I don't know what it is but there is a growing intolerance I have with people I have normally tolerated for many years. A constant thought comes to my head and it is "they really don't get it," this is because they only see something from their own point of view. Take for instance a long time friend of mine, probably the only one I have left now. The retired English Teacher. I love him and respect him but why is it I get irritated when he goes into diatribes about things he does not understand as though he is giving some precious information away. An example is when I spoke to him about Sparkling searching for a job. I then had to endure about forty minutes of his advice on how to search for a job, what places to try and what methods to use, even though he has been retired for the last ten plus some years. I didn't interrupt him because he is the type who just doesn't know when to stop. On and on and on he went. I felt like shouting out "do you think she is stupid!" So I delved deep into my inner resource of patience and tolerance, to accept he would say what he had to say because it was a conversation which gave him meaning to life, at this particular moment. Even though I knew his advice was rubbish and was really falling on deaf ears. I tried to think about other things and listen to the radio in the background as it counted down the top classic tunes for the Easter weekend. Well it was either this or let my inner Devil take over and commit homicide. It is a generic phenomenon this talk-at-you. Everyone wants to say something, everyone wants their view point heard and there are few enough people around who actually have the skills to listen. It might be when I reach the retired English teacher's age I'll be the same. Then again maybe not, because for me it is difficult to tolerate many people, I just think there are loads of undiagnosed mentally ill people walking about. Of which I would include anyone with a over zealous belief systems, those who have a pride in ignorance and others who like eating too many polo's.
I don't believe I can fly. I've tried it. My arms don't work and I am not a bird. In colloquial London-English a "bird" can mean female. However, I'm talking about the feathered variety. I don't have feathers. However, if I did have feathers then I might very well be considered a bird. Hopefully not a chicken though, because they get eaten. Were I a bird, I'd probably be a member of the non flight variety, on account of my belly. Which shall I add the retired English teacher commented on. Saying I was fat. OK I been for a couple of long walks over this Easter period in the hope they would shed a few pounds, but these gave to be taken in context with fried breakfasts and eating Easter eggs. Therefore there is some pretty good reason why I can't fly, not being a bird, not having feathers and being fat can count as three of them.
It was at pretty short notice I went to see the retired English Teacher. I could of pulled out of my hat an excuse he uses. Something along the lines of needing two weeks notice because my social diary is so full. It's never full and it would of been slightly petty had I used his common excuse. He did however say I my help was to be required in cooking lunch. Lunch being a roast chicken. It was with dismay I saw him fish from his fridge decidedly dodgy looking broccoli which looked very limp to say the least. He had come up with the notion of sticking a lemon and satsuma inside the chicken as well. But the lemons were not a lemon colour any more, they had gone kind of darkish and their skins hard. We did find a clementine or satsuma, I can't say for sure which it was, just it was one of those small squashed up looking orange fruits. He cut it in half and down the chicken's bum it went, with some garlic and half an onion. I can honestly say they did not actually make much difference to the flavour. For some reason it must of taken us about three to four hours, including preparation and cooking time before we ate. Next time I thought, if I have sufficient notice, I'll bring my own vegetables. It didn't help he had little idea on how to work his oven. So the chicken had to have some extra time cooking, lets not forget so did the roast potatoes. However, the whole event was taken with humour, a bottle of Stella helped and a glass of red wine went someway towards this merriness as well.
And in this last respect, I notice how alcohol seemed to chill me out some more. It seems in this world there is most definately a purpose for the correct application of drugs.
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