Love can be swift, throwing caution to the wind

This hasn't happened for a while.  Probably not since the spring before last.  There have been mild attractions and cases of need, but not an all-encompassing, immediate desperation to try and possess and own.

I know the lure.  Its been the same since I was a child capable of choosing for myself.  Its not height or shape, or purpose, but colour.

And that colour is red.

From crimson to cherry, burgundy to berry.  Red does it for me every time.  Last time it was a handbag.  This time its boots.  I knew when I ordered them in the brown and saw that they also came in both purple and red, that I shouldn't even allow them across the threshold of my house.  I knew that if they came out of the box and found their way onto my feet, then all would be lost and they would never leave again.  I didn't need red boots.  I needed a pair of brown ones for work because at the rate I was wearing my new black boots, they wouldn't last until Christmas.  I succumbed.  Oh, weak and self-deluded flesh, I looked temptation in the eye, hesitated and buckled.

'What could be the harm?'  I asked myself, stroking the page, mesmerised, already picturing them on my feet.  'Red or purple?  I'll only try them.  I won't keep them.  I don't need red boots.  And I already have purple boots.  I could order the purple boots as well.  Just to see the shade.'

Purple is rapidly becoming a neck-and-neck runner with red.  Whatever it is, wherever it is, red and purple stop me in my tracks.  Jumpers, wall coverings, bedding, dinner plates, Christmas tree decorations.  Reds and purples offset with deep greens, or browns, or gold.  Heaven!

Of course, the red boots arrived, along with five or so other pairs in brown to try.  I opened the red boots first, carefully unwrapping them and laying them back down in the box on their paper nest.  I would look at and try the brown boots first.  These were the boots I needed.  I'm a grown woman.  I can exert some self control.  The first pair were too high - I did that last year, determined that I would teach myself to walk in them.  I'm fond of them.  I still can't walk in them.  They only go on when the furthest I'll be walking is from front door to car, car to front door, front door to seat.  No stairs.  At all.  My ankles hate me for days afterwards.  This pair was too small - whatever possessed me to order that size?  I haven't been that size since I was 12!  These were very nice, but felt odd when I walked in them.  Between trying each pair of brown boots, my hand reached out to caress the supple leather of my Achilles' heel.

Eventually and with much reverence and ceremony, the red boots were held aloft, each in turn, examined from every angle and then slipped on.  Oh, bliss!  Oh, joy!  They embraced my feet as though magical elven cobblers had placed each stitch in exactly the right place to offer me comfort.  As my heart trilled the Hallelujah Chorus, I ran upstairs to my long mirror and examined them.  I was lost.  Smitten.  The tiny voice that had perched on the farthest reaches of my shoulder alerting me to the folly of my actions was sent flying across the room with a flick of my finger, as if removing a gnat.

I returned to the mess and muddle of brown boots and boxes and wrapping paper in the middle of the living room floor.  I picked the brown twin to my new love as my purchasing necessity and packed up the others to be returned.  I then took my new red boots to meet a friend, who exclaimed, admired and advised the purchase of the purple pair as well, because, frankly they were a staggeringly good price, one could never have too many pairs of comfortable boots and, most importantly, I deserved them.

I might order them.  Just to see the shade.  After all, what could be the harm?  I am a grown woman with self control.  I can always send them back.

Boo! Writing resumes ...

Dear Blog, I have neglected you.  Looking at the date of my last entry, I feel as though I should open with 'Forgive me, Blog, for I have sinned.  It's been four weeks since my last posting.'  However, if you've read previous witterings, you'll be well aware of the existence of a piece of two-by-four used for self-flagellation.  It will, of course, be put to good use immediately ... or at least after I've finished writing.

So, what's news?  What's the goss?  Well, lots I suppose.  Mostly minutiae in the great scheme of things, but they've kept me busy.  Where to begin?

I've started my new job.  I'm working for 'normal' people, at long last.  Having said that, I'm in the NHS so normal is definitely a comparative term.  The natives are friendly and the big chiefs seem to give a monkeys about how their staff are getting on.  Hurrah!  It would be nice if they could work out where I'm meant to be, what training I need and how I get it as quickly as possible, so that I can start doing whatever it is they need me to do - which is still a little bit of a mystery.  The term 'HR' has been bandied around and I keep getting slightly sympathetic looks and small bursts of mildly hysterical laughter when I'm introduced to my new co-workers.  I'm not too concerned.  Yet.

I'm entering my fourth week and I still can't get onto the computer system.  I've pitched up at the Harpenden site twice now to shadow the PA to the Locality Manager supposedly for a week each time.  I think I've racked up about an hour and a half of training in total.  This isn't due to unwillingness to train me, just pressure of work which meant she didn't have time.  Ah, well, I've always been a seat-of-the-pants girl.  This week there was the added problem of two members of staff going off sick at the St Albans site, so for three days I was at one site in the morning and the other in the afternoon.  I kept having to pause when I answered the phone, so that I could remember where I was and who I was working for.  Once I think I just paused and settled on 'Hello'.  Still, I think I've shown my bosses admirable flexibility and actually I've learnt a lot about how both sites work, which is useful.  Yesterday afternoon, the Locality Manager walked past my desk at St Albans, having seen me in Harpenden that morning and said,

'Oh my God, you're here now.'

'Yes,' I replied.  'Actually I'm stalking you.'  She gave me a bit of an odd look.  Note to self ... censor sense of humour.

What else?  Children are well settled at their respective Universities.  Jo's even managed to find herself a part time job at a coffee shop in Cardiff.  In these difficult times I think she deserves a 'well done' for that.  She's having a much happier time with her new housemates and seems to have made a couple of really good friends.  I'm so relieved.

Tasha's taken to university life like a duck to water.  She gets on really well with all 6 of her flatmates - mind you, one seems to be a bit of a recluse, so maybe we should take that down to 5.  He only emerges from his room every three or four days, presumably to find food.  She says there are two students from somewhere in eastern Europe - Bulgaria, or Romania, or Albania or somewhere.  They share a room, even though they are different sexes and aren't in a relationship, which strikes me as a touch odd or vaguely third world.  The girl does all the cooking while the boy criticizes the salt levels in the food.  She makes a lot of chicken, apparently. Two or three whole ones a day.  When asked why, she just said she likes chicken.  And who can argue with that?

The other tenants refer to them in a parental fashion as 'our foreigners'.  I've gently questioned the PCness of this phrase and asked if it's not a touch patronising, or even a little right wing, these are, after all, people not possessions, but I've been told that I'm wrong and it's a label assigned with love.  But then this is from a child who is referred to as 'our Jew' and sees nothing wrong with that, so what do I know.  Maybe we grown-ups have an out-dated and far more frightened view of racism and perception of racial and cultural difference than our children who have grown up in a much larger and more established melting pot.  Joanna's nickname at school for a long time was Jewanna.  I nearly passed out in horror, seeing gas chambers and cattle trucks on the horizon.  She told me not to over-react.  The red-head in the class was called 'Ginge' and they used to ask one of their black classmates to smile so they could find him in the dark.  There is part of my brain that recoils from this like someone with a peanut allergy from bowl of bar snacks.  Whose to say, however, that things haven't moved on and my generation isn't the one with the problem?  Maybe they just acknowledge the difference and move on because that difference is largely unimportant.  Its just like wearing red socks or listening to '80s soft rock.  Its simply part of what makes you you.

What else?  Well, I could tell you about last weekend when I fell down the stairs, or last week when I lost my underwear whilst walking home, but I thing I'll leave that for another time.  I've got a hedge to trim, leaves to sweep and washing to hang out.  Oh, and writing to do ... Level 3 A363 Advanced Creative Writing started last weekend and I also need to get on with my proofreading and copy-editing course, of which I've done precisely four pages.  Since June!  Must get on.