Bla. This is the first day of the rest of my life. Bla bla. Many drips will eventually fill a jug. Bla bla bla. Eckhart Tolle says stay in the present and all is well.
Insert any other platitude you have read on facebook lately, turn it upside down and you will come to my current way of thinking which is: Nope. I can't do anything. Nothing I can do is worth anything. I will never do anything. I will only talk about doing things. And I will talk about doing things AFTER I have spent half an hour reading The Guardian on my phone; BEFORE I send my emails that I'm supposed to send for Sing and Sign and AFTER I have streamed the latest episode of Real Housewives of Atlanta.
Except not that. Because the season is over and I am somewhat bereft with the rude departure of Nene, Phaedra, Kenya, Cynthia, Kandi et al from my life. They had become part of my extended family and their weekly visits never failed to cheer me when I was having a Bla moment.
No longer do mine ears delight in their colourful
Atlant(ic?) vernacular that paints my inner commentary with its
myriad rainbow hues, and swear beeps. But the memory of these high
achieving women lives on in my heart and in my mind. Just today I was
reminiscing about last season's conflict between Phaedra (a well-known
celebrity lawyer) and Kenya (former Miss America - or Maybe Miss USA I
can't remember) and their competing bottom-shaping excercise dvds.
Phaedra's was called "Donkey Bootie", whilst Kenya's was termed
"Stallion Bootie". I called this "Star-arse Wars". Incidentally, I'm about to release my own excercise dvd, callled "Cow Bootie". It
comes with a special bonus feature: "How to achieve an udderly beautiful
bust" and a free packet of Hob Nobs.
Real Housewives of Beverly Hills is also over. I realised that I was talking about it
too much when Midi-Me made this Mothers Day card for me back in March,
complete with pop-up bit on front:
All I have left is New York. That only started a month ago or so. I have a couple of months left of that at least. My favourite character in RHONY is Carole Radziwill. She seems to have her head half screwed on and is a journalist and writer (of course). After suffering a terrible loss, she wrote a book called What Remains which I have not read yet but will. Eventually.
Anyway, I don't watch Towie. I don't watch Made in Chelsea. But I do watch Real Housewives. It ACTUALLY brings me JOY. I'm 41. I don't care. I don't have to impress anyone. I love it. It is a form of meditation in that, for 45 minutes, it expels all worries associated with running my own business, looking after my 12 year old and not writing my novel (...although, if I'm ever at a loss for plotlines...) In those brief and precious televisual moments, I focus purely on the present.
Eckhart Tolle would surely approve.