The nature of our perceptions influence the fate of our lives says Bruce Lipton and I couldn’t agree more. I wonder if Laverne is remembering anything that I taught her as she mosies round San Diego, getting a tan and soaking up the last of her US salad days-for now anyway. The cheeky minx has made a reference on her blog to ‘feeling like a dotty granny desperately trying to stay in the loop.’ Who can she be referring to, I wonder?
Meanwhile dottie granny is somewhat moribund in the UK , dreaming of walking along a Scottish beach, hand in hand with a fella whose face isn’t quite in focus. Oh yes, and there we are huddling under a blanket (tartan of course) by a driftwood fire.
I blame Sophie Dahl with her tooth-wreckingly sweet amble down the Romantic track. Her recipe for buckwheat blinis, for breakfast a deux, has sent the hormones haywire, no mean feat nowadays. For those of you unfamiliar with her, Sophie has a food programme on TV at the moment, in which she mixes food and nostalgia into explosive fare. Not to everyone’s taste, with her retro kitchen and her slightlyoff camera conversation with an invisible companion. The result is a potent mix of vintage, idyll and beauty, that I find achingly evocative.It seems that her airbrushed nakedness advertising Opium(see above) is from another world.
I wonder how she will take to ageing when her time comes. I suspect with rather more focus than I seem to be rustling up at the moment. Her programme reminds me how standards chez Allbright have dropped, of late. I’ve stopped dressing for dinner, which is a bad sign. The next step will be gulping down every meal, without even laying the table and then there will be no saving me. But at least I’m real which is what an idyll or the airbrushed picture above is not. An idyll, Chambers tells me, is a story of happy innocence or rusticity. Note bene:- A story.
Margery came to stay the night, arriving after a nightmare journey, because a lorry load of pigs had crashed on the M4, resulting in a three hour delay( while the surviving pigs were rounded up and dispatched to the slaughter house.) I’m glad I had chosen to cook chicken (wrapped in Parma ham though, with shallots, mushrooms and creme frais. Yum.) This morning we wandered into town in the sunshine, bemoaning every step of the way our inability to find one single item of clothing that was suitable for women such as we. That is confident, experienced and knowing. I’m not so sure about the seductive any more. Where is Howard Jabobson when I need him? He wouldn’t bat an eyelash at Sophie Dahl’s sweet winsomeness. And I bet he knows a thing or two about the ‘delicate and effortful balance of the female orgasm’ to boot. So I’m concentrating hard on him and his love of the older woman, mindful as always of Lipton’s take on perception.