The chest cold has been joined by a headcold. The last chapter is still awaiting completion. I tried to write yesterday and I couldn’t. Today has been equally unproductive. I was still awake when the Goblin came up the stairs this morning (I’d slept thirteen hours so I was up all night which I happily spent watching Miss Marple on Youtube) I jumped out of my chair and said, “Happy Thanksgiving!” He looked at me with raised Goblin eyebrows and said, “Thanksgiving is tomorrow.” “Oh…” I was very disapointed as it was the first time in years I’d remembered it was Thanksgiving on Thanksgiving…or so I thought. He had to be punished with a Fairy hug. I probably won’t remember to tell him today. C’est ma vie!
I really enjoyed watching Miss Marple. I watched most of ‘A Pocketful of Rye’. Joan Hickson is the best; apparently Agatha Christie once said to Hickson that she hoped Hickson would one day play Miss Marple. Excellent taste! I love Miss Marple. If I had a daughter I’d name her Jayne after five great Janes (Jane Austen, Jayne Eyre, Jayne Marple, Jane Glazebrook and the lovely Jane whose last name I can’t remember so we’ll call her Jane Doe).
When I was young I wanted to grow up and be Miss Marple. I even went through a phase when I was about 19 where I’d often dress like her. I loved those old lady shoes and matching purses and yes, the old lady hats and gloves. I gave my hat collection away before I moved to England. I suspect my Goblin will be greatly relieved to hear that! I must have looked odd (that’s supositional – I thought I looked good). Now of course I just look like a homeless woman.
I prefer the Miss Marple look. If someone had turned to me and said, “Excuse me…why are you dresed like an old woman?” At least said I could say, “Miss Marple is my hero!” Now all I can say is, I can’t find anything I like and I’m allergic to my sewing machine.” I’m not allergic to it, I just seem to be having some sewing-machine issues. I have this cute purse waiting to be finished, but I can’t seem to roll my chair over to my sewing table, but I must finish it!
I haven’t been able to find a winter hat I like in a colour I like so I’ve decided to make one out of an old sweater I accidentally washed in hot water. There should be enough matted wool to make a hat that will fit my head. Sort of a berret with a Cari-twist. My Goblin will be feeling a cold chill on his spine on reading those words. He’s a “C”onservative Goblin. Some years ago I made a jean skirt out of a pair of ugly old jeans and some baroque-ish purple and gold striped upholstery fabric I found at the charity shop…he didn’t like it. I liked it and I wore it. If I overcome my sewing-machine issues I’ll make the hat and put a picture on line.
Now that I’m grown up and nearing middle age I should now start saying “when I’m really old I want to be Miss Marple” though I can’t knit and my pathetic attempts to learn the skill were so bad I don’t think I’ll ever reach this dream. How can you be Miss Marple without being able to knit? No…it won’t happen, but then I wouldn’t really want people dropping dead wherever I went on holliday or every time I visited friends.
Why is it when one has a head cold one feels nostalgic or is this a personal problem? I miss my hat collection. I miss all those polyester dresses (from the 60s) I used to wear. My favorite was this simple blue thing that never wrinkled because it was a lovely slimy-smooth manmade fabric that the white fake lace like print had mostly worn off. My friend Kris-Kris hated it. She was always telling me it was hideous and I should throw it away…she knows the one! At 20 I painted a modernish self portrait in oil wearing that dress. When my mother saw the picture she said she loved it. It was the first time she’d ever liked one of my pictures so I gave it to her. When my parents moved out of State they lost most of their belongings (long scary story). My portrait probably ended up in a charity shop; some old man probably has it hanging on his wall.
I miss visiting Grandma and Grampa at their trailer and the sound of the heater-fan coming on… The sound of that low hum must be the most delicious sound ever heard by human ear; more delicious than any piece of music. The sound seemed to wrap one in a tangible blanket of peace and happiness. I miss the sound of Grampa-Goblin chuckling around his pipe or scowling at me as I refused again to be persuaded that a standing Union is a good thing or that the world is secretly run by a group of nuts called Trilateralists.
I miss Dairy Queen ice cream. I was working there the evening of my twenty-first birthday. My friend Kris-Kris called to wish me happy birthday and made my day. I really hated those polyester trousers! They were almost as bad as the ones I had to wear in marching band in the 9th grade. (first year of Highschool in the U.S). I sort of play the flute. I played it sort of better at fourteen, but not much. Given a choice I would never have been in marching band. Those skin tight polyester brown pants were a nightmare…ie…too small! I was too stupid or embarrassed to ask for a larger pair. The zipper had a propensity for coming undone at the most inconvenient moments; as in when we were marching in a parade…or around the football field at halftime and my mother always bought us white underwear so it would have been highly visible!
I hate American football, but there was a cute guy on the football team. He also ended up on the basketball team (another sport I loath) so I went out for the Pep Band. I paid 10$ for a shirt for that experience. Was it worth it? Debatable. My band teacher loved the Beachboy’s song Barbara Ann…we played that one a lot. I hated it. Now I sort of like it. I must be getting old. But that sporty guy was never going to notice me which is just as well for him because I was still in love with the boy from seventh grade. If He’d been on the basketball team I would never have joined Pep Band. Well maybe. I tended to avoid him because every time I saw him I’d feel seriously electrocuted. That doesn’t go well with playing music.
I don’t miss Band, though I wish I could still play my flute. I finally have it in my posession once again after years of seperation (my baby sister played it for a while). The black plastic case is oddly comforting…all those good-awful days really happened. Isn’t it strange how years of bad days can some how seem lovely with hindsight? I wouldn’t change a thing…except for those brown polyester band trousers.