Concern about the invisible... person

My daily visitor has gone very quiet. I hope all is well.

x

Sleepless in.... Somewhere.

This blog gives me pleasure. The blip of interest each day from the other side of the world gives me pleasure.

I can't sleep. In the general scheme of things, this doesn't particularly matter, I suspect. But sleep is lovely!

x

Dear faithful American reader. I don't know who you are or why you check my blog so faithfully, but thank you. The little pulse of interest your visits represent is like a steady heartbeat.

x

Hello

Hello, faithful daily reader in America.

x

And then there was one. Again.


And that 'one' was me. Again. At the best of times I am - amongst other, better, more loveable things - stubborn, independent and furiously resentful of any attempt to control, manipulate or pin me down. This is not the best of times and I'd say my capacity to be a monumental pain in the arse has increased tenfold. At least. It's good, because it's made me into more of a fighter, but it makes it almost inevitable that I'll fight alone. I'm frequently insufferable.

The person who was looking after me so kindly didn't feel that the kindness was always mutual, I guess, and he was right. Every bit of life in me resents dependancy of any kind, and days when I feel that taking a back seat... well, they make me even worse. I'm not ready to be meek, mild and quietly brave.

I'm bloody-minded, passionate and independent, and anyone who really cares for me will value that and worry when it's not in evidence.

Every act of self-censorship is a small death in itself. But principles are lonely things to fight for.

Nostalgia is exactly what it used to be


These days I write another blog, but its editing panel links me back to here. It's been a while since I visited, but browsing through old posts, chicks and chickens has just been a source of immense pleasure.


In the three years that have passed since I last wrote anything on here, life has been busy. I suppose, in the context of most of the posts on here, I should begin by saying that many of our chickens laid their last eggs, and that old age and foxes intervened a lot. There have been some sad farewells... Toffee (my beloved Millefleur) died in my arms after a long time of poorliness and lots of veterinary intervention. 2010 - one of the worst years I can remember for all sorts of reasons - ended with a snowy night driving at least one fox into a frenzy of hunger. S/he hammered through a thick wooden henhouse and took Buffy and Titch, their daughter and his other wife (having got a lot older, he was only up to a small harem by then). Very sad...


2010 began - literally, on New Year's Day - with the end of a seven year relationship with MrRainy. I find myself unable to write anything more on that subject, except to say that it was heartbreaking. 
Adventures ensued, some of them fun, none of them heartwarming. Work was hard and demanding (but sometimes challenging in a good way too). 
The tiredness that had started to dog me in 2008/09 got worse and turned into a succession of illnesses that I never quite shook off. In October 2010 I found myself suddenly in hospital and the following month I was told that I had a cancer that couldn't be cured and that would ultimately 'shorten my life'. 


Nine months later and I'm still here, for now. Working hard at staying that way. Cared for by someone kind. Clearer about relationships that actually make a difference and keep you safe when you need them to. It's been hard, but I'm still here. 


And we still have five chickens, in the biggest, heaviest, most fox-proof house and run you ever did see. But that's another story...

Numbers

Well, I did say I'd write about numbers and then I just forgot all about it. The following is vaguely number-related:

Somewhere in the last couple of days, I've heard a discussion on the radio about a relatively new couple comparing 'numbers'. The man had revealed his number of sexual partners to be what he thought of as being quite high and his girlfriend had been so shocked, she wouldn't speak to him. Then the number was revealed, and I was fairly shocked that such a fuss was being made over what seemed to me to be such a small number.

And then I pondered on what exactly was being counted and it all seemed a bit sillier. Quality/Quantity? Length/stamina? Why is sex so frequently talked of as thought it was a sport? Exactly what can be measured about a genuinely sexual, sensual, loving experience between two consenting adults?

I'm not sure some people get it... if you see what I mean.

(some days I should just go for the early night and not burble!)