We are different people...

-
I am glad of that.

I like piña coladas and getting caught in the rain. I like sitting on my own, outside a Paris café, watching people go by. I like to ride on Jack Yeats’ horse, running blurry and colourful. I like the peace and quiet of it.

I like sitting on the couch, in my hundred-year-old tracksuit bottoms, reading a book or talking for hours about everything and nothing, or even watching an episode, for months on end. I like cooking, with real food, after hours thinking, wandering and choosing. I like walking for the walk. I like side streets and back streets. So many things.

I don’t know what a Snooki is. I don't play tennis or golf. I don’t drink, or swear, I don’t rat my hair. Sandra Dee I am not, but don’t judge me by your standards, because they are certainly not mine.

I have imagination, I cherish it, I nurture it, I feed it with wild stories of talking snails. I don’t want to grow up too far. I like to dream. I like to write. I like to watch the stars and hear the ice-cream van.

I like the internets, all of them. I like strangers, the friends I haven’t met and those I have. Even the weirdos, especially the weirdos! Difference is one of the best things life has to offer.

I am myself, and that is all I ever want to be. Our sames are as similar as our nots, but we are different people, you and I, and I am glad of that.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Four years.

-
He's four years gone today and I still remember the call, and I'm still not right for it. My mother rang me Wednesday just gone, 19 minutes before I was due over for dinner.  She wanted me to bring gravy, she'd run out and we were having beef. Every time my parents ring unexpectedly, or pause before speaking, I expect bad news.  More will come, and it has, though none like that day, thank God. Gradually I stopped writing for fear someone else would go. As if this blog, had some sort of strange, dark power. I told the story, of that day, to a friend only last Sunday and she started to cry.  She'd never met my Granddad but when I told her that when my Granny heard the news she stood up and asked to be brought to him, at the bridge, where he lay, my friend cried for them. On the day of his funeral Granny said that things would never be the same, and they're not. For a man who said very little, his presence is missed. There's a ho
Read more

There’s nothing worse

-
I work with a guy, who no matter what you say is wrong with you (including, today, having ‘The Fields of Athenry’ stuck in your head) says ‘there’s nothing worse’. So leaving broken limbs and falling off heads aside, here’s a countdown of my current top ten of ‘there’s nothing worse’. 10. Having a song stuck in your head – This really depends on the song and what you associate with it. If it’s a four word loop of something by the Cheeky Girls, Whigfield or, to be more current, Jedward, then that’s seriously head wrecking. However, if it’s a song that reminds you of something or someone good or if it’s along the lines of ‘We Are the Champions’ then it’s fantastic! 9. Getting to the phone as it stops ringing – This is made worse when you then go to call the person straight back and you can’t get them because they’re leaving you a voicemail, are ringing someone else or have just dropped the phone and ran away, as some stand up comedian once said.  8. Banged knee – I us
Read more

Last Sunday

-
Last Sunday my Granddad got up and went to 9 o'clock Mass in his local church. Last Sunday I got up and brought my mother to brunch at 11.30am in Odessa. Later my Granddad had a roast goose dinner, followed by trifle and cream. I had smoked salmon eggs benedict, freshly squeezed orange juice and coffee. After dinner, my Granddad (aged 90 and almost a half) went fishing. After brunch, I (aged 31 and almost three-quarters) went shopping. After fishing, my Granddad walked from the river, through the fields, to the bridge to wait for his lift. After shopping, I went to lie on the couch in my boyfriend's house, tired from a night out and early start. Last Sunday, my Granddad sat on the bridge, hands on the stone either side and bowed his head. Last Sunday, as I started to open an ice-cream and sit on a bench, I got a call from my mother, sobbing. Never sick, we never expected him to go. His first admittance to hospital was for his post mortem. He went they way he should, a
Read more