There is one document I need.

Just one.

I have found every other item imaginable.  

An old Uni essay based on the Brechtian aspects of ‘A Clockwork Orange.’

Miss E’s first pair of shoes.

The instructions to a microwave we binned about 10 year ago.

A stray carrot.

The annoying thing is, it should be easy to find.  It only arrived a week ago.  It came to my new address.  It should be on top of wherever it is, and there’s no chance I would have thrown it out…I hope.

Arghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

There.

That feels better.

Ok, it doesn’t, I’m lying.  

Bugger.

2.  Is this donkey laughing at;

a)  A cart load of buffalo doing the buffalo stance?  (That one what that Neneh Cherry sings about.)

b)  Paris Hilton being pelted with jelly babies by a small band of vagabond squirrels.

c)  A pigeon in a hammock wearing a sombrero in a totally inappropriate shade of paisley.

d)  None of the above but in fact…  (Please elaborate.)

Mwah.

Today Misses E and M should be having a fab Bank Holiday/Good Friday with Daddy, Grandma and Uncle Martin, while I get to unpack some more. 

Yay me.

Go on, tell me.  I really need to know.  A sparrowhawk’s life possibly depends on it.  While I am unpacking I will be thinking more about this question than my whole future. 

Honest.

In the words of my fellow Hostess, Miss Holl, ‘for a reminder of what the heck is bizarre question thursday here is the faq.’

We’d really love you to play, so if you feel like having a go, pop over to Holl’s and sign her Mr Linky. 

and today’s question :

there you are, sitting with your cup of and , settling into a good night’s reading. behind you, a fight breaks out on your bookshelf. which characters are slugging it out [from which books] with each other, and how do they resolve their dispute? what was the argument about?

I’m drinking a white zinfandel and sitting on the chunky red sofa in the dining room.  Dressed in my fluffy white bath robe and soft woollen slipper socks I feel cocooned in the half circle of our bay window.  The curtains are closed, the world shut out and I’m reading Gargoyle by Andrew Davidson (and loving it).  

Suddenly the sweet serenity that is an empty room in a house full of sleeping people, is interrupted by a harsh, rasping, yet well spoken voice.  Think Darth Vader meets Mr Darcy.

Death:  ”As I have said before, nice has nothing to do with me, now I must ask you to leave me be madame, or I may have to act…hastily.   ”

Vianne Rocher: “But I think I may have something you’ll like…”

The second voice is female, French sounding, and slightly sultry but with an edge of playfulness.

Death:  ”I’m not here to ‘like’ anything.  That is not my role.”

VIanne Rocher:  ”I know, but I’m usually veryy good at zis.  Erm, somesing dark, rich…le cafe creme?

Death:  ”Really, I don’t do chocolate.  I have no need for sustenance of any kind.  My role is purely one of intervention and delivery.  Think of me as the immortal parcel express or something.  And you really shouldn’t even be able to see me goddamit.”

Vianne Rocher:   “But I can see you.   And more so, I can see into you.  I can see a longing, a sadness, an ozerworldliness…”

Death:  ”Well of course you blumming can you silly bint.  I’m Death..”

Vianne Rocher:  ”Peanut Brittle??”

Death: ” …I’m not of this plane but merely a visitor, a gatherer of souls, a harbinger of doom.  And peanut brittle, yack.” 

Vianne Rocher:  ”But even harbingers need a little chocolatey love mon petit peu.  How about a Cocoa Gem?  Marzipan Fruit Garland?  Go on, knock your socks off.”

Death:  ”No, no, no.  I am Death.  I do not eat, I do not sleep.  I have but one purpose, one function, one..”

Vianne:  ”But you’re not really Death are you?”

Death:  ”I beg your pardon?”

Vianne Rocher:  ”I said, you’re not really Death Monsieur.  You are like me, a character, a creation, only really alive in ze reading.   And I’m almost certain you’d melt if you just tasted a cherry Parfait.”

Death:  ”But..I..”

Vianne Rocher:  ”Rum Truffle?  Hazlenut Whirl, Kit Kat?”

Death:  silence

Vianne Rocher:  Ah, but you are sulking now?   Hmmm, I’m zinking a Lemon Twist or some Bitter Noir in zat case, you mardy git.

Death:  ”Urr urrr urrr.  Urr urring umm urree urree urrr. ”

Vianne:  ”Well now you’re just being childish.  Maybe I should give you some white mice and a lollipop Monsieur?”

Me:  ”Oh for chrissakes.  He said he’s given up and he’s chewing on a great big enormous chunk of sticky toffee.  Here, have some.” 

Vianne Rocher:  ”O la la, c’est tres bien.   Merci Madame.  Urr urrr mumble, slurp, burble.”

Me:  ”Yes I know, yummy, now let’s get you two back in the book case.  Hmmmmm, I think we’ll have Chocolat in the dresser, and The Book Thief can go in the shelf on the other side.

And with that, silence returns once more to le salle a manger de Jo Beaufoix.  And I return to The Gargoyle which is blumming marvellous.  Chocolate Frog anybody? 

Holly:  ”How about a day each week when we get to ask very silly questions of each other?”

Me:  ”Oh that would be cool.  I mean, it could be a lot of fun.  We could pick some reeeally silly questions.

Holly:  ”And it could be called ‘Bizarre Question Thursday’ after my Uncle.”

Me:  ”Oh that’s good.  You should write or something.”

Holly:  ”Thanks.  And what does having a whale of a time mean?  Do whales have particularly good times?  Have they named a carnival after them?  Or a special dance?  Or a biscuit?”

Me:  ”All the above, and it’s also a public holiday in the UK where you get to float around and squirt chocolate milkshake from a hole in your back.”

Holly:  ”Cool.” 

Cough, so without further ado I bring you,Holly’s

BIZARRE QUESTION THURSDAY, WEEK 1…

Ready?

question for the week
you sit down at starbucks (or indeed your cafe of choice). bob’s son, buddy jesus, sits down next to you with an iced chai. he says “hi ,Jo, how are you? i like what you’re wearing. oh did you catch that red sox game?”

you have a lovely chat, and OBVIOUSLY cover such topics as “why is there suffering in the world?” and “yes but am *i* getting into heaven?” and “who really framed roger rabbit?”

with that out of the way,
what one other question do you ask him?

‘I would look him squarely in the eye/eyes and say;

“Why is it that whenever I meet a skunk it feels the need to rifle through my handbag and run off with my
faux vinyl, disco chic, Leo Sayer albums?  I mean, where’s the harm in a little bit of courtesy?  If they wanted to borrow them I’d be only too happy to oblige.  In fact I’d probably throw in ‘The Bee Gees do Gigi In Figi’ for free.  Sighhh.

Oh please tell me Buddy Jesus, please.  I’d be really ever so grateful and never say ‘boo’ to a goose again.  I promise.”‘

subquestion of the week 
amazingly, steve, the guy who really runs the universe, walks in after you finish your drinks. he comes up to you and says “look, Jo, i need to irradicate one little annoyance forever. i can’t decide between ingrown toenails and the colour puce. what do you think?”

which one do you choose, or do you choose something else? note : he can not irradicate human suffering. just small stuff, like dandruff.

“Hmmm, so he can only eradicate small stuff eh?  How about, Paul Daniels, he’s quite small?  Or earwigs or acne, or that single tiny hair that is always on the seats in public toilets?

No?

Ok, erm, in that case Steve, could you please eradicate the fizzy out of fizzy water?
Because I do not want my water to sparkle, comprendez?

 I dislike effervescence in the clear stuff.  

Water should just taste of nothing, of cold, wet, glorious nothing.  As much as chocolate should taste of sweet, cocoa, velvety goodness, water should be plain and simple and pure.  

Or maybe you could get them to call fizzy/carbonated water something different so that I do not pick it up by mistake in Schmesco, load my shopping into the car, start the engine, then take a big gulp of bitter gaseous vileness when all I want is a drop of natures finest.

It’s not too much to ask is it? 

Good.   And you should maybe go for the compliments like buddy Jesus did, it kind of makes you more approachable.  And I’d drop the swagger it makes you look a bit unsavoury.  And as for the moustache and the matching leg warmers…even David Tennant would struggle to make that look work Steve.  It’s Ok, you don’t need to thank me.”

Oh that was fun.  If anyone else wants to play go over to Holly’s and add your link to her Mr Linky.  You know you want to.

Miss M turns four a week tomorrow, so we’ve had quite a few parcel deliveries from friends and family further afield, which has meant several face to face moments with our postman.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with this. He seems like a nice bloke, and is just doing his job,and I’m really glad he doesn’t just shove stuff through our letterbox willy nilly but instead checks if we’re in first. But on the last two occasions he’s said, ‘Bye Jo’ before he leaves.

Is that weird??

I mean, the only way he knows my name is ‘Jo’ is from address labels on the parcels. He doesn’t know me in any other way. We’ve never had a conversation outside of ‘Hi, can you sign here, nice weather isn’t it, thanks, bye.’ We’ve never been introduced, I don’t think he knows Mr B, and I don’t know his name.

It just seems kind of odd. It’s not that I want him to call me ‘Mrs Beaufoix’ or something, that would be equally odd in that it seems kind of deferential and a bit ‘upstairs downstairs’, but well, he doesn’t know me so I kind of don’t expect to be called anything.

Maybe I’ll start calling him Pat…

Oi, Posty, if by some strange twist of fate you’re reading this, then what’s your name?  Introduce yourself, then it will be less weird maybe.  Ta.

And coming soon to this blog, a post where I am interviewed by three fabulous blog buddies, and where I in turn will be asking for some volunteers to be interviewed by me, with my choice of questions, mwah ha ha haaaa.  I’ve been asked some fabulous ones so I’m going to need to think up some bobby dazzlers.  (Whatever that means.)

I’m not complaining, I mean, these are the choices we make, but having had 10 days away with my family, where he has been there constantly, I’ve realized that I miss him.

I miss having that person by my side to share stuff with, and I don’t just mean to help carry the load, you know, sort out the squabbles, tidy stuff away, decide what to have for dinner. I mean someone there beside me to share a joke, a glance, a moment.

When we were in Plymouth my Auntie decided one night that Mr B and I should leave the girls with her, go down to the beach and watch the sunset. I remember looking at Mr B and feeling a little awkward, shy even. What would we say? Would the silence be unnerving? Could we still do this?

When we got down to the seafront the sky was a mixture of low clouds, muted shadow and cool blue. The sun was already hiding behind a craggy hill, painting a shiny white glow over the fields and rocky shore. It was as if the last traces of warmth were being drained from the icy depths, a battle between nature’s elements, and it cast a strange but calming light over the choppy waters of the bay.

While we took turns with the binoculars seeking out tiny vessels disappearing over the horizon, the light changed and the sea was met with an orange gold glow, a last kiss from the sun’s rays.

Then the clouds slowly moved on revealing yet more blue and a day not quite ready to give itself up to night, and we were quiet, and calm and comfy. There was no awkward, no effort, we just were.

We stayed till it was dark and cold, till there was no heat left in the sky. He put his arms around me and we soaked up the sounds of the waves pulsing their regular beat on the shore, the chattering crickets, the pleasant crunch of tires along a pebbled track.

When we climbed back into the car he kissed me then smiled, and as we drove slowly back up the hill I thought, ‘yes, we can still do this.’

Now we’re home, I’m hoping that we make sure we find the time.

As for the place, well the sun sets everywhere doesn’t it?

Oh, and I tag, erm, the first 7 people who leave a comment and who want to do it.

Holl says:

“the UU must list the three things your husband (or wife) (or significant other!) (could be a pet, in lieu of all of the above.) (no pet? got a plant?) (if you have none of the above, you should go get one.) knows about you.”

Okay? Good.

By not using my kids’ names or our real surname, and by not putting full face shots of my girls on here even though I long to share their adorableness/messiness/grumpiness with all of you, I feel I am protecting them a little.

But I have this fear, this paranoid fear that if I write certain things it might invite scary stuff in. By this I don’t mean that I have anything to hide, or that I avoid writing my true thoughts and feelings, no, I mean there is some stuff that I will not share in case they make stuff happen.

The main one is ‘what frightens me’. I suppose this is because there is a certain part of me that believes putting these things into words, documenting them for all to see, gives them a concreteness that they do not deserve, gives them some kind of life outside of me.

There’s also a thought lingering inside my twisted little mind that if I were to write my greatest fears here, then a visitor, an ill, sad or frightening individual might choose to use them against me or my family, might make them come true.

I know I know, it’s all a bit Dean Koontz, but it’s one of my few superstitions, apart from saluting lone magpies, and it’s just how I feel. I have this imagination that always asks, “What if?” And I scare myself sometimes with how far a drama can unfold in my mind.

So, in answer to David’s question, “What are you most afraid of?” I will say:

• Being chased round a mulberry bush by a large animated gherkin
• Having a whole bunch of antelopes trample all over my favourite handbag while singing a selection of songs from the shows
• Not being able to speak ‘bird’ when I am next accosted by a pigeon

ok?

If you’d like to join in, just answer the question on your blog, link to David and leave him a comment so he can keep up with the discussion.

If I LOVE you I am more likely to forgive you, to find motives for your actions, reasons for the hurt, or the thoughtlessness or the misunderstanding.

If I LIKE you I might be a little pi**ed off with you for a bit, but generally after a while I’ll be ready to move on. It is very rare that you will know this, the me being mad at you, as I hide stuff. I’m a bit crappy at showing that I’m angry, unless I’m married to you or I gave birth to you, then I can lay it all on the table.

But if I DON’T LIKE you *, or if I don’t know you and you hurt me when you have no idea who I am, when there is no fathomable reason for your actions apart from being a generally unpleasant human being, then I don’t forgive very easily. I dwell, I fester, I give it far too much time and thought. I run conversations through my head about what I should have said/what I would would like to say/what I hope somebody else will say to you. I become indignant and angry and irascible, and then I get even more annoyed because you have caused these feelings in me and I do not want them.

I know these feelings are mine really. I own them, I nurture them. I have to find a way to let them go. I am working on it.

So I have learnt something about me in writing this. I don’t forgive easily. Not when I feel there has been injustice.

And I never forget.**

* There aren’t many people I don’t like. Honest. I like most people unless they give me real reason not too. Like if they throw raspberries at small defenseless sparrows, or go round spreading rumours about muskrats. I would not like people who did that.

** That sounds really bad doesn’t it? I suppose I mean I never forget if you really hurt me. I will be wary. But that’s normal right?

*** Please note, I am using the Holl style of referencing. She won’t mind because I gave her ice cream.

This post was written in response to fabulous David’s question, “Do you believe in forgive and forget.” If you want to join in, link to David’s blog so he can come over and say hi. You won’t regret it.