Saturday, December 23, 2017


A few years ago I spent an inordinate amount of time lamenting my fate, and getting over the cessation of a long (and lovely) romance. And equating food with love, or lust, which is absurd, but I'm over that.
This blogger has quieted down.
More or less.

No, I haven't lost my ability to dream, or my sparkiness, but I am reasonably content to watch all the world socially interacting from a safe distance.
And not wishing to be involved in the fray.

I am at my best with only one or two people around me.
At least one of whom is myself.

You would be too, probably.

The more I think about it, the more convinced that in a past life I should have been a badger. Inquisitive, solitary, slightly bad tempered or grumpy, fond of tea, smoking my pipe, and dozing with the blinds down to keep out the bright light.

This all fell into focus the other day over my second cup of coffee upon getting up. The previous night I had intended to go around the corner for a last quite smoke outside a local watering hole, having attended a festive seasonal pizza party, but I fell asleep instead. Nothing says "The Holidays" like cheese, crust, tomato sauce, and greasy meats, don't you agree?
Now, a social life would have interfered with digestion after a stress-filled day, and if I had come home to a snookiepoo she would have likely kept me up all night with rambunctious behaviour. And probably objected, fiercely objected, to me filling my pipe at that time with Dunhill Dark Flake rather than attending to her rosebuds or neurotic worries.

Both single men and badgers do not attend very well to neurotic worries.
They are far better at digesting pizza, and smoking pipes.
The Holiday Season is a fraught time.
Rosebuds are tense.

If you have rosebuds in your life -- your own or someone else's -- you have probably noticed a change. They're grumpy, even when they try to hide it.

Ideally, rosebuds, like badgers, would spend as much time as possible in bed at this time of year, only getting up to prepare some more tea (perhaps with milk and sugar), or to smoke a pipe -- smoking in bed is ill-advised, that's why you have cotton jammies and a bathrobe -- occasionally getting on the internet to bah humbug, but not turning on the telly under any circumstance. As, during my extra day off next week, I shall do.
Later on I shall go down to Chinatown for a late lunch.
More tea, and another pipe.

As a single man, not socially inclined nor in the running for public office or a snookiepoo, I can say sh*t like this. And I can mention rosebuds without fear of offending people, because I really don't care. Thus: rosebuds can be quite nice, rosebuds can in fact be darling, delicious and zesty even, and rosebuds can be a joy. Rosebuds, rosebuds, rosebuds!

If you are a modern person of typical American sensitivities, you are probably even more 'triggered' now than you were when I mentioned smoking a pipe (because tobacco is evil), and you are now weeping into your chamomile tea, which you made to calm your nerves so you could stay on the internet and continue browsing in this dark corner.

The badger does not care.

Rosebuds are strictly an intellectual construct here.
No rosebuds were hurt in making this post.
I have not been near them.

The only rosebuds I have even seen in the last few years were the two that became briefly visible when an inebriated young lady in front of a bar one night flashed her friend across the street.

It was while I was smoking my pipe outside.
Which I will be doing again soon.
Same place, same time.

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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.

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