(ha ha ha - that should give the googlers something to scratch their heads about).
Now, I have spent so much time agonising over this post and writing it into my head, that of course it is now a whole bloddy series and then I dreamed last night that I had posted something trivial and relevant and ruined the whole 300th thing.
(Oh, and I just realised that this is really 299, so somewhere in the archives is one draft I never published - darn - practice, hey?)
Ever notice I obsess a bit?
Anyhow, what with the poetry requests (aren't you lovely readers) and wanting to see corporate Jeanie (isn't my sister evil) and someone wanting to know the meaning of my world, I have come up with a concept and will see if it will fly...
So what I am going to give you, as I put it together, over the next little bit is the career lowlights, and how a nice country girl became a corporate woman and then slid down the greasy pole of success to follow her dreams of poetry and pottering.
Will that work for you?
Also, I will excuse the lack of the Reader's Digest photo at the moment - I haven't laid my hands on a copy to scan and I am awaiting Bush Babe finding her copy.
To whet your appetite, a poem - not about being a career woman, but one I wrote during that phase of my life and one brought to mind by the post I read at Kill the Goat this morning.
OUTPOURINGS (and the curious behaviour of bed linen)
Freshly washed sheets,
Laundered in the romantic dream that you may make your bed with me,
Lay waiting, like a sacrificed virgin,
Until the culinary delights I have blessed you with,
Have been washed down by the superlative wine you bought at the
bottle-oh up the road.
And the mating dance begins.
My move first.
I shall accidentally touch you, perhaps,
A seemingly accidental caress
That I wait for a reaction to -
A litmus test - perhaps you pass
So now it is your move
Until all the pawns are removed.
This is the proving ground.
Once concessions have passed
And boundaries pressed,
The Queen makes her move -
Long, noiseless, imperceptible.
And the staccato raps of the static clergy;
The excitable knights;
The bigoted rooks
Attempt to save the King.
If I grow bored, you leave,
Perhaps you go after coffee anyway
With early morning rituals ahead.
Or maybe you stay.
Now, mind, no mutual move has yet been made,
And we may both yearn for common tracks,
And so we bundle in bed.
Talking. Holding out on dawn.
Again there are many possible trails,
And now I pour out my request
As I have always wished to have the guts to do,
Or I have often wanted from my lovers.
Possible route one (no pun intended)
Is that we agree these encounters are to proceed
In the direction of a self-deprecating hope
To please another, in the hope
That by doing so we will get pleasure
But we doubt it, so we hope
That if we do not enjoy the joining,
We will at least enjoy the vicarious pleasure we bring.
And that by the early hours, again hope sprouts
That we can regard each other honestly.
We can continue to talk
And tread over the woven threads of our lives
And so a basis of mutual recognition form
And we hold each other
We sleep, and let slumber pass as peacefully as possible,
Without snores, or farts, or sleeptalking of deeper desires
Upset our equilibrium.
We can decide to abandon the shards of discomforting formality
And agree to let lust rule the night -
Give way to hedonism
And disregard the fear of the uncertain future;
Let loose with all the text book logic
Plus a few tricks picked up on the way;
Swing from the chandeliers (to coin a phrase)
Bid inhibition adieu -
And really get down to the nitty-gritty
Of the practical aspects.
And if this be a one-night stand
Let it stand as testimony
To a DAMNED good time!
And if it extends to a second night
Let BLISS mark the first.
But these are never raised
As usual options.
And so only the freshly laundered sheets
Anticipate the next move.
White, no sugar,
In the cupboard above the sink.