Masks and Other Humorous Objects

I've just bought a whole bunch of scented candles on eBay - five sets in all, to people my Christmas baskets that I will give out to specially selected people. I already have two presents wrapped up in the large, large box Nat Geog gave me after the assignment, and have started mining addresses from friends from all over. I wrote out all of one Deepavali card (which I can't send out till, say, Halloween) and will probably start writing out my Christmas cards soon because, well, I like doing it, and I want to make sure I have them all posted on time. If I don't start ridiculously early, I start ridiculously late. And by that time, Christmas is over.

Was chatting to George just yesterday and he teased me about the amount of Smiths I quote verbatim on this blog. This is because he introduced me to The Smiths and I used to cover my ears and scream whenever he held me prisoner in the car and forced me to listen. Note to Georgie: I still find it too depressing to listen to them. But I love their lyrics. So much so that I'm thinking of printing two teeshirts.

One which says: Last night I dreamt somebody loved me...

And another that says: The more you ignore me (in front)
The closer I get (at the back).

And wear both tee-shirts every time I go to Backyard. What do you think of that?

Anyways, I went for my walk today (after about a week of not - first there was the day out with Esther and then there were the two assignments right at the time I go for my walk, forget about waking up early, if I'm up that early it just means I haven't been to bed yet, and then there was the all-nighter to finish my stories and then...I was just plain lazy, and it was raining, and blah, blah, blah).

It was raining today too, but I didn't let that stop me. No, not me. I opened my fluoroscent yellow umbrella and proceeded to go my way, the ascent, then the descent, then the ascent, then the descent - ad infinitum.

First round, I had the soundtrack from the fourth level of hell playing in my head. Those voices grow louder, more insistent and they hammer, hammer, hammer away at me. Just bloody awful, banshees keening away, Gods ripping apart the heavens, titans clashing (you know the deal) and then some. To the drip, drip, drip of rain on my yellow brolly.

A lady passed me on her way out and smiled exuberantly. (I don't know how she could have smiled at me...me resembling my famous combination of both thunder and death warmed up). She said: "Oh fresh air, fresh air, this air is very fresh." And the rain continued to mizzle.

So I nodded, showed some teeth (actually, no, it was one of those tight-mouthed smiles, no teeth) and went on my unmerry way. Clang, clang, clang sounded the cymbals in my head. Words crawled out, twisted abortions, from every available crevice as I pounded the pavement slowly. Very slowly.

Anna would call this a casual stroll. She walks quickly. For her it's a matter of fitness. For me it's a matter of demons.

But I kept walking. One round. Two rounds. (a sip of water). Three rounds. By the fourth, my socks were soaked and I was limping. I limped back to the car, drove off, gliding home on some wave of light. Or maybe it was sound. Who knows?

I stopped for a while at the ESH to look at ovens, not minding that my teeshirt was soaked in sweat and despite the Versace that I had squirted liberally on self before going for my walk, I now smelled like I was unfit for public places. Nothing loth, I sailed in and examined the ovens, tut tutting at those unpriced and the fact that the although there seemed to a hundred shop assistants there, there were none on hand to assist me. Clearly, nothing here for me.

So I got back into my car where only I could smell me, and drove on home. Taking note of two places that would come get the oven and the sofa I wanted to dump, because, well it was time for something new. How on earth could I get around to my Christmas baking if the oven, not only didn't work, but the sales and service people, kept hiding from me, not returning my calls and not wanting to tell me how much it would cost to fix (except that it was A LOT!).

I don't know.

I've got books to read, people to see and places to go.

Well, books to read, anyway.

Milan Kundera's The Curtain. And then Milan Kundera's Encounters. I should have started off with Art of the Novel (the proper first in the trilogy but Kinokuniya didn't have a copy).

I'm thinking I should defray the cost of my enormous appetite by writing book reviews.