Mrs. D goes on strike

Mrs. Dalloway stepped out of her house and started thinking that she would get flowers today when she suddenly stopped and thought Fuck that! I'm not getting any flowers nor taking any more directions from that bitch Virginia who only wants me to be all airy-fairy and go with the flow. I say fuck that because I, I, Mrs. D, am a person in my own right who has opinions! thoughts! punctuation! And I'll be damned if I go buy flowers today. Chocolate - now there's a thought - why can't Virginia make me go out and buy chocolate instead of flowers. Maybe I'll do that instead.

For Mrs. D is not happy with the state of affairs - imagine being chivied around all the time and not be able to have your own thoughts. Poor Mrs. D - such is the fate of a character in a novel. She has to cloak her own motivations and assume the mantle of motivations designed by others who may or may not have the same interests as Mrs. D. Of course the problem is, Mrs. D, being a figment of someone's imagination has a hard time coming up with opinions and ideas of her own. Particularly when she's kept between the covers of a novel that few people read anymore. What else can she do but to step out in the minds of the disturbed. And you don't to do that else you become part and parcel of some nefarious plot to take advantage of the mentally ill as was done in Toronto by the dastardly Dr. Kurtz. Heavens, the things that went on under the guise of white cars, dresses, coats and sheets.

The state of mental health these days is precarious when you look around you. Everywhere, people muttering and so forth, but who am I to assume responsibility for them. Why there's little profit in taking on the sins of others. You're crucified for your troubles.

Mrs. D has a task ahead of her and it doesn't entail buying flowers - at least not quite yet - for Mrs. D despite the directions of the bitch Virginia, is fomenting plans (akin to fermenting sauerkraut, kim-chi and tofu which is ever so interesting and potentially good for the epithelia of your gut) which requires some kind of flowers - of the plastic variety and possibly some that are real. This comes about from running around with your head cut off (metaphorical for sleep deprivation) in the sun and then jumping into the deep pools of blue that Nancy Mitford and Annie Lennox describe so well in their own ways - Cold - Too late. Actually, it wasn't quite blue - more of a dark, greeny brown but it was surprisingly refreshing despite the fermenting (and fomenting) going on below (and above). There are some days when you throw caution (well some) to the wind and let the sun in to chase away the spiders and cobwebs. That wasn't one of them, but it still wasn't too bad. There is so much to remember but it's difficult for Mrs. D to remember everything because thoughts are put in her head by TBV (The bitch Virginia) and these take up a lot of space and push her own thoughts out. There was also a vague memory of meals that had fried potatoes in them - which weren't very good - because they were a bit doughy - obviously not the twice fried in duck fat variety - and something to do with crab meat that was cleverly disguised in indifferent flour and sauce. After all, why taste the true briny taste of crab when you can sup on the tongue coating paste of white flour drenched in butter, salt and water. There was also an art project which involved stripes and reducing the power emitted by a fixture. I believe that Mrs. D acted clandestinely in that matter and good thing too because her literary reputation could have suffered greatly had the wrong door or window opened at the wrong time. This was definitely not a window of opportunity that should be looked into much less opened although as things turned out, not only was the window opened, but Mrs. D was defenestrated forthwith which resulted in a week of crazy bike riding here and there, back and forth, hither and thither with a red-haired monkey on the back directing - as if Mrs. D didn't already have enough direction from TBV. Hrumph. The things that Mrs. D puts with. The question is why does Mrs. D put up with these directions, and it's because like Nancy's Uncle Dave (or Lord Merlin for that matter), there are certain imperatives in life that take over and there's all there is to it. They barely understand it themselves. Mind you cracks do sometimes appear in the windows and you'd be well advised to pay attention to those cracks. That's why Mrs. D has been running around with putty and sandpaper to fill in holes and cracks in the walls surrounding her and her mind. Then she'll paint. Again. But this time with a lovely, neutral cream instead of a light sucking brown. There, let that foment for a while and see what pops up - and let it be better than what Mrs. D has been drenched with lately - which is best not recalled for it does neither TBV nor Mrs. D herself much credit. And that's all Mrs. D wants - some credit and not lip-service credit either. After all, if you're to be the central character in some award winning novel then really, you should be recognized as a creature in your own right and not as a figment of someone else's imagination.

Right then and now Mrs. D had really better get going with the patching, sanding and painting...but first perhaps a twice baked almond croissant.