I’ve realised this evening that I am quite good with words. That my, thingie ….you know …vocabulary is really quite … mmmf. Doo-dah. Full of words.
That word that means ‘full of words’.
My thingie is really quite ‘that’. Full of words.
They’re just the wrong words. They’re just the bad words.

When I was young (approximately 10 years ago), I used to make fun of my mother for not being able to think of words. Here was a woman of words, a writer, an editor, who would sit at the table and tell me to clear my … ‘you know… round thing… food on… thingie… ‘plate’!’
Then a couple of years ago I started doing it.

And now it’s awful.
I ask people to pass the ‘White… yummy… shakey… shoulder throwing… thingie… condiment…there… salt. Thing.’
I ask people to pass messages to my ‘Glasses… tall… loud… bloke… hair… loud… American… Best friend. Guy.’
When I type, I’m slightly better. I can think of words slowly, over a long period, without feeling the need to vocalise the thought process.

But, this evening, I found my vocabular (vocabular??) niche.
Swearing.
Explaining to a new (and lovely) Canadian volunteer the root and meaning of various British colloquialisms.
one person;“But of course, it’s all bollocks.”
New lovely Canadian;“Bollocks?”
anna; “Yes, a common euphemism for ‘testicles’. Also oft used you’ll hear ‘Balls’ (with which you may well be familiar) (No, I mean, oh, it doesn’t matter) ‘Jewels’, ‘Nads’, ‘goolies’, … etc… etc…”

one person; “…but then, he’s just a complete Twat.”
canadian (lovely);“‘Twat?’ But I thought that meant…”
anna; “…And you were right. As well as a common term of abuse, in Northern England especially, it is also a slang term for women’s genitalia. Other terms for womens bits include ‘fanny’, ‘vag’, ‘minge’, ‘gash’, ‘pam’, and, most famously ‘c***’.” A word, that, curiously, I cannot bring myself to type. Although it is, actually less offensive to me than most of the others listed. Especially ‘gash’. Which makes me feel physically ill.
yeuch.

My biology teacher in secondary school refused to say the word ‘Vagina’.
My biology teacher.
For five years she referred constantly to the ‘Ladies Front Bottom’
Hmm.

Anyway. I find myself, this evening, to be a veritable cornucopia of rude words.
I’m very glad.
I feel like a walking thesaurus. Well, the walking rude bits, anyway.
Which were the only bits that really counted.
I can give definitions of all, examples, contexts, histories, of words.
And, the thing that makes me proudest of all, I can also cross-reference.

“And in this situation, you could also say that someone was talking shit, crap, bollocks, balls, bullshit, wank, out of their arse, rubbish, shite, ….”

Yes. For once it feels big. And clever. So there.

The other day we went for a drive.
Well, I went for a ‘passenger’, which is pretty much all I can do, that is. I can’t go for a drive. I can’t drive. So I can’t, therefore, go for one. The loud american (in remarkably quiet mode) went for a drive.
I just happened to be in the car.

So yes. Collectively, ‘we’ went for a ‘drive’, even though only one of us was acitiely active in that setence.
And what an active sentence it’s turned out to be.

So we went for a drive.
But the point was not the drive. The point was the cat. I’ve not mentioned the cat yet. But the cat was the point.

There was a cat. Sitting on a stone wall overlooking Carsaig pier, curled up in a ball and looking contenteddly over to Jura and Islay and other islandy things. We got out of the car, and sat on the wall, and talked aout guff and beans, and the cat uncurled and stretched and recurled on my knee. We were very suddenly loved and adopted. It was extremely good.

But it made me sad. I miss having a cat, I miss Poppy. And more than this, I have absolutely no idea when I’m going to be in a stable enough situation to be able to have a cat. As far as I can tell, from November, I’m on the move. I don’t know where, or what to do, but I certainly don’t think it’ll involve a cat. Not for ages.

If I had a cat, I would get hugs and unconditional love. Sometimes. When the cat felt like it. But even that would be good.
If I had a cat, I would feel much less stupid walking around the house talking to myself than I usually do.

If I had a cat, I could let it out of the back door, and then it would find the Corncrake outside my window. And then it would kill the Corncrake outside my window. And then the Corncrake would be dead, and it wouldn’t be alive anymore, alive to make noises, and keep me awake.

I wish I had a cat.

A long afternoon spent with too many people.
Being pleasant loses its charm sometimes. Quite often, really. Perhaps too often.
But just this once, just for a few moments today I felt socially useful.
I felt like a nice person.

A sweet german 12-year-old, often in trouble with her English Mistress for bad English Pronunciation, spent the afternoon making batik after batik after batik, and is going home with a letter that says;

Dear frau ‘insert hard-tp-spell-German-name-here’.
Just a quick note to compliment you on teaching Julia such very good English.
Her pronunciation, in particular, is fantastic.
And I am English, so I should know.
regards
anna pickard.

I don’t know why that makes me feel so good. But it does. I feel like Amelie.

By the way, if anyone knows how to dance any fool-proof May-Pole dances, I know someone that would be as happy as a wee lamb to hear them…
She’s a book, but all in it’s nae good.
Look at me. I’ve gone all very tired and colloquial. Do excuse.

I’ve got two days left to apply for that BBC job that I’ll never ever get.
Do I bother?

You’ve been to the pub.

Everyone else has too. But when you get in the taxi, suddenly, you’re the one that’s sober.

You can calm everyone else’s merriness, and, to boot, you can direct the taxi home. In a perfectly sober voice.

All the way home.

And when you get home again, you’re suddenly drunk, all of a sudden, without warning, very.

And that’s what it’s like. A little.

I’m not sure I relate to any of the people I have to be.
I surprise myself, because I open my mouth and this ‘other’ person speaks.
And I can’t tell if it’s me. I seem to be able to remove myself from everything. When I open my mouth, no matter how I am in the middle, a voice seems to come from nowhere and seem fine and well and happy and confident.
I just don’t know who that Is.

When someone tells me they enjoy something I did, I thank them and move on in the conversation, thinking;

“Well That’s nice. Something somewhere touched this person. Something somewhere resonated in them and in order to fix the experience they need to speak it aloud, therefore they’re attributing the feeling to something fixed - to me. That’s nice. That seems to make them happy.” It’s not to do with me. Not at all.

When someone says something flattering, or flirtatious, or loving, I move on in the conversation and think;

“Well, that’s good. Obviously, at this point in their emotional development they need to say that sort of thing to someone. They have some inner need to fall in love/become attached/ be rejected/ be moved. I’m honoured to have been the person that they’ve attached that need to. Perhaps now they’ll be a happier person.”

Nothing, it seems, is about me. I seem to be entirely removed.
And that’s okay.
I’m not whinging. For once.

I’m just making an observation. Making an observation on my mood of observation.

The only time I seem to have any sense of ’self’ is when I’m sitting here, in the wee small hours, feeding monologues to some invisible elsewhere.
Or some invisible elsewho.
Which is a fantastic phrase.

I don’t know if you can comment on this. I’m just very much thinking.
Out loud.
To myself.

ish

Actually, it wasn’t a question, but a statement. but still.

Ok. So think of it as a game.
Sitting in the pub with a new aquaintence, think of it as a game.
A transcript of the conversation that actually happened, let’s guess what the next question was…

me; “So, to summarise the conversation. Your favourite recording artists are George Michael?…”
He; “And Elton John!…”
Me; “I was just coming to Elton. And Kylie?..”
He; “Minogue, Yes, and the sound track from ‘Studio 54′.
Me; “Which is entirely composed of?..”
He; “Disco. Lots of disco.”
Me; “And you say you’re very cleanly?”
He; “Ooh yes. The bathroom has to be spotless, else I can’t sleep…”
Me; “And How well do you get on with your mother?”
He; “Oh, she’s my best friend. We talk on the phone. Every day. When I’m at home we go out for Latte. All the time.”
Me; “Are you alright for a drink?”
He; “I’d love a glass of white wine, if you’re going…”
Me; “…..?”

Prize for the person that guesses the next question.
A prize.

Not a big prize. But a prize.

Is it healthy to feel so removed from oneself?
I mean, I know in some religions, eradication of all ego or ’self’ is a goal, but it feels wierd.
Everything seems three steps away from me.
More of this later, it’s occupying me greatly at the moment.

Maybe it’s these pills.
I’m not sure if I like it.
They’re only herbal, for goodness’ sake, how much self-removal can they do?

So Why, exactly, can I not just have a bottle with a big old hole at the top to let the water out?
Why is that so wrong?

I don’t know why, but today nothing is annoying me more than those plasitic water bottles with the ’sports top’.

Maybe it’s the noise they make, maybe it’s the loud snap back into place when you’ve finished drinking, maybe it’s the sucking thing, the glooping noise, the fits and starts of the water as it comes out of the bottle. Maybe it;’s the ‘regression to breastfeeding’ thing.

I just want some form of vessel with a hole at the top. Not a squeezy hole. A hole.
how hard is that?

Ooh, bollocks, I’m meant to be at the dentist.

Apparently, most of the magic of a good joke is in the telling, as everyone in the world knows.
I’ve learnt this from experience. And know it just because everyone else knows it.
Which is a good thing, as most of the jokes I know are rubbish.
I mean, the meat of them is good and juicy, but the punchlines themselves are beans.

However, if the punchline is spectacular, then the joke could be told by someone dead, and it would still work out alright.
But everyone knows this.

I don’t know why I’m thinking about this.
Two reasons, actually, spring to mind.
1. I’m trying to think of a joke suitable for a room full of middle-aged middle-class Christians.
2. A five-year-old boy just ran up to me and with great passion and excitement, told me his two favourite jokes;
q: “Why did the chicken cross the road?”
I don’t know, Andrew, why didthe chicken cross the road?
a: “To go to the park!”
I’m sorry?
and
q: “Why did the worm cross the road?”
I don’t know, why did the worm cross the road?
a: “So he could buy a new camera!”
What the fuck, little boy?
(now, lets see how many search engine hits I get for That sentence…)

I don’t know why, because that joke clearly fitted neither category, but the second joke of little Andrew’s, possibly because it was told with such excitement and vim and vigour and stuff, was the funniest thing I’ve heard in weeks.
I think I need some rest.
Or a pint.
Or a dance.
Or something.

Today I am mostly listening to;
Nick Cave and the Bad seeds - “Into My Arms”

Someone suggested in the comments that I may well be a hopeless romantic.
Damn it, I am.
One of those ‘emancipated damsel’ types.

I’m just fine on my own, thank you very much for asking, but if a knight in shining armour happened to sweep me off my feet, I would be ok with that too.
At the moment, however, they seem too stupid to work out the ferry timetable. Or they don’t allow White Steeds on the bus across Mull. Or they’ve been trying to swim over in armour.
Whatever it is, they’re late.

Can I just check, is everyone else in the whole world having a bank holiday right now?
Or everyone in Britain at least?
Is that jubilee thing somewhere around now?
Or did I miss it?

Said to me last night;
“If I had to spend much more time around you, I’d fall too far in love. You’re lovely…”

Why thank you, middle aged Canadian the size of a fridge freezer. I’m very flattered.

I am actually.

In other news, tonight, I think I may, finally, have found a conversational habit more annoying yet than the current, long-standing, chart topper.
This evening “Evening” I met “You met” an American lady “An American lady” who repeated “repeated” every single word “every single word” or, maybe “Maybe” practically every “Every other word, practically” other word, immediately “Immediately…” … ahm … immediately … “Immediately?…” I’m sorry, where was I? “Practically Every Word…” Ah yes, Practically every word “Yes … Every word” Immediately after I’d said it myself. “Immediately after you’d said it yourself”

And sometimes “Sometimes…” joined in the “Joined the..” sentence as I was speaking “Joined in as you were speaking…” quite often finishing the “Sentence on your behalf.”

I’m sorry, I’m even pissing myself off now.
It was like talking with a constant echo. Perhaps like being a bat.
No, that doesn’t work. Like talking with a constant echo. Like hearing the last few words you’d said while still trying to think of the next few.
I got lost several times in the conversation, not being able to work out which were the last words I’d said and which were several words ago, but repeated back to me…

The funniest thing was watch her speak to my friend Paul, who, attempting to hold discourse and also having to lip-read her half of the conversation, kept thinking himself rudely interrupted, and having to go over the same ground over and over again.

She’s here “I’m here for…” for six days “Six days.”.
How do I not “How do you manage not to” kill her? “Kill me.”
I suppose I could simply repeat everything that she repeated, immediately back to her, but it could go on forever. “On forever.”
On forever. “On Forever…”
On forever. “On forever …”
On forever.