Synchronicity... the mind bloggles!
October 1st 2009 03:14
There is some irony in how the last few blog entries have all weaved together. Discontent in Haven Cove, STI rates, tiny brained women and their tiny dogs, and boobs, have all collided (metaphorically speaking) in one short morning.
We have, as any follower of my blog would know, felt emotions ranging between contempt, despair, rage and loathing, towards and about things in the small valley and its community. All of this, however, is tempered with an ability to keep one's tongue firmly in one's cheek, whenever thinking or writing about the folks down here, and above all, a some might say, sanctimonious attitude. Some might accuse me of thinking I'm better than others. I assure you, all evidence points to the fact that I really am.
Our family has been busily contemplating our future in Haven Cove, and the cheapest, most expedient solution, with the most desirable outcome, has come to us this morning. We are extraditing our child from the local school. She's a beautiful rainbow trout in a tiny pond full of carp and mullet, who thrash and trash the ecosystem in which they dwell. The waters are murky, and the gene pool is tiny, and eventually they'll all have bred themselves into extinction, no doubt. But my beautiful rainbow fish is swimming upstream, to less polluted waters and a much bigger pond, where she will grow and flourish and become even more beautiful.
Like a fish who has suddenly been placed in pristine mountain springs, she is overwhelmed. Tears flood out of her liquid aquamarine eyes. But they are tears of relief. It's as though she's suddenly realised just how little oxygen and nutrients she was surviving on in the cesspool we've allowed her to stay in for the last five years. She's estatically flipping and flopping, and eager to explore her new pond, whilst shaking off the last bits of algae and detritus that stick to her luminous scales.
I also feel a great sense of relief. Grief, but relief. We've been hitting our heads against the side of a dam for five years, trying to pretend we could improve the murky waters. But the fish are mutating at a faster rate, and the toxicity is too high. So, to fresh, clear, cool springs, we swim.
But how, you may ask, have discontent, STI's, tiny brained dogs and boobs all converged this morning? Well, in the circus that is Haven Cove, I was, shall I say, stared at by a rabbit in the headlights when I walked in the gates. Full beams were blaring on this bright, sunny morning, from one YM who, to be honest, I could give my some of my own underwear to, and we would both then be fully, appropriately, and most importantly, modestly, clothed. Yes, I've outed myself as a Bridget Jones' type of gal, underneath it all, but the debauchery goes no further past the "scary stomach holding in pants, popular with grannies the world over". There is no Daniel Cleaver permitted to get anywhere near them, declaring, "Hello, Mummy!" or otherwise.
However, I don't think it was support briefs that this mum needed. Just a bra and some self-respect. And perhaps a chastity belt.
My reflections on this scenario at least gave me the opportunity to bring a smile to the face of a most beloved teacher and friend, who has injected pure air and water into the small murky pond over the last five years. We look forward to becoming greater friends, beyond the constraints of professionalism's necessary boundaries.
The circus continued with the small dog, small mind, small people parade. The very carp that suck the most oxygen, and who thrash their little fins most furiously in our personal space, paraded by. It was a moment of joy to realise that it was very likely one of the last times I would have to cross paths with them. I'll still have to drive past their polluted pond, but my daughter will be free from the toxins they expell into the small pond. These small people, (with alliterated names like all two dimensional comic book villains) and their small dogs will not survive anywhere else. They are too used to their polluted environment. It has corrupted every aspect of their lives. Like Homer Simpson said, "Let the baby have its bottle!" Let them continue swimming in their own filth. Let them celebrate their shallow victory in their shallow pond. For the pond will become so putrid soon, they'll suffocate. In their final breaths they'll spit venom at any Good Samaritans that come their way.
So with a heavy burden lifted, and the fight fought, we will, in a little over a day, farewell a very small pond, and dive headlong into another.
And I'm delighted at all the material I've been given by my time here. Stay tuned for the novel/sitcom!
We have, as any follower of my blog would know, felt emotions ranging between contempt, despair, rage and loathing, towards and about things in the small valley and its community. All of this, however, is tempered with an ability to keep one's tongue firmly in one's cheek, whenever thinking or writing about the folks down here, and above all, a some might say, sanctimonious attitude. Some might accuse me of thinking I'm better than others. I assure you, all evidence points to the fact that I really am.
Like a fish who has suddenly been placed in pristine mountain springs, she is overwhelmed. Tears flood out of her liquid aquamarine eyes. But they are tears of relief. It's as though she's suddenly realised just how little oxygen and nutrients she was surviving on in the cesspool we've allowed her to stay in for the last five years. She's estatically flipping and flopping, and eager to explore her new pond, whilst shaking off the last bits of algae and detritus that stick to her luminous scales.
But how, you may ask, have discontent, STI's, tiny brained dogs and boobs all converged this morning? Well, in the circus that is Haven Cove, I was, shall I say, stared at by a rabbit in the headlights when I walked in the gates. Full beams were blaring on this bright, sunny morning, from one YM who, to be honest, I could give my some of my own underwear to, and we would both then be fully, appropriately, and most importantly, modestly, clothed. Yes, I've outed myself as a Bridget Jones' type of gal, underneath it all, but the debauchery goes no further past the "scary stomach holding in pants, popular with grannies the world over". There is no Daniel Cleaver permitted to get anywhere near them, declaring, "Hello, Mummy!" or otherwise.
However, I don't think it was support briefs that this mum needed. Just a bra and some self-respect. And perhaps a chastity belt.
My reflections on this scenario at least gave me the opportunity to bring a smile to the face of a most beloved teacher and friend, who has injected pure air and water into the small murky pond over the last five years. We look forward to becoming greater friends, beyond the constraints of professionalism's necessary boundaries.
The circus continued with the small dog, small mind, small people parade. The very carp that suck the most oxygen, and who thrash their little fins most furiously in our personal space, paraded by. It was a moment of joy to realise that it was very likely one of the last times I would have to cross paths with them. I'll still have to drive past their polluted pond, but my daughter will be free from the toxins they expell into the small pond. These small people, (with alliterated names like all two dimensional comic book villains) and their small dogs will not survive anywhere else. They are too used to their polluted environment. It has corrupted every aspect of their lives. Like Homer Simpson said, "Let the baby have its bottle!" Let them continue swimming in their own filth. Let them celebrate their shallow victory in their shallow pond. For the pond will become so putrid soon, they'll suffocate. In their final breaths they'll spit venom at any Good Samaritans that come their way.
So with a heavy burden lifted, and the fight fought, we will, in a little over a day, farewell a very small pond, and dive headlong into another.
And I'm delighted at all the material I've been given by my time here. Stay tuned for the novel/sitcom!
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