One is worse than the other in terms of messiness. I am referring to my two beauts of sons.
This is the older one’s table in his bedroom. You’d think he’d have more sense at 19.
This is the younger one’s table in his bedroom. I don’t mean to go on and on about it (i blogged the other day about this messy son) but DID YOU EVER SEE THE LIKES OF IT?
This is a tray that Mauricio made many years ago and which we have had in the kitchen and being used to hold our coffee pots. Despite the grime and dirt that can build up in the kitchen this slate tray has behaved very well indeed, its colours have stayed true to themselves in intensity and even though Mauricio took it out recently to the workshop to give it a little touch up here and there it was looking fairly awesome. Cute Little Fish!!! Very Mauricio – esque???!!!
Every possible blade of grass in the country has been invaded by Aliens, Bad Evil Things called Weeds and every man, woman and child in the country is up in arms to combat this noxious presence, stamp it out, ZERO TOLLERANCE. And what, pray tell me, is the offending substance, Your honour it is nothing less than DANDELION, the dreaded weed of any lawn pride taker. I sentence it to death, immediately and without reading it its rights. To be taken from this courtroom and to be poisoned on the spot and every other member of its species too. Show no mercy. And for God’s sake, DON’T ADMIRE IT. It will try to win you over, flirt with you, show you its beauty, its charm. Just don’t heed it. Stamp it out immediately before it spreads its dirty little existence and multiplies because that’s what it does. It multiplies and before you know it not only every blade of grass but every flower bed and vegtable patch will be overrun by it.
Did you ever wander into unknown territory and wonder where the hell you were? Well we did. This weekend we took a gander at some fields behind our house which have been waiting with open arms for the last 18 years, inviting us to come and explore and stretch our toes out along its merry paths. We had been down there before and had always got the sense that we were in the middle of nowhere but this time, we were lost, truly lost; me saying that we had to go that way and he saying that we had to go the other way and neither of us were right because we forgot one little detail; rivers don’t go in straight lines. They are like (and now permit me to wander off again here) the “dunce” at the back of the class, head full of all kinds of “useless” stuff,. meanderings and musings, always ready to steer off the path into some nook and cranny, anywhere where she can get to, no regard for discipline or conformity. No straight lines for her. Teacher trying to drum it into her and the rest of the class that you must be like a canal (and here please allow me another go at comparison); you must do everything by the book, think in straight lines, blinkers on, do what you’re told. No back answers, no cheek, no thinking outside the box. A straight line from A to B. That way things will go smoothly without upset, no rocking the boat here.
So there we were, with only the sun to guide us as to which direction we should follow and the river always confusing us and bringing the sun behind us instead of in front of us. But we were truly happy. We came across woods that we didn’t know existed, full of Hawthorn bushes and crab apple and huge birch trees along with the odd oak and the ground there full of yellow lesser celandine and the smell of wild garlic assaulting the nostrils every so often. And then suddenly into a big open field full of cowslips and primroses and a hint of nostalgia for childhood crept in, great big long fields with uneven, boggy terrain.
I don’t always say the following. In fact, it’s rarely you’ll hear me utter these words but here I am uttering them nonetheless. I Love White. There I’ve said it and if doesn’t feel half bad. And why the sudden turn around in opinion? Well it’s because I am full of the whiteness, the purity, the freshness of the white blooms on the Hawthorn Bushes at present. The hedgerows, the countryside are awash with them and it’s truly spectacular and uplifting.
And I especially hated white back twenty odd years ago when I was still a mature person, capable of having opinions and all that. The thing is, Mauricio and I were to be married, albeit reluctantly. Not that we didn’t love each other and want to spend the rest of our lives together. No, we were going to do that anyway, married or not married but to be married we were to be, for other reasons that I won’t go into here. So, on the day, instead of wearing white (Now would you have seen me in the full White Wedding Dress, with the frills and fluffs and whatnots, no siree, you wouldn’t, not in a million years) we were actually thinking of wearing our pygies and heading off on our bikes through the streets of Dublin to the Registry Office. Just as well, sensibility reigned on that day, and we settled for “normal clothes”. We even donned freshly polished shoe and, in the case of Mauricio, a tie that got out once a year, and carefully ironed shirts and blouses. Off we went and did the marriage thing.
But I divert from the Hawthorn and its whiteness; its brilliance, its sharpness. Is it this year? Could this be a good year for Hawthorn? Or is my mind playing tricks on me? But I am in awe, awestruck, wowed out with the vision of the hawthorn in bloom. I know it has medicinal value, i.e.. its a heart tonic. Could it be that I’m in need of a heart strengthening tonic and thus am attracted to the Hawthorn bush? Whatever the reason!! I just want to sing its praises today. End of Story!!