My friend TJ’s mum is a fantastic knitter. On Monday she mentioned on Facebook that she was knitting herself some gloves and I commented that I would like her to make me some ‘black, soft, fingerless’ ones. Today I received them – how’s that for speed!? – and tonight I wore them. They are the warmest fingerless gloves I have ever had (and I’ve had quite a few) and on my walk tonight I appreciated the fact that for the first time ever not even my fingertips were cold. As I have a habit of losing gloves, she said that she’ll make me some more and is also going to make ones just like the ones I lost the other week. In return I have sent her some welly socks so that she can keep warm when she walks her dogs on the beach this winter; hope she likes them.
Last Friday me and Maureen took ourselves to Earl’s Court to the Ideal Home Show (Christmas) – yes, I went there again after saying I never would but the thought of strawberries and marshmallows covered in melted chocolate spurred me on and I was not disappointed. There is one area in the exhibition into which I must not wander, for it is there that I am wooed by strange cosmetics, usually to the tune of around £100 but on this occasion I was safe, ‘Don’t worry’, said Maureen, as she told another recoiling salesman that she ‘absolutely hated’ his product, ‘You’re with me today.’ As we walked around the same block about three times we came across a stall selling silk pillow cases, claiming to rid you of wrinkles – the pitch is that silk doesn’t crease your face up when you’re asleep, enabling you to awaken not looking like a crumpled tissue. A flawless skinned Japanese lady popped up like the shop-keeper in Mr Ben, dressed in a silk dressing gown of puce colour; a wrinkle-less vision. Maureen and I gazed longingly at her waxy, porcelain complexion and made an offer, 2 for £40, she accepted £45 and no sooner had the transaction completed, she added, ‘It won’t work on existing wrinkles but it will prevent new ones forming’ … ah, okay, not such good news. I got my purchase home, washed it, popped it on my pillow and each day since I have woken up with it on the floor because the bloody thing’s slid off the bed. Next year I am just taking enough money for a burger and my chocolate kebab.
I have an intermittent war with Barnet Council. Over the years family and friends have received tickets for parking outside our house, which we’ve had to appeal, mostly unsuccessfully. A couple of years ago we got a ticket for not getting our resident permit on the car quickly enough; we appealed, received an acknowledgement, the ticket was rescinded and then this year we received a summons saying that it remained unpaid and that they were going to take us to court! Honey went to the MP surgery at the Arts Depot and got the big guns onto it and within a week we had notice that the matter was closed. Although the council admitted that it was their fault that the permit was not here on time and also that due process with regard to our appeal had not been followed, they were ungracious, patronising and unapologetic.
Last Wednesday when La Poppette came to pick me up, a traffic warden (‘CEO’, would you believe!?) popped a ticket on her car. I did keep an eye out of the open front door but when I turned my back for a second, Patawayo did the evil deed. I actually caught him before he had even started writing the ticket but he went ahead and issued it anyway. Honey verbally abused him and then I had a go, Honey got a second wind and then I had another go. After about ten minutes, the warden smiled sweetly, said, ‘Have a nice day’ and ambled away down the middle of the road in the pissing rain. ‘I hope you get run over, you fucking cock!’ were my parting words.
I immediately appealed to the council by email and copied in Mr Big, our local MP and today I received notice that the ticket is no longer payable. Mr Big emailed me a copy of the response to himself and also a copy of a letter to me from the council – the letter to Mr Big said that the warden had been observing the car for three minutes – however, in the letter to me, although it said the same thing, they added that ‘there is not a requirement to observe the vehicle for a period of time’ – so why did he do it then if it was not required!? That’s because he did not in fact wait there for any minutes! ‘Our officers wear uniform and are clearly visible to members of the public’ – not if they’re hiding behind a fucking brick wall they’re not!
The warden, according to the council, said he was approached by two females and a male to ‘discuss’ the ticket – erm, I don’t think so! – he was approached by two females and a male before he’d even issued the ticket and there was certainly no ‘discussion’. They said that a ‘full observation’ of the car was made, indicating that the warden had the time in which to do that – well, he actually did that for about ten minutes while we stood in the rain and abused him, with me taking photographic evidence of him doing it!
The council told Mr Big that my statutory rights could be affected for getting him involved at such an early stage (really!?), so I asked him if there was any further action required on my part and he said there was not and to come back to him if necessary (in like two years probably!?). I thanked him for his fine work on my behalf and then started to respond to the council regarding their lies but decided against it because I won again - so fuck you Barnet Council, you are petulant, ungracious, lying bullies.
Chaos is borne out of disconnection with our source and our own selves.
I am cut off.
The chaos that surrounds me is of my own making.
It is trying to tell me something that I do not want to hear (la, la, la, I can’t hear you).
The more I ignore it, the more chaos there will be until I can’t stand it any more and I make a change.
We are all here to achieve our destinies and flow along life’s path but I’m stuck in a groove …
… and I know that the more chaos, the better the weed.
Yesterday I went to Muswell Hill for an all day breakfast with La Poppette. Just last month I purchased a lovely pair of brown cable knit fingerless gloves – I say ‘lovely’ but they were actually a trifle itchy (cashmere is the only way to go). We paid the bill and left, leaving behind my new gloves.
We trundled up to Starbucks in North Finchley and then went to buy some padded brown envelopes so I could send my friend Tuff Dude her now weekly draw. And home.
As I was tidying around, I realised that my gloves were nowhere to be seen. ‘Shit, I think I left them in the cafe!? … And where are those envelopes!?’ – if I could find the envelopes then perhaps the gloves were with them?
The hunt began; I looked on every surface touched by me since entering the house, I looked in all the drawers available, twice … nothing. I chose not to get into a fluster and decided to look again later. On further investigation, I found the envelopes in a drawer.
Conclusion; the gloves MUST have been left behind.
This morning at 9.00 a.m. I walked to Muswell Hill – it was gloriously sunny. I went back to the cafe and saw the same girl who had served me yesterday and I described my gloves and she said, ‘No.’ Fucking liar!
On reflection, it may be a bit unfair to say she is ‘liar’ in that manner, as when I lost my sunglasses I swore blind that I’d left them at the pub and that they were all liars and then the glasses turned up two weeks later, having been left in a spot that was so unusual, I’m surprised they were ever found.
On Sunday night I got a Japanese take-away for the family and friends. As I no longer know the PIN number on my credit card, I took Honey’s. I was on the phone for the duration of the transaction in the restaurant but I do remember her handing me the receipt and the card and then leaving the place with my phone down my top so I could carry the three bags and my car keys. We enjoyed the meal and then I got a sinking feeling, ‘Where is the credit card!?’ For a good few minutes I charged around like a headless chicken looking for it; I looked in the car, I looked in my empty pockets, I looked in my stash box, in my purse, on the side – it was nowhere. I jumped in the car, it was pissing with rain, and headed back up the road to Hi Sushi. ‘Did I leave my card here!?’ ‘No.’ And I knew I hadn’t. Running back to the car, I scoured the street as I re-traced my steps, but to no avail. There was nothing for it, I had to cancel the card immediately. The next morning, taking Son to school, I opened the car door and my eyes were immediately drawn to the little green credit card sitting in plain sight just behind the driver’s seat. Ah.
‘I have to come clean‘, I told Honey (as it was his card).
‘What have you done now?’, he said.
‘Erm … it’s not that bad, it’s just that I thought I’d lost the credit card, then I cancelled it, then I found it … it does mean that certain purchases will not be fulfilled on Amazon but we’ll have new ones in seven to ten days … yay!?‘
‘Aren’t you worried about your behaviour?’ he said.
‘No, not at all, I know why these things are happening … it’s because I’m stoned!‘ … dur.
I am smoking myself insane. No sooner have I done some task, I have to go back and put it right. Last week I walked to Kenwood and came back via East Finchley High Road, where I purchased some Dead Sea shampoo for Honey – which he rejected out of hand and so therefore had to return to obscure chemist (at least there is a more local one in Finchley Central). I took back the offending shampoo and swapped it for my favourite hand-cream, which I probably would not have bought that day for £16.50 but minus the shampoo there was only £8 to pay, so I had it. Fine. On returning home and opening the said hand-cream, it was congealed, the scent was in tact but it was a pretty unpleasant texture. So this morning I decided to return it, without a receipt of course because it had been a swap … actually I’d probably just lost the receipt as soon as I left the shop … so in I went, explained that I must have picked up an old tester and then I promptly smashed the pot of cream on the floor by accident. ‘I’m so sorry,’ I said, ‘however, it was off, so it does need to go in the bin anyway.’ She bent down to pick up the shards of glass, mumbling not to worry and to take a fresh one and I walked out of the shop, ‘My job here is done.’