Whoops a ruddy daisy, someone has been a butterfingers haven’t they? Three cups spilled all over. Red, White and Rosé by the look of them an’all. But they were obviously big heavy cups, too much for one person to manage comfortably. And never mind, dear, there’s still two left. The thing is, they obviously do mind, don’t they? They have their back to the two full ones and are just gawping mournfully at the spilled ones. Nobody likes a mournful gawper though. My advice would be turn around, pick up your full cups, thank the Lord that you still have some left, then forget about the other three and get on with your ruddy life. The clue is in the picture, it’s all water under the bridge.
So it’s staring you in the face. This card is about coping with loss, and moving on. I was devastated when my Raymond trod on my Hairy Mary. She was my little comfort, and it always made me feel better when I gave her a stroke. Then that clumsy clot trod on her when he was getting out of bed one morning, and killed her. My lovely little Yorkshire Terrier. It was a big loss and I could only cope with the grief by encouraging my Raymond to share the pain by regularly hitting him over the head with my soup spoon “dreadnaught.”
But then he died an’all, and the house was safe for little doggies again, so I got Madamoiselle Tuppence, and life gradually regained its sweetness. I could cope with the stresses and strains of daily living by sitting on the settee and tickling my Tuppence. She was my companion until the end of my days in the land of the living. My Hairy Mary was all water under the bridge.
And if you really can’t cope, there is always religion. See, there, over the stream, there’s a little church. Of course, as far as I am concerned, the jury is still out on religion. I’ve been dead nearly 20 years and I still haven’t had any evidence one way or the other. But then it always has been a matter of faith. I never had all that much myself, knowing what filthy so and sos them vicars can be. But that’s what with them being men. And as we know, all men are filthy so and sos, whether they are vicars or not. But these days women are allowed to be vicars an’all, and women tend to have a bit more sense than men. That being said, it begs the question, why would they want to bother being vicars. I don’t suppose that I will ever get to the bottom of that one.
Four things that you might do this week (i) Get down off the fence and nail your colours to the wall. What are you? White, Red or Rosé. Myself, I am a sort of Sherry Brown. It is worth knowing though. Just in case anybody asks you what you are having. (ii) Count your blessings and smile. Never mind about what you might have lost. Think about what you’ve still got. (iii) Life is always better if you have something to stroke while you are sitting on the settee. It may be a gerbil, a guinea pig, a cat or a dog, or even a cock or a beaver, although one should always bear in mind that some creatures are more relaxing than others. The secret is to find something that responds well to a tickle. (iv) Make your peace with your religious figurehead, whether its Jesus, Mohammed, Buddha or whatever. Make your peace with them, and then say, thank you very much, but I am not doing any ruddy violent nonsense in your name thank you very much. And if you don’t like it, you ca ruddy well lump it. These religious figureheads are all well and good, but you would do well to show them who’s boss and keep them in their place, and if saying that means that some soft so and so is going to seek me out and gun me down in cold blood, then so be it. He’ll have a job on any road. I’ve been dead for nigh on twenty years.