at home with ann

Archive for the ‘vincent and verse’ Category

at the park with their greatgrandma
at the park with their greatgrandma


on the london underground
on the london underground




It has been an amazing few weeks – for the last four weekends house-guests and dinner-guests have graced my home and table; I loved every minute but the last ten days was the greatest pleasure of them all.    I was on cloud nine, but now I am brought back to earth – they have gone home  boo hoo 😦    and I miss them already.  

Admitting I’m exhausted is an understatement, but I wouldn’t have had it any other way.   While the children were here my ma celebrated her birthday; lots of fuss sharing it with her greatgrandchildren turned it into a very special day and one to remember.

Sadly, at the same time we were commemorating the anniversary of my father’s passing four years ago yesterday.   I was at jojo’s blog recently and read how she wanted to contact a facebook friend and was shocked to learn she had died.   Just as shocked to see in the news yesterday the death of Stephen Gately… a waste of a wonderful talent.   Death, the one thing we have in common – it will happen to us all one day.   I think about it a lot, but not in a morbid way.   I believe our physical lives here is a testing ground for our eternal spiritual life; we learn here, we learn there and so life goes on.    What lives for ever is the impact we make on other people; hoping to leave a good name and good memories, a lasting legacy and that when we go our lives will be something to celebrate.

Having said that, we also suffered another loss.   Some of you may recall my stories of  ‘the Ferrari driving lech’ – he died – what a shock that was.    He lived his life to the full and I imagine he has found a great golf course up there with an excellent nineteenth watering hole.   Of course his passing meant I conveyed my condolences to his cousin, my ex, as they were very close like brothers and good friends.   You’d think after all this time  hearing his voice wouldn’t affect me; it did.   I am still confused, still don’t understand how we are where we are, especially when he still calls me ‘doll’.   This one’s for him!

Divine Retribution

We’re apart – for now
You’re doing your ‘thing’
But, when day is done
We’ll likely be together
In the world to come
You’ll think you’ve gone to hell
In heaven, I shall be
That, my love, is destiny


The v-vixens have also been suffering a shock and loss and reactions around blogdom can be likened to a bereavement.    I’m surprised Kleenex sales haven’t boomed.

Detective Robert Goren is leaving lo:ci!  Detective Robert Goren a fictional character, the creation of the brilliantly talented Vincent D’Onofrio and the most fantastic fantasy fodder ever.  Vincent you naughty boy, you knew what buttons to push and that women would be swooning over gorgeous multi-talented sex on legs Goren.    However, thank goodness Vincent D’Onofrio is real and lives on.  Our detective is leaving the show and mercifully not in a bag or wooden box, which means the door is still open, but I won’t hold my breath!   

I asked elsewhere, did he jump or was he pushed?   I don’t think it would have taken much of a shove for Vincent to exit stage left and I am excitedly looking forward to his new projects, maybe much bigger parts for us to savour on the big screen (take that comment how you wish).     Sure Bobby Bobby will be sorely missed; I’ve been watching the show again from the very beginning on Quest, not that I needed that to see the enormous changes in him, the storylines, the intros, etc. and not all necessarily to the improvement of the show.  I don’t belittle Vincent’s acting talent; he had to do his best with lousy writing and no amount of decent direction could rescue that – I’m sorry, but to discover he was the illegitimate son of a convicted serial killer and his ‘on the verge of dementia’ aged puny mentor bumped off his nemesis and we didn’t actually get to see the happy event, were two threads too far off the radar.    I always believe it’s better to leave on a high, so hopefully the powers that be will pull out all the stops so that the two hour special series opener will be Vincent, Katherine and Eric’s high notes.   Imho, ITWSH was brilliant – it can be done again!  



 … guess this is how the vixens feel!

A dear friend has suggested the reason I’ve not blogged for a while is because I don’t have a life – I think she may be right, especially when the highlight of my life this week was my excitement at filling my tank up for just under £40.00 – albeit with the benefit of 5p off a litre from a Tesco coupon – reducing the price to under 90p… wow! At first I was so excited to see petrol go below £1.00 a litre and am always comparing prices in my neck of the wood to those of North London where my car seems to go on autopilot round the North Circular, but it’s still an extortionate price so, excuse the pun when I say, they still have us over a barrel.

I’m still doing book club and last month’s read was my choice. I’ve always loved the writing style of Isabel Allende and hoping my friends would share my taste, I resurrected an old fav of mine, The House of the Spirits. Allende’s writing is so colourful and this book moved at a fast pace through four generations. One character who plays no great part, but is alluded to, is called the Poet and he was probably based on Pablo Neruda whose work moves me so much. When I had my London~Love~Vincent blog I felt his following poems perfectly mirrored Robert E Howard’s highs and lows in his relationship with Novalynne. As many of you know, I love poetry and I love Vincent D’Onofrio and I love TWWW; I shall never waiver from my belief that Vincent’s portrayal of REH was his absolute uber-best performance.


Tonight I Can Write the Saddest Lines

Pablo Neruda

Write, for example, “The night is starry and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.”
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms. I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too. How could one not have loved her great still eyes?
Tonight I can write the saddest lines. To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her. And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her. The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer. My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees. We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her. My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses. Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms. My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer and these the last verses that I write for her.


I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You

Pablo Neruda

I do not love you except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you My heart moves from cold to fire.
I love you only because it’s you the one I love; I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.
Maybe January light will consume My heart with its cruel ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you
Because I love you,
Love, in fire and blood.



Guess where I’ll be this time next week…



I guess I have been keeping a fairly low profile lately and, gosh, it’s been a whole month since I last posted, so what’s been going on since then that’s kept me away from blogdom. I have lurked and commented here and there a little… I mean what a weekend to discover Five Minutes Mr Welles was on YouTube; the only piece of Vincent D’Onofrio that we thought was beyond our reach and never in our wildest dreams that we, his loyal fans, would ever get to watch. Of course a DVD wouldn’t actually go amiss. Still this caused quite a stir in the lives of the V-Vixons. I won’t copy it again here or even review it, yet! It’s linked for anyone who hasn’t seen it elsewhere. Whoever posted it has done it in the name of the man himself. Thank you whoever you are, especially if it’s you Vincent sweetheart, but if it’s not you dear Vincent, then shame on the person who is using your name… you’re naughty but nice!

Oh and wasn’t PURGATORY absolutely wonderful. Poor Bobby Bobby. I know it’s all been said elsewhere, but I still had to get my tuppence worth in.


At the playground

Boaz at the Zoo

My trip to Israel was fantastic; I had a wonderful time with the children, they were an absolute joy. I also managed to catch up with a number of people, friends and business, but mostly chilling out with the babies. The day following Shavuot Jon and Bridgitte had to go to work and Moriah’s nursery was open, but Boaz had the day off, so it was quality time with gwandma. We were going to the zoo, just the two of us… he was so excited; children just know when they’re gonna be well and truly spoilt and get lots and lotsa treats. His only disappointment was the bus… it didn’t show up, which meant we had to hitch a ride. It kinda reminded me nostalgically of my single days tramping through the country and since everyone does it, it didn’t bother me now either. As much as Boaz had, to quote him, “the best day ever,” he was also woefully saying to his daddy, “the bus didn’t come, aba, the bus didn’t come.”

I am trying to teach my darling grandson English. It’s not because he only speaks Ivrit; he’s bilingual, BUT he speaks with a New York accent. Bob the Builder is Baab and water is waaarter and bath is baaaarth. He giggles when he mimics me… even my son has lost his English accent. He told me that someone he knew some years back from London asked if he was at the swimming pool a couple of weeks earlier. She said it looked like you with these two gorgeous blonde children, then you opened your mouth and I thought it was an American.

Poor Moriah got poorly whilst I was there and within a day or two I was coughing away and I’d lost my voice; luckily I didn’t feel poorly until, yeah, I got home. I waited a couple of hours at the quack for an emergency appointment and, without hesitation, he prescribed me horse pill sized antibiotics. I only have two days of them left and my throat is sorer than ever, I’m coughing much the same and my voice is still barely audible… although some say I sound sexy… huh!!!! Actually I’m supposed to be calling some new guy, but I don’t want to give him the wrong impression, although, hmmmm…. maybe I should. I was toying with calling him tonight, but I’ve been out all day and now it’s too late to call… shucks! Still, as they say, tomorrow is another day!

So where have I been all day? Yes, Jamie and Lucy moved flats (apartments) today, so Lucy’s mum and aunt and I were busy unpacking boxes and, as exhausting and backbreaking as it all was, we really got on with it and helped them break the back of it all. They’ve moved from a small two-bedder in Borehamwood, to a really spacious three-bedder in a beautiful tree-lined street in Barnet, for any of you Londoners who know the area. They say location location location is everything, well this really is a lovely lovely spot.

Me being poorly put me on a massive guilt trip because the day I came home mother was going into hospital for tests and the next day I was gonna collect her and bring her to recover chez moi. Of course that was not gonna happen… not a good idea at all. And I had to put the rest of the family off from coming for Friday night dinner… guilt trip numero deux, but I shall make it up to them this week.

Following me freaking out about my brother and his heart surgery, before I went away I saw a cardiologist and had an assortment of tests, the most conclusive one being a 64 multislice scan. Between us Ray and I have inherited assorted things from our folks and I know that many years ago, in my prime, I had my womanhood removed just as my ma had… well of course my bro wasn’t gonna cop that one. However when she underwent open-heart surgery about 11 years ago I dreaded the worst and have popped preventative medication to avoid the ‘like mother like daughter‘ scenario again. Yesterday I got the results. You know i have to thank my GP, because without being overdramatic, his foresight has saved me surgery. There is evidence of coronary heart disease which we had suspected, genes and all that, but with aggressive doses of some relatively new medication, my lovely heart guy believes it can be successfully treated that way. Phew!!!!! I can’t tell you how relieved I am and I’m pleased to report that Ray is recovering brilliantly.

In the meantime I have signed up for a new Jewish learning course… something I used to do fairly regularly until I got kinda lazy lumpy and lethargic. The first lecture was Monday and it felt good to be stimulating my mind again. Having said that I’ve been quite the bookworm too. Has anyone read Ian McEwan’s Atonement? This was chosen by my bookclub a few months ago. I had tried to read it a couple of years earlier and it became a chore to read; I was simply not enjoying it. It was the story I didn’t like, not Ian McEwan’s excellent writing skill. I confessed as such at the meeting, but all my friends raved about the book and they must’ve discussed it for a good couple of hours. I was stunned, so, I thought I’d give it another try and see what I’d missed. I read it… every single word. I still didn’t like it! DOH!

I managed to dodge the Jane Eyre meeting… thank goodness! I used to love the classics, but I really have to be in the right frame of mind to pick one up these days. However I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed Deborah Moggach’s These Foolish Things and 50/50 enjoyed/got irritated by Danny Scheinmann’s Random Acts of Heroic Love. I’m not sure if I ever mentioned Salmon Fishing in the Yemen by Paul Torday… loved it, loved it, loved it! The next book on the list is Phillipa Gregory’s The Other Boleyn Girl… I felt sure I had it sitting on my bookcase, but it seems to be other Boleyn books. For quick bursts I’ve been dipping into Jeffrey Deaver’s second book of short stories… perfect for flying!

I’m sure I had some other nonsense to tell you, but if I don’t write it down, I don’t remember. Probably about the wedding… OY YA YOY!!!!! They say, “it’ll be alright on the night” – it had better be, this wedding is costing more even as I skip over the keys. The shekel is amazingly strong at the moment… last year we got over 8 to the pound and this year only 6, which means the wedding, by default, is automatically 25% more expensive, and the budget was higher this time round anyway… DOUBLE OY YA YOY!!!! It has been suggested by some that I tell the ex (he is the bride’s father after all) but I know him too well… he will stick to his budget and say tough… TREBLE OY YA YOY!!!!! There may be some news on the dress front by the time I next get round to posting, but, don’t hold your breath. I just can’t seem to get my head round it even though I spent most of the morning emailing the wedding planner backwards and forwards. The wedding is only 12 weeks away… we travel in 11 weeks… HELP!



torn this way, torn that
so many needs to please
but at what cost

whose needs
precede the one before
when one has to be last

the goalposts move
fine line to cross
the price is high

between right and wrong
and risk of loss
guilt is hard to bear

you can’t be there
you cannot share
every part of you

not with everyone you love
no matter how much you do
it’s never enough

there must an art
to all this stuff
before it tears your heart apart

and there’s nothing left
for anyone
not even you

this just about sums up perfect-ly the high I was on for ten perfect days; thank you Diane, thank you Brian, thank you so much for everything.


I’m back and I’ve no trips planned until 22 weeks today when I go en famille to Israel for darling daughter’s nuptials… boooo hoooo!   When I say no trips planned, the thought of five months solid at home and at work with no foreseeable break sounds rather painful, so who knows what tomorrow will bring; I do like to do things on a whim rather than plan my life away 😉

Florida was fantastic… we had an ab brill time, but on this occasion we didn’t make it to Disney.  However, I am given to understand that Mr D’Onofrio wasn’t there last week either!   Gee, we do have something in common… still maybe next time!  Believe me there will be a next time, if not there then here.  I am already wondering when I can go back or when they can come here again.

Diane and Brian were the perfect hosts and took care of me beautifully.   They are great company and great friends.  Amongst lots of  wonderful trips, we met up with some fellow blogging friends of theirs and had a riot getting to know each other over a cocktail fuelled lunch overlooking the ocean on a beautiful sunny day.  Such a tough life.   It’s a hard job, but someone has to do it!


I’ve noticed that because Greta Scacchi is returning to the London stage, she has been interviewed and accredited her portrayal of Hester in Terence Rattigan’s The Deep Blue Sea to the deep raw emotions caused by her and Vincent’s breakup and her inability to work for four years.   This has generated comments here and there, some I think cutting and callous.    

My ex could in no way resemble our dearest Vincent, not even through the rosiest possible tinted glasses, but he was the man I loved, the man who fathered my children and, trust me, I believe Greta and understand exactly where she is coming from.  It is totally irrelevant who or what caused their divorce; if you love someone and it is unrequited, for whatever reason, it hurts. 

What I considered to be a wonderful marriage after 25 years turned pear-shaped in 1999 and steadily went downhill from then causing heartache and pain.  By 2003 the divorce papers were signed and sealed, the final nail in the coffin that was our marriage.   It is like a death.   A marriage died.  It is a bereavement and there is a grieving process that cannot be contained.  I also couldn’t work, couldn’t function properly and was an utter waste of space.

It is now 2008 and I can honestly say it has taken me practically this long to resurrect myself, reinvent myself and venture forward into the unknown.   Well in the short space of time that I’ve joined the cattle market, aka as the internet dating game of the 2000’s, I can honestly say…  it sucks.  Whatever angst we suffered dating in our teens belongs there and should have no place in the world of a middle-aged singleton. 

The men all hold the same belief that every woman wants marriage.  So far every man I’ve  had the misfortune to meet or spoken to has said that’s actually what they want.   Well, of course they do.  As they get older they want someone to take care of them.  However, I feel myself tremble and my hands shake and beads of sweat pepper my brow when the word marriage is spouted and I know that’s not what I want at all.    I won’t deny that I do like men, good men; I love their company and that’s all that I want; no strings attached, no piece of paper where wife is a euphemism for nursemaid, etc.   Someone to share a meal, a movie, a play, a gallery, a precious moment, that would be nice… is that so much to ask? 

The guys I’ve met so far can’t even hold a door open for me, or hold a decent conversation, or hold their dirty thoughts to themselves, or hold a candle to the wonderful men I do know and like and respect; those who are loyal and loving husbands to my dear friends, their wives.  Yes, there are some great men out there, all taken.  

I am a fairly free spirited financially independent woman of a certain age with certain standards. I don’t want or need a man for financial support; I just wanted to feel desired again; I wanted to love and be loved in return… to hold and be held, but it’s been so long and I have learnt a powerful lesson.  I don’t know how to do it anymore, or how to play the game.   I have come to realise I am well and truly past my sell by date.

So…  I shall say not another word on the subject.   The matter is closed and I am going to unsubscribe my subscription.   I tried. I failed.  Now where did I put my knitting needles; I’ve got to do something with my hands!


The last time I found a vid to this ab fab song, it was TWWW… here it is to Bobby and it works just as well I think.


Lotsa kissing… mmmmmmm.    I never said I’m giving up on fantasy or memories! 

For the V-Vixens who blog every single day, unlike some of us who not only don’t get to other blogs, they don’t even get to their own.  




I was getting daily calls saying, “We’ve decided.”   Great, I think, now we can move ahead.  Then she says, “… but we just wanna sleep on it.”  The next day another call.  “We’ve definitely decided.”  Great, I think again, but this time it’s the other venue.   In a space of two days we travelled the length and breadth (well there’s not much breadth) of Israel and narrowed the possible venues down to two; a sea location near Caesarea and beautiful magical gardens with strutting peacocks in Herzliya.  My daughter is not known for indecision, but I think she’s very concerned that her beloved is happy with their decision.   We have a date set; the beginning of September; the one date that both venues were available.  It is barely six months away and still to be organised is the music; they want simcha music (Israeli dancing) and then a DJ playing into the wee small hours.  Also caterers do not include booze, so we have to employ a bar company in addition to the caterer.  Then most venues are plain and devoid of decor, so a designer has to be brought in to give it the WOW factor… and then of course we have to organise flights and accommodation, etc etc etc.  One thing that’s booked so far is the photographer!

I came back from Israel last week totally pooped.  Thank G-d Bridgitte, my daughter-in-law is now well, but I promise you, women in their 50’s who want to be first (or even second or third or fourth) time mothers need their heads examining or have a bulging bank balance to employ staff, lotsa staff.    The children were absolutely wonderful, I cannot complain about them, but being nursemaid, chief cook and bottlewasher and babyminder was hard work.   I love them all, but there must have been kryptonite around because superbooba’s powers were fading fast and drained on a daily basis.  

However, I was able to leave my duties and meet with Rachel and Daniel and the wedding planner because where Jon lives they were snowed in again which meant he couldn’t do his daily commute to Tel Aviv so  by default he would be at home… I bid a hasty exit the day before the snows arrived and promptly booked into a hotel in Tel Aviv… ah peace and quiet!    Wow the weather was  horrendous; I have never experienced such a wild storm there before; yes in Bournemouth in February, but not in Tel Aviv… and England wasn’t the only place to be hit by an earthquake; there was a similar size one in Israel whilst I was there.

The next day

Halleluyah… they have decided on the beautiful gardens called Derech Eretz in Herzliya; the venue is stunning and my personal ab fab fav… I do hope we’ve made the right choice! 

In the meantime I had a mega surprise on Sunday which was Mother’s Day in this country.   Mothering Sunday is really a Christian tradition, so it’s not one we’ve ever particularly celebrated, but Jamie was insistent my old ma and I went to him and Lucy for lunch.   I was about to facilitate myself of their facilities but he made me wait to open the door to Rachel.   Standing there in a ‘tra-la’ pose was Jonathan.   He’d only left me at Ben Gurion Airport a few days earlier.   Everyone here and everyone there knew he was making a fleeting trip on business, but were sworn to secrecy.     I haven’t had all my children together in the same room since Jamie and Lucy’s wedding last July; it was fantastic.

Tonight is book club yet again.   Someone chose The Song of Names by Norman Lebrecht.  I won’t go into much detail about the book because it was the debut (well so far the sole) novel of a well known Jewish journalist and music critic; it was merely okay.   It reminded me somewhat of Interpretation of Murder where the writer knows a subject and makes sure it’s injected all over the story.   Next month is Barbara Kingsolver’s The Poisonwood Bible… another one in the genre I call doom and gloom or o me misera.   Next year I think we should find quality writing yet light fluffy and happy confections to entertain us and bring smiles to our faces; does anyone have any suggestions?  

Lately I’ve gone back to the quick fix read of Faye and Jonathan Kellerman and Jeffrey Deaver; perfect airport and flight material.   Erm, and on that subject I’m gonna try and visit each and every one of you and even leave a comment before I go away.   Yes I’m going away.   Booba’s on her travels… again, and this time she’ll be stepping out at a different airport.  

After coming back from Israel overwrung and overwhelmed and feeling definitely overstressed, on a whim I did something terribly naughty.  I found this lonely single flight, that had my name on it, that will take me to Florida in a couple of weeks time.

Annie is going on a real holiday.  

I shall be a lady of leisure.   Brian and Diane found me a lovely hotel near where they live somewhere in the middle of Florida (I really don’t have a clue exactly where they live) and I am going to put myself in their capable caring hands.  I have no agenda other than relaxation and fun… aren’t I awful? 

I can’t log off from here without a mention of that other thing, you know the one, that’s either caused me heartache and grief, or has me rolling round in stitches.   The internet dating game.  I am still talking to the guy who cannot marry me for religious reasons.  He said he’s afraid to meet me in case he falls in love with me and that bothers him.  I suggested that could work two ways and he said he hadn’t thought of that.  I’m prepared to take that risk but I now see on his profile he is looking just for a ‘friend’ when earlier he was looking for ‘marriage’ but he also writes that he wants to meet single or widowed women; obviously not divorced.   So it seems there is still a stigma to divorce in some parts.    I met someone else who was just leaving for a holiday and he seems keen (perhaps too keen) to meet me.   Refreshingly he didn’t ask any rude questions, but he is looking for a wife and that terrifies me.  In a way the first guy sounds perfect to me because 1) he can’t marry me and 2) I’m not looking for hubby No.2.   It is all so complicated.    Maybe I should take bromide!


5 March

P.S. If any of you live in Florida or will be going to Disney around that time  and want to meet up, please email me; the addy’s above where it says ’email’  …  that would be sooooooooo coooooooool 



Brrrrrr… this is Neve Daniel yesterday or maybe the day before; I saw these pics when I got home from work last night.  Neve Daniel is on the top of a hillside; it is high up and it seems it’s only there and the north of Israel that got snowed in.   I sure hope it’s gone by the time I arrive… I do not like the snow and it doesn’t like me.  I am not a pretty sight struggling on the ice and slipping and landing on my **** but it looks like Boaz is having fun and I thought it was cold here.   Talking of which, I sure appreciate the seat warmer in my car 🙂


I’m trying to lose weight again.    My weight is usually stuck at a very neat round figure, but I really need to neaten it down a neat round stone at least (that is 14lbs for you yanks).   It reaches a plateau and when I exceed it, those few naughty pounds generally come off easily, but sliding downhill off the plateau is proving tricky.   Yoyo dieting is my problem so my metabolic rate is lethargically slow and my body is used to low fat and low cals that it takes very little naughtiness to gain weight and a diet of bugger all to lose it.

Recently I found a programme called Diet Doctors; Inside and Out which is most interesting.  The participants are all, obviously, overweight, but they also have health issues that need to be addressed.  Apart from one very stupid woman who irritated me no end since she said she learnt nothing new because they didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.  She refused to give up smoking even though she’d had a thrombosis when she was 11 and she refused to put into practice their diet and exercise advice, that she actually gained weight… doh!    Twelve weeks later everyone else’s health is much improved and they look wonderful.

After watching the programme I am filled with great resolve to be a good girl until I turn over and watch Nigella.  I think Nigella is a bit like Marmite… you either love her or hate her.   I enjoyed Nigella Bites, but Nigella Express was… well… weird.   She loves cooking (so do I) and she loves her food (so do I).   Why is life so complicated?


In am struggling with my book, We Need to Talk About Kevin, and the meeting is next week.   It has become something akin to homework and I never did like homework.  I have been told to persevere because there is a twist, but I am wondering whether to skip to the end, google it and crib or wait and be put out my misery.  Watch this space!


Another week, so here’s the latest on my foray into internet dating, although I have actually yet to meet any of these men in the flesh so to speak.  They all sweet talk.  They all flatter.  They all shmooze.  They all talk about tactile and passion.  So, I still get these emails every day, or several times a day,  saying “we have matches for you” which is a loada baloney.       The youngsters are still at it, but I ignore them.  I told Jamie about the 31 year olds and he shifted about somewhat embarrassed then told me that apparently some of Jon’s peers used to fancy me when they were like 15 or 16.  That was about 15 years ago… UGH! 

Still  I have corresponded with a couple of seemingly nice men, having made the initial contact myself.   This dating group’s motto is “it’s okay to make the first move.”   The first guy I tried told me that timing is everything and I’m too late; he’d met someone, so I just wished him luck.  I wasn’t sure whether to add that if it fell apart, you know… but I didn’t want to seem too pushy.      

Then I saw another profile that read well.   I emailed him and my parting words were that I would still appreciate the courtesy of a reply even if it’s to tell me I’m not his cup of tea.   He did reply and said he’d like to correspond, but he’s in Israel at the moment and will be back next week.   I answered him, but haven’t heard another word!   

Today I read another profile I liked, so tried again.    This guy actually IM’d me back immediately, but he happened to be in Miami and will also be back in the country next week, so we chatted for a while until he asked me to telephone him.   I did, but the hotel wouldn’t put me through without a surname and I only knew his first name.   He told me.   It was Cohen.   Ah… that opens a whole new can of worms.  

A Cohen is a descendent from Aaron, the brother of Moses, who was a priest.  Although today most of the priestly duties no longer exist, a Cohen is prohibited from marrying a divorced woman.   In fact I read another profile I liked and as an afterthought this man had actually written that no divorcees should contact him.    The point is I am looking for a fairly observant man because, well I am, but this truly pains me.  It is Jewish law and I have to accept it (not that I’m sure I want to marry anyway, although all the men I’ve spoken to believe that’s what all the women want).  Of course, it’s not a problem if you’re not orthodox because there are plenty of Liberal/Reform/Conservative alternatives.

The funny thing is that coincidentally and without exception, all these men are younger than me; so… all in all very interesting, but I won’t hold my breath.  

Right, must move myself as the mob will be here any minute and I’ve still got to set the table.   I hope I get round to seeing ya’all  and you and yours have a superduper weekend and Shabbat Shalom.  

P.S.  Later today

I have a confession and likely it’s not much different to most ladies who have a problem with body image and a loathing for a particular part of their body, although in my case it’s most of it.    I caught another prog tonite and typical of me, it was the last in the series, so I hope it gets repeated.   It was something like looking good naked, but the woman who thought she looked naf and wore her hubbies baggy t-shirts had a wonderful hour-glass figure… and she was young…. and she was beautiful. HUH!   But, there were about 100 women of all ages, shapes and sizes happily prancing around in their underwear in front of the cameras…  this got me thinking, again…

… because

every single man I have spoken to from this online dating thingy is obsessed with my body, asking an assortment of questions about my size, my weight, what kinda clothes I wear, where I shop, how trendy am I, do I wear high heels, makeup, lipgloss, even my vital statistics and remarking how titchy I am because I’m only 5’0″ tall short (I think petite sounds so much nicer) and exactly just how fat cuddly am I, that I invariably come off the phone feeling uncomfortable and inadequate and thinking it would probably be best if we don’t ever actually meet because they are sure gonna be in for a mega disappointment. 

Today’s guy saw my picci from Jamie’s wedding and guessed I was a size 10 (a U.S. size 6)… yeah well I was once and those clothes are now lurking in an abandoned wardrobe in one of my spare bedrooms; I certainly wasn’t last summer.   It’s now becoming an art form in how to avoid answering these questions and suggesting that a little mystery is no bad thing.   Next time I shall be a little more assertive and on the offensive and ask the next poor guy why it’s so important to him… that should be interesting!  This is quite a learning curve and would I be so bold?

Do I ask them the size of their chest, their neck measurement, whether they’re bald or hirsute, how old their pic is on their profile, their weight or especially the size of their hands and feet so I can maybe gauge the size of their dangly bits?   No, of course, I don’t, that would be plain rude.    Let’s take our dearest darling Vincent D’Onofrio… yes let’s take him.    Most of his fans first discovered him as the quirky uberhero ultra intelligent big big big Bobby Goren  and over seven seasons he is obviously older, like by seven years, but he is also fatter cuddlier and greyer his hair is salt and pepper and the wrinkles frownlines are appearing and he is still under 50… but..

…  have we stopped loving him?  NO NO NO! 

…  do we still fancy the pants off him?   YES YES YES!

Vincent is not classically handsome; the Hollywood stereotype.   You can’t put your finger on exactly what it is that makes him attractive to millions of women; he just has that je ne sais quoi that exudes masculinity and sexuality, but to me so does Patrick Stewart and Alan Rickman and Colin Firth and Bill Nighy and none of them look alike.   So my question is, why are these men  so preoccupied with looks when it’s something impalpable, intangible and elusive that draws two people together, and often two unlikely people? 

P.P.S.  The almost Vincent lookalike has still not opened my email; maybe he’s one of online dating’s success stories 😉

It lies not in our power to love or hate,

For will in us is overruled by fate.

When two are stripped, long ere the course begin,

We wish that one should love, the other win;

And one especially do we affect

Of two gold ingots, like in each respect:

The reason no man knows, let it suffice,

What we behold is censured by our eyes.

Where both deliberate, the love is slight:

Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight?

Lilt me your lips,
our lost breath intermingling.
Synchronize our silence
as lazy hours ease by.
Waft cocoa, hazelnut, cinnamon,
scents around me.

Tremble with me
in paralyzing pauses.

I may no longer breathe
without breathing you.

Enciendanme tus labios
Nuestros alientos perdidos entremezclandose
Sincroniza nuestro silencio
al perezoso pasar de las horas.
Lleva el aire aromas de cacao,
nuez, canela que me rodean

Tiembla conmigo
con pausas paralizantes

Quizá no pueda respirar más
sin respirarte a ti.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory.
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts when thou are gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.


I do not love you except because I love you;


I go from loving to not loving you,

From waiting to not waiting for you


My heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it’s you the one I love;

I hate you deeply, and hating you

Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you

Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consumeMy heart with its cruel ray

Stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who diesThe only one, and I will die of love because I love you,

Because I love you,

Love, in fire and blood.


These were not the original set of caps I intended to post with this poem, but since I had a technical hiccup, which was entirely due to my lack of computer skills, I had time to reflect and firmly believe these words could have been written by and for Robert E Howard himself and the pictures seem hauntingly appropriate.

the loves of my life

at the touch of love, everyone becomes a poet ~~~ plato

thank you…

... to everyone whose pictures and videos I have borrowed; if anyone would like theirs to be removed, please tell me and I shall be happy to do so

all words here are mine ~ I’ll tell you when they’re not!

from long ago

in case I forget what day of the week it is

September 2022