Smokingboot

Special treat from R last night!

It was enchanting, and I became a little girl caught up in the ethereal beauty of the swans and Tchaikovsky's music, momentarily wanting to be the Queen Mother because she had the most fabulous cloak, pink and purple and billowing. She didn't have to dance at all, just make imperial gestures and get exasperated with her stupid son. I reckoned to be able to do that.

It could be argued that practice in this was available thanks to the row right behind us, which held four young women who just couldn't help a little chat here and there. They went completely silent after the interval, except for the moment when, on seeing a ballerina appear wearing a beautiful black tutu studded with red gems, the group detective hissed 'it's the black swan!' Thank you Sherlock. But they were locked in, as were we all. Weak points? This was a happy ending version, so the defeat of the sorcerer needed more drama, more combative elements. Also, Von Rothbart had a stupid hat. Strong points? Everything else.

Oh my.

I recall seeing Fergie leap out of a car, slam the door, and race down the street followed by hapless bodyguards. What struck me then was her bandy legged sprint; I couldn't help thinking that whoever she was seeing, she could calm down a bit. Having said that, Fergie would outpace Usain Bolt for a free meal. Even then she had the rep of a grifter, albeit a very genial one. Other colleagues had tales to tell of the pair of them; she and Andy were known for bad table manners ('they eat like pigs'), and treating restaurant staff with no courtesy whatsoever. But then Cookie, Anne, and Margaret alike were all reputed to be capable of rudeness, expecting the world to put up and shut up due to their station. Never can tell really. Re Andy and Fergie stories, these were the same staff members complaining that Princess Diana was too tall with a big nose and a lucky face for photos. I am not sure what diplomats really know, but for proper irreverant goss, check in with embassy secretaries, at once vicious and shrewd. True? Couldn't say. Entertaining? Every day of the week.

The Yorks were universally considered exemplars of crass behaviour by those around them. Andrew is/was one of the most colossally spoilt men in the world. Can he have been as colossally stupid as it would take, to maintain relations with Epstein, then lie about them, and solidly keep lying? Can he really have forwarded confidential trade documents to Epstein, which seems the most likely basis for this charge? Even supposing him to be immeasurably infantile and greedy, could he be this foolish? What's he been doing with his money to need this kind of friend?

The King says what he must say, and it's true: The law must take its course.

The strange thing is this; in principle I am against the idea of monarchy, though I do see how it could be a waymarker for a nation, maybe even a binding power among disparate groups within the whole, the person who is and always will be above party politics, the person who exists to be your group egregore, the embodiment of your values, people, land. I can see it as a poetic conceit, maybe even a spiritual one. But I have never agreed with the inherent inequality of it, and royal finances need a proper squint, for they seem singularly obtuse. Yet somehow the death of the queen sealed my place as an Elizabethan, rather than a Carolingian or a Williamite. Do I miss her, do I feel for her? Probably not, but I do feel for the times she represented. And I am glad, for the sake of fond mums everywhere, that she was not around to see her favourite boy's disgrace splashed on the front page of every paper.

Here's to the Year of the Fire Horse! Run, baby, run!

https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/the-year-of-the-fire-horse?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Here comes Valentines Day. This is for when you are tempted, or wish you were tempted.

https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/here-for-you?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

There she was in my dream. I met her on a road somewhere, recognised her straight away from her Orphic hymn;

I invoke you, beloved Hekate of the Crossroads and the Three Ways
Saffron-cloaked Goddess of the Heavens, the Underworld and the Sea
Tomb-frequenter, mystery-raving with the souls of the dead
Daughter of Perses, Lover of the Wilderness who exults among the deer
Nightgoing One, Protectress of dogs, Unconquerable Queen
Beast-roarer, Dishevelled One of compelling countenance
Tauropolos, Keyholding Mistress of the whole world
Ruler, Nymph, Mountain-wandering Nurturer of youth.
Maiden, I beg you to be present at these sacred rites
Ever with a gladsome heart and ever gracious to the Oxherd.

She looked at me and said

'You never ask me for anything.'

I didn't quite know how to reply to her. Respect and all that, but I connect the Dishevelled One of Compelling Countenance to unhinged people, and already have access to enough crazy lady vibe to last me a lifetime. Having said that, anyone who protects dogs gets my thumbs up.It did occur to to me that I would like to draw her or try to turn her into a painting, but given the chances of it being absolutely terrible, decided not to offer it.

I can't remember what happened then, only that next I was a teacher of some kind going to school, when a pupil visited me at home and told me she was sick. She was an ordinary dark haired girl, and I have seen a face like hers before in my dreams connected to malice unfortunately. But this made no difference in the context. She was sweating and trembling copiously, and her skin had a very unhealthy pallor. I asked her if I could place a hand on her forehead to take her temperature, and she refused, saying that touch hurt her. I knew she could be lying but it would be the loss of one day if she was. I let her stay and gave her instructions on contacting an ambulance if she needed it.

Then I tried to go to school and got lost. Came back to find the house was full of my housemates, who were all men. One yelped when he saw me, talking about how badly I had applied my makeup. Glancing at my reflection, I saw that I appeared to have applied lots more eyeliner to one eye than another, but when I found a mirror, it was much more dramatic than that.

My eyeliner had congealed in thick lines along my lower eyelids. Underneath them sat a wild design, blue white sparkling crystalline stalagtite shapes covering my cheeks and most of my face. They looked great but I had no idea how they got there. I took them off and got myself ready for school.

Valerian's pretty amazing for sleep, it really suits me. At some point before this dream I saw my dear old dog being let out of the back of a car, alone with another dog, and watched him dragging some poor shmo along on a walk because his distate for leashes has not changed in over 30 years.

Work, good work, work I could sustain for more than 20 minutes. Then exhaustion and now a day when I feel too tired to do anything. Not quite anything, I must take Dervish to the vets, and R can't help me because he is actually ill, as opposed to me flopping around on these stupid drugs. But two things; yes, I can work for longer, albeit not that long, also - and maybe this is just asking for hubris to strike - I have not had an actual proper illness type illness for a while. I am attributing this new power to ginger shots every morning.
There is improvement, though when work stops I then noodle on pointless things for ages. It feels like I am frittering time, as though I can do anything as long as it does not require focus or concentration. Annoying.

We watched Rick Stein's Secret France last night before the rugby. Here's a drinking game; get your whisky or wine or whatever and take a sip every time he says the word Provence. It worked so well we booked a holiday there for later on. Sicily too this year, but that's about family reunion. Plans for Berlin will have to wait, we need sunshine.

Gosh, stupid, it's 9.20 am and my eyes are closing. Ugh. But looking forward and back, no doubt things are getting better.

Blessings of this season to anyone wants them.

https://open.substack.com/pub/smokingboot/p/song-of-imbolc?r=1r9jj7&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Woke up suddenly realising I hadn't put the bins out. Went outside in all the lowering clouds and saw the light opening a way through them. Then came the moon sailing, small but full. A bird was singing in the dark. And I felt humbled and happy to be standing there.

May your morning be beautiful, wherever you are.

Seen my father's will, barring the bits he left in various locked up settlements. He seems to have left Mum, my brother and me out comprehensively, given everything to his second wife and I suspect tried to secure all he could for his third child, my half-sister. This I can understand, but it still hurts not to have had an acknowledgment; I have his shonky ring (admittedly given to me by Mum) and no need of his money, likewise Bro isn't exactly a pauper, though he was hurt that Dad's straight razors, promised to him, never appeared. I am almost relieved at that, god knows what Dad did with them in his youth, and ghosts follow blood they say. But they were a promise. Still, a promise from Dad is not exactly a gold standard. I'll not mention the will to Bro. This primitive pang at being forgotten/ignored will leave me, Bro is not resilient that way.

It could be a life changing amount of money for one if that person was modest. What it may not be is what I suspect he tried to make of it; a lifelong guarantee of comfort and care for Alice Jane. AJ is extremely disabled with cerebral palsy and many associated issues. Her mother died before probate was granted, so I assume Dad's will stands and the guardian cited within it is AJ's legal guardian, but I have no way of chasing that, because the will was written nearly 16 years ago, Dad died 10 years ago, his second wife died 4 years ago, probate was granted 3 years ago, and said wife may have had a will which superceded this in any case. As long as AJ is safe, happy, and not banged up in some miserable facility while executors live the life of Riley on her money, there seems to be no cause for concern. But even if there is, the solicitors have made it very clear that I can do nothing about it.

R tells me that I have enough on my plate with Bro and Mum, and he has a point; my emotional labour levels are high. On the other hand, I can sympathise with a very vulnerable little girl who lost her parents and all the love in the world. Of course, she's not a little girl anymore she's in her 30s now I think. I never knew my half sister, she only ever spoke three words to me, over our father's coffin, and those three words were unpleasant coached no doubt by her unpleasant mother. Dad wanted me to adopt AJ (huh?) but he was drunk when he suggested it, and I refused and still would. But my determination not to get involved in Dad's mess doesn't extend to just leaving AJ to live or die a stranger in whatever circumstances. Only that's how it has turned out. If there's a way round this, I don't know what it is.

My problem with choking on food was not solved by the endoscopy I had in England years ago, but that doesn't stop the NHS from trying again up here, because apparently no one knows where my pre Scotland records are. So today I went in, they sprayed my throat, tried to shove a tube into the pipework via my mouth, everyone shouted instructions at me and tilted my head, my body, my shoulders in various directions. Impossible to stop gagging, they couldn't get the tube down. Cue my embarrassment and everyone telling me not to be embarrassed. They want to make another appointment, this time to include sedation. Trouble with that is that I must have someone with me throughout, as it means 24 hours worth of being bad at stuff like walking and staying awake. Anyway, I got out, nearly crying with frustration and, that word again, embarrassment, R brought me home, fed me ice cream, and I decided that really all I need to do is control my gag reflex, chew more slowly, I'll be fine, sure as hell not going back for this horrible stupid pointless procedure.

Mum's been so quiet recently, I was almost surprised when she phoned tonight. She had some sad news for me.
Long ago there was a guy who married the sister of my uncle. All the men were drinking buddies together. Antonio was congenial and extremely popular, with long lashes and eyes that genuinely seemed to twinkle. He was ridiculously funny, so affable that even when my father started to lose the plot this guy was able to coax him into genial temper. Admittedly this was accompanied by more booze but hey, welcome to the 70s. I remember seeing him on the Night of the Three Kings, a man of laughter playing King Melchior and handing out presents, not so much wearing the white beard as trapped under it. He wandered round like a short but bejewelled avalanche.

Mum said he was showing signs of dementia recently, and then suddenly none of that mattered. Just after new year he died.

Of choking.

Rest in peace Antonio. You fly high now, merry as you always were.

And yes, OK, I'll go back for endoscopy attempt number 3.