SAW IT. THOUGHT OF YOU: A Cornucopia of Delightfully Entertaining Complete Bollocks

Hello, You! Yes, You! Long time no blog: I've missed you, you know. No, that's the wrong way round, isn't it? It is you who should have been missing me, being as this is my blog and all. But then, you haven't clamoured for your occasional dose of Mu-Nonsense, so I conclude that my first statement was correct. It is I who have missed you. Commence talking bollocks...

because you know I love Science and shit

A few things have happened that have made me want to bite on spoons again, but there's no need to dwell on those. If I were to write a blog on Why Fifty Shades In Any Of Its Forms Is A Pile Of Fucking Old Wank*, well, I may as well write a blog on Why Hurting Kittens Is Mean. 
I had a birthday; birthdays are not my favourite, but some of you did give me very lovely presents. Thanks ever so much! You are far more generous than I deserve.

because you know I love Octopuses and crazy undies

But no. Instead of spoon-chewing, or birthday gifts, I'm going to share a collection of pictures and clips that you've been sharing with me, in those saw-it-thought-of-you moments. You do know me: lately it's been Chemistry; Bosoms; Grammar; Fancy Shoes; Swearing; Filth; and Octopuses. Sometimes you tell me that I've been in one of your dreams! I LOVE that! And they've all been really cool dreams too, making me quite envious that I wasn't actually there... there was the holding-hands-on-the-bus one; and the carrying-my-luggage-in-LA one; and the drinking-tea-with-Russell-Brand one (no-one's hinted at anything too filthy. That's probably a good thing. But, you know, if it ever happens, keep it to yourself, there's a love. And besides, I'd feel sorry for you). 

because you know I love a bit of Filth

Whenever anyone sends me something like this, though - some little inconsequential item which brought me into their minds - I'm always immensely happy. Perhaps that makes me needy; rather, I hope it means I look for pleasure in small things. If that's true, it means you've seen it too. Thank you. Here they are, dotted about - just a few recent ones. 

There's also this song,which I love, and this blog post, which is just delicious. I want to be her.

www.thebloggess.com

Okay - one spoon-biting moment. For undisclosed reasons, I've been obliged to make my Instagram account private. A private IG profile! Oxymoron much? There hasn't been a greater vehicle for displaying images of narcissistic optimism since the Great Pyramids of Giza. I'm rather fond of my IG account, and I post in there quite frequently. There are many others which would register far higher on the -ometers of Art, Poetry, Beauty, baked goods and Ass-Selfies; still, if you don't already follow me, I'd love it if you would. Otherwise, you won't be able to see my pretty stuff. And that would be a shame. 

Instagram. It makes your eyes go funny

*That's not to say that much has not been written on this subject that isn't well-presented and valid. Here's my favourite. Plus there's this, which about sums it up:

Saimiri sciureus: he's not common at all

This blog entry has nothing to do with Poetry.  Or Shoes. Or anything glittery.  Or Shakespeare.  Or even Cake. 

(but watch me squeeze Douglas Adams in later)

This is about Squirrel Monkeys. Or one particular squirrel monkey, which is not merely endangered but would appear to be beyond extinct. It is so rare that no photograph of it exists... within the realms of Google, anyway.

Arthur was a Zoological Society of London-branded mini plush squirrel monkey. Arthur belonged to my son, and they were best mates for half a lifetime - that's four years.

The Google search yielded only second-rate Arthurs

Here are some squirrel monkeys. Arthur doesn't look like any of these - not quite. They're all wrong. I cannot show you what Arthur actually looks like, because Arthur has been missing for nearly a year.  I wouldn't bother you with a story which must seem so footling, but tonight my son found this (below) on his bookshelf.  Arthur wasn't lost, back then: it's a birthday invitation from two years ago, featuring another squirrel monkey - which isn't Arthur either - but it makes us think of him.    

This makes us sad

So, tonight, he held the invitation in his hand for a while; then turned it over and, laying it aside, said, "I'm not ready to look at that yet."  

I bought him another squirrel monkey a few months ago.  It wasn't the same.  The ears are wrong.  And the paws.  He's fond of it; but, but, but. Arthur is his Douglas Adams, I conclude: my son is still mourning the loss of someone he wasn't ready to lose. Admittedly, Douglas Adams didn't sit on my pillow or ride in my shopping trolley, but it's the same thing. I'd barely begun to appreciate him, then he'd gone.  And the Zoological Society of London doesn't provide a replacement service. 

That's a spider monkey. Not the same thing

These are what Arthur should look like.  The style, anyway.  That is a spider monkey, which is just wrong.  I can buy one of these, or any of about nine other creatures instead, from the gift shop at London Zoo. No: no good.

I'm blogging this because I have looked at no fewer than 2,087 pictures of plush simians tonight, looking for a new Arthur. I should learn to let go, I suppose.  After all, this will not be my boy's last hurt that Mummy cannot make better. 

Have you seen Arthur? He has a crumpled little face and fits in the palm of your hand. Let us know. We miss him.

Poetrix Regina – All Three Verses

© Captain Purky

Save me from celery

Diets are not for me

Cake must be served

God bless Victoria’s

Secret corselettes and bras:

Long to remain hourglass -

I Love My Curves!

God save my Prada shoes

Long Live my Jimmy Choos

God, I love Shoes

Send me a loyalty

Card for Manolo B

Those Louboutins, O.M.G.,

I Must Have Those Shoes!

Thy choicest gifts in store

On me be pleased to pour

Da, da, dee, dee...

Don’t know the words, la la…

This has now gone too far

Oh look, chaps, there’s the bar

Champagne… for… Me! 

© Muriel Lavender

2 June 2012