in the stems of its leaves so you can have a much needed drink while you work out what to do next should you come across one

I myself didn't need a map or a compass to find my way home, as the pilot who flew SP and I back had a pretty good navigation system - but I am a lot further North now than I have been for the last week and it is good to be here. . .

I hope you are all well

I'm looking forward to catching up
with you soon

much love to you today