Cosmography Humour


Happy Foot. No Honestly

It finally felt like Spring today.

I know, I know. It’s almost over. By Irish reckoning Summer begins on the first of May. Maybe it was the confusing “false start” we had. March warmer than usual, followed by April – often the nicest month of the year – being hellish cold. It discombobulated my internal sundials and anemometers, upset my sidereal clockwork, so I never tripped into Spring mode at all. Until today.

I can’t say why exactly. It was a little warm this morning, to be sure. And after a switch back to Siberia for the afternoon, I noticed that the wind became warmer again in the evening. But it certainly wasn’t a particularly nice day.

Maybe it was people who made it Spring. People were nice. Everyone I met seemed to be in a good mood. They smiled at me, they enjoined me to conversation, they treated me like a friend. Even my friends.

Is it the hat? It must be the hat. No, I’m not wearing a hat. Can’t be that then.

Or indeed anything about the way I was looking, in my Dunne’s Stores hoodie, too-long combat pants rolled up to reveal worn-out Czech foam rubber sandals and narsty pink bandage round my left ankle… Oh yeah, that was another thing. I started the day limping, now I’m cured. A Spring miracle!

Well all right, it was nearly better when I got up this morning. It is four days since I twisted it. The stupidest thing; I’d stood up to find my foot was asleep. As soon as I put weight on it, it just went. And I dropped like a stone, landing heavily right on top of it.

Yes folks, I fell on myself. That’s so clumsy it takes skill.

My ankle hurt like hell, I thought I’d broken it – until I remembered that any time I’d actually broken a bone it had never seemed all that bad. At first… Sprains on the other hand (or foot) always felt worse than they turned out to be. Maybe a breakage releases the body’s bedside-manner hormone, the one that tells you everything will be all right if you just stay still and calm and not flap around. This double shot of steam-pressed adrenaline was telling me to run away immediately from the source of danger, so I must have been basically all right.

And as the source of danger in this instance was basically myself I couldn’t really run away, so I just sat on the floor and swore volubly until I felt a little better. It was mostly just bruised I think. Though weirdly, the bruising is all around the edges of my foot, as if I have a slice of purple going right through it.

Anyway, I’m side-tracking here like crazy. Point is, my foot and my heart and my mind are all feeling well. It was a lovely day. And dammit, who knows, tomorrow might be even better.

Cosmography Humour

Searching Out A Stranger

The Stranger (1946 film)
Image via Wikipedia

There are good days and there are bad days. Most are both. I was thinking this morning that it really wasn’t such a bad time to be Suddenly Single¹. My money problems of the last year or so seem pretty much behind me, work could be picking up, I’m in good health, I have I some clear goals. Life is actually pretty bright. The only thing really missing is…

Someone to share it with. And click, we’re back in the room.

The most depressing thing about the end of a relationship – no who am I kidding, among the many aspects competing for the title of most depressing thing about the end of a relationship – is the fact that you have to get to like someone new. It took me years to get to like my last girlfriend as much as I did. I’d hoped to keep on liking her more forever. But now I have to start over, from scratch.

What am I looking for? Complete intimacy with another human being. Where must I look for it? Among total strangers. It’s mindblowing if you think about it at all.

  1. The preferred term for ‘Dumped’.

Harper Seven Who?

David and Victoria Beckham in Silverston Circu...
The proud, if wrongheaded, parents

OK I’m going to do it. I’m going to talk about the Beckhams. Celebrity gossip. There, now is this a proper blog or what?

All right, they’ve had another baby and they’ve given it another odd name: Harper Seven. Not too bad compared to some maybe. What was their firstborn called again, Charlton Athletic? Something like that. But still pretty oddball. Why do celebrities do this all the time – do they hate their children?

No, naturally they want to give their kids the best start in life, and in a PR-obsessed world they believe that this includes a memorable name. But it is a high-risk strategy. If fame eludes them, it will get tiresome when everybody they meet ever remembers hearing about their birth. Can it, with names like that? Look at the Geldof-Yates children: Four of them have ridiculous names, but only one of them is even mildly notorious. Fifi Trixibelle meanwhile is still going to be called Fifi Trixibelle, even if she goes into stockbroking.

What’s so good about being rich and famous anyway? Simple; being rich. That’s quite good. Being famous means wherever you go, people attempt to crowd in on you. It’s the downside. So being famous but not rich is the worst of all possible worlds. I just hope that Victoria and David are prepared to support little Harper Seven for her whole life.

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