Reflection

I am a fan, unfortunately, of puns. I can't resist them. I drive my husband to distraction, especially as, before delivering a great big fat juicy pun, I collapse in a fit of uncontrollable, and in this context, inexplicable, laughter. By the time I've got it out,  it's lost all it's potential for humour. 

One of my more macabre and long-standing games that enliven an early morning lie-in a deux, is to muse on what I want put on my headstone. 

My favourite, for a couple of years now, is, 'She Made Herself Laugh.' Just that. The irony is, that  I have no intention of having a headstone, or any permanent memorial at all. I want my ashes scattered quietly and illicitly in Buckholt Woods near Cranham, where  some of my quietest and most illicit activities have taken place. (When I was a LOT younger, naturally. See, it's all a joke to me, even if it's only my ghost that will be laughing out loud. You hear me laughing now, don't you?) 

Reflection. I bet you thought I was about to engage in some deep though-provoking musings with life-changing potential. Didn't you? You may even have decided not to read this piece at all, as we all have had it up to here ^^^ with thought provoking musings with life changing potential, haven't we? 

Yes, Mary. 

I was looking in the mirror this morning ( At last!  And not even a good one: they rarely are, that's not the point... .) I was looking in the mirror this morning and an old lady stared back at me.  

"Why, hello!" I said, caught somewhat by surprise. "Where did YOU come from?"

There was no reply, naturally. I may be old, but I'm not delusional. Yet. 

It was a pivotal moment. I could have attempted to massage away the bags under my eyes, or tried to disguise the wrinkles with make-up ... (And I MAY! I reserve the right!) I might have began a rueful dialogue on the missed opportunities of a lost youth. I didn't do THAT, because I have  a habit of taking opportunities, and even making, them if there are none around... . 

After a pause, I continued the conversation with the old woman in the mirror:

"Let's not fight," I said, "You can come along for the ride, but you have to promise me that you'll laugh at my puns."

We both smiled, identical smiles, broadly. I'd go as far as to say, very broadly indeed. 

Living In Idleness

The thing is, I love to write. There is something so therapeutic about the gentle 'pudd-pudd' of my fingertips skipping across the virtual keypad in front of me. Today's challenge, writer's block. I'm fed up with God, the poet's run out of inspiration, and my daily round is too mundane to mention. I will mention it though, just for fun:

Accomplished:
Wake Up
Tweet
Check Blog
Write email
Think About Getting Up
Listen to Radio

To Do:
Get Up
Bathe
Art Class
Cook
Eat
Bed.

Writing a List always does it for me. Here I go again:

Aowl and I had great fun the other day trying to get the microphone to type for us.. Its potential for the literary aspirations of a one-year old are pretty staggering I think, but what was typed up made no sense. What does? (Broad smile: Maybe something: Maybe sometimes.)

(A feature of an ipad. You talk to it, and it talks back. It is a Two on the Enneagram. It lives to serve.)

Microphone Man, Let's call him Cyril, when asked to write something for me, was very helpful. ' I don't know what you mean by, 'Write something for me. How about a web search for it?' I admit to being impressed. Technology is so cute. No sense of the ironic, doesn't know when it's leg is being pulled, just cute.

Having time on my hands, I actually took Cyril up on his offer, and a whole new world has opened up for me!

I was taken to a website wherein I can register to write papers for students with deficiencies in the honesty department. Nobody's perfect. The paper I wrote on the ferns growing in Prince of Wales Park in Bingley, in order to escape the local College with a Certification in Education, owed much of it's content to,' The Observer Book of Ferns'. I'm in no position to judge.

Why in heaven's name, did I choose to write a paper on the ferns in The Prince of Wales Park? I don't remember, though I do recall my horror at finding just the one variety when I made my foray into the damper regions of this particular pleasure garden. Though the park was a mere five minutes walk from my digs, I did not, in the end, have to leave my bedroom to complete the assignment.

If the University of Leeds wishes to strip me of my Certificate in Education (Mary Cook, 1972) I invite it to be my guest. I wouldn't return to teaching for a pension. Oh! Wait!