"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore" - Dorothy, obviously MENSA material

So I bet you sat there all smug and secure in the knowledge that you were older and therefore wiser, and I was just some little girl who was playing dress-up at court in her stilettoes and her jacket suit. And I bet you thought you were being damned smart when you launched into that sneak attack and tried to bully your way through to getting that application part-heard there and then, even though we had made it clear we were only seeking to adjourn and it was damned clear I wasn’t prepared to go on, and you’d taken advantage of that.

I bet you’re not loving eating my chinky Slinky dust, white boy.

Kapow!

And speaking of stilettoes, I had made my escape from the office the other day while the sun was still out, and was idling examining the footwear of the other people at the bus stop. Trying to gauge a person by their shoes is fascinating business. My father, for example, wears a pair of very expensive, very old loafers which have this fabulous mahogany finish that appears to almost have depth, like a well-polished mahogany table. He regularly sits down and fastidiously polishes his shoes to a high shine. Same as the way he weeds his plants every morning and evening, with a kind of meticulous care which is completely at odds with the strange ways in which his mind works. My shoes, by contrast, are usually scuffed up, with the occasional muddy splodge from stomping determinedly through soggy fields in search of a short cut. I don’t know what the fuschia peep-toe pump with a lime-green velvet trim said about the woman wearing them, except perhaps that she had seen too much Sex And The City and that Darren Star had brainwashed her into believing that she was SJP.

So it was that I found myself admiring this pair of black pointy-toed pumps which this woman was wearing. They were structurally elegant, with graceful lines and a high, narrow fluted heel which was thinnest in the middle and then widened towards the base. A velvet ribbon curled across the front of the shoe in a discreet little bow, suggesting an innocence that the arch cutout and three-inch heels denied. They look fabulous and sexy and professional. And all throughout something kept niggling at me, like something I’d forgotten, and then I realized - I was wearing the exact same pair of shoes.

In the truly odd way that only women have, right at that moment I felt a warm wave of fellowship for same-shoe woman, at the fact that the shoes looked so good on her, like a sartorial affirmation, and I found myself looking fondly after her as she tottered off to attempt to scale the stairs to the bus.

I wonder if her calf muscles hurt as much as mine did.

The Boy is still roaming around the jungles of Taiwan, apparently serving his country by training someone else’s country, where the jungle, weather, topography and language is different. Obviously the Army is smarter than I am, since I cannot for the life of me see the benefits of this ridiculous exercise. I am told, rather pathetically by the informant, that it is about 5 degrees there. The all-enlightening Army, in cognizance of this fact, does not provide them with warm clothing. Military intelligence, pooh on that.

Two more days before he comes back, three before I see him again. The days seem to be going by both very very slowly and very very fast.

There are many things I don’t know, and many things I cannot see. I wish, I wish, I wish I could see ahead, to find out what lies ahead for me til clearing’s end. Doubtless everyone will have an opinion. But no one knows for sure. But there are truths, and realities, and those cannot be denied. Like the fact that I think love The Boy more than anyone else, possibly now or ever.

So, to be wildly unoriginal:

I may be able to speak the languages of men and even of angels, but if I
have no love, my speech is no more than a noisy gong or a clanging bell.
I may have the gift of inspired preaching; I may have all knowledge and understand all secrets;
I may have all the faith needed to move mountains - but if I have no love, I am nothing.
I may give away everything I have, and even give up my body to be burnt - but if I have no love, this does me no good.
Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud;
love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable;
love does not keep a record of wrongs;
love is not happy with evil, but is happy with the truth. Love never gives up; and its faith, hope, and patience never fail.
Love is eternal.

I swear I'm so tired I'm going blind. We'll resume our usual bitchy sarcastic programming once I get some sleep. Promise.

Update:

This is specially for Miss C, who cannot access the comments page of my blog.

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Romania.
- Dorothy Parker

Fall not in love, therefore; it will stick to your face
- National Lampoon

Love is a triumph of imagination over intelligence
- H.L. Mencken

And my personal favourite:

Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.
- Matt Groening

Be well.