<< june >>

Wednesday 23 2004

A budding seamstress, I have made Stan pair of slippers today:

They are a fusion of texture and air, incorporating joint-protecting air pockets with a stylish exterior, the colour of which is inspired by the land. Tailored to his feet, they are snug and cosy, in fact they have a foot-steaming action, which will be much commented-on at bedtime.

Tuesday 22 2004

Last night we stumbled upon a very strange programme indeed: 'Animal Passions' was a documentary following zoophiles. There was a man who had married his horse, Pixel. He later died from hepatitis, contracted from an infected tattoo needle. Whether this was from the time a friend tattooed on his belly a horse with the head & upper torso of a busty wench was unclear. He wanted to have children with his horse and wondered what from it would take. He wouldn't have minded were it a foal he said, wistfully.

Next, a couple, who'd got it together over an internet zoophile chat site. She took him to see her stallions and, not sure how he felt about such things, fellated her horse and then let it enter her. Her prospective man quite enjoyed the show and they've been inseparable since, as has the man with her stallions. Another man spoke of the intensity of horse orgasms, calling them 'mare-gasms'. He spoke longingly of intense muscle contractions while his ex-wife sat beside him. They'd split over his nocturnal visits to the horse stable even though her golden retriever was her bit on the side.

A zoophile is a person engaging in a loving sexual relationship with an animal: this suggests willingness, but how can it be if one partner in the relationship needs a bed of stones to shit in and would mount a streetlamp if it had the right-shaped holes?

I once pressed my cats bum: O'Malley was quite young & I was 6-ish. Esther & I were laughing about and we wondered what this strange star-shaped thing under his tail was. I pressed it and a pointy pink thing shot out - god what a fright I got!

Sunday 13 2004

The parade of the West End festival today - I wandered up by my lonesome & watched the bellydancers and stilt-folk. Oh I love a good fancy-dress parade.

Soon its Shopping Week in Stromness - a week-long gala of drink, candy-floss and fun. My chums go in the parade every year & get feverishly drunk after weeks of scenery painting and costume-making. Debbie & I used to go in every year when we were peedie: once we thought we could dress up as clowns and cartwheel all the way from Hoymansquoy to the Market Green (a distance of a few miles given the route the parade takes). In actual fact we put on our leotards from our gymnastic class and pritt-sticked lametta all over our tubby bodies. We taped signs on our backs saying 'the tumbling clowns' and did not one cartwheel. The ground was too stony.

Another time I went- I thought - as the lead from a cartoon of the time - Jem and the Holograms. I wore a black pleated dress of my mum's that had bust-level elasticated faggoting, a cardigan made out of chunky cream wool (it was cold) and a long pink chiffon scarf encrusted with sequins tied in my short mousey brown hair. This was meant to be my long flowing pink locks, but as it was so windy, my 'hair' swept behind me. It looked like I had a pink scarf tied rubbishly in my hair, not a glitterly pink wig. No-one knew who I was, and as I was late getting to Hoymansquoy (where the judging took place) it turned out I wasn't even entered in the bloody parade. Still to this day the image of it makes me snort with laughter.

We never knew what we were going to go as until an hour or so prior to the parade meeting for judging, but we knew we'd take part. Once, desperate for someone to go as, I beseeched Debbie to name a person I looked like that I could dress up as. Aged 8 or so, she said Sybil Ruscoe.

Exfoliation is the equivalent of meditation for the vain and lazy like me: want to feel clean and pure and devoid of the crusty husk of life? The scratch off the top layer of skin with either a manual of a chemical exfoliator: pat dry and celebrate the smooth exterior of a peaceful being.

Mercy you scream - never mind soul journeys - what's the difference betwixt a manual and a chemical exfoliator? well...take a look at my re-vamped pores page to find out.

Monday 07 2004

2 days left of being 26....Stan has told me, and a trust-worthy source he is indeed, that from now on my age shall increase in leaps of 2 years, so next year I'll be 29. So, by 2017 he will be 53, as will I according to his hair brained scheme. We shall celebrate 21 years of being together in the year 2020 with him being 56 and me 59.

The gym thing is still going strong: I swear my fat back is melting, but I can't get over my shame of sweating within two sighs of the Sun Salutation and three flexes of my biceps. Never can I exit the gym with the glow of a pretty young girl: only with the seething crimson visage of a constipated cartoon character. I shouldn't care - hell, I can get my legs wider and higher and lower than all the pasty non-sweaters - but you always find something to whinge about.

Sunday after my run (boast, boast) I cleaned the kitchen. As I age, I can see why women of older times took so much pleasure in scrubbing their doorsteps: it gives a peace of mind the smoothing away of stains and grime. Our kitchen gets cleaned only when filthy: surface tidy is good enough for me most of the time, then one day I crack & scrub scrub scrub my way to flaky rough hands and gleaming work surfaces.

Another plus of cleaning, which the door-scrubbers of old knew, is the potential for keeping an eye out on your neighbourhood. The wifey across the road with the shelves of creepy dolls seemed quite interested in my standing at our window cleaning the casseroles and jars. She shifts her furniture every few days but seems unaware I can see her peering our of her doll-haven at folks living opposite. I'm as bad as her- a right nosey cow.

Nearby lives Mick Jaggar-etta - a female with the stance, features and wrinkles of the Stones front man. She stands, sentinel-like at the corner of any random street, watching for something, someone never arriving. In the heat of the day she has on a rock-chick boa-trimmed long coat with blue flame-licked boots: she always stands side on to the horizon she watches and sees nothing of the passers by as they eye her get-up. I should learn something from her.

Until recently a rival to our local convenience shop was run by a man Stan & I called The Bourbon Don: a spats-and-waistcoat suited shaved headed man, The Bourbon Don was master of his side of Dumbarton Road. His shelves were empty save for one row of goods at the front of each shelf. He would spend his time standing at the shop's door, watching. He favoured suits in monochrome tones, often with dogtooth check ties. Perhaps, as his name suggests, he was dealing in bootleg liquor, a forgotten relic of the Temperance Movement: we suspected he was dealing in counterfeit cream-filled dark brown biscuits. He seems to have been run out of town though.

All this watching that goes on round here - like a borough of cowboys at High Noon waiting for the tumbleweeds to precede the entrance of the waited-for and the watched-for.

I'm waiting for all the building work to stop - that way I can do less cleaning.