Thursday February 10th –Dreaming Some More.

Dream Catcher looses net. Total nightmare!

Wednesday February 9th - You Gotta Have Faith: A Love Story.

It’s crisp and delicious out there this morning, tree, like the first sparkling sip of a still purring G&T. Damn! It’s barely cornflakes-time and I’m already talking myself into a bucket of Mother’s Ruin! Not that I would, of course...but the thought is a yummy one.

It’s funny, sometimes just thinking a little about what you fancy is blissful and then there are occasions when it’s pure torture. I’ve won at least 58 titles at Wimbledon and the French Open once or twice, which is marvellous, but there must be a part of me that knows it’s not really going to happen. More to the point, that part of me must be OK with it.

Whereas, I can no longer endure the fantasy about being the youngest person to swim the channel, read English at Oxford or solve the mysteries of life the universe and everything. It’s just too late to start preparing my sparkling debut as an international bright young thing. Perhaps I am OK with that as well and if not then I ought to be.

It’s the little glimpses of those half-buried embers that are so precious and so protected. Yet for me these are the most dangerous. It’s certainly not OK to me that these can’t or won’t happen and that’s why indulging in these ‘real dreams’ can sometimes be a bit a nightmare. 

My teenage ‘pin-up’, as it were, was Stephen Fry. Smash Hits might have been bursting with glossy one hit wonders, but all I really wanted was a poster that said ‘Damn’ or ‘Bah. I wasn’t trying to be different, I just thought he was perfect.

Every book I read, film I saw, place I visited, meal I ate, flower I sniffed, I’d wonder what Mr Fry might have made of them. Perhaps even pretend that after we’d had lunch we’d spend the afternoon laughing together as we strolled beside the Thames.

As with all teenage dreams it becomes increasingly embarrassing...I’ve picked out 2 acceptable moments:

1 - My friend Evie and I watched Peter’s Friends over and over in a somewhat obsessive loop. We’d act out our favourite scenes, whilst scoffing bags of Maltesers and sipping mugs of herbal tea. Evie would play Roger and Mary and I would be everyone else. It was just less awkward that way and Evie was a little bit in love with Hugh Laurie. Or Hubert-Shoobert-Doobert as Evie called him. (If she ever reads this she might just actually kill me!)

It was then we vowed to become stand-up comedians. We told Evie’s father, who having not known us to move from his sofa for months found great hilarity in responding with ‘more like sit-down comedians!’ It seems we had indirectly provided a good giggle to someone.

2– When I was 22, I worked in a designer fabric shop. I was a lovely place, with beautiful material and a marvellous boss. However, as it was completely lacking in the customer department, it was the most delicious spot for an eight hour day dream. It was also right next door to a wonky, but most excellent book shop.

One Tuesday morning when the rubbish was being put out for collection I noticed a giant cardboard cut-out of Stephen Fry propped up against the bin. I hovered by the door for over 40 minutes, spinning and muttering to myself. I just didn’t have the courage to go out there and nab him. More to the point, I couldn’t face asking the book shop if I might take him off their hands – what if they had asked me why?

I was peeking through my fingers as I watched poor ‘Stephen’ being launched into the back of the crusher. A few years earlier I might have made a last minute dash to rescue him. Luckily I’d escaped my teens and with new maturity I didn’t even cry (much) as they carted him off for landfill.

Anyway, it was all a completely harmless crush. Nobody was left crying by the phone or plagued by unwanted attention. It didn’t stop me from doing anything and let’s face it Stephen Fry is never even going to know about it. It’s one of those dreams that is nice to dream and that’s OK.

OK that was, unless you were Alissen Green. I can’t blame her for the silly spelling of her name, but it sort of sums her up. She was a nice enough girl, but utterly convinced that it was her destiny to be the ‘One and Only’.

In a rare break from her fearless self-promotion, 15 year old Alissen wanted to know if I fancied anyone in our French class.

‘Joel is quite nice’, I lied. Well, everyone liked Joel so it was the easy answer.

‘I suppose,’ said Alissen, but he’s nothing like my future husband.’

Alissen’s bag, folder, note book, pencil case, lunch box and quite possibly knickers were all emblazoned with the smiling face of her one true love.

‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’, she said fondling his fluffy hair on her wallet.

‘He’s not bad,’ I replied truthfully. Silly me...

‘Huh! What would you know? Dubber! He wouldn’t look twice at you anyway, you’ve got evil eyes.’ Alissen ranted.

I let it go and tried to get to my back to work.

‘Oy!’ Alissen poked me with her pop-tastic ruler. ‘So who do you think is so special then?’

‘Well, I really like Stephen Fry’. There is was again, that unnecessary honesty.

‘Stephen Fry?’ screeched Alissen, ‘ But he’s a poof! He’s gay, you can’t marry him. How can you be in love with a queer?’ She blurted

I tried to explain that I didn’t see how it mattered in the slightest. I mean, she’d asked me who I liked and not who liked me. She didn’t get it and we spent the rest of the lesson in silence.

I wonder if she gets it now?

Not that I would want to stamp on anyone’s childish dreams, but a few years back I did have a little chuckle to myself. You see, the big-haired hunk beaming from Alissen’s diary was George Michael.

I suppose it’s got a lot do with knowing the difference between what’s actually happening and what you want to be happening. Dare to dream, of course, but don’t lose sleep over the dreams that are just that; delicious fantasy.

The truth is, I loved Stephan Fry and when you think about it that’s about as commonplace as burnt-bread for breakfast. I mean who doesn’t love Stephen Fry?

Tuesday February 8th – Get it Together!

I can’t blame Tuesday. I can’t blame anyone. Well, I can blame myself, but I don’t think that’s going to help.

It’s like being late for a train, on a Siberianly cold day, in nose-bleedingly high heels. Oh and they’ve had a burst pipe and your platform is the furthest across the glacial station. You can see where you need to be, but slipping and sliding all over the place you’ve got bugger all chance of getting there.

I want to get fitter, but I seem to be doing less and less exercise. I want to be leaner, but I seem to be ingesting more and more cake. Where more is less and less is more, but absolutely not in a good way, that’s where I am.

Need to turn the corner and get back into the groove without finding myself in a rut. First step is to stop thinking in clichés!

Monday February 7th – The Ghost of the Big Ugly

Well today it feels like the perfect occasion to offer a Big Ugly update.

To be honest, (and that’s what this February is all about), there isn’t one.

Well, at least I don’t have new information from the Big Ugly. They’ve gone all Big Hush.

Seriously, not a peep since the last instalment, nearly a month ago now: http://www.meandthetree.com/2011/03/saturday-january-8th-2011-shock-horror.html

Well, they tried to phone on Monday the 9^th, but I was on a call and couldn’t answer. We missed them again when they called in the evening and they tried once more when I was picking up The Little Perfect One on the Tuesday afternoon.

We still had connection, so it didn’t seem in our best interests to ring them back. That’s pretty much how it’s continued. It’s stupidly superstitious, but I feel very shaky about saying it’s all OK now. Jinx! Jinx! Forget asking, this is begging for trouble! It’s like running under a trio of ladders, stepping on all the cracks and bumping into a lone magpie with a broken mirror in his beak!

Yet, I do find it odd. We spent months listening to a choir of bored voices singing the ‘it will be sorted in the morning’ hymn. However, we had basically no internet connection until the tortured Complaints Manager’s rousing solo of ‘There is no permanent fixture.’

 It’s a bit of an uneasy solution, knowing that we were promised it couldn’t last.

Sunday February 6th –– Just Messing About in Quotes.

The elements are being a little less stroppy today, but I’ve decided I’m still not going to brave the dummy run. I have loads of time, after all, and next weekend is looking like a much better option. It’s closer to the real thing for starters and I’ll be more likely to remember the route. I’m not great with sat navs. Besides, I am far too busy.

Good grief, I have even done a bit of scribbling!

We’ve had a glorious day of pottering, sorting, playing, tidying and riffling. I am not sure exactly what has been accomplished, but it’s been wonderful.

In the words of Bertrand Russell:

‘The time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time.’

Saturday February 5th – Smug for the sake of it

Oh Tree, I do feel sorry for you out there being shouted at by that bitter wind. This is quite a nasty old tantrum Mr Gusty Pants! Calm down, pull yourself together and behave like the polite little breeze we know you can be.

I love telling the weather off. I am not sure if it’s a particularly British thing, but it’s heaps of fun and absolutely everyone can have a go. If you have not lectured the skies before, I urge you to give it a whirl!

‘Naughty, naughty clouds! Get down from there immediately! I am so disappointed in you. Get out of my sight!’

I should be doing a dummy run today. Yes, the ‘assimilation seminar’ is creeping up on me and I do, quite literally, need to get myself in gear. I don’t think I have driven on the motor way since The Little Perfect One was born and it’s something I could really do without.

Still, the 15^th is absolutely ages away really and besides it’s far too ghastly out there today.

‘Honestly rain! How many times do I have to tell you? Just stop it! Stop it now! I am going to count to three...one...two..two and a half...’

Friday February 4th – Start as you mean to go on... My First Confession.

I’m sorry that it’s such a mucky old day for you out there, my Tree. It’s really not fair, as I am having a cracking time in here. I have delicious flashbacks of yesterday’s listathon to keep me warm and let’s not forget that it’s Friday!

It’s a bit naff, but the best thing about going back to work is rediscovering the dazzling whoosh of that Friday feeling!

Of course, there is also the scramble of a Sunday evening to contend with and that creeping dread of a Monday morning alarm. Yet, today is a whole weekend away from those dreary pests. Indeed, The Cure had it all sewn up with ‘Friday I’m in Love’.

It’s as if, even if just for a moment, nothing else matters. Well, nothing that is, except the facts...

Come on Marcella! Stop stalling! Take a big breath and get those clumsy fingers of yours tapping out the truth for once.

Well it was only a little lie, but back in November, (or December when it was actually posted) I introduced our beloved cat Bernard: http://www.meandthetree.com/2010/12/saturday-20th-november-2010-grey-sky.html

‘Dern-nod!’ The Little Perfect One squeaks excitedly pointing at the massive Siamese cat bounding into the living room. ‘Dern-nod! Dum! Dum! Dern-nod!’ Bernard has been amazing with The Little Perfect One, but he’s not quite ready to ‘Dum’ when called. Bernard pulls up abruptly, his long gloved legs scrambling hopelessly into a pirouette and he skids bottom-first into the back of the sofa. The Little Perfect One is delighted by this, blowing raspberries and bouncing on his knees. Bernard has now settled indignantly on the sofa and is licking his bits in protest. ‘Idiot cat’ says Hoobiz and our laughing signals a ceasefire in The List Wars for today.’

It’s quite ridiculous really, but Bernard is not actually a Chocolate point Siamese, but a Red Burmese cat. This, I would expect, is an irrelevance to most people but, it’s funny where a lie can lead or, in fact, where it stops you going. Bernard is one of the family and his manic antics dictate much of our daily lives. Yet, he has hardly featured in this blog. That is partly because I was uncomfortable with him not being quite my Bernard. Daft, I know. I am not now expecting every post to include Bernard’s point of view, but at least now it won’t be deliberately avoided.

When I was planning this blog, my intention was to be able to write honestly, freely and about absolutely everything. It was essential not to feel constrained by anyone or anything. The only way to do that is to be impossibly bold and strong or take my route and be vaguely anonymous.

Yes, I’ve altered a few names, but not all of them and not greatly. This is often desperately annoying, as the real ones are so perfectly suited. I considered moving The Little Perfect One’s birthday and even toyed with idea of introducing him as a baby girl – I just couldn’t do it.

Some facts, it seems, are hard coded and it would be compromising too far to hide them under a few tweaks. However, it makes me laugh at those minor details which I thought needed to be amended in order to protect my identity.

One was Bernard and the other whopper was the nationality of my in-laws. In http://www.meandthetree.com/2011/01/sunday-november-28th-2010-das-barbie.html I introduced my Helmut and Bridget. I described Helmut, my farther in-law:

 ‘When not claiming to be the world’s first International, Helmut likes to declare himself a German-Australian-turned-Brit. However, if there’s a rugby game or cricket match then it’s Australia all the way. Also, he believes that there is only one way to cook and that’s the Barbie. Today, despite the freezing temperatures, was no exception to the Barbie Rules, well, rule.’

This is utterly true, except for the German or the Australian bit. Helmut, Bridget, Hoobiz, Axle and Fizz are South Africans. Bridget grew up in an Anglo-Irish Catholic family and Helmut was born in the Netherlands, but his first language is Afrikaans. Das Barbie is in fact, the Braai.

It’s strange that I decided it essential to conceal these random specifics. It’s not really a passport and a driving license, but clearly I thought it too revealing to admit to a Burmese cat and a South African husband. Very odd, but in a way it’s not the first time I’ve looked at myself through these slightly tipsy glasses.

Once, I would have been defined by endless buckets of black coffee and log piles of Marlborough reds. That was many years ago now, but I think I continued smoking for a few more years than I wanted to simply because I felt that part me was capped in an orange filter.

There, that’s marvellous. I already feel lighter and more cleansed. This is so much better than those detox plans that involve nothing but 72 hours of spring water and beetroot juice. The first day leaves you with a glass splintering headache, bad breath and a savage desire to bite people.

Sorry for fibbing, I was just being a bit of twit.