Who wins that supper at the Tabard Inn?
In earnest I give to you a piece of advice : Don't go Bunburying with people who Bunbury themselves.
Truth is... that being indisposed and handicapped for so long [even if the word holds a gravitas that by no means applies to my case] has made me repetitive with my excuses. I'm not one of those silent, strong, stiff upper lippy people. I'm one of those "Why in the @#$% me?!" belligerent with fist shaking at the firmament, dripping with caustic mordancy bores. I, centre of all universes, kept letting people know I was too sick to move [or go to dinner, attend an auction, a family lunch, a couple of baptisms, one bar mitzvah, start a war in a third world country, elect a new president...].
A sweet and perverse friend, with a very proper sense of humour, sent me a garland of flowers. It arrived yesterday morning. A funerary garland. You know the kind, with all the white carnations and a sash with gold paper letters glued across it? It [the sash] said - Far from our eyes, but not from our hearts [literal translation, but crystal in its significance].
Deserved? I'm afraid so. It has been months. My eyes will always be an issue in some shape or form and I should just get on with it. If the days of reading a book in one sitting are gone and done with, c'est la vie - there's the BBC and audiobooks. If there are people out there with perfect eyesight who don't write, don't own books other than those pretty things on top of coffee tables bought to match the chintz and who don't paint - life was never meant to be fair. Before I end up in a barrel, grumbling about people blocking my sunlight, I'm going to make an effort to rejoin the world.
I'll go Bunburying no more.
Truth is... that being indisposed and handicapped for so long [even if the word holds a gravitas that by no means applies to my case] has made me repetitive with my excuses. I'm not one of those silent, strong, stiff upper lippy people. I'm one of those "Why in the @#$% me?!" belligerent with fist shaking at the firmament, dripping with caustic mordancy bores. I, centre of all universes, kept letting people know I was too sick to move [or go to dinner, attend an auction, a family lunch, a couple of baptisms, one bar mitzvah, start a war in a third world country, elect a new president...].
A sweet and perverse friend, with a very proper sense of humour, sent me a garland of flowers. It arrived yesterday morning. A funerary garland. You know the kind, with all the white carnations and a sash with gold paper letters glued across it? It [the sash] said - Far from our eyes, but not from our hearts [literal translation, but crystal in its significance].
Deserved? I'm afraid so. It has been months. My eyes will always be an issue in some shape or form and I should just get on with it. If the days of reading a book in one sitting are gone and done with, c'est la vie - there's the BBC and audiobooks. If there are people out there with perfect eyesight who don't write, don't own books other than those pretty things on top of coffee tables bought to match the chintz and who don't paint - life was never meant to be fair. Before I end up in a barrel, grumbling about people blocking my sunlight, I'm going to make an effort to rejoin the world.
I'll go Bunburying no more.