Archive | April 2012


Differing slightly from the original meaning, in colloquial speech, “limbo” is any status where a person or project is held up, and nothing can be done until another action happens. – Wikipedia. Limbo is also a rather daft dance that people do; where they try to go as low as possible under a horizontal broomstick without falling down. This post has nothing to do with this dance.
And so I bid adieu to the hairstylists who’ve been so important to me over the past troubled months. Their kind acceptance and support has been a lifeline and the many amusing anecdotes I picked up from the clients have provided a virtual silo of material for future writing. I am grateful that all ties are not cut; I shall still go and help out on Saturdays, when the salon is very busy. Hopefully in lieu of getting my hair styled as I have become accustomed to wearing it.

My CV has been sent to all the right places and while I wait I simultaneously shed and collect: I’ve done a massive clear-out of things I no longer want in my life (and garnered a fair sum of loot from junk dealers!) and have returned to my long-neglected hobby of ‘making doodles’ of my sketches, photos and ramblings.

I collect these things like a magpie and my ‘doodle pages’ were usually notebook sized, but I am now making giant ones.

Perhaps they will eventually cover my passage wall and provide insulation against what promises to be a very cold winter.

For now, they are simply therapeutic. And very messy, I end up covered in glue.
I continue to make a ceremony of mealtimes; my table is laid and my food is nicely plated. Behind my shoulder – always – stands that horrible ghost of an old lady in a terrycloth dressing gown eating baked beans straight from the tin…
PS: can anyone tell me why my widgets all appear at the bottom of my blog instead of at the top of the page?



I don’t know which it was; it was so long ago that he gave me a CD as a gift for the first time. It may have been Crowded House  – which had just hit our shores in a big way that year – but I rather think it was Rick Estrin and the Night Cats – which featured a humorous (at the time, and prescient now), lyric about ; ‘dealing with my next ex-wife’. We’d agreed there’d be no arguing when we split our music collection on Friday morning, so I took the Crowded House. Ditto the Leonard Cohen, which he’d never liked anyway. In the end I came away with many less CDs than I’d purchased over the years, but no matter really, in the grand scheme of what else I was losing.

Amongst all these CDs was the proof of early Saturday mornings, while we put on a movie for our child to watch so that we could spend some precious time making early-morning love. Into the charity box went the dreaded purple Barney, countless editions of those scary Teletubbies and all the adventures of animated cars, bears and resilient vacuum cleaners named Wall-E.

Then we tackled the photo albums. He only withdrew those I’d taken of the children. Not one of the two of us on a sandy beach, laughing around a barbeque, not even the one of us saying our wedding vows. I carried the albums over to my cottage in a carton and plonked it down next to a picture of him holding my pregnant tummy almost fourteen years ago.

He refused to move the chandelier I’d recently had made for my kitchen, saying it would leave an ugly hole in the ceiling and went off to the hardware store to buy the necessary equipment to change the locks so that I could ‘stay in my box’ and out of his space.

Nostril-hair-plucking was not proving enough to make me vent my grief, so I phoned my doctor. He’s really quite nice about early calls and never seems annoyed at being woken at 7.30am on Good Friday. He’d given me ‘special occasion’ tablets, which – he said – would prevent me from accidentally dying of sadness. These are called Stilnox and he told me to get into a velour tracksuit immediately, take two of these tablets and get into bed. I do not own a velour tracksuit, but it seems de rigueur attire for the depressed woman, so I think I shall have to invest in one soon, accidental death in unfashionable kit would truly be the final humiliation!

It so happened that I had been invited to a brunch which would lead to supper later that afternoon. Kind friends had agreed to fetch me as I am not a reliable night-driver. I confess that my abject self-pity didn’t spare a thought for them and I passed quickly into a comatose state, mercifully free of dreams.

Saturday morning brought a volley of concerned messages, mostly instigated by a friend who was quoted as writingS “I suspect she was drunk by lunch time and passed out. It is so sad,
but until she admits she has a problem with alcohol and needs help
 there is nothing any of us can do.”
Sunday and Monday brought more messages of concern and help and advice about reputable rehabilitation facilities. It is now Thursday and – in the past 10 days – I have had random urine and blood tests for alcohol, all proving that these body fluids may as well as have been taken from a Catholic priest. Let’s retract that, shall we, our Father Padraig’s results may have been less forgiving.

Allow me now to explain my relationship with wine, by reprinting a previously published poem:

Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world and one of the most natural things of the world that has been brought to the greatest perfection, and it offers a greater range for enjoyment and appreciation than, possibly, any other purely sensory thing.
Ernest Hemingway

My cherished ritual,
Happily shared:
Ceremonious selection of glass:
Ornate, baroque, clear crystal.
Careful extraction of cork.
Faithful as the clock;
For a moment
Forget the news.

This entry was posted on August 21, 2010, in poetry and tagged cindy taylor, cindy taylor blog, KLEINE ZALZE, lifestyle, original cin, poem, poetry, relationships, the only cin, wine, WINE AMBASSADOR.

Here, unless there is a riotous party, is my daily wine routine:

  • Pour a glass of wine that will accompany the meal I am making.
  • Sip it while I cook, normally 1 hour’s occupation.
  • Dish my food and pour another glass of wine to accompany my meal.
  • Take remains of glass to bathroom after dining, complete ablutions and return empty glass to kitchen sink.
  • Retire, after taking prescribed medication, to bed and read until slumber attacks.

I presume there are millions of us that follow this routine, bunch of horrible drunks that we are … except of course, those virtuous souls amongst us who have never had to dismantle what was once a happy home or redefine their place in the world by ending their marriage.

Call me what you will, I am going to continue my duo of daily grape nectar, and I will get my chandelier!

In other news: Fritzl The Dastardaly Dacshund ate my Lily bunny and I got retrenched at work. As both events happened during dayight hours, I did not turn to wine. I ate several bars of chocolate instead, wearing my new velour tracksuit.


“Real people are stereotypes.
Well, wrenching a person out of their environment is on a par with playing Russian Roulette – you can have no idea which previously submerged entity in the persona will surface and leer at you.”
(There are ants in my sugar / Annica Foxcroft)
I landed up in hospital again, for a week, during which time I suffered a few nasty falls. One was tumbling from my bed and suffering concussion and another left me with a broken left pinkie and very unattractively bruised and scraped knees. (I have a vague reollection of  clever person saying something about pride coming before a fall; but I’ll try not to ponder too much on that one …)  I’m glad to be in the hands of a very good psychiatrist and he seems to have me on the right medication to help me survive through this torrid period.

Whilst I was away, my builder pulled out all the stops and I was able to move into my new home. I’d expected to find that the damp had not been cured in my bedroom, so I was very pleased to finally occupy my new digs.

From this, to this:

And my little entertainment area, leading to my passage and kitchen.

I’ve begun fiddling with my little garden, which is a nice view to greet me in the mornings and in which to enjoy my morning coffee. I’ve also brought in a new little friend for Lulubelle. Meet Lily:

I have no idea “which entity in the persona” will resurface, but for now I have no clue and all this newfound freedom has me at quite a loss for what to do with myself. I think I will begin knitting a cardigan for Lulubelle, with the weather rapidly changing.
And I believe I’ll have chocolate cake and custard for supper. Just let anyone try to stop me …