A MITOCHONDRIAL DEBT OF GRATITUDE

 MY GRANDMA is ninety-eight today. She broke her hip recently, and the Doctors didn't think she'd make it. But she bloody did. So they gave her a new hip. Then she had a fall and broke her nose, and the Nurses named her Miss Independence and she recovered. 

My Grandma is amazing. My Grandma renews her circle of friends every ten years or so: not that she outgrows them; she out-lives them. My Grandma likes Bombay Sapphire and Grey Goose. My Grandma can still beat me at Scrabble.

My Grandma is still beautiful. My Grandma will not be beaten.

Here is a poem about birthdays. I've just noticed it's one of three that I've written where the last line is nicked from Shakespeare. I didn't write it for my Grandma, but I like it and it's got a Hello! style magazine cover to go with it, which is at the bottom, and you can scroll down and look at it, but read the poem first, please, because it's fun, and it's got fairies in and that.

Happy Birthday, Fairy

Happy Birthday!  Being nine

Is super fun – it’s just divine!

And so last-year, now, to be eight:

Quite vieux-chapeau (that’s ‘out of date’)

But: with age comes duty, too

And every fairy knows it’s true

So in between the cake and tea,

And all good things your day should be

A moment, please, to think about

A fairy’s work indoors and out

Wave your wand about like so

To make the pretty flowers grow

In brightly-coloured dainty crowds

Shine the sun and pink the clouds,

Shake the trees to fill the air

With perfumed cherry-blossom fair,

Smile to lift the sky – and just

Remember all that Fairy Dust

Won’t get sprinkled by itself

And never ask a passing Elf

To help – they simply can’t be trusted

To get a single daisy dusted -

Let alone a Fairy Dell

(Do that yourself, it’s just as well);

Bollocks to all that – it’s too

Much like hard work, I think – don’t you?

Sit your arse down, have a fag

A quick flick through a gossip rag

And gloat at all the trash you read

About Peaseblossom, Mustardseed

Cobweb, Moth and all the others

A-List Fairies, like Godmothers

Down through all the woodland folk

Like talking rabbits (what a joke:

Who on earth cares what they say?

They’re high on clover anyway

Check out those photos! What the fuck –

Somebody’s had something tucked

I can’t believe it’s Tinker Bell!

Mavis Cruet’s diet hell

Is all behind her,she looks grand

(She’s fitted with a gastric band)

In his column, saucy Puck

Rakes through all the fairy muck:

Turns out Oberon has fathered

Quite a clutch of fairy bastards

When it broke, as scandals must

Titania hit the fairy dust

Never one to take things lightly

The fairy queen, it’s said, was nightly

Found sprawled upon a bed of Moss

Til Kate herself was at a loss

There’s only so much you can do

Men will be men, and fairies too

Lay aside such trifling leaves

There’s yet an arc of spells to weave

So polish up your fairy shoes

And then, the magic evening dews

Will need a very generous sprinkling

Drip drops until the garden’s twinkling:

For many a Princess’s true-love spell

(A few enchanted frogs’, as well)

Have sadly never come to pass

Because some sprite could not be arsed

Enchanting every nook and cranny

Granted it’s a proper fanny

If the job’s done properly

But all the fairy folk agree

Far worse if we were stuck inside

At office desk and chair confined

Screen-gazing til our temples bleed

Lord, what fools these mortals be

 

© Muriel Lavender

September 2011

Rubbish artwork © Muriel Lavender using Paintbox and a rather cool tattoo I found on the Internets

I’ve Entered The ‘Niche Years’ Now. Boy, Are You In Trouble

TODAY IS MY BIRTHDAY.  
But you all know that – I’ve dropped enough hints.

A cake. I made it.

I will be busy enjoying Champagne and good company tomorrow night, so naturally I will be far too busy to publish a birthday blog. That will have to wait,because I shall be straight off to host a Burns’ Night Charity Fundraiser on Saturday, then home for tea and cake with my gorgeous girl-friends on Sunday.

I’ve had so much to share with you, and yet my blog posts are pitifully few… though neither are my readers’ numbers multitudinous – I’ve checked my stats and it took a lovely big painting of a lady’s lady-parts to boost my views to 500 in a day! Pffft. You people, you’re terrible. Here are some highlights, then, of the last year…

DID I MENTION THAT I AM MISS JANUARY? Well, I am. I came in with the most votes in the photo competition, and there I am, all over it (and all over some of my gentleman-friends too, apparently, the dirty buggers).  

   

Some of your walls are graced by the Whiskerinas’ Calendar this year, and you get me all month – my birthday month. Lucky you.  I thought I’d share the email I sent to lovely Jodi, who organised the Calendar Contest and has done so much to support the Give The Kids The World Foundation. Here it is:
“ Jodi, I'm sorry to 'spill' on you but there's something I'd like to share with you. I got the news about the Calendar this morning, I went about my business, I dropped my children at their schools; then I cried all the way to work. As you know, it's my birthday in January: I shall be 40. Three years ago I couldn't bear to look at myself in a mirror. Five years ago I sort of hoped I might get hit by a truck as it would take a lot of complicated decisions out of my hands. Then I began creative writing. Then Poetry. Then performance. Then Burlesque. Then Bearding. It's been quite a journey, and it's not over. But I wanted to give you an idea of what it represents, for me, to be 'Miss January', during the month of my 40th birthday, after what I went through. It's a big fucking deal, is what I'm trying to say, and - well, thank you. Beard On, Sister! Love, Mu”

That's not my bottom. For a change

That’s all. So if this all seems a bit ‘Me-Me-Me’, and if you’re getting a teensy bit bored of me posting pictures of my arse all over the place, do you know what? I give no fucks about that. I’m enjoying being me, and I’m loving being 40. I’ve entered the ‘Niche Years’ now, Baby, and it’s taken me this long to begin to work out who I am. Thank you to all the incredible, inspirational, beautiful, crazy people who’ve shared this journey so far. Ooh – tearing up. Stop it. Here are some photos.

Written by a young person with Autism, after I visited his school for a poetry workshop on National Poetry Day

Treasured moment with FergalMcElherron at Shakespeare's Globe last summer

Deadly Is The Female, 5th Birthday celebration

This should happen to every girl at least once

Chatting with Sir Terry - what a privilege

Me and the dear Professor, way back in, ooh, 2238 A.D.

Something I invented this year

My most popular post - with almost 6000 shares!

The darling Wife

Some of my less rude cakes. You should have seen the others

Ah, Captain. Such adventures!

WORLD Champion (Silver). Stuttgart. I know.

Happy times with truly wonderful people

*I’ll tell you something else, too. For the first time in fifteen years, I own a full-length mirror – bought it last week. Perhaps, this year – just perhaps – I’ll even take it out of its wrapping.

Oh Go On, Let Me Be A Bishop, Please, I'd Be A ******* Good One

© 2012 Muriel Lavender - Play-Mu-Bish

Dearly Beloved, today's sermon is taken from the Fifteenth Book of Christmas, chapter 12, verses 1-24. I wrote it myself. Isn't that the custom? I am a Bishop. 

^"1And it came to pass that Joseph of Nazareth did speak unto his wife a third time, saying, O most holy Mother, the cock hath crew thrice already and His Lordship hath not yet arisen from his pit. ²And Mary did consider and reply, Do not forget, Husband, that the Lord is a growing boy and He needeth His sleep. ³And mind thy grammar. ⁴That may be so, Wife, said Joseph unto Mary, but it changeth not the fact that thou art suffering Him to lie about in bed today of all days. ⁵Whereupon Mary did flick Joseph about the tunic with a teatowel, saying, Thou wert no doubt the same when thou wert that age. ⁶Unto this Joseph could make no reply, for he saw that the most Holy Virgin Mother did verily speak the truth. When he could no more endure the waiting, Joseph did again go to Mary and implore of her, Canst thou do nothing to wake Him? ⁷The hour at which we break our fast approacheth, and my stomach doth begin to believe that, like the sacrificial lamb, my throat hath been cut. ⁸At this Mary did roll of her eyes unto Heaven and say, ⁹Sooth, thou shalt not die of hunger, thou great wet blanket, why dost thou not make thyself useful and bring forth the Hoover? ¹⁰The Hoover? quoth Joseph. ¹¹Yea, the Hoover, quoth Mary, and verily at that moment did a brilliant light  shine upon the head of Joseph, and the angels did sing in holy harmony. Ah, uttered he, ¹²I get thy drift. ¹³And thus it came to pass that Joseph did extract the Hoover from where it lay in a small utility cave, the existence of which was unto him hitherto unknown. And in his joy, Joseph was moved to exclaim, ¹⁴Righteously with this Hoover shall I cause the Lord to stir even from his pit, that we may at last gladly and with thanks feast upon our festive victuals and open our presents. ¹⁵Well done, Husband, Mary did reply unto him in such a virtuous whisper that he might not hear, ¹⁶Art thou not clever. ¹⁷And at that moment by the pressing of the button which beareth the Mighty Word, ‘ON’, did Joseph cause the air to be rent by a fearful noise. ¹⁸And the fearful noise did continue until the door unto the Lord’s chamber did open, whereupon the Lord Himself did appear, in His pants. At this Joseph did rejoice in his small victory, and enquired of the Lord, ¹⁹Jesus, what time dost thou call this? ²⁰And the Lord was most displeased, and He did gnash of His teeth and speak in tongues about it being well unfair, it’s like My birthday and everything. ²¹And with that did He shuffle into the bathroom, from whence did issue sounds which, though alarming, did fill of His parents’ hearts with hope that the Lord may yet appear a second time before noon.  ²²And Mary did turn unto Joseph, saying, there you are Husband, ²³the Lord doth move in mysterious ways. And Joseph did reply, ²⁴Yea, dear Wife, that He doth."

Here endeth the lesson.

© Muriel Lavender

November 2011