Five days and counting ...
Not counting in the sense of killing time as I have often done in the past. Not striking off the days as a prisoner might do on a physical calendar until parole day. Just doing a countdown, I guess, till take off. 20 February, LHR (Terminal 5) to BOM, according to my Trailfinders print-out. To the old Bombay. Present day Mumbai. Me confused. Why does everywhere else say MUMBAI, where the airport authorities still use BOMBAY? I'm sure there's a very good reason, but the perfectionist in me does wonder why they just can't do a thorough job of it. OK, bar the odd blow-up rubber atlas globes that you might in retro homes, BOMBAY does exist ... Bomb bomb cha bomb, bol bolly bol, din ta ta din ta ta din, bom bom bombay mix bom mash up mix ... Oops, sorry! Got carried away in my flashback to the old City University days where I had to suffer a whole module in North India Classical music, and failed miserably in the second end of year exam. Listen to the following 5 minute extract and describe what rag it is, what time of day, bols, modular progressions. YOU WHAT? Crumbs. Bachelor of Science (Hons) in Music. Not easy. Not for a mature student of 31.
Thinking about it - why can't they just bloody well leave all names, labels, and words alone, huh? I mean, when I was a child, we learned of URANUS (pronounced: Your ANUS). These days, I understand it is some new fangled thing called YOURanus). Whose flippin' idea was that? Go-wan, OBAMA, I dare you say that in front of the TV cameras. UR-anus. Go on, I dare you.
It's just plain silly, and a total waste of time, if you ask me. Another thing that gets on my wick is this Queen BOODIKA. Sorry, love, she was Queen Boudicea in my day. I was reminded of that name change by a Blue Badge Guide during one of those fantastic London walks.
WALK LONDON, a charity, let me explain: Young Boris the Buffoon (I mean he's even younger than my younger brother) has kindly chucked a load of public money at Walk London, so that they can organise 3 yearly walks as part of an initiative to get Londoners walking. Apparently. Walks in and around Greater and central London. Bless you, Boris. I know a few uninformed old dears who past caring and mostly glued to their tellys in their dotage - in fact a mother of an ex of mine: Oh Boris, they coo, isn't he adorable? Fluffy blond hair, doesn't mean any harm, cluck cluck ... yadda yadda.
Listen up Boris and all you privileged Toffees - has it ever occurred to you and your egomaniac tendencies and power-mongering minds - that us London poor and poorly (cf London Labour and the London Poor, Henry Mayhew) HAVE NO CHOICE but to WALK and CYCLE TO work. You and your flippin' BORIS BARCLAY BIKES. Hahaha. You and your banking-wanking chummy-bummies. Yeah, whatever. Catherine Tate would say, Face, bovvered? An ex-Braeburn Arusha colleague of mine might say USO? (uso meaning face in Kiswahili, one of the most deliciously lilting languages I've had the privilege to learn. Not the harsh-sounding Kenyan Swahili. Besides, I was told by Kenyan Airways staff three years ago that English is their National language. And they seemed damned proud of it. Amazing. After all they did you you lot? Hey, just jokin' all you old colonialists out there ... just joking. The equivalent of the 'Queen's English' is the Kiswahili of the divine coastline of Tanzania. One day, I'll return there where I left off ... Zanzibar ... ah. Poa. Poa ndizi, as a Headteacher friend might say. Cool banana, indeed.
Sorry, about that. Back to the Walks. Totally FREE. There's not much we can get these days for free, so I make the MOST of it. I did a walk around Westminster recently at the end of January. It was freezing, even with longjohns and jeans, double vests, double scarves - double everything in fact. As soon as the glorious winter sun set behind the Westminster's Dean's Yard, it was brass monkey's cold. Thinking back, I'm convinced that's when I caught my second 'chill' of the year. Sinusitis that time, or was sinusitius gotten in Edinburgh? Never mind ... It was COLD. Dean's Yard, the old farmyard of the Benedictine Monks I was told by the Blue Badge Guide, where they fed their livestock and whatnot. At this point of the Westminster Walk, I couldn't help singing to myself: Old MacBennies and their Farm, ee-eye, ee-eye oh. On that farm they had a DUCK... Lucky old fucks. I've only got a flowerpot outside on my social housing external walkway to piss in. I know I shouldn't grumble. I will give up that old habit of mine of thinking that the grass is always greener, because it really ain't. I'm beginning to count my blessings after a close shave at Guy's Cancer Head & Neck Clinic. After four months of testing, they found no known cause for the lump and blister in the palate of my mouth. Hmm, strange that ...
Still, at 51 - and a whole life of bamboo-caning it to the max - I'm alive. I'm still breathing. In the soothing words of Jon Kabatt-Zin:
If you are Breathing, there is more Right with You, than Wrong with You.
After a lifetime's miserableness of swinging from highs to lows, as I lay feeling flat as a pancake last July, I nearly cried when I heard those words. Jon, you will understand how grateful I am for hearing your gentle voice on that MBCT guided mediation CD. Yet, many of my old friends remain mystified, or even, I suspect, PERPLEXED ...
Talking of pancakes, I missed pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. More importantly, I have "given up" booze for Lent. I did have a tiny half portion of Russian vodka 'n' tonic with lemon slices, which Mr Horn kindly brought me all the way from Moscow in 2011 or was it last year? But I knew I shouldn't be drinking it - so I threw the rest of the contents into the kitchen sink. Ciggies? I just counted four Chesterfield Reds, and one teeny roll-up stub. Not bad. Could do better. Overall, bloomin' marvellous considering.
Apart from having to glance at the digital calender, to check on the last travel arrangements and personal chores to be done before my departure on a British Airways flight into the unknown. Hence doing that clock-tock countdown. Today is two days after I last checked into my GP's. Having thought for the past week that my lungs were finally loosening after decades of smoking FAGS, I discover I have a viral infection, slight temperature, swollen glands and sore throat. I now have something fancy called a VIRUS. My third almost back to back winter illness since turning 51 on 29 December 2012. I have set my own world record for being POORLY. As in winter blues poorly. Today, at least I have managed to drink a whole bowl of soup without GAGGING. Today, I am truly thankful that this virus is a blessing in disguise. Today was my second proper LONG LONG sleep which has been lacking since the oral biopsy on 14 January. So ...
... Today, I have mostly been mulling. Chewing the cud.
Strangely, I am an OX in the Chinese horoscope, so this kind of makes sense. Jotting down a few thoughts ... mentally 'masticating', I believe, is the correct English word. That word sounds rather rude to me. Masticate. masticate.
Though, that
is what
Cows
do.
When they digest the green grass of summer, and silage and hay of winter.
Mash mash molar mash. Chomp chomp chew.
Gulp,
gone.
Yes, I'm a Cow, a personified ruminant.
p.s. Hey, Boudicea, why the long face? I know you're riding dem horses like, but you left your mark. I know you had a hard time, but you sure as hell give us girls something to puff out our somewhat crinkled decolletages to, innit? According to Wikipedia, historians reckon you were born in 60-61 AD. That's symmetry again for you. I share your gestation period and birth year ... how about that then? That must mean there are 1000 years between you and me, ol' girl. Rock on!
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