I have been in Purgatory. The place that is Hell - That is, being without the Internet.
Problems with my router, modem, whatever the daft thing is, have led me to be sans t'Internets for over two weeks.
Copious conversations with disembodied souls in Mumbai have done feck all for my (in)sanity...
Finally, this morning, courtesy of a wonderful engineer called Lawrence, my otherworld Internet half-life has been restored to me.
Phew!
But what do I have to show for these moments of enforced isolation from you, mes amis?
My house is a wee bit tidier and I can see a patch of carpet in the living room that I had not seen since Christmas.
I say 'a wee bit', for I shall never be a domestic goddess - I am too comfortable in my slattern ways for that. But having a bit less chaos has meant I can see the wood for the trees and have a better idea about what needs to be done...
I'm also way behind on e-mails and general communication with other folk in the outside world. I rely heavily on the Internets. Even for silly things such as finding telephone numbers and making complaints to British Telecom about the shoddiness of their customer service.
It is amazing how dependent we have become on all this new technology.
In your absence, I actually married my first couple last weekend - They were gorgeous and it was a real privilege.
Did I tell you already that I love this time of year?
Spring!
When the Blackface lambs start appearing in the fields, gambolling about, nudging their mothers, kicking their heels and challenging one another to play 'King of the Castle' in just a few short weeks...
Things always feel much better for me with Spring on the horizon. The fields seem to absorb the light and glow emerald green here in Hope, Northumberland.
The wide-open skies are dense with scudding clouds, replete with rain to feed the earth and fill the thirsty streams which flow on to the North Sea, impenetrably blue.
Soft green buds unfurl their fronds which feel like heaven to touch. The perfume of yellow gorse and blossoming heather blows down the valley, air-borne, meeting my nostrils and making me dream of summer honey from local busy bees fed on those very same flowers.
'In the spring, a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love'.
Mine turns to the beauty of where I am fortunate enough to live...
...And breathe.
Photo of Lambs on Holy Island, courtesy of Andrew Gibson, Chronicle Live.
The idea of the quizlette being that you find out which 1930's actress you could have been... Simples, non? And I came closest to being like the biggest actress of the Silent Era, lovely Greta Garbo... Quelle surprise, non?!
Well you all know, mes bloggy chums, just how star-struck your dahlink Fhina can be, n'est-ce pas? And, would you believe, I once took part in an exercise at work -- You know that 'Creeping Death' kind of thing, where you share with colleagues one thing about yourself that they might not know? You can imagine, mes paramours, that with Fhina being so gobby, there remains little about me that even the nice old man who sells fruit at the stall 'daan the markit' does not know...
On this occasion, however, the idea was to share a dream career path that we would have trodden, were it not for the good old British Civil Service that has gobbled us up like a spider eating a pesky fly... And can you guess, mes dahlinks, what bold Fhina's answer would have been?!
Mais oui, certainement, I would have wanted to be a great actress... Not just any actress. Hell, no!
A great actress, a diva -- Not necessarily nasty in a Mommie Dearest kind of way, but definitely a star in the cinema firmament. Just like Greta in fact... Then later, I might have been able to say, tearfully, "I vant to be alone..."
Some of you might remember me from my origins here in Hollyblogland... Back in January, I arrived here with mes bruised and battered Louis Vuitton bagages, just like the divine Joan Collins, while awaiting surgery on my back... Eventually, I underwent virtually the same op that David Tennant, the outgoing BBC Dr Who, has had in fact... Except he was back on stage at The National playing Hamlet almost as quickly as you can say Jack Lemmon... ...But not jumping around, or lifting anything of course... Not even 'Alas poor Yorick's' skull, as it turned out.
Et alors, the time has come, the Grandfather Clock has struck the Witching Hour, and Wiki Goddess help me, I am going to attempt a return to work next week -- Without which, I do fear I shall become very like a modern-day Miss Havisham, all musty cobwebs, rotten cake and skreeking rats in my coiffure...
But you know me, non? The dim light on the virtual horizon is that I have found the very bag, specially created for me in my new role... Voila! And do you like it, mes bloggy parentheses?
Have you met Miss Havisham? She is a wealthy spinster in Charles Dickens' novel, Great Expectations. She lives in her ruined mansion with her adopted daughter, Estella, while she herself is described as looking like "the witch of the place".
La Wiki has been doing my homework for me again - Shame! "Miss Havisham is a contradictory character in literature and in the context of her time. Unlike most unmarried women of the era, her wealth gives her tremendous power, which she uses to coax others to do her bidding and to advance her aims, yet she allows her disappointment at being stood up at the altar to ruin her life. She lays waste to her estate, symbolic of herself, and tries to spread her cynicism and malaise to everyone she touches. She is manic (...oui, it could be me after all!) and often seems insane (ca, c'est vrai!), flitting around her house in a faded wedding dress (tick), keeping a decaying feast on her table (tick), and surrounding herself with clocks stopped at twenty minutes to nine (almost, but not quite...).
I shall bleat a little more tomorrow like a new born lamb, if that is all right with you, mes ewes? I feel a little migraine coming on, and a darkened room is beckoning... There is a black velvet chaise longue to languish upon, the oak blinds are drawn on all the blistering windows, and I vant to be alone... A demain, mes bon-bons... Quick kiss? Mwah!
