Swollen Testicles v the Moon

Okay, so I’ve been trying, I really have.  I watch everyone on Twitter, chatting about TV, and I figure, maybe I’m missing out here.  Maybe I should join in.  I mean, I do watch TV a bit – but it’s usually Top Gear or The Gadget Show or The Simpsons to keep James company – and I’ll only have half an eye on Jeremy Clarkson (unless he’s driving a particularly juicy motor) cos I’ll be balancing on my fitball and waving a kettlebell over my head (yup, those triceps still need a bit of work). 

But the other night I thought, no, give it a go.  So I sat on the sofa, turned on and – OMG – there was a vast swollen scrotum staring me in the eye.  For one bizarre moment I wondered if James had signed us up for some Sky package that involved porn channels, except no…this was not even remotely erotic (unless you get off on infected scrota of course – and, don’t tell me, some people probably do). 

I then watched, slack-jawed, some poor man having six stone – SIX STONE! – of stomach “apron” excised.  Six stone? Sorry, I keep repeating it but you know, that’s a large child. I don’t think I will ever expunge that image. 

It was about four times this size, btw

But really.  This is entertainment?  This is what we choose to do with our evenings?  Well, obviously because last night I found myself back on the sofa switching on again, with puzzled yet morbid fascination.  This time it was the women’s turn.  One poor girl had her humungous breasts lopped off and we got to see a woman with a prolapsed vagina expelling a squirt of urine up close.  In fact, the director liked the pee shot so much, we got it three times, until the woman finally managed to splash the consultant in the eye. 

Now, I’m not remotely squeamish.  I’ve watched operations up close; I’ve staunched a severed artery with my bare hands (not my own artery, I hasten to add) and I begged a surgeon to let me watch my own emergency C-section (he refused, the spoilsport) but, but, but…no.  Just no.   I turned away.

The moon was so huge, so bright.  It was flirting through the window at me, singing a love song to me and I just couldn't resist.  So I switched off the TV and walked out into the garden.  The daisies were shining like a reflection of stars.  The moon stroked my face so I lay down on the damp grass, stretched out and smelled earth and roses and lilies and the faintest hint of woodsmoke.  I felt the earth beneath me and gazed up at the clear night sky as the last vestiges of light faded to slate. For once I didn't go hurtling out into the darkness - I was content just to hang...just to hold the earth's hand and spin with it through space.

I so love moonlight.  Do you?  Do you ever really appreciate it?  Have you ever walked in the woods at night?  Your eyes adjust, you know – you don’t need a flashlight…  You see, you hear, you smell, you feel so much… Have you ever swum in a river at night?  Slid softly through black water?   Have you ever floated in the sea under the stars, your body caressed by moon and wave, floating in a nowhere place, twixt elements, inbetween time?  Oh, I know, I know….dangerous…  Oh whatever.  It’s beautiful, just beautiful…so beautiful….

….a million worlds away from the images on my TV screen.

For some reason Blogger won't let me embed a vid here:  but when I think of seas and floating this is the song that plays in my head:  it's Song to the Siren  by This Mortal Coil and it is just plain gorgeous.

It’s okay, btw – I know I’m weird, I know this isn’t the norm.  And I’m not judging or condemning, really I’m not.  It’s just…why?  Why do we watch TV?  Is it entertainment, escapism, bonding, numbing?  Honestly, I’d love to know. 

The show, btw#2, was Embarrassing Bodies and, having taken a look at their website I can see they do probably help demystify stuff and so on...and encourage people to see their GPs and check their bodies and....oh heck, there's a penis gallery and a vulva gallery....no, really, there is.  Jeez, sometimes you have to wonder about our bodies - I mean, couldn't they be a bit more aesthetic?  Couldn't someone run a competition or something - design decent-looking sex apparatus? 

Durga and the Temple of Jerusalem

Teachers, bloody sodding teachers!  Okay, not ALL of them, alright?  But really. James doesn’t get home until 6.30pm. He has something to eat and watches The Simpsons (vital for his social and emotional development) and then has to settle down to do prep. This should, theoretically, take twenty minutes per subject. Well, French was fine but last night his English was, frankly, ridiculous. At 9.30pm he was still on my PC, red-eyed and irritable.  A mirror image of his mother, come to think of it.
‘This is crazy,’ I said. ‘Surely you’ve done enough?’

But no. He had to finish. Then we hit another problem. The only printer in the house is attached to Adrian’s Mac laptop but said laptop is with Adrian in Wales (or it may be London by now, I’m losing track). So James attached his laptop (with half the keys missing) and tried to get it working. No joy. So I tried. Wouldn’t play ball. Yeah yeah, added new printer, checked all settings...the whole caboodle.

At this point, I was feeling like a Hindu deity with about eight arms thrashing wildly around... running him a bath, doing the washing, refereeing the evening dog skirmish, ignoring the phone, trying to fix the fecking printer. And, yeah, okay, so I was sort of online and listening to stuff about Libya on the radio as well. But really.

This isn’t an isolated incident either. Take the bloody Temple of sodding Jerusalem which hung like a....oh I dunno, hanging garden of Babylon or summat...over the entire half-term. I thought we’d got off lightly, having been right through junior school without having to construct anything larger than a Scottish croft.

‘I’m despondent about it,’ said James, despondently, when we came back from Wales.
‘Rubbish,’ said I, clicking on Google images, heart sinking fast. Except. Okay, so that looked vaguely do-able. Basically lots of cubes of various sizes interconnected by walls. 
‘Let’s do it.’
'You're sure it is the Temple of Jerusalem, Mum?'
'Yeah, well, that's what it says on the tin.  You're not doubting St Google?'
'Just that Timmy Bander built the mosque instead, and got a crap mark.'

Oops.  And, really, what a dozo.  Who'd go for a mosque (necessitating blowing up balloons) when you can do a nice straight-lined temple?

So build it we did. Papier mache and gold paint and all. And it wasn’t bad, if I say so myself. Until I went on Twitter in a sense of smug achievement.

‘You wanna put on PVA glue and then sprinkle sand over it to add texture,’ said Lulu, veteran of many ancient edifices.

‘Ooh yes. And have you used modeling clay for the detailing?’ added Milla (she of the Temple of Diana and a mott and bailey castle). Detailing? What detailing? Feck off, my erstwhile friends. ;)

Actually I’d just sort of left James to it, muttering words of encouragement in an overseer-ish sort of way. Well, children have to learn, don’t they? My main contribution was to mix up a tasteful blend of Craig & Rose for the paint job. No Temple of Jerusalem is leaving this house in shabby old Dulux, no sirree.

Eventually it was done. ‘Damnit, that took forever,’ I said, heaving a sigh of relief and pouring myself another coffee.
‘Yeah,’ said James. ‘Three days, basically.  My divinity teacher said it should take about an hour.’
WTF?

Dear teachers. Could I just beg you, when you’re dishing out prep, have a heart? Not just for the poor sprats that could do with at least half an hour’s downtime before bed, but for their poor demented, arm-thrashing parents.