Feng Shui

Sometimes, just sometimes, I think my cottage may be the cause of my ill health. That the North/North West facing aspect is lousy Feng Shui. Then I remember that being ill and getting better takes time when you are three score years and eight.
When so many folk die in their late 60’s I am delighted to still be alive, but it would be a lie to say that I find slow recovery easy. Or that the loss of my voice for two days was anything other than deeply disturbing. I squeaked like a demented mouse. Endlessly shouting at the old git, which was as ineffectual as slamming a feather on the table to draw attention to myself.
I have had the house Feng Shui’d twice, as it goes. Once by a professional geezer who charged us much money, but then gave it back to us as he had turned the house into a disaster zone. Jim and I argued all the time and, according to the second Feng Shui Master – an ex Buddhist monk – the cottage had gone ‘Live’ on us, what with all the mirrors and vases, wooden flutes and plants that the first geezer told us to get. The ex-Buddhiust monk, by way of payment, sat at the kitchen table and ate with us, tore down half the mirrors and removed most of the gewgaws that the first Feng Shui feller told us to install. The ex-monk suggested we take the stuffed Piranha fish off the mantle piece as it was in the wealth area and was eating up all our money. He also told us to keep the front door shut, hang plants between the stairs and the bathroom, to keep the bathroom door closed and the lavatory seat down, as the Chi was coming in the front door zooming up the stairs and disappearing down the loo. In other words we were literally pissing away our good fortune.
‘Your house is a hungry ghost’ said the ex-Buddhist Monk, ‘Get rid of all those Bagua mirrors and stop eating Pork.’ Then he cleared his plate and left.
I can’t remember where the health area is but I bet there’s some kind of muddle or obstruction. It could be the gaggle of wooden ducks by the telly, or maybe it’s the thirty thousand DVD’s stacked up with the mountains of CD’s, or maybe it’s got nothing to do with anything. I need to find the notes. But the reason I suggest that maybe it is something to do with the flow of energy in this old cottage of ours, is because the mystery illness has gone, and my sciatica has finally receded but I am now left with a throat so sore, so raw, so uncomfortable that I’m sitting in the kitchen with a silk scarf wrapped round my neck trying not to swallow. It’s 2.35 in the morning and I should be sleeping in my big King Size bed, but the discomfort when I lie on my lovely soft pillow is a mockery. I have rings under my eyes and a cat that doesn’t understand why I’m not lying down with her on my knees.
I’ve just swallowed and it feels like I’ve got one of those crumbly green oasis things for sticking flowers in lodged in the back of my throat. The cat is weaving her way round my legs and it’s later than 2.36.
I read the papers and silently screamed at Jesse Jay’s new video. What is it with the displaying of naked breasts all the time. Every young woman apparently needs to further her career by walloping her mammeries all over the place. It’s under breast, sideward boob, see through shirts, invisible vests, it’s just shabby exposure. It’s like the Restoration all over again. The next thing will be dating programmes on the box where naked men and women ogle at each others dangly bits and then go on a date – surely not!!!
If I weren’t so exhausted by my fury at arsehole leaders who want war, Prime Ministers who sell arms to Potentates who want war, ignoramuses who terrorise the innocent, and arms dealers who laugh all the way to the bank while the rest of us can’t sleep because of all their war mongering, I would be up and about protesting, throwing my weight about BUT I’m not as swift as I used to be, and anyway my throat hurts. I wonder whether Ghandi wasn’t right. And Martin Luther King, and Mr. Christ, didn’t they have it taped. And didn’t the Dalai Lama say recently that we’ve got it all topsy turvy, that we’ve forgotten how to love each other.
Ouch, just swallowed again, a mere first world problem, I’m not fleeing bombs, I’m not fleeing terror, I’m not dodging hurricanes, but maybe my inflamed throat is tired of screaming and not being heard. Nothing that a good bowl of Jewish Penicillin won’t cure. I’ve got a saucepan of chicken soup in the fridge, if that doesn’t work I may just call up the Ex Monk to see if he’s got any ideas…..