Tangent: I've been tagged

My chest infection has turned to bronchitis, so am still at home feeling rough, but blogging away and enjoying the solitude around me, and the wet plop-plop sound of rain on the window pane. As long as I sit here quietly the coughing and burning chest pain ceases for a while.

What a lovely surprise to get tagged.

I decided to trace this tag backwards to try to find its origin, and managed to go back 14 posts till I was stopped with a 'this blog is open to invited readers only'. This was a mammoth exercise, but great fun. Along the way, I posted a comment on each and every one of these people's blogs, so am hoping to make some new friends.

Here are THE RULES:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as their links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they've been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

My five facts (you decide whether they're random or weird) are:
1.) I planned to spend my 50th birthday sitting on the top of table mountain thinking about my life, when it rained and they closed the cable car for the day. I did it, but later.
2.) I'm a member of the 'mile high' club.
3.) I'm passionate about causes and I spend time helping them, instead of just thinking about them.
4.) I have a Living Will.
5.) I am still studying and try to get a new diploma every year.

I am tagging:
studiololo

teric

auntiemim's

liderata

debra

Happy posting girls, while you grind your teeth at me!!

Tangent: More reminisences

Am still in reminiscent mood.
Cape Town again.
Painted this from an original that I bought there.
Am sure you can see which is which.

Thirty- eight: Reminisce about Cape Town

Cape Town is one of my favourite cities. I got a kick out of living there, the diversity, the beauty, the people, the mountains. I painted this long ago, and I like it a lot.

Twenty: Ode to Moo's bed

My husband calls me 'Moo'. He says it's better than calling me a 'bloody cow'. I've had the name for years and I adore it. This is not about funny nicknames though, it's about 'Moo's bed'.

I lurv my bed. It's my safe haven It's the place I feel most 'at home'. It's the place I go to when the world 'wobbles'. I have often in the past stuck my head under the pillow in order to 'hide' from the world and feel safe (specially in my childhood). Haven't had to do that for many years though.
It's warm, snug, comfy, relaxing and soothing. And, as an extra bonus, I share it with Neil.

My pillow is soft, and just the right height. The duvet is draped just as I like it, as I do the draping, not too much on my side, not too much over the edge, not too much on his side, just right.
I don't have satin sheets, or spectacular colour schemes, in fact my bedroom is very ordinary. No head board at the back of the bed, can't stand those things. No phenomenally gorgeous, outlandishly priced linen, just my usual slightly faded set with the little blue and white flowers, also slightly faded. The walls are painted light cream and have a few bits of art on them, the one of the District Six in Cape Town and the other sea scene in faded pinks with a battered old boat on a desolate beach (both originals, done by African artists and bought on the street from the artists themselves). I do like original art, and have a few more dotted around, all bought or given to me by the artists themselves, including Steve's oil painting he did.
So, here's my ode to my bed.....

' When I'm feeling blue, all I got to do is take a look at you, then I'm not so blue....'

Okay, so it's not an original song, so what?

One: Get a tattoo

Not my first but my second. The first was at 50, upon entering that mature phase of ones life, oh yes and waiting expectantly for oodles of wisdom that would appear miraculously in the middle of the night.

So off I went while living in Cape Town ( gorgeous Cape Town) to some grungy, dingy, dodgy looking 'dive' adorned with dozens of horrific sketches of anything and everything you could have attached to any part of your anatomy.

Why you might ask, why did I choose that particular 'establishment'? Purely on recommendation, oh yes, it was a recommendation from one of my colleagues at school, another well -respected middle -aged member of the community, who had just had an adorable little blue dolphin tattooed on her right hip.

The only female tattooist in the whole place was deftly covering a man's back with an intricate dragon, so I turned blushingly to the only other person there,and stammeringly asked him to do the deed before I lost my nerve.
He invited me into his 'parlour' behind a bright red curtain- the colour of blood - I thought panicking.

At that stage I wasn't going to lift up my dress to display my hip ( I had not even thought to wear a skirt and blouse that day), so I clumsily pulled my bodice sideways, and showing him the left side of my upper chest, asked for a 'fish', a 'very small fish' and 'will it hurt?' and 'are your instruments clean?'

He chuckled and went off to fetch me a much-thumbed catalogue/sketch book/of fish- all sorts of wierd and wonderful, intricate and simple forms; and asked me to choose one of them, which I did, by now in a complete tizz. Here I was about to change the appearance of my upper torso forever and making an instant decision without even getting a second opinion, like 'how does this look on me? ' or 'do you think this one will suit me? or even 'is this the right place to put this?

I won't describe the rest to you, only to say that having a baby was preferable, but Steve (who had his face as close to mine as any ardent lover might have) was so calm and chatty and complimentary about me, my age,my skin, bla bla that I relaxed and even started to enjoy the whole experience, patting myself on the back for this extreme form of bravery and determination, this willingness to be scarred forever by a complete stranger who I would never see again.

The result is one that I am thrilled with and love to this day, my little fishie that everyone remarks on when my blouse tends to fall slightly open, that the older kids at school 'ooh' and 'aah' about, giggling behind their hands at this really 'old' teacher with a tattoo.

So, before I turn 60 I will be having the next one done, and then the next when I turn 70, and 80.

Anyone out there who can recommend a not too grungy, not too dingy, not too dodgy dive somewhere in London?