World Weariness and How to Overcome It

1 Dec

I am feeling rather low today, dear readers. I’m not sure if it’s the heat or simply my incredibly busy schedule catching up with me, but I am overcome with a feeling of malaise. I don’t find it a coincidence that I first noticed this as I was sipping my tea and toast this morning while reading over the newspapers’ headlines.

First off, there is not a single headline which contains my name. While this may seem simply personally disheartening, what it made me realise is that thought-provoking writing by fascinating people is not deemed as “newsworthy” as it once was. While I certainly understand that it is important to sympathize with the plight of the mentally ill or be outraged at the extent of governmental abuse, it is also essential that the media covers great culture so that young people can learn about my affect on the world we live in.

In addition to newspaper editors’ refusal to cover the lives of intriguing and attractive members of the literati, they seem hell-bent on only featuring stories which reek of doom and gloom. Quite frankly I am a bit fed up to here with it. All of us have felt down at some point in our lives and, regardless of our family backgrounds or history of methamphetamine abuse, we run the risk of “relapsing” into depression when things look bad. What we could really do with is some good news for a change, and therefore the media should be required to print some occasionally, if only to temporarily supply us with a “hit” of optimism.

I’ve no doubt that journalists will argue that their job is simply to provide information about whatever is going on in the world, regardless of whether it is seen as good or bad. To some extent, I agree. However, a recent report examining the correlation between the high suicide rate and the viewing figures of Fox News makes for some interesting reading, to say the least.

So what are we, the innocent public, to do when this feeling of lassitude sweeps over us? We could write letters of protest to news organisations, insisting that they cover some happier news stories, which I am sure do exist out there somewhere. Or we could create our own news: go out into our communities and do something good and then hound our local media until they cover it with the appropriate headlines, tone and background musical accompaniment it deserves. Or we could disregard the whole industry and investigate good news ourselves by touching base with friends or relatives to whom we have not recently spoken and share in their celebrations of prize-winning vegetables, impressive divorce settlements or negative biopsy results.

Or we could take our gin and tonic slightly earlier than usual and then go off for a short nap, which is what I intend to do now.

Smiles all round, darlings!

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The Importance of Family (Royal or Otherwise)

21 Nov

As the days grow shorter and we all spend more of our time shrouded in darkness, we are inevitably drawn to periods of somber reflection. Tonight, over tea, Christopher and I were both reflecting on how my life might be different if I were engaged to Prince William. (This may seem a rather far-fetched reflection, but please keep in mind that my reputation precedes me in all levels of the British population). Christopher suggested that it was unlikely William would take me as a bride, given the whole Mrs Simpson debacle. However, I explained to him that it was more her thrice married status which caused the commotion, and I, having never married, would not sound that alarm (though clearly today’s monarchy takes a slightly different view of divorce anyway). He was also concerned that, were I to marry our future king, I may no longer have a place in my heart for him, but I assured Christopher that were William and I to wed, I would insist on moving Christopher in with us. There undoubtedly would be an opening for a footman of some sort, and if there weren’t, I would surely make one.

I, on the other hand, could see nothing but good to come from a possible marriage to Prince William. Though I am not particularly keen on pomp, I trust that my adaptability would allow me to partake in whatever useless luxuries I needed to be a part of. I confess I’d be more than enthusiastic about going to polo matches, attending galas, waving to the minions, and waking up next to a naked nubile body every morning. I would even tolerate the hunting if it meant I could watch him take a shower.  But I think the thing I would like most about entering into the bonds of matrimony with young William is the sense of being part of a family.

As readers know, I do have some family. I often speak of my cherished grandmother. I, of course, do have parents, though our relationship is not as close as I’d like it to be due to the 3517 miles and years of emotional abuse that lie between us. Alas, I was not blessed with any siblings (worth mentioning) and therefore I often feel that I’ve missed out on the sense of family that our Royals so lovingly exude.  I often see photos of Wills and Harry clowning around or embracing, and I think that I wouldn’t mind being in the middle of that princely sandwich.

Just this weekend, I bumped into my dear friend Alice Wintergarden at the local Christmas sale in the Village Hall. She and her sister, a woman whose loud and obnoxious tone unfortunately often conceals her lovely nature, were selling cakes and second hand books. Although I was hardly twenty feet away signing autographs, neither Alice nor her sister attempted to speak to me. I can only assume this was due to the bonds of sorority that I know nothing of or possibly the incredibly long queue of admirers at my table. Oh, having a sister must be such a wonderful experience to make a friend betray another like that!

Given my parents’ advanced age, it seems that unlikely that they will issue forth a sibling for me. Marrying Prince William may in fact be my only chance, however slim (or indeed fat), of gaining that real sense of family. I am more than envious of the woman he ultimately chooses. For in addition to the fame, palaces, gorgeous shag, and jewels out the wazoo she is going to get, she will be welcomed into an accepting, loyal and devoted family. This treasure, I can only imagine, would make any woman feel like a princess.

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I Don’t Want to Alarm You, But There Are Some Unpleasant Things on the Internet

11 Nov

This week I have learned a very unpleasant thing about the society in which we are all living in today.

Despite my normally uplifting personality traits, I’m no fool. I know that bread falls butter side down, if you know what I mean. Terrible things exist in the world, but it is not of my nature to harp on about them (as my readers surely know). But this week I discovered something so shocking, so utterly despicable that I feel I must harp on about it, if only to protect some of you more gentle souls from stumbling across this putrescence yourselves as you are checking the latest cricket scores or searching for a cheese scone recipe (which, by the by, you can find in my most recent cookbook, Recipes My Grandmother Used to Follow Which I Have Altered So That You Can Actually Stomach The Final Results).

ngbbs4bb003614723fHere is my discovery: someone is using the Internet to display pornographic images. I am sorry to be the one to announce this. The Internet was such a pure place until this person began to corrupt it with dirtiness. What has happened to the world, I ask?

(While I cannot at this time discuss the details of how I came to learn of this, can I at least remind you all that I am not the only woman who wears my brand of stockings? Please don’t be fooled by misleading claims—I am not a reader’s wife and my hair color is naturally and consistently blonde.)

What I really don’t understand is how President Obama has allowed this to occur. I really thought he believed in freedom. Don’t we have the freedom to not have to look at scantily clad ladies manhandling their mammillae or nearly nude men pulling at the backs of their Y fronts? Dear sir, is that freedom? I still pay taxes in the United States of America, and I would have thought that one of this administration’s priorities would have been keeping the Internet free of such images. I suppose I am idealistic, but idealism is no bad thing. At least it’s not as bad as some of things I’ve seen online this week. Oh my. I implore our new president to do something to keep cum shots away from the faces of decent, respectable women like me.

Quite frankly, I don’t understand why men (for it is they) would like to access such pictures on their computers. Surely, part of the thrill of pornographic material is the public announcement of one’s sexual dysfunction through the process of going to some seedy WH Smiths, grabbing the offending material in their grubby little hands, and completing the transaction in front of innocent shoppers. I don’t claim to understand their ways, but I would have thought that private use of this material was besides the point. What on Earth would a man do with pornography in the privacy of his own study or office cubicle? Goodness only knows.

We can do something to combat this growing cancer before it becomes too large to remove without the use of radiation therapy. We must appeal to the Internet’s editors; surely they will agree that their names are being tarnished by the publication of smut under their watch. If they refuse to act, we must insist upon their resignation.

The only other thing, I’m afraid, that we can do is be vigilant in our Internet use. I would suggest avoiding the following words when doing Internet searches:

  • jiggly
  • underpants
  • twelve incher
  • doggy, pussy, horse (or any domesticated animal species)
  • dangle
  • lonely
  • housewife
  • cock

Alas, once again it falls to the decent people of the world to take responsibility for their own safety. I’m afraid if you can no longer do random searches for “virgins who are gagging for it” without being confronted with some pretty unsavoury results. However, I do believe searches on “becoming a suicide bomber” are still relatively safe.

Be careful, dear ones. You never know across what you might come.

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Let’s Look Past the Pain and Remember That Which is Good

1 Nov

I apologise.

I could offer a hundred excuses, but that has never been my style. Suffice it to say that this may possibly have been the worst month of my life and that it is unlikely that many people (save those poor unfortunate souls in the Oxfam adverts) have suffered as I have.

However, I take full responsibility for neglecting you so in the last few weeks. My dears, you were never far from my mind, I can promise you. As I sat waiting to be looked after in that A&E, as I sat being interviewed by the sketch artist, as I lay there on the floor of the building society doing my best not to make any sudden movements, I thought of nothing but my darling readers and how much I have let them down.

I intend to remedy this situation in the only way I know how. By being charmingly inspiring. It may be the only gift God gave me (well, one of only a few) but, my goodness, is it needed right now.

In reflecting over my last few posts, I see that my normally uplifting tone has been in absentia. It is true that terrible injustices are going on in the world, and it is true that people like me must do our best to speak out against such things to instigate change. However, I also feel that it is sometimes necessary to focus on what is good in the world, to praise what has yet to go tits up.

As you are well aware, I have been adopted as one of her own by Mother England. Although my career as an internationally-known writer requires me to thumb the newspapers each day, I am often saddened by the bile spat at old Albion. I would like to take this time to put aside my own personal tragedies and remind us all of some praiseworthy things.

Ribena

You may have taken me for a shandy drinker but I beg of you not to rely on such stereotypes. Have you ever spent four hours cooped up in the waiting room of a hospital, surrounded by children who certainly must have nits and their parents who see no problem in allowing their nit covered offspring out of doors? If so, you will know that nothing tastes sweeter sliding down one’s throat than a lovely glass of Ribena, slightly diluted with cold clear water or (when appropriate) the finest Russian vodka Christopher can find in town on a Tuesday morning.

The People’s Friend

Quite frankly, this overlooked example of fine British literature is sorely neglected in today’s National Curriculum. Why read a story about the Empire’s evils when it’s so much nicer to read one about someone’s grandmother’s embroidered handkerchief?

Two Pound Coins

I like my coins to have a bit of weight to them. And what’s even more thrilling is that if you collect fifty of these, you’ll have a hundred quid!

Shopping Trolleys

Does anything say “England is a lovely place to live” more than this picture?

Truncheons

Police in America with their guns have nothing on the pleasant English Bobby who can bludgeon a criminal’s face with just a quick swing of the arm. That’s why we’ve got the most civilized police brutality in the world!

P123900_hero


Tweezers

Not strictly English, I know, but just imagine how frustrated philatelists would be without them!

See, readers, if someone like me can rise above the pain (both emotional and physical) of going to hell and back as I have done in the recent past and can manage to smile at some England’s charms, can’t we all do so from time to time?

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The Truth About the Truth

26 Sep

I’ve been thinking a lot about honesty recently. This may in part be due to last week’s media coverage of the film The Invention of Lying. The picture was written and directed by Ricky Gervais, a multi-talented, incredibly talented and cleverly funny person. Gervais is a real English gem though oddly he is both adored and loathed by his countrymen; I see a lot of similarities between him and myself, except of course that all Englishmen adore me.

The film takes place in a world where no one can tell a lie. The characters speak the absolute truth at all times. It makes one wonder, is that sort of honesty desirable? Of course, we must have some sort of moral code, otherwise we would end up like monkeys in a monkey cage, although I do believe even monkeys have a moral code to keep them ending up like vultures in a vulture cage. But absolute honesty at all times? I don’t think so.

Now before you get your knickers in a twist, let me offer up some examples to clarify my position. Let’s say you have recently got married and your new husband asks you about his sexual prowess, compared to that of your previous lovers. Would it be morally right to humiliate the man by acknowledging the disappointment you felt on your honeymoon when you realised that you would never again get it like you got it that night with the tennis instructor at the La Manga Club during your Spanish holiday in 2006? Oh, the memories! Does lying seem so wrong in this situation? What about if your niece asks you if you think her mummy is the prettiest woman on Earth, when clearly your sister’s unattractiveness is what caused her to delay getting married and pregnant until she was well into her forties and desperate enough to accept the first man who would have her and also provides the genetic reason for the fact that your niece, too, will surely spend the majority of her adulthood a lonely spinster? Should you break this little girl’s heart with the truth?

Ultimately what it boils down to is this: lying is not a bad thing. Deep down, we all know that it’s dishonesty that keeps most of our relationships happy and healthy. Rarely does anyone need to really know the truth. That policeman didn’t need to know that you have a history of false accusations, just like my doctor didn’t need to know that the painkillers were actually intended for a use other than the one specified on the label. Why complicate matters with some pie-in-the-sky notion that sincerity is an admirable quality?

Gervais’ character in the film stops telling the truth. He also gets Jennifer Garner to sleep with him. Now tell me that’s not testament to the power of a lie.

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Breakfast, the Breakfast of Champions

16 Sep

I have to say that H1N1 (I refuse to refer to it by its more colloquial name) is not one of my favourite pandemics. It just doesn’t have the same ring to it as the Plague of Justinian, and I certainly don’t see it becoming as creatively inspiring as say cholera or the Hong Kong flu. So what can we learn from H1N1? Is it that international travel is a bad idea? Ridiculous. Is it that our global community is simply weaker now due to poor financial and environmental conditions? I doubt it: my garden produced an excellent harvest this year, and my bank book is as strong as ever so it can’t be that. Are we just looking for another reason to quarantine Irish cooks?

No.

The simple lesson that lies behind the whole H1N1 debacle is that people should eat breakfast. My grandmother Boots had a little saying that went something along the lines of “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.” I only wish she had shared that truism with people outside our family. I, for one, start every day with a slice of toast, half a grapefruit and a cup of tea. It provides me with energy to work, to play, to effectively and eloquently communicate and to ward off pesky infectious diseases.

Sadly, breakfast is being completely ignored by most of our population and if it is eaten, too often it is only at the weekend. In America, diners load up on pancakes, waffles, bacon, sausage patties, sausage links, steak, fried potatoes, hash browns,  toast, eggs, omelets, frittatas, gravy, syrup, French toast, bagels, grits, quiche, cereal, oatmeal, fruit, crepes, and orange juice. What’s wrong with that you say? Nothing except that it’s only eaten on Sunday mornings. Americans need breakfasts like that everyday to stay flu-fighting fit.

Of course, English tastes are slightly more refined, and they tend to nibble on bacon, sausage, tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, toast, scones, porridge, eggs and cigarettes. Again, save for the unemployed and old-aged pensioners, these important food groups are only taken at the weekends. We are just asking for trouble by ignoring this meal.

People, come on. The word breakfast actually means “break fast.” If we want to break H1N1 fast, there’s a simple way to do that. When you wake up tomorrow, don’t rush out the door before putting some food in your belly. If you do and you get sick, you’ll have no one to blame except yourself. And the Mexicans.

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A Modest Proposal Which Just May Save Young People from the Misery of Feeling Content

4 Sep

As my regular readers know, I am more than concerned about the disconnection which seems to be affecting young people today. No longer able to ride their bikes around parks nor bully smaller, weaker children, the young people of today have grown up without a sense of community. As they blossom into young adults, they see themselves purely as individuals, some so satisfied with their existence that they choose not to select a partner. This is so disappointing. They never know the joy of meeting someone one finds barely tolerable and merging with them into a union of mediocrity that can bring tears to the eyes.

However, having recently conquered the largely untapped world of the internet, I have come up with a solution that may help these young people to lose their self-contentment and better appreciate that they are nothing without someone else.

In the few short days since I have been publishing online, I have been overwhelmed by the amount of contact I have had. I knew I had a loyal public but publishing in this way has allowed me to reach even more lovely people. In fact my box has been getting so much traffic, I’ve had to ask Christopher to leave my bush alone for awhile to give him time to sort through some of my correspondence. You may never know the wonderful feeling it brings to one’s heart to receive devoted messages from all over the world: offers of thanks, congratulations and erection maintenance medication. Just this morning I received an email from a Nigerian royal offering me a large sum of money, simply because his father had requested he give it to someone “nice” and of all the people on Earth, he chose me. I’ve also had a number of, shall we say, rather amorous notes, though Christopher assures me that they are not really appropriate escorts for a woman of my standing. While I trust his judgment, I do wonder if there’s not a hint of the green-eyed monster behind his analysis (and the look on Christopher’s face as he types this only confirms this suspicion).

While the majority of young people are obviously not as well read, well traveled, well spoken or as modest as me, I truly believe that if I have had such success with the internet, they can, too.  I suggest to someone that an internet meeting place be designed so that people can write up a brief description of themselves, perhaps even attach a photo, and then wait patiently until a stranger deems their brief life history interesting enough to connect with. They can then contact their new friend via email and perhaps eventually speak on the phone. After this has happened, a date could be arranged. I anticipate that once this match is made, a life long commitment must surely be forthcoming. Then the world will have two less single, happy people to concern ourselves with.

Computer whizz kids, I’ve given you the crumb of the idea—-now get baking!

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Betrayal in the Village

26 Aug

I am finally home and settled from the trip. Crossing the Atlantic is always an adventure and, whilst I did enjoy seeing friends and family and experiencing the sights and sounds, there’s nothing like drinking out of your own teacup.

My timing was perfect. While I don’t flatter myself that I was the sole motivation, I was particularly pleased to be back to witness the exciting Ashes victory. As always, I send my best to the boys in white with the green-stained knees and the red smear along the rise. There’s nothing that swells the pride more than watching Ricky Ponting pull his Bush-the-morning-of-9/11 face.

However, I am afraid I do have to report that not all was champagne and confetti when I got back. I am very displeased by some more local news concerning the Old Vicarage of my village. The building had been for sale for quite some time, and there were rumours circulating about possible purchasers for months. I was distressed to find upon my return that not only had the property been bought, but the new owners have already moved in. I confess to feeling slightly let down by the Parish Council—surely a village resident as important as I (and this is not pride speaking, it’s purely objective fact) should have been consulted before any final decisions were made. I was not, and the first I knew about it was on the morning of my return (Christopher confesses he chose to deliberately withhold the information from me during our twice-daily chats as he knew it would only upset my already delicate traveler’s tummy—bless).

I am very disappointed. It’s not the owners’ background, family situation, lifestyle choice, economic demographic or professional standing which causes me dismay, for I know none of these. Additionally, I have yet to see any dramatic changes to the Vicarage itself since their arrival (it remains St George’s Cross- and Staffie-free). What is sticking in my craw is simply their name.

Before you accuse me of being a nit-picker (which, may I just point out, is a graphically offensive description for someone whose only crime in finding details valuable), I would like to tell you the family’s name. It is Coxender.

Now, clearly there is a sexual connotation present (if you missed it, I suggest you go to your nearest closet, shut the door tightly and whisper the name aloud). It’s awkward, of course, and may lead to their children being bullied but quite frankly the abuse of children by other children has never been a grave concern of mine.

What does disquiet me is the fact that Coxender was the name of an old love rival of mine. Years ago, one of my gentleman friends abandoned me in favour of a woman of questionable morals whose name was Oleanna Coxender. In retrospect, of course, I have no doubt that I was the more desirable catch and that young William was purely blinded by the pressures of masculine pride and the charm of the absence of knickers. Still, I was heartbroken and have done my best to sweep the whole ugly experience under the Oriental carpet. Now, unfortunately, I am forced to confront this hurt every time I am driven through the village. The cruelty is almost beyond belief.

It’s so disheartening that people’s definition of community seems to no longer extend to anyone other than themselves. A truly sad day.

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It’s Not Just Britain that is Broken

14 Aug

It is no wonder the world is in the state it is in. I shall stop using toilet tissue entirely if this kind of marketing continues.

Frightful.

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A Postcard from A Broad

1 Aug

Christopher tells me we’ve been inundated with questions about my whereabouts so I do apologize, dear readers, for my absence. I’ve had to nip over the pond for a get-together of writers I used to work with. As you know my schedule is usually too packed for last minute travel, but the chairperson of the committee organizing this reunion opined that my agreeing to attend was nearly the only thing that would guarantee the success of the event, so I decided to come. My instinctual willingness to please others will be the death of me one day. But not today.

So I am in lovely Boston, Massachusetts. The group’s first meeting was for drinks in the Liberty Hotel, a building which used to be a jail. While the architecture is gorgeous, as I sat sipping my cocktails, I couldn’t help but wonder about the lives of those who had previously called the place their home. Somehow I doubt their Singapore Slings went down as smoothly  as mine, if you know what I mean. I spent the next afternoon roaming the city streets, visiting old haunts and new shops before meeting up again with the writers to discuss our current projects.

Boston really is a terrific city and I would encourage everyone who has yet to visit it to do so. It’s a classic American city. Bostonians speak with a distinct accent and while the most appropriate adjective to describe it is obnoxious, it also has a certain charm. Many Europeans assume that all Americans shout when they communicate, but I can attest that realistically the number is closer to 83%. I will say, as well, that the binmen here are incredibly thoughtful in terms of keeping their sonic disruptions to a minimum early in the morning.

I am lucky enough to feel at home in both American and British cities, but as an experienced traveler, I can tell you it does take a little work. The most important thing to do before heading out to new frontiers is investigate and respect the customs, history and habits of the locale. Before your next trip, buy some books about your destination and read up. (If I were a different person, I would suggest you purchase my own books on this subject, but as you know, I do not like to be pushy and as I know, it is easy enough for you to find them if you are in fact interested in good writing.) It’s the little things that count the most. For example, when I first moved to England, I made certain I gave pathetically small tips to my servers. What gives me the right to lavish my substantial fortune on hard-working bartenders, just because that’s what is done in America?  Similarly, when I now come back to the States, I abandon my more British habits, like acknowledging the fact that there are other drivers on the road. One must adapt to the culture one is in, not expect it to adapt to you.  It’s just good sense and, of course, good manners.

I’m off now for a brunch with an editor friend to reminisce about that weekend he and I spent in New Orleans. I’ve a few more dates to keep while I’m here but will do my best to keep Christopher abreast of any developments. Enjoy what’s left of the summer, and I’ll be back to you soon.

Kiss kiss!

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