Sticky February - or - fluff and marriage

Madame's mother say Madame needs a husband. Madame says Madame needs a nice long nap, a creme egg, and some one who will come and fix our stupid computer and then go away and let her enjoy her creme egg in peace. I would like that but without the creme egg.

Creme eggs are evil - causing sticky fur and fat madames - and should be stopped - but do take up less time and space than a husband.

We could get rid of some of the junk from under the bed - then we might have the space for a smallish husband. All the cds and dvds and old diaries and boxes of old postcards and birthday cards and the roller skates and the bathroom scales and the unused camp bed (for emergencies) would have to go.

But then we have our busy shedules - every day I struggle to find time for my morning nap and my mid-morning nap, a lunchtime snooze, afternoon siesta time, post-dinner doze, pre-bedtime forty winks. I need my rest or I just don't sleep well at night.

Madame has all her stuff to do - films and knitting and books and knitting and walking and more knitting.

And we both need to spend plenty of time wondering what it would be like if we lived in Ittoqqortoormiit or Tashkent or on Inaccessible Island.

Not much time in there for a husband.

Of course a husband might be useful back up for those moments when Madame comes stumbling in at 1am full of red wine and regret.

But apparently you have to feed husbands and iron their socks and make sure they have access to Sky Sports or they morph like damp mogwai into evil demonic gremlins who exile small bears to dusty corners of attics where they are nibbled to death by mice while madames are forced to watch Bond films and do cooking.

I think we will be struggling on without a husband. :o)

BearFest 2007

We're not going through to Edinburgh. No Fringe frolics. Not my decision. Don't live in a democracy.

Not that I care anyway. Pah. Edinburgh. Glastonbury. Their time has passed. Everyone and their mad auntie is putting on a festival. Why not me? Got the rules here - thanks to nice Mr Marshall at Guardian Unlimited.

They must be aimed at a unique audience. - BearFest will be the world's most exclusive festival. By Bear. For Bear.

They must have unique headliners. - Bear. I think I'm quite unique. I've certainly never met another me. And this will be my only festival appearance this year. Probably.

They must involve camping. - Hum. More difficult. The festival site is probably going to be the pillow end of the bed. She tends to discourage me from camping on the grounds that "She's got to sleep in that bed" and tent pegs leave holes in the mattress. I might manage a cushion cover bivouac.

They must allow moshing and crowd-surfing. - Like I need an excuse. I'm moshing right now.

In the spirit of rock 'n' roll, they must be "socialist". - I am an oppressed minority and I was purchased from a branch of the Co-op. I'm more socialist than a working men's club full of Tommy Sheridans.

They cannot have the Manic Street Preachers playing. - What if they try to force their way in?

Result! I'm all tingly and excited. What if I can't get a ticket? Should I take my ukulele? Will I need my wellies?

I don't think I own a ukulele or a pair of wellies. Disaster.

Right. Must go and practice my juggling. And then see if I can hire Big Zippy and Clanger to do the site security. So much to do.

acting up

There are a lot of festivals on these days - film festivals, book festivals, Crufts. Is that a festival? Lots of dogs in a room. Hum. I used to get taken to the Edinburgh Festival. Well, actually, I used to get taken to Edinburgh during the Festival. I was usually made to stay and guard the flat while everyone else went out and had fun. I was occasionally allowed out for the odd scraggy puppet show.

But I have a dream. I want to take a performance to Edinburgh. Nothing fancy. Just a stage and a bear. The bear would be me. I'm not expecting one of the larger venues. Not to start with. Maybe one of those spiegeltent things.

Last year's show, well, it sank without trace. Literally. My one bear show based on "Das Boot". Turned out that the biscuit tin wasn't as watertight as I'd hoped. Course she was more bothered about the biscuits - I'd left them in as ballast.

This year's plan - "Medea". Keeping it simple. Might have got a couple of the smaller toys to play the corpses of my children. Otherwise - just me, the stage and a knife.

"Can I have a knife, please?"
"No."
"I'm going to be Medea. I need it to kill my children."
"No."
"I won't really do it. I'll be using stage fluff"
"No."
"Just a small vegetable knife?"
"No."
"What about about the pointy letter opener?"
"No."
"Butter knife? No, that would look stupid. Couldn't you make me one out of cardboard? Make it all shiny and sharp looking with tin foil?"
"I'm busy. Go away. I suppose you can use this. Don't break it."

"This" is a clear plastic butter spreading spatula from Ikea. Not completely clear. It's covered in cheery green and white polka dots. She is expecting me to convey the tragedy of Corinth with a spotty kitchen implement. A blunt spotty kitchen implement. From Ikea. Even Laurence Olivier had his limits.

Guess that "Coriolanus" is out of the question too. Might have to fall back on - shudder - "I am Curiously Orange : a tribute to Sooty". But my heart won't be in it.