Moustaches

 

“A kiss without a moustache is like an egg without salt.”

This saying dates back to Victorian times. The origin is unknown but has been cited to various authors, Rudyard Kipling, Rose Wilder Lane and Jean-Paul Sartre, who is thought to have added “and it is like Good without Evil”.

I remember my dad saying it a lot, when he grew a moustache in his later years. It was just ordinary, nothing stylish. I didn’t like it. Not one bit. He had new glasses at the same time and his whole appearance changed from the happy looking man with a kind face I adored, into someone I felt like I needed to be very wary of. He looked like a cross between the horrid piano teacher I used to have and the equally horrid landlord of a flat I used to rent. Fortunately, my father didn’t stink of stale cigars and his moustache wasn’t stained dirty yellow with nicotine like my piano teacher. Dad disliked the landlord as much as I did and I would tease him about being a copycat. It was a relief when that moustache was shaved off, though the glasses remained.

Each to their own, of course, but isn’t a high maintenance styled moustache over the top and time consuming? Personally, I like a beard attached, but I’m only seeing the results, not looking after it.

The music I favoured in the ‘60s and ‘70s, was progressive rock and symphonic rock. Band members with long hair and often moustaches and beards. I found this poem that took me back to those young, impressionable times. And the music is the same and always there, with a few new bands collected along the way. The poem is by American poet, Gershon Wolf.

Freaky and Weird

We grew our hair down to our shoulders
Hirsute, we were, moustaches and beards,
Turned up our noses at those who were older
‘Cos we were so hip, so freaky, so weird.

Revved up our stereos, going stone-deaf,
Dropped pill after pill, of common sense bereft,
Wore psychedelic threads to match our psychedelic brains.
We thought ourselves ‘free’, but we were really in chains.

Don’t ask me if the Sixties were ‘wonderful years!’
- Just leave me alone with my cigars and my beer.

                                                                    Gershon Wolf

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Stress - Des Res Near the Park, Anyone?

 

It is said, and I believe it, that moving house is one of the most stressful things to deal with. I have moved seventeen times and would dearly like an eighteenth. I know we’ll simply have to bite the bullet, throw caution to the wind and go for it, otherwise we’ll be here for another thirty-odd years looking at the same neighbourhood. Actually, we probably won’t, unless we both live to some great age, defining all medical issues. That’s why we’ve got to move now. I’m feeling a bit stressed now at the thought of it and wish something would happen to make it easier. Ideally, we could buy a property without waiting for a sale on ours. Perfect. Modern static caravans are breathtakingly stunning with all mod-cons, but we want a house. Besides, where would we put all our stuff? I’m having another stressful shudder. We will have to downsize, I know that, it’s how to do it efficiently. What a struggle. We’ve lived here over thirty years, two became three, became four then more often than not, five. Now we’re down to the two of us again. I can’t gauge portion control in the kitchen just for two, so there’s no chance of me deciding if we need three televisions and a cupboard full of bath towels. Books are completely out of any conversation, no reduction necessary, they are all coming. They are not being boxed up until we have a moving date. A moving date, that’s so scary, because where to? It has got to be Scotland. This move has got to be a proper relocation. I’m not packing up to move to a bungalow two miles away. All the stress has got to be worth my while.

I remember feeling stressed when I moved here and nothing could have been easier. Piece by piece we brought things from my little house in Layton. Anything not needed stayed behind. Eventually that little house went on the market and was sold. I should have kept it and rented it out – hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Long before that, there was the escape from a nasty landlord. Nothing illegal, rent paid up to date, just a horrible, creepy man. All my worldly goods crammed into two cars, mine and my father’s.  It had to be done in a few hours to avoid confrontation. We managed. My things were stacked in Dad’s garage and I took up residence in his spare room. The stress involved here was waiting for my passport to come through the post, which it did, just in time, otherwise I would have had to go back. It was good to leave the key and no forwarding address.

This time I will leave a forwarding address, otherwise I’ll have no visitors and friends will always be welcome. Anyway, while I’m nervous, twitchy and trying to attempt a positive step forward into the unknown, I’ll just close my eyes and relax for a moment.

My poem:

The imagery behind closed eyes
Is of a quiet, peaceful scene.
Outside, the wint’ry, dark’ning skies
Hide the cosy, Crofter’s cottage.

A Heavenly place where I’m free,
It’s time to relax and return
To the open book on my knee
And glow from the log-burning stove.

By the window, my armchair,
With plumped up cushions and a throw.
A resting place, for moments rare,
Like now to bring me back to earth.

A momentary stress release,
A daydream of hope and wishes,
Until I’m rested and at ease,
Feeling ready for the next thing.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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