Sometimes I just have to look to the skies and say "Can I please catch a break?" I am not a surfer (don't have the balance, fitness, thighs or wild hair for it) but merely an unlucky person, born into an unlucky family.
The legend goes that my Great Grandad was once cursed by a Gypsy when he refused him water (he wasn't being tight - he had bent over backwards for him but this guy was basically leeching as much as he could) and that bad luck has remained with our family ever since. I wholeheartedly believe this to be true.
We are so unlucky that Dirty Harry wouldn't even bother asking. He'd simply lower his Magnum...which would probably miraculously go off, the bullet would ricochet off a nearby tin bath and clank into the back of my head. No Harry, I certainly do not feel lucky.
Is luck simply the act of reward? As with karma - whatever you put out in this world, comes back to you? I find the theory of karma irksome, nay, lets go for a stronger feeling...infuriating. Celebrities are often quoted in magazines as believing in karma, mainly as a justification as to why they are so stonkingly rich - because in a former life they cleared pheasant juice out of Henry VIII's sizable beard. What about me? What about that time I found a card in a cash machine and instead of rinsing it of his savings I went running after the dozy git to return his card. Where was my karma-kash for that amazing, selfless deed huh? I was granted with nada.
So as I sit here pondering all the magical ways of this unfair world I am going to put out THE MOST positive vibes that I can muster (like Robin Williams did in Hook "HAPPY thoughts Peter!!") and will await the good times to roll in. I may also google "breaking gypsy curses" just as a back up plan.
Inspired by a love of writing and a need for an outlet. Woman Writes is about anything that sparks my creative flame
Sunday 27 February 2011
Monday 7 February 2011
The Gaggle
The Boss sat still, quietly eyeing up his surroundings. His two minions waddled around nervously, hopping from one foot to the other, heads flicking in all directions, not knowing which way was safe to focus their gaze to. One thing was sure, they would never look directly at the Boss. Instead, they would continue to employ their searching gazes and wait for the sign.
Dark clouds huddled overhead, as if they were watching and waiting for the sign too. A stream of eager rain beat down on the two nervous, and one solemn, figures below.
Through the grey atmosphere a two lights became visible. Steadily the lights got closer and closer to the Boss and his minions, until they could make out the shape of a car.
The minions ceased their nervous activity and froze into position, mimicking the granite-like demeanour of their Boss. The car pulled up close and the driver's side window wound down. The Boss didn't flicker, and without saying a word the minions positioned themselves behind the Boss, backing him on either side.
They couldn't see who was in the car but a familiar object was thrust out of the window and then it began. "Ooh look at these geese! Let me just take a picture." said the driver. A succession of flashing lights startled the minions. The driver spoke again, "now what do you call a group of geese? It's a gaggle isn't it?" Just as the 'G' word was uttered the Boss let out a hiss, and the minions reacted accordingly to the planned sign. They charged the wheels of the car and hissed and quacked. The startled driver put down his camera and drove off. The Boss looked on triumphantly and said, "we ain't no gaggle mate. We are a gang!"
Dark clouds huddled overhead, as if they were watching and waiting for the sign too. A stream of eager rain beat down on the two nervous, and one solemn, figures below.
Through the grey atmosphere a two lights became visible. Steadily the lights got closer and closer to the Boss and his minions, until they could make out the shape of a car.
The minions ceased their nervous activity and froze into position, mimicking the granite-like demeanour of their Boss. The car pulled up close and the driver's side window wound down. The Boss didn't flicker, and without saying a word the minions positioned themselves behind the Boss, backing him on either side.
They couldn't see who was in the car but a familiar object was thrust out of the window and then it began. "Ooh look at these geese! Let me just take a picture." said the driver. A succession of flashing lights startled the minions. The driver spoke again, "now what do you call a group of geese? It's a gaggle isn't it?" Just as the 'G' word was uttered the Boss let out a hiss, and the minions reacted accordingly to the planned sign. They charged the wheels of the car and hissed and quacked. The startled driver put down his camera and drove off. The Boss looked on triumphantly and said, "we ain't no gaggle mate. We are a gang!"
Sunday 6 February 2011
I don't want to worry you but...
A random thought hit me as I lay in bed last night - does my old bedside dresser contain asbestos? Random. Irrational. Most likely completely unfounded (hopefully). This led me to think more about my habit of worrying.
If worrying was an Olympic sport - Lord Coe, work your magic - my family would have gold medals coming out of our ears (surely a medical condition? Make note to Google later). The anxiety gene has been passed down through many generations and I haven't disappointed the family tradition, in fact one of my early primary school reports stated that I "tend to worry over silly little things". I beg to differ. Not having the right shade of green for my tree painting isn't what I'd call a silly little thing!
Prime time for The Worries to commence is at bedtime. The irrational thoughts start to swirl around my mind like a vortex of the bizarre and hellish under the cover of darkness. Many a time I have had to jump up out of bed to try and block the crushing tide of negativity - what will happen to people when the World is finally sucked into that black hole in the Solar System? Will Lindsay Lohan ever get off the crack? Things of that nature.
The Earth suddenly falling out of the sky (yes I know technically it is the sky - this is panic speaking), snakes loitering in my toilet (the day I don't check is the day it gets me) and Perfect Storm-like super tsunami's (in a residential area) are an example of my recurring fears.
A few years ago I was discussing the Saw films with my colleagues when one guy piped up that his absolute worst fear was being thrown into a pit of used needles. Ha! The freak! I laughed at the pure unlikeliness. Then I remembered that, whilst stood at a bus stop, I was convinced that a rather blustery day was in fact the beginning of a hurricane. I kept one eye on lookout for the arrival of my bus, and used the other to scout out the friendliest looking houses that I would run to for shelter.
According to studies, people who worry are far less effective than those who don't, they get less work done and are less happy. Well I could have told them that for free.
Now I think it is time for bed...once I've checked under it first.
If worrying was an Olympic sport - Lord Coe, work your magic - my family would have gold medals coming out of our ears (surely a medical condition? Make note to Google later). The anxiety gene has been passed down through many generations and I haven't disappointed the family tradition, in fact one of my early primary school reports stated that I "tend to worry over silly little things". I beg to differ. Not having the right shade of green for my tree painting isn't what I'd call a silly little thing!
Prime time for The Worries to commence is at bedtime. The irrational thoughts start to swirl around my mind like a vortex of the bizarre and hellish under the cover of darkness. Many a time I have had to jump up out of bed to try and block the crushing tide of negativity - what will happen to people when the World is finally sucked into that black hole in the Solar System? Will Lindsay Lohan ever get off the crack? Things of that nature.
The Earth suddenly falling out of the sky (yes I know technically it is the sky - this is panic speaking), snakes loitering in my toilet (the day I don't check is the day it gets me) and Perfect Storm-like super tsunami's (in a residential area) are an example of my recurring fears.
A few years ago I was discussing the Saw films with my colleagues when one guy piped up that his absolute worst fear was being thrown into a pit of used needles. Ha! The freak! I laughed at the pure unlikeliness. Then I remembered that, whilst stood at a bus stop, I was convinced that a rather blustery day was in fact the beginning of a hurricane. I kept one eye on lookout for the arrival of my bus, and used the other to scout out the friendliest looking houses that I would run to for shelter.
According to studies, people who worry are far less effective than those who don't, they get less work done and are less happy. Well I could have told them that for free.
Now I think it is time for bed...once I've checked under it first.
Saturday 5 February 2011
LOL
Everyone has one of them. There are a great variety of them. Loud, annoying and those that take you by surprise. Comics spend a great deal of time and effort trying to drag them out of their audiences. And through the powers of an acronym, we can now do it without even opening our mouths. I am talking about laughing. Laughs. Laughter and LOLing.
I am an avid collector of unusual laughs, storing any anomalies in my vast library of the weird and wonderful, and irritating.
Within that dark chasm of stored laughs are the airy-fairy sniggers (that suggest a certain snidey nature from it's bearer), the one-second blasters, the say it don't spray its, the work-fakes (which range from the brown-nosers and simple people-pleasers), the curious ones that make no noise at all, the squeaks, the squawks and the down right primal.
I was unfortunate to be cursed with an undesirable laugh. It is loud. Very loud. Too loud in fact. It teeters between an amateur dramatic member's attempt at a witches cackle and Sybil from Fawlty Towers [insert snort here].
Mine is not the sort of laugh that would be described of as lilting, or girlish. In an interview with Vanity Fair magazine (it so could happen) my impressive wit would be overcast with the horrendous sound and the interviewer would punctuate sentences with "...she snorted...like a pregnant whale". In time I hope to send my laugh to bootcamp and be presented with a delightful giggle, or a Jane Austen-esque titter. Teeheehee, oh Mr. Darcy how you make me politely and in a very lady like manner, err...split my sides? Hmm, some further work needed there. Until then, LOL SNORT HAHAHA LOLOL *BREATHE* HA!
I am an avid collector of unusual laughs, storing any anomalies in my vast library of the weird and wonderful, and irritating.
Within that dark chasm of stored laughs are the airy-fairy sniggers (that suggest a certain snidey nature from it's bearer), the one-second blasters, the say it don't spray its, the work-fakes (which range from the brown-nosers and simple people-pleasers), the curious ones that make no noise at all, the squeaks, the squawks and the down right primal.
I was unfortunate to be cursed with an undesirable laugh. It is loud. Very loud. Too loud in fact. It teeters between an amateur dramatic member's attempt at a witches cackle and Sybil from Fawlty Towers [insert snort here].
Mine is not the sort of laugh that would be described of as lilting, or girlish. In an interview with Vanity Fair magazine (it so could happen) my impressive wit would be overcast with the horrendous sound and the interviewer would punctuate sentences with "...she snorted...like a pregnant whale". In time I hope to send my laugh to bootcamp and be presented with a delightful giggle, or a Jane Austen-esque titter. Teeheehee, oh Mr. Darcy how you make me politely and in a very lady like manner, err...split my sides? Hmm, some further work needed there. Until then, LOL SNORT HAHAHA LOLOL *BREATHE* HA!
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