wendy house

3pm wandering into an Italian style winebar with a view across the river Shannon.  The bar was empty bar one table where the guests,  6 women in their 20’s and one man in his 40’s were finnishing their meal.  maybe they close soon,  maybe the chef has finished for a break between lunch and evening settings.

Wendy:  Are you still serving?

Waitstaff:  We’re open,  yes

Across the river behind some homes I can see an older taller building with a large tower. 

Wendy: do you know what that building is or was?

Waitstaff:  No,  I’m not from Limerick.

I should have spotted the eastern European accent.

the bar staff,  2nd yr University of Limerick student, sold me Smithwicks beer and told stories about how Limerick is known amongst the Irish as ‘Stab city’ illustrated with details of deaths amongst the people he’d met at a local the Boxing gym.  

The stone buildings are grey suggesting a gloominess to match the mood of the weather

now this is evidence of serious specialising.  A market dedicated to potatoes and a carpark for them too.  P for parking or P for potato?

Run away!

…after you’ve cautioned some children,  as a car with a puncture is approaching you in an alley with tall walls in Limerick?

I wonder what the sign is actually trying to say?

Beware adults running in front of cars? 

Beware cars skidding on corners,  you may have to run for it? 

Beware,  children drivers?  

If I had the courage and time I would wait near this sign to check if there are children driving cars attempting to run-down adults here.

sixtieth in an occasionally dark Wednesday series of posts explaining my singleness.

Reason #60: enjoys occasional gloom. 

I like being melancholic,  occasionally.  Overcast skies,  drizzle,  cold,  damp, and the like provides a familiar comforting feel.  I enjoy this occasionally.   Not all the time, just sometimes.

Walking along the banks of the Shannon in the incessant drizzle reminds me of being unemployed.  An oppressive atmosphere. 

Four pre-pubescent boys in the distance are looking out over the river.  Or are they?  The riverside is desserted except for us.  They start walking towards me.  The tallest, maybe all of 12yrs, asks me for a cigarette.  At least I think that is what he asked.  I shrugged my shoulders and mimed ’sorry I can’t help you’  without airing my English accent.

As I reached the point on the riverbank where they had been standing I could see the pee trails and spatter.  The taller boy had won…

My first impression of Limerick is that it has welcomed many people from eastern European communities.

After a red-eye flight covering 24hrs Wendy-time I look more than a touch bedraggled and every bit my 43yrs.

Wendy:  what choices do I have to get from here to Limerick?

Shannon Airport Information:  Bus or taxi,  do you have much luggage?

Wendy:  Just this

Airport Information:  take the bus.

This is the kind of advice that I like to hear.

At the bus stop two young girls wearing heavy dark eye-liner shelter from the drizzle by me.  They chainsmoke wearing airport badges with their long hair pulled away from their faces.  The original colour of their hair is showing for 2 inches at the roots.  White-skinned  blonded brunettes talking with an urgency normally utilised by drug addicts or excited children they look slightly bedraggled too.  They are not talking English or Irish,  they sound eastern European.  

A couple looking over 50yrs wearing well-ironed bright clothes stand either side of numerous new-looking suitcases.  In an US accent the lady asks me  Is it daylight savings time in Ireland? In my English accent I reply  I have no idea.  It is 7.50am

The girls stop talking,  their cigarettes held close,  but not touching their lips.  They look at the US couple and me for a few seconds then resume their chatter. 

When collecting my fare the bus driver scowels at me.  Here my accent is definitely not cute it is that of a recent occupier and oppressor.  During its route the bus (30mins,  €5.70) picks up about 10 people.  Judging by their accents and language about half of them are eastern European.  On the journey, inbetween talking calmly,  slowly, continually, into an earmounted phone headset, the driver shouts obscenities at other drivers “Ya Prick!” in an Irish accent . 

Later downtown I find several shops that specialise in Lithuanian and Polish foods,  as I walk passed queues at the downtown bus-stops I hear eastern European accents mixed with the the Irish.  The two receptionists, half the bar staff and all the restaurant wait staff  in the Hotel sound eastern European….  

Scent of autumn arrived this week.  Rolling in through a bedroom window on fine morning mist to greet my emerging consciousness with cool fingers.  Welcome.

a little bit of free association for the weekend because it’s free and that’s rather nice don’t you think?:

Jack¹ Kerouac:   Stream of consciousness writting

Jack² Manager: Stream of consciousness management

Jack Shite³:  Stream of nothing

Jack Off⁴:  Stream of…

1. not a recently registered British boy.
2. any resemblance to any manager that I have been or had, living or dead, is purely coincidental
3. Northern English slang for ‘nothing’ without a dictionary-style web-reference,  really that’s a bit poor.
4. Removing the instrument used to raise your car when replacing a tyre or more English slang.  A little bit of ambiguity for you there.  Lovelly.

All cheese is theoretically comfort cheese.  But.  Cheese in YOUR fridge is less comforting than cheese in MY fridge.  Comfort cheese is nearby,  normally in my mouth… …..mmmmmm….   

My parents moved home in April 1982 when I was 18yrs studying for my A level’s in June 1982. 

Mum & Dad had been looking for a new home earnestly since 1977.  After 2 years of their looking I no longer took their house- hunting seriously.  I saw a fussiness that would rule-out all almost-right choices.  Hmmm….  like parents like daughter?  lets just not go there.  Suddenly in January 1982 they found a house nowhere near my school and succssfully purchased it.  They placed me in a foster-home for me to cover April 1982 thru June 1982.  Due to a vicious bout of the flu I was bed-ridden and couldn’t join in the choice.

My parents picked hosts who were a couple starting on their second marriage,  both recently divorced from their first marriages.  He was a ‘Royal Engineer‘ who was thoroughly commited to the Faulklands war that started in April 1982 both were staunch supporters of the Ronald Regan and conservative Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher.   I hated the stink in the home.  Their Labrador puppy peeing on the floor daily didnt help. The couple made it clear that my coloured friend should not come to their house.  She was not an appropriate person for me to spend time with.  They explained to me that it embarressed them and lowered the tone of the neighbourhood to see her walking towards their house.  Soon it became obvious that my male-friends were also not allowed to call at this house, apparantly it made their home look like it was a brothel. 

I had friends of all colours and genders,  but only the white females were allowed to be seen walking to their house.  Even this honoured class had to be dressed appropriately,  meaning some form of Victorian image of demure.  Village life in 1982.  It may be village life today.  At the time I was furious with my parents for leaving me there.  Retrospectively I think I learned a lot of valuable lessons from the difficult experience of living with these people.

Fifty-nineth in an outspoken Wednesday series of posts proposing reasons for my singleness.

Reason #59: arrogant & mouthy

2 votes amongst friends can show a trend.  This trend looks like arrogant and mouthy.  Alas,  noone wants to spend a day on a desert island with me….  …Hmmmmm…. 

Actually,  this Telegraph article is used to present Professor Anya’s  personal opinion that  girls are genetically predisposed to liking pink in the context of reporting a comparative study, mislabelled as an experiment, comparing young adult male and female reported colour preferences.  The study discovered,  and hold onto your hats because you’ll be shocked by this,  that girls preferred pinker colours.    As reported, this study reveals nothing about the genetic vs socio-cultural determinants of this disposition.  The news article does not detail the implications of the research for any practical application,  there is no clear value proposition. 

What can we conclude?

People that want to play to the visual experiences of young adult girls should consider wearing more pink.  Use this knowledge wisely.

do you mind being put on hold?

yes

la-di-da-di-dah lift-music

I minded being put on hold.  The person appeared to either not notice my saying I minded or interpreted my yes as an abreviations of ‘yes you can put me on hold’

The rote behaviour-exchange appears to be:

1. callee required to ask/tell before putting a phone-caller on hold

2. caller must agree/acknowledge that they will be put on hold

3. caller is put on hold

Eighth report in my ongoing investigations of cheese dream-inducing properties.  

Conclusion  very tasty dream suppressant.

Eating phase for Chimay:  1/6  nights produced dreams.     

Riding around on buses* in Birmingham, UK,  wandering through crowded flea markets watching the shoppers,  down alleyways bordered by red-brick Victorian terraced houses in Birmingham.  I got lost and didn’t know which bus to get on to go home.  So many buses to choose from.  Dreaming about buses,  England and Victorian red-brick terraces adds up to I had a fabulous dream.

Decontamination Phase.  3/3 nights without eating Chimay.  No dreams.

You too can play along at home:  How to play dreamy cheese

* I like riding on buses

Hip Hip Hurrah!  (1)

brrrrrring-brrrrring..  ….brrrrrring-brrrrring…

Hello  Wendy speaking,  how can i help you (I was at work.  I can do polite)

Hi,  it’s Sue from passport and consular services.

A couple of weeks ago I mailed my recently rediscovered previously lost passport back to the passport and consular services department.  I put a yellow post-it note on it apologising for the inconvenience and restating my utter embarrassment.  This covered the legal requirement to return the passport once found and the moral requirement of an English person to keep the apologisation muscle flexed incase of emergencies.   Meanwhile my annual scatter-brain limited-to-one-year incase-I loose-another-one passport is about to run-out on November 29th (if I don’t loose it first).  I hope the tension is building for you.  It was for me.  The mere mention of ‘passport’ can reduce me to a quivering mass of unbound quivers.

OoOoOoOoHh…

I’ve got your passport here,  the one you just sent back to us,  and I see that you are using a one-year passport that is about to run-out.

Uuuuuuuuummmmmmm……yeeeeeeerrrrrrrrrss

I can either  decommission this one and send it back to you decommissioned and  then when I receive your one-year passport renew that one with another one-year passport.  Or I can hold onto this one until I get your one-year passport,  then decommission the one-year passport and replace the full passport at that time.  It will only cost $15.

Holy SHITE! 

Hip Hip Hurrah!  (2)

An English person working in what may well be a fairly dull UK government  role has just taken the time to find my phone number,  call me and be proactively helpful.  I explain my upcoming travel arrangements and she says

send it along when you’re ready I’ll keep this one on my desk and sort it out when I get the temporary one.

Do I need to put your name on the envelope?

Yes,  Sue

Sue Who?

Just Sue,  I’m the only Sue here

Hip Hip Hurrah!  (3)

Followed by lots of sycophantic stuff from Wendy and some ‘you’ve got such a cute accent’  (it was English and I suspect I’m an anglophile…)

Malicious mischief is an actual offence in Washington State and a way of being for Matrix when she smells roses.   Being a very English domestic cat she simply loves a mouthful of roses.

a short post to confirm what you already know

25% of males in England are named Simon.

That the name Simon fails to feature in the top 100 boys names in Britain in the last 5 years is due to the inclusion of Scottish (Callum), Welsh (Dylan) and Irish names and a current rebellion amongst the British baby-registering cohorts focusing on Jack.  Britain is now producing Jacks.  Union Jacks.

I like Simon,  two of my favourite friends are called Simon.  There is the occassional complete idiot called Simon.  Mass production can include faulty versions.  According to the Bible the apostle Peter was actually called Simon.  I once met a Simon-Peter not to be confused with saltpeter which could be rather explosive….

Just try calling-out ‘Hey Simon’ on a crowded English railway station platform and you’ll see how many Simon’s there really are as their pert little faces turn to look at you.  Its a very comfortable homey thing for a Wendy to meet a Simon or two.

Fifty-eighth in a grumpy Wednesday series of posts proposing reasons for my singleness.

Reason #58: anglophile aversion

Lady@party:  my sister over there is an Anglophile,  she heard you talking in the kitchen,  you really must talk to her

Wendy: Oh (overhears the Anglophile imitating and English accent,  inaccurately overemphasing the vowel-sounds.  Decides to politely ignore the suggestion and starts conversation with interesting other-guest )

Host:  (brings anglophile over, interrupts interesting-other-guest conversation and introduces Anglophile.)

Wendy: Hello (returns to listening to ijnteresting-other-guest-story)

Other-guest:  how are you? (to Anglophile)

Anglophile:  Really happy,  I’ve just got a new calendar of London with things like Red London buses on it. (looks at Wendy)

Wendy: (Silence. Effortfully applied facial-stillness. Contemplates various escape routes)

The first sentence in a novel. 

An excellent writer alludes to the fundamental themes and tone of the book within a simple and provocative first sentence.   This opener from Ian McEwan’s Black Dogs captured me:

“Ever since I lost mine in a road accident when I was eight,  I have had my eye on other people’s parents.”

.

check-out boy (COB) #1:  do you want paper or plastic?   ( ‘bag’ is implied)

Wendy:  I’ve bought my own (handing over an old tough bag)

COB #2:  thankyou for bringing your own

COB #1: can you say a sentence?

Wendy: ? (raises eyebrows and looks at COB #1 over the top of my glasses)

COB #2: he likes your accent

COB #1:  just say a sentence

Wendy:   (silence,  muses on how easily an ill-mannered boy can reduce a Wendy to being an on-demand producer of sounds for his pleasure.  Luckily, I am not yet fully trained to perform vocal tricks on demand by strangers, I simply smiled and said)  cheers  (then walked away with my tough old bag full of cheese and beer)

Seventh report in my ongoing investigations of cheese dream-inducing properties.  

Conclusion  Mum was right for Stilton.  I recommend not eating Stilton for supper.  Nightly sleep disruption was unusual and unpleasant. The dream content was not substantially different from my normal dream content. The dreams didn’t warrant the ‘unusual’ label given to the female dreamers in a study conducted by the UK  Cheeseboard  where: 85% of females who ate Stilton had some of the most unusual dreams of the whole study.

Eating phase for Stilton:  6/6 nights produced dreams.  Four dream summaries from different nights:

Memory enhancement No storyline. No plot. Less like a dream, more of a vivid lucidly manipulated visualisation.  I remembered my uncle who died 20 years ago talking and laughing in his home.  It was good to see him again and remember the sound of his voice and laughter,  to see the way his whole body shook when he laughed,  to hear him jangling his keys in his pocket just like his brother, my father still does.  I saw him more clearly than I can remember him in waking hours.

Forgotten. All I remember is waking up briefly in the night thinking ‘that was a sad dream,  I must remember it’ then falling asleep again.  When I woke in the morning I couldn’t remember the dream,  just the mood.  

Celebrity Kitchen.  During most of this dream I was in the kitchen of a large Victorian terrace house during with David Bowie creatively exploring the versatility of vegetables and kitchen utenisils. Yummy.  I think it was a party but I didn’t see the other partiers in the house.

Work.  This is a common theme in my dreams during normal working weeks.  This specific variation combined and extended things that happened during the working week. 

Decontamination Phase.  2/2 nights without eating Stilton in the evening produced refreshingly deep sleep where I did not wake during the night or recall any dreams. 

Summary.  Characteristics of Stilton induced Wendy-dreams:

• reliably produced every night. 
• dream mood varied from sad through reflective, serious, to happy.
• Content varied from parties and work to detailed visual experiences.
• remembering the dreams varied from easily recalled detail through to difficult to recall whether I had even dreamed.
• sleep disruptive,  I woke every night,  then fell asleep again fairly promptly.

You too can play dreamy cheese:  How to play dreamy cheese

this treatment doesn’t actually make things better,  but I like it so I’m going to take it and I wouldn’t advise anyone trying to make a reasonable argument for my not taking beer and brown ale. 

Understand? 

Good. 

 I’m glad we got that little problem sorted… …whatever next….   …tush…

OH Look at this! 

Excel is trying to tell me something about pies and drinkies.

I’m not sure what exactly Excel is trying to tell me.  I like green*,  gradual shading,  tea, ale and pie so I’ll immerse myself in the visual aesthetic of the pie chart experience and understanding might emerge with time and fermentation. 

Well done Excel,  you surely must be right.

Previous sporadic entries in this series where Excel produces:

1. a Laptop purchase decision prediction
2. Astrological reasons for why I’m single
3. explaintion of variable Breaking distances with car colour
4. Explanaition of why some bloggers get more comments than the :: Wendy House ::
5. Scatttered  reasons for why I’m single.

* thanks to Raymond for pointing out the essentialness of the green-shaded-3D-pie.

forty-eighth, and last, in the weekly series of posts collating all sorts of frivolous information about taking tea.

Thursday Tiffin #48: International tea day (not today)

Since 2005 December 15th is international tea day:

International Tea Day to draw attention of governments and citizens on the impacts of tea trade on workers, small growers consumers and the industry. In India, stakeholders including tea related trade unions and small producers recognise international tea day as the event to declare their rights pertaining to wages, livelihood and living conditions. 

Mark your calendars now, because if you’re like me you’ll forget….  

Fifty-seventh in an unfeminised Wednesday series of posts ironing out the reasons for my singleness.

Reason #57: wrinklefest

YAY

It’s official,   I’m a wrinkly and proud of it.  Looks like I have what TV advertising calls ‘aging spots’  or are those subtle skin tones summer freckles?  I squidge my wrinkles at the organisations that attempt to sell anti-wrinkle cream and loudly chant

YAH-BOO TO YOU

My wrinkles are exuding rather-adorableness at twice the normal rate of a 43yr old to an audience that may not yet recognize their fundamental beauty.

Things to be aware of when flying from Heathrow to SeaTac:

How white are my knees after 6 days in Spanish August sunshine?  WHITE
How big was the person in this seat before me?  BIG
Was the pink spotty dress  just the ticket for travelling? YES
How long have my nails grown?  SCRATCHY LONG.
Focus?  what’s focus?  pre-flight BEER

Auntie Wendy’s Aunty. 

Is preparing to die.
The thought makes me cry.
She knows how and why I love her
But I should double-check.  Just make sure.

Spring to our 20’s, 
Summer to our 40’s, 
Autumn to our 60’s.
Winter to our deaths.

Winter is in my elders house. 
Please wrap-up warm.
Take a scarf and hat.
Can I hold your hand?

Poem inspired by the photographed letter from mumzies sister, received the day before my brothers-daughter’s birthday.  My neice, my namesake on a day when I am thinking of Auntly things. A day when I am glad that I’d booked a full 2 week holiday in the UK covering Christmas to be both aunt and niece in the same day, in the same company, in the same room.  

I did not return to Britain for her brother’s funeral.  I wrote letters, a poem and promised myself that I would join the family this Christmas.

Sixth report in a popular sporadic investigation collecting cheese dream-inducing properties.  

Eating phase for Havarti:  5/6 nights produced dreams.  Dream memories lasted beyond breakfast.  Dreams were based in rare though normal life activities. 

Three outline examples:

Moving office with appearances from colleagues across my 20yrs as a working gal.  The building that we moved into used fireman’s polls as a way to get downstairs.  Reminiscent of ’snakes and ladders’.  Quite a lot of fun was had by all as we unpacked our boxes,  drank lashings of tea, tried the firemans polls and had water-fights.  

Visiting the beach with Flat Eric and a climbing club that included everyone I’ve ever climbed with and some people that I know climb but haven’t climbed with.  Flat Eric did some amazing technical moves on some overhangs then we all went wind-surfing and small dhingy sailing in a Costa-Rica type location.  

Faerie Tour of UK pubs.  In a storyline that could have been produced by a collaboration between Harold Pinter and Alan Bennett my friends and I spent a summer touring real-ale pubs,  Inns,  staying in them and regularly dressing-up as faeries is the evenings.  Some larger fellows look a tad silly when wearing faeries outfits.  My outfit was black and actually maps to many clothes that I have in my closet,  though I don’t have a black tiara and wings.   The dream mainly covered our escapades on tour.  Excellent fun.

Conclusion?  Very nice result.  I’m not publishing a decontamination phase because I plan to stay with Havarti for at least a couple more weeks .

Summary.  Havarti induced Wendy-dreams are:

• very cheerful
• consistently produced.
• exaggerations of pleasant plausible realities.
• persisted into early waking hours memories.
• social events full of actual friends, family and work colleagues from throughout my life.
• excluding wierd morphing of people and things into wierd unfamiliar people and things.

You too can play dreamy cheese:  How to play dreamy cheese

While I was still under 5″6′ Mumzie would regularly remind me

“don’t eat cheese before you go to bed.  It will give you a bad nights sleep and nightmares“   

An informal survey of US people revealed that naught-out-of-three had been given similar advice by their Moms.  Are US Moms unfamiliar with the dreamy properties of cheese or is dreamy cheese a myth?  This post summarises my undercover research studies aimed at revealing the Wendy-dream-inducing characteristics of my favourite nibbles by eating them after 7pm for 7 nights in a week.  Here’s the dirt so far: 

• Normal dreams:  Cream cheese, Stilton
• Forgettable dreams = Brie,  Danish Blue
• Dream suppressant = Soft goats cheese, Edam,  Chimay
• Exaggerating life dreams =  Danish Blue, Havarti
• Dreams of social activites =  Havarti
• Disrupted sleep = Stilton

Everytime I get the inclination to take another cheese under the covers I will update this blog post.  You too can send me the outcomes of your undercover investigations and I’ll publish them here if you play by the official rules detailed in  ’How to play dreamy cheese‘ and show due deference to UK cheeseboard research.