Tuesday, 8 December 2015

Wait me there

The Greek Fates. Clotho - the Spinner, Lachesis - Measurer;
and Atropos - Cutter of life's thread.
I once told a man to “wait me there”, and the non-discerning soul did wait for me there for a while, at
some location he determined for himself.  It was the days before the advent of the mobile phone, and he had to wait until he next time he laid eyes on me to detail his displeasure on my non-appearance.  He was not amused.  I on the other hand burst a stitch.  I still laugh about it to this day.  I still do not get people who do not get sarcasm.

I meanwhile have learnt the art “wait me there”.  You do ill too me, hurt or harm me.  Unjustly.  If it is just I can live with it. If not, then the problem happens.  I hasten through the whole gamut of emotions.  Shock.  Disbelief.  Distress.  Contusioned ego.  Mashed up pride.   Primitive anger.  Anger.  Hot tear causing tremor inducing anger.  Instant sweat, that turns acrid the minute it surges out of my pores.  Arm pits.  Down my back.  Into my but crack.  Dripping over my knees. Piddling into my shoes.  “Suck in air gal” kind of anger.  Thudding blood pressure heartbeat.

Then comes vengeful thoughts.  Oh my goodness they will see me.  By the sword of whomever, they will see me.  Disjointed quick fire notions pinging all over.  I am going to get even.  Examined by adrenaline charged neurons, discarded as not viable, or prison landing scenarios.  I will thank that little sane part of me that holds me back later.  Not now.  But I breathe.  Move.  Walk away.

Constant instant replays follow.  Oh my goodness.  Who the?  How the?  The gal.  This angle.  That angle.  If I had been someone else.  They would not have dared.  It’s because it’s me.  The audacity.  Powerlessness.

The initial conflagrating heat of anger is fizzling.  But I am still distressed.  Diminished.  The aftermath [I have no clue what this word means, but it sounds like the stinky muddy garbagy things left after a Nairobi flood recedes], the aftermath is no fun place to be.

Acceptance finally comes.  There is nothing I can do.  I cannot hit them.  Smash them.  Obliterate them.  So what I am going to do is wait.  Nurse my wounds to healing and wait.  I will wait, and whatever you want to call it, the universe, karma, God, will sort them out for me. 

Justice exists.  Levied by the Fates.  They watch.  They see.  You sow.   They reap assist you.  And I will ehhhh be watching from the sidelines.  Picking at the scab.  Rubbing on the scar.  To remind them.  Least they forget you.  And your just deserves.  Sooo.  Just.  Wait me there.


Tuesday, 10 November 2015

I will write on my table

I am a creature of habits and routines.  Some good, some nasty, some neither here nor there – Rouge Deck thing with a crimson pool, that I nearly took a tumble into.  Future wise words to self – wear flats on deck.
lukewarm, which I hear is reviled in some quarters.  One thing is, I do not often go into some spaces.  Like the food, fashion and furniture affair at the DusitD2 space – nice, with its with its Rouge Deck thing with a crimson pool, that I nearly took a tumble into.  Future wise words to self – wear flats on deck.

Food was good.  The mushroom fritter like bites dipped in a ricotta and something and dip were divine.  I shamelessly munched on them in bunches of three.  I told the bites distributer to via me every 5 minutes.  Very obedient.  I stopped counting at their fourth stop.  Meanwhile, I was informed that the word divine is bougie bougie and to stop using it tout de suite.  I did.  Will never speak it again.  Only write it when I meet the mushrooms again. 

The fashion walking around adorning the young svelte Norwegian and Kenyans was something I would wear.  Malinens, maafrican maprints maprints attire that looks good, fits right, makes me feel good, and thus I am better!  Being better has many starts– and these clothes can be one start.  Good I am going through a de-clutter and don’t buy more stuff stage. 

Furniture took centre stage.  Literally.  I learnt about dowel joints, invisible joints, custom-made foam and top of the range Stanley tools.  There was a seat I was informed was a favourite – hiraku sofa set they called it.  It is a conversation piece.  Yes, it is built for conversation – seats next to each other have only one arm [on the far side of each, and none on the inner side] so that we can lean into each other as we converse.  I didn’t like them.  At least not then.  Maybe it is because I was not looking for conversation?  About them or on them. Maybe I need to go and have a lean in kind of conversation on them?  They looked like fragments of birds put together.  I neither like nor hate birds, unless it is those unsightly guano dropping clumsy bird things on the Mombasa highway.  I dislike those ones.  I always wonder why they picked that section of the highway to inhabit.  Like the bats discovered on the trees outside a Kenyan county governor’s office, that he is planning to raise up to tourist attraction level.  Applause for his high hopes please.  Thanks.  But why those trees and not the other ones?  Why that spot?  Actually if those chairs were black they would look kinda batty.  Hope the governor doesn’t.  But the bat look, was not the muse for the one armed chairs.  The design came from an Orient man who did something in Tanzania.  Strange bedfellows that, they did definitely give birth to an out-of-the-ordinary sofa.

The owner of the innovative edgy look is Vir.  The third generation Panesar in the business of furniture. He looks like a toy Kalasinga.  Turbaned, slight, chino, no socks, slip-on shoes.  He did not spring tall from the loins of his above average height sire, and his lovely dark and silver sari bedecked mother, she with the most noble brow.  Height he has not, but business talls he has.  I asked him, ‘Why the new designs?’  ‘Why not!  I cannot sell to you what my grandfather sold to yours’.  Or something like that, I had sipped a few mohitos by then, blame them.  I did not tell him for sure that my grandfather would not have bought that birdie chair – one to the mint, nil to the rum.  My grandy was born to sit on a njung’wa [three legged stool], and a foldup chair when he was upscaled by religion and education.  I would love to see Vir’s rendition of the njung’wa with splashes of Oriental and Tanzanian sourced inspiration thrown in.  I really would by the way.  So would you.  I would probably buy it too.  As a centrepiece  of course because old fudgy daddy is gone and springy edgy is in. 

Then I met a desk.  It is an environment by itself.  Truly my kind of conversation piece.  And we spoke my name on it, so I know I will own this desk soon.  The desk is sleek on top, ends abruptly on one end and is boxy curvy on the other.  Knots and wood whirls.  No stain.  Highly glossed.  Made in a wood type I cannot speak of.  It is more than a desk.  It is a table - that does not conform.  In my table’s veins pulses the blood of the creative god.  Enthroned upon it, my fingers onto keyboard will drip the sap of sages.  Vir offered to put my initials on it immediately, but I told him to hold his bats.  It is the price of a ten by eighty sliver of land somewhere.  I think I said, ‘the piece for sure is to die for, the price for to bury one for’, or something like that – the mohitos, remember the mohitos?  Which by now had gathered strength and were popping off at 4 shots to the barrel glass. 

At another time, I will tell you of the Louboutin desk – elleto they call her, the colton seat that just asks to sit on it and ponder awhile, the Vienna bed fit for a maharajah et al.  Classics with modern twists.  The one thing I know though, I can write on this table.  I will write on my table.

Saturday, 31 October 2015

I am going to heaven in high heels.

I am going to heaven in high heels.  In nice funky to-die-for [I can only die once hahahaha] heels.  Orange heels.  That’s my current colour.  Yet I have no orange heels.  Sad.  They may have splashes of other colours.  Awesome looking no pain orange heels.  As comfy as sneakers.  Stilettos or wedges, I really don’t care.  So long as I can kumbayah and walk the gold paved streets with no blisters.

In heaven I will have a cavernous closet.  No fights with anyone, spouse included, about my encroaching clothes into their wardrobe space.  No collapsing clotheshorses burdened with 20 years of clothes. No shoes pilled higgledy piggledy at the bottom of every closet in the house.  No shoes soldier arrayed under my bed. There will be shoe racks with enough space for my single coloured, multicouloured, single soled, double soled, soft soled, no sole, slip on, tie up, muled, strapped, baby dolled, strappy, formal , clothe, pleather, leather, suede shoes .  There will be clothes racks for my dresses.  I will have space for my Diane Von Furstenberg dresses.  The ones I am getting soon. Plus no de-cluttering.  Or mouth watering sales and markets tempting my faint heart to buy buy buy buy!

I will have clothes that fit.  No 13 inch banding shoulders and peeping breasts between the gaping spaces between the buttons. In fact, I will see a dress, I wear it on and voila it fits.  No adjustments needed.  Holding where it should, skipping over where it must. And neck and hem lines that will automatically adjust to suit the audience.  Versatile clothing.  I will be able to wear those pin line, body con dresses and the undetermined length.  Yes I shall.

No week two failed Shawn T25 programmes, looking for the body God should have given me. I will walk if I want to, not because I need to.  I will run - knee willing, for the thrill of the wind on my face.  I will never have to wear a body holding forming training undergarment.  Because my belly will never swell.  Hormonal and carb induced swelling will be gone. There better be non fattening carbs, because my heaven life will begin at carbs.  There will be no bra strap bumps built of carb formed flesh. And there will be no weighing scales. Nada.

I will wear no bra.  Breast will be forever up tilted, firm and perky.  With no undignified sway or bob even as I stride. There will be no sweat track under the boob resting on the belly scenario.  I will not miss the end of the day unhooking of the bra under the clothes, wrestled through the sleeve and flung off in pure bliss.  I will have a perky bottom, not the wobbly saddle bagged mess I have now.  Good legs, not pins.  Plus my finger nails will match with the rest of me, apparently they don’t [haha].  

No food.  Okay some food.  But I will not have to eat.  There will be no every 4 hour faint causing cold sweat bouts of hunger. I will eat from want.  Not need.  Delicious meals.  Coz right now, I really do get tired of getting hungry.  Pained on top of that injury is wondering what to eat.  Ham and red meat will not cause cancer.  Eating vegetables and fruits will.  I hate them. I avoid eating vegetable and don’t eat fruits anyway.  I do drink them.  Drinking them will not cause cancer.  Who made the first smoothie?   Bless them.

Alcohol will not make me drunk.  I will sip and imbibe copious amounts.  Attaining eureka brilliant kinds of states, without nausea, blabbering, loose mouth, agro behaviour nor morbid death warmed over hangovers the next morning.In heaven there will be no baths and showers. No getting dirty.  No washing hair.  No salon visits. No oily pimply breakouts. Gell nails will last for life.  And the primer and oil blocks will hold the oil on my rudolf the oily nosed reindeer face.

My family will be awesome. Obedient yes sir, thank you ma’am kids.  No terrible twos.  Or five year olds that think they know everything.  Or nine year olds that manipulate the roost. Rebellious teens.  In your house adult childs be gone.  The husband will think that the sun rises and sets from me.  And my unthought-of wish will be his command.  My father will be normal, my mother halo’d and my siblings will be in accord with my every fancy and thought.

I’ll drive a truck in heaven.  That big monster head.  With orgasmic throbbing power.  I will gas it up, floor the peddle and just move.  It will never need servicing.  Self lubricating, self renewing mechanical feat of engineering.  The tires will never get slick.  Insurance, the work of the devil will be a dead myth.  Hell, let’s not even need the gas.   Self fueling sounds better.  Most of all there will be no traffic jams.  Just open road, and destinations waiting to happen.

I will live in a mansion.  Not many.  Just one. It will have spaces for all that I do day to day.  Space is the key word here.  No living on top of each other.  Space inside and outside. For things I like doing.  Reading.  Writing.  Teaching.  Fixing.   Laughing.  Singing.  Gardening – or looking at the gardening. Sleeping.  Wifing.  Mothering.  Even eating and bathing.  All of them.  It will be peaceful.  Full to overflowing with all the good things.  And no bad words spoken nor mad moods.

Work.  What?  Work will be [transformed into] leisure.  So we will leisure all day, every day.  From late sunrises – the sun will rise when I awaken.  To late, round the fire singing and scintillating conversation nights. I will entertain at my hearth all and sundry, the rich in mind and famed for something not nothing.  And the  bores and the meanies will never find my space so help me God.

Beauty and  grace.  Spoken and visual. No pain or misery.  We will be giddy on happiness and love.  And shine our light to uplift others.  Giving forward forever.  For decadence and dissipation will not be our cup. My heaven will be, what I wish my every moment, my constant now would be.

image from http://www.ebay.co.uk/

Thursday, 1 October 2015

Get bandwagonned

I refuse to subscribe to the school of popular belief and action, reigning attitudes and stances.  Or
rather, I intend not to subscribe to it.  Intention is the key word here.  Everyone thinks this.  Everyone is doing this.  They did it like this last time.  Uh huh!  That, I don’t do.

It does not always work though – my intent.  It is usually strong, but sometimes I get caught up in the gang-ho and find myself prancing right in the middle of the crowd.  I just slip right in, without question or mental qualm.  And it is great fun.  And I really enjoy it.  Plus it’s safe.  Because I am with everyone else.  Warm and comfortable.  Nice and cuddly.  Wallowing in our unified kumbaya of thought and or deed. 

But sometimes I say no.  Refuse to slide into the mire.  Of the crowd thought.  Which leaves me some options.  I can, one, choose to stand across the road instead, and watch the show.  Two, hotfoot it out of there, either because I know my intent’s will strength versus succumbing ration is low [or high – I never understood that ratio class] but essentially boils down to the fact that I might give in.  Or hotfoot it out of there because I just cannot stand to watch the show – it’s either painful, or it really just doesn’t matter to me.

Vacating the scene starts a mental fight.  Sometimes.  Rarely though, as I think I have become more adept at sidestepping or inured to popular opinion and thought, I pause just around the corner and examine my decision.  It perturbs me.  Itches.  And I have to scratch it.  In my brain.  It just will not go away.  Sometimes I pause for days.  I ask myself, should I have stayed, sang the song, learnt the dance steps?  I wonder, am I missing something major, do they know something I do not know?  Mental scratch, scratch, scratch, scratch, then look under my nail to see if anything, comes off.  Pick pick pick on it.  Until it becomes sore.  Sore and lonely.  I imagine, the crowd saw me walk away, what are they thinking about me, saying about me?  Maybe, I should change my mind and just get into their programme? 

Unpause, turn the corner, hop onto my bus and away.  The further away I get from the crowd, the faster the scab form over my mental sore, and the healing happens.  Rationalised to change or reinforce my attitude.  My beliefs.  My behaviour.

But I did not get bandwaggoned.  Not today.  Maybe tomorrow.  We’ll see.

image from www.cartoonstock.com

Tuesday, 15 September 2015

The concurrent woman

I met a trio of lads the other day.  Young.  Really young.  Young enough to be my kids.  It was an age defining moment - I am old enough to have kids that have gone through college and are earning their living.  Independent young men.  Fine young men.  Doing things.  Going places.  Looking sharp. Sounding good.  And they had been friends for a long time, as long as their young lives allow.

We got talking.  About age, of course about age.  Then life issues, perspectives, relationships.  And women.  When young men are involved in a conversation with an older woman, women may be an agenda item. 

Each had a different view.  Each had a different mondus operandi.

One was not in a relationship.  And was not looking to be in a relationship.  I did not find out why that was; but I understood at this point in his life, he did not need a woman to complete him. [I have always wanted to use that phrase.  I wondered if he was okay – which twentysomething year young man does not need a woman in his life.  But maybe he was born that way?  Physically, soulically, spiritual?  Maybe he will end up in a bikram monastery scenario, though he probably will have a lot of explaining to do, regarding the carrying on of the clan name to his begetters.  I wonder if he is the sole male heir of a traditional thought oriented man.

The second was in a relationship, and must be in a relationship.  Is always in a relationship, with one woman.  Never is without a woman.  One woman leaves the out the back door of his heart, as the next one crosses the welcome home mat at the front.  The serial monogamy kinda man.  Does this mean that he has one girl in the hand, and another within reach.  Living for tomorrow?  Instead of the now, the present moment [he needs to hook up with Eckart Tolle]?. What happens if the girl in the hand is the girl for life?  Will he recognise it?

The last was in multiple relationships.  I thought to myself, he needs a different kind of woman for different times; one for the morning, another for noon and another for nighttimes.  Or different ones for different man things – fun, sport, witty conversation, or just dumb nonthinking cave things. Plus for Friday drink-ups, Saturday road trip, Guest plus one kinda things.  Could he ever do with one woman I wondered to him?  Could he find him one woman to suit him?  Instead of three, four, five? A Stepford wife [read mindbogglingly beyond submissive], who turns into stunning sociality kind of thing and then crazy bitch virago the next, totally mercurial but surprisingly reliable in it?  Drop dead gorgeous – without effort. Playful, thoughtful, funny, intelligent and silly, serious and freaky in turn.  Has assertiveness down pat and yet maddeningly aggressive with full bodied splashes of bad and bitch thrown in.  Who’s God fearing and has her shit together.  Appreciates, respects, loves and baby’s him unconditionally.  All at the same time?   All these aspects [like in geometry] intersecting at one point, one woman? Does such a woman exist? The concurrent woman.
 image from http://jwilson.coe.uga.edu/

Wednesday, 29 July 2015

Two cents worth of yarn

Customer service is dead.  Cremated by its agents.  Damped over the customers’ expectations.

Recently I needed client giveaways.  Urgently.  I called someone who gave me a number for a firm that deals in exactly what I wanted.  I made the call.  And explained what I needed.  I was asked to hold on, and be transferred to the person who could help me.  I talked to a madams.  Lets call her Jean.

Jean told me she could send me a catalogue immediately, and I gave her my email address.

I waited and waited.  Meanwhile, because I never put all my eggs in one basket, and a bird in the hand is worth two in someones else' office, I called a couple more numbers and got a look see.

Twenty four hours later [oh how my patience has grown], I called the firm and asked to speak to June.  I was informed by the person at the other end of the phone that Jean was out, but they would pass on the message.  I impressed upon her my urgency, and asked if was there anyone else who could help me.  No there was no one to help me.  Thank you madam, and I will tell Jean to call you.

A minute later my phone rings.  “You called a few minutes ago looking for Jean, and I told you she was out.  What you can do, is take her number and call her”

I laughed loudly in my head.  “No,” said I, “I am not interested in Jean’s number.  I am interested in the catalogue, so I can see what you have and maybe pick something out.  If Jean is interested in my business, and since you have my number, I am sure she will call me.”  I am still waiting for Jean to call me.  It has been two weeks.

And I did get my giveaways, on time, from a young man who though not schooled in etiquette and any business lingo, coupled with having no reception and catalogues, knows how to deal with a customer.

Which brings me to yesterday or was it today.  I forget.  Anyway, I made an enquiry on some online portal regarding availability of yarn.  Yes – that thing made of wool, real or not, but is used to knit or crotchet.  Someone else had posted an inquiry, got a response, and I put my nose in the mix, and asked a question - was the yarn was available.  The vendor moved me to the inbox with a message;

VENDOR;  Did you make an order for yarn?

ME;  No had not made an order, but if have [any] I am interested

VENDOR; Ok best to call me 07** ******

ME; Do you have in stock? What colour?

VENDOR; Call me.

ME;  Sorry [born of the same womb as Jean], I operate a bit differently.  I ask a question, I usually expect an answer, not instructions on what to do. Thanks anyway.

VENDOR;  No I don't have in stock. Sorry that you operate differently to everyone else, but as my time is precious and I get 50 enquiries a day, it's easier (and nicer) to talk to my customers, then having to spend 30 minutes explaining things through messenger. If you had taken the time to read the pinned information then you would know that I do not stock yarns. Moreover, I find your reply to me rather rude.  This is not a dictatorship you know. Good day to you [my name].

ME – ACTION; I sat up. 

ME – THOUGHT;  Rude? 

ME – ACTION;  Scroll back and see what I wrote. Reading what I wrote.

ME – THOUGHT;  I wrote, I do not do things this way, usually I asked a question, and get an answer, and not “call me” instructions.  If I had been asking – how do I get the information.  Then “call me” would be an appropriate answer – yes? 

Hala!!  Kwani I cannot have a different thought than the vendor?  I must do what the vendor wants?  Who is this? 

Okaaaaaay, so I did not schmooze the vendor, why should I; they are the ones selling, making the money and I am sure good yarn is a not a scarce commodity [this is post the agrarian and industrial revolutions, right]?  But was I rude?  If I say I just want an answer and will not call, is that rude?  Wait a minutes - was that vendor rude to me? 

Dictatorship?  My God!  Idi Amin Dada.  Who is a dictator here?  Vendor for ordering me to call?  Or me for refusing to call and instead asking for a written answer, a simple yes or no.  Help me understand how a call is easier and nicer, when I have sent you a massage query, than a Yes or No written back? 

I am a dictator!  Bifwoli Wakoli, come and see.  Who calls a potential customer a dictator?  Or is the vendor calling themselves a dictator?  I know we all cannot have the gift of gab, ability to put down others so wittily the others applaud.  But you can try.  Learn the art.  Practice.  Even on me.  I do so admire an adroit turn of phrase.  But was that even a put down?

Question – am I a potential customer?  Am I seen as a customer?  Goodness gracious?  Maybe I am not a customer.  Who do they deal with?  People like me?  I’m peering at my reflection on my screen.  You know that reflection of yourself that sits behind what you are doing on the screen.  I’m peering at it and wondering if I look like a potential customer.  Coz that’s me.  And I am wondering if the vendor can see me, and doesn’t want me as customer.

50 inquiries a day?  Vendor time is precious.  Come with them running!! Read pinned information.  Pinned to who?  On what?  Wahala dey find me merrn!

A few seconds later…yes, Jean and her elk are good at this.....

VENDOR;   PS: "Call me" twice means I have the answer for you ready on the phone. So maybe it's yourself that operates differently to anyone else. My 2 cents worth.

ME; Yes [kin of Jean], I "operates differently to anyone else", because I am unique person, fearfully and wonderfully made. I rarely join bandwagons, and [only] step to my own drummer. Please do not be sorry for me. It is a wonderful liberating position to be in.

Note too, that there are people who do not enjoy conversations with vendors - and that is why they will ask for written information over and over again, even on the vendors request to call. People are different. I’ve always thought that a vendor’s aim is to sell, and doing that means creating a win win, mutual beneficial experience.

Yes I totally recognise your time is precious, and you have a many inquiries, but maybe, a written response may not hurt your business too.

How you find my response to you, I cannot control. What I know is my intention, and my operations, which govern my boundaries and interactions.

Yes it is true that “If [I] had taken the time to read the pinned information then [I] would know that [you] do not stock yarns.”. I think we can argue, that we potential customers are still humans and funny like that, and will ask instead of reading, or will miss out some details even if we read.

It has been interesting and actually entertaining “messaging” you. Do have a nice day, and I hope your 2 cents gets you your worth.

ME – FINAL THOUGHT;  not going to get even two cents worth of yarn there am I?


image from http://laughingkidslearn.com

Saturday, 11 July 2015

Lie back in contentment

I know I am smart.  I can figure out things quite quickly.  And see opportunities clearly.

I am brave.  Fearless.  I go for the opportunities.  And I can take on anything and anyone at any time. 

I am confident of my prowess and outcomes in situations.  In all that I do, I am first-rate. 

And my determination?  Unoutclassable.  Through thick and thin, I get there.

I look good.   Actually really fine.  I cut a handsome figure.

Which is what makes me think that I can be something more than I am right now.

Words running idly in my head as I crisscross the township roads getting my shughulis done.

I know I do not know everything.  But I know, I know enough.  To get to where I am going.

I know that one day, I will marvel at my journey and be really glad of who I am.  Those around me will be glad too.  They will wonder how it happened, but I will tell them, I did it my way.  Do you know that song?

My way, I know has many others involved.  I can feel it.  The ones that will count will be the ones who make an impact.  Good or bad.  It does not matter.  But they will be the ones that will mater.

I am not perfect.  There is no perfect.

I know I will hurt people.  There probably will be casualties.  I know I will make mistakes.  Some that I may witness, and others I never find out about.

I will make decisions.  And other not made.  And others will be made for me.  And I will just follow on default mode.

There will be paths taken.  Alleys not explored.  Things not sniffed out.

I think the outcome is preordained.  Whichever road I take, I will get there –to that sit up and marvel place.  Have you watched Sliding Doors?

Where?  That is what I often ask myself.  Where am I going?  Where is my outcome?

During my down times – like the time I had the strange stomach grand mal, and I thought I was dying - I ask myself, is this it?  Sum total?  Live and then die?  Just like that?  Die to where?

Where did I hear that preordained story?  Cannot remember.  But its better than thinking that if I step on the toe of a higher being I could be punished and end up in the gutter as the final destination.  I hate those movies.  Though they drive that predestination theme don’t they?

If I believed in that reincarnation story, it means that I was a really bad higher being and I must be paying for it now.

On my up days, and that is when I give tentative weight to the reincarnation story, I know I must have been a good lesser being and did something to gain my climb up in the value chain of life.  For by golly this journey is exciting.

Let me bypass the junior pack now.  Outrace, outmanoeuvre them.  It’s almost time for them to set out the rubbish outside the SideStreetCafe.  I will be damned if the junior pack led by that pesky Tusker will get first dibs at the juicy rubbish.  Gosh, my jowls are saliva’d already. 

Pick up the pace.  Keep to the plan.  I am not going to get to the sit up in awe place without keeping to the plan.  To the "lie back in contentment" goal.

image from http://mummywhispererblog.com