message from the yard on the hill.

hello. i am taking over this blog because the previous owner has, gasp, run off with the gypsies.. . well. clearly not. but she has run out of pathetic excuses. her blog has become rather like a stuck record. she has paid me to step in at this critical juncture, poorly it must be said.

i will say, though, that she has been writing a lot of poetry, which could never be published here, for various garbled reasons. she's been writing about trees with secrets, alates under the moon, love and germans. whilst i am here, there shall be no poetry.

oh and she’s whittering on (annoyingly) about school, raising children and all the usual suspects…honestly. in fact, those in the know  have noticed that she has been  travelling to the halcyon isle of zanzibar having herself a capital time and quite forgetting about her three horses, three dogs, one cat and her two readers here, about which she is suitably ashamed, another reason she doesn’t want to step too flagrantly out onto this stage. too terrified to face the empty auditorium, i suspect, an obvious  reflection of her awful neglect.

being the inquisitive, literate type, i've read back on her bloggie notes and it seems she has also failed to answer a few of your queries. shameful. well. Monsieur X never replied to her letter but remains one of her most favourite teachers. she has confirmed that he still wears the crispest suits and remains astutely aloof. she also never quite finished the self help book on being happy. no surprises there. i have noted, though, that she has had her nose stuck behind the countless works of Jim Harrison, prostrate on countless chaises longues dans le jardin,  the odd Shakespeare, ‘As You Like It’ the more recent and now, presently, Tolstoy’s War And Peace, another reason for her absence here. bets are on.  

she has also been obsessing over a little known psychological disorder called the optimism bias -  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B8rmi95pYL0 – (watch if you have a full 17 minutes and a bit available, which she clearly has) this has barred the way to any more blogging…

she has confessed otherwise:  that no one discovered her, so she gave up.

i’m really trying, people, to coax her out of this latest little dark psycho hole she’s dug for herself, by leaving trails of kit kat pieces, her favourite Dorothy Parker poetry, vague promises of fame and riches and a week in a padded cell (red velvet) with an endless supply of Earl Grey tea, gin, valium and oysters on ice (her idea of Mummy’s Purple Planet). it’s sort of working. oh and the promise of an early retirement to her beach house on zanzibar, where she will be allowed to wear turbans and kaftans and drive a retro silver blue  mercedez benz from india,( the one with round lights, a skinny white steering wheel and an elegant silver hooter) from stone town to the east coast. she will eat fish and paw paw every day, drink gins with mr t in his crumpled linen suit, at ten, and scandal about the village boys.

the little pink house  badly needs a lick of paint.  there has been a stupendously beautiful rainy season. things are lush, as though god has splodged all his tubes of various hues of verdant green oil paint over the land. one of the dogs was bitten twice by a spitting cobra who had clearly run out of spit and used his fangs. the dog miraculously lives, in a staggering about the place sort of way.

and life spins on….quite beautifully, it must be said.

much to catch up on, oh bestests, and much to look forward to.

Lashings of apologies, regardless.

toodely toot. it's rather good to be back and you smell nice. bisous X.X.X. crisp winter twilight ones. x j