Her Own Happy Saintly Place

[Diary Notes]

My little crocodile child is a happy stir-fry cook, while her

food is quite exquisite with yoghurt and honey in vinegar

and frying chicken and vegetables in butter or oil, it made

me feel strange last night with headache this morning as

I contemplate a kitchen trashed with stir-fry pans - and all

kinds of containers with sauces and dirty cups galore, the

 

Best way to tackle this on movie day is to sing Hallelujah

with the Internet and boogy my way through the endless

mounds of dishes, putting away the clean crockery littering

every available space first, then read a poem to frame the

day, maybe write one too if the inspiration comes, then

washing up, doing a Russian trepak in my knee-length

 

Kossak trousers to the tune of Hallelujah - a delightful

cultural combination, then rushing to prepare table and

chairs outside for my friend who is coming to marvel at

her hero Nataniel before we are going to watch Marilyn

Monroe in Some Like It Hot which neither of us have seen

before, I love the innocence in Marilyn's Norma-Jean soul

 

The sweetness with which she declared “I make my own

bed” in one of those inane interviews where the reporter

was too overawed to put intelligent questions to this lovely

person who said she was mostly unhappy in her life, I like

to think that in the afterlife she has found her own happy,

saintly place…