What if…

Here it comes again. Serious time, sorry okes. Let’s just hope this one doesn’t come with any repercussions. To any who read this, this isn’t a message, I promise, there are no hard feelings, I do understand, more than you can imagine and I don’t mind discussing it, this is just something that needs to be let out to the cyberverse: 

What if something terrible happened to you? Something terrible happens to you, you deal with it. You pick yourself up, brush yourself off, go through the stages and move on. Easier said than done, but what if you can’t deal with it? What if you have to keep quiet to prevent others from hurting? What if, you can’t move on?

What if people forgot something terrible happened to you?

Words have meaning and sometimes those meanings are thrust upon us like fists in the night. Hypothetically: You know someone who was murdered – after you find out, you’ll never use the word without understanding the connotations. You don’t flippantly say ‘I could murder a hotdog,’ because now murder means so much more to you. If you are relating a movie, a news story or anything involving the word ‘murder,’ where you have to use it, the word becomes heavy. You can’t help but pause before it, or rush through it. In the mere fact of trying to say the word without inflection, you bring attention to it. The word now has impact and saying it loosely becomes impossible.

What if people you loved and who loved you, used a word like that flippantly…forgetting it’s impact on you. Forgetting that something terrible happened to you.

What if you’re watching a movie, and, as thrillers do, they draw a ‘murder’ out, painstakingly driving what happened back into your skull? You sit there, willing your face not to give you away. You don’t blink, you don’t move, you keep your eyes on the screen and you beg your actions not to reveal the anguish you’re feeling. You know eyes are on you, checking to see if it affects you. You will yourself to forget, just for that moment, so you don’t bring the terror back into the room with you.

What if you turn around afterwards, to find no one watching you, but sipping tea quietly, or joking about the football? What if no one was watching you, caring about its effect on you? What if they forgot?

Not being able to talk, or missing a few steps in the process, like acceptance and memory, means that it doesn’t go away. You can’t pick yourself up and move on, as much as you try. It sits there, like a festering wound in the back of your mind and heart, reopening itself when the ‘word’ is mentioned. You move forward, but not on. You do every day tasks, you laugh, you love, you live, but it’s there, like an anchor to the past. Never letting you forget.

So how can others?

‘appy but ‘ectic post

Hello all

Finally, the time has come for a happy post.

Today I shall be the headless chicken, but all in aid of a drunken cause. Today we prepare to don our Splash Fen hats and hit the road. My mate and I shall be working there from Wednesday, so naturally we’ll arrive on Tuesday, to ensure our pickled livers stay pickled.

It’s been a whole bloody decade since I last went to Splashy. It was there that I met a naked old man, with a multi-coloured dog (spray-painted, poor bugger), swimming in a river. The quintessential Splashy story.

Me @ the last festival I went to (Download, 2010), what makes you think I wasn't exactly sober?

Today, I must run to the shops to buy buckets of cat food, to support my monsters while I’m away. Although we’re doing the supplies trip tomorrow, my personal supplies shall be bought today, like batteries (for my camera, you dirty bastards) and headache tablets (pretty sure I don’t want to be doped up on  my morphine pills when there, so Panado is a must).

In addition, I have to send off emails to various clients, explaining where I am (a work expo, obviously), chase for money, do all the work that needs to be done this week in one day and clean my bloody house.

How all this will happen, Darwin knows, but I’ll manage. Perhaps the house cleaning will fall short once again.

So, from now on, do not expect coherent posts…in fact, if anyone sees me about to post anything from my phone, take it. Quickly.

We’re doing Splashy in comfort (out of necessity and a lack of camping gear) – we’re taking a freaking sleeper couch Yup, that’s right. It’s an old foam mattress that flops into a couch and squishes into the back of a car. It takes some pushing, and you’d do yourself a favour to put the handbrake on first, especially when facing a downhill, as I accidentally found out a while back. It’s alright, I James Bond’d that bitch, chasing it down the hill and flying into the driver’s seat

I have my hat for sun and my docs for rain, what more could we need? If you need me after Thursday morning, I shall be passed out somewhere, hopefully on my sleeper couch, if not, please move me into the shade. I burn.

 

Before I disappear and on a side note:  I seem to have received a lot of calls/messages about my previous post, which I found interesting. Perhaps it was because people wanted to cement the fact that they’re my friends (and perhaps that the post wasn’t aimed at them), which I find rather sweet and thank everyone. I think the post before was more melancholy, but either way, I wanted to let the world know that although I’m disappointed in the people targeted in my previous post, I’m not wallowing in a vat of self-pity. The only time it crosses my mind is when I’m not busy and/or get some form of reminder, however, this does not ruin my day. So you haven’t any reason to fret – although I really appreciate the support and kindness.

Trading friendship for coffee

I promise that soon you’ll get a friendly, happy, choppy, cocky post as per usual, but today I feel the need to once again be morose and a tad macabre.

I haven’t posted since my last depressive post, as this has been a rather hectic few weeks. Ol’ Murphy had his way, when I thought life was down and it couldn’t go worse. My darling friends had paid for me to visit them in Joburg and I decided to return the favour by smashing my friend’s car. Whilst trying to do a good deed, I was transporting my very pregnant friend to her surprise baby shower.

Surprise! We never made it… I was driving, it was my fault. There was assistance from the others shouting different directions and telling me to turn when I did, but, I repeat, I was driving and certainly didn’t use the skills I should have used and thus….bang. Apparently we were on a one way. The accident was pretty intense. It was more dramatic and emotional than your normal crash, involving another car, but thank goodness, no one was hurt at all. That’s the  saving grace that I’m clutching too. I’m still wracked with guilt and was an emotional wreck at the ‘crime scene,’ as the guilt took hold. I’m sure few of you can imagine a Sez, looking like a member of KISS, bawling her eyes out on the side of the road. Anyway, I’ve managed to beg, borrow and steal the excess and the car is now being fixed. I won’t eat for a month, but hey ho Life goes on and one must do what’s right.

Anyway, the reason I’m writing today isn’t even remotely connected to this, but rather something that dawned on me this morning. While I may not be old, I’ve started to realise that as we get old, we learn to fully appreciate the little things in life: a morning coffee, while watching the sea; the smile of a child; what good fortune we have; reading a book on a Sunday afternoon; having a wild and frenzied night with your friends. However, I’ve started to notice that in the process of getting older, I seem to be dropping friends left, right and centre (how horribly inarticulate is that? Oh well, you get the drift).

When I left Uni, I noticed that those friends, who one spends every day with, but never share a single, deep emotion with, seemed to fade away. I wasn’t perturbed, they weren’t all that important to me, I had my close and dear friends, who I valued and cared for deeply; who consistently praised the strength and depth of our friendship and lived up to what it required.

When I went overseas, I noted that without Facebook, I’m sure many would have forgotten about me (please note, not self-pitying, I felt that went for anyone who went overseas). There was a handful of people who stayed in close contact with me. However, when I announced my return, hoards of people bent over backwards to tell me how they had missed me (sans any contact in at least 6 months….despite our dear friend, Facebook). When I landed, there were few. Even the initial handful of people drained away to perhaps three, maybe four people who I truly appreciated. This wasn’t a matter of timing, for 5 months of living in Joburg, I barely saw anyone other than these few.

Then I pop off to the coast and repeat the same sequence of communication I had when overseas.

Now, it’s with a heavy heart, that I start to see those friendships, upon which I judge all others, fade away. Some stay stagnant, but strong (like those I either left behind in the UK, or those I have known for decades, but, too, reside overseas), but a few start to fade, in a rapidly dismissive way.

I believe, as a rule, that I have tried to be as good a friend as I can possibly be. I’m the first to highlight my faults and take the blame (to risk quoting songs, Annie Lennox echoed my sentiments when she sang “If something goes wrong. I’m the first to admit it. The first to admit it. But the last one to know.”). I know that in my moving to the coast, I haven’t been as good a friend as I could have, because I was prepared for the distance that…well…distance causes. I knew I would start to fade into the background for people and couldn’t be bothered to put effort into something I knew was transient. However, to my special few, I kept up communication – halting communication, albeit, but communication. And then I hit rough patches, and I found the people who were there for me, were not the special few on this continent, but the special few overseas, or people I hadn’t ever imagined would write me supportive comments, such as those who comment on my blog. My friends overseas take the time to supportive, kind letters and I, in return, support and help them along. My special few, I have tried, but now find I have been almost wiped clean of their lives.

It makes me wonder, do I re-evaluate who I am and how I treat friends? No. After some serious retrospection, I like who I am and I know I’m a good friend to those who need me and to those who don’t. Perhaps, sometimes I’m a tad self-involved, but it’s rare and I do try my best to put myself out there for people. And hey, with age I’ve started to realise that if you don’t like me, that’s your problem honey, not mine.

So what rhyme or reason can we blame for this dwindling love and support we’ve so come to count on?

As we get older, do we trade our true friendships for the appreciation of something small, like the first sip of coffee, overlooking the sea?

 

 

 

Dishevelled with a Merlot grin

This isn’t an easy post to write, as it’s about a serious topic, rather than mind-numbing ramblings. Not too serious, well not for you, but for me it rather is.

I have some large changes to make in my life and I’m a tad scared to make them. I’m not scared of change, far from it, but rather I’m scared to continuing to change. The last three years of my life have been about upheaval, nomadic tendencies and constant change. I haven’t wanted to stop moving for more than three months. I could say this was a ‘phase,’ but before this period I too had to change every six months – a big change – be it moving house, job or relationship. In fact, in one day, I managed to lose my house, my job and my car. At the time I was flabbergasted at my bad luck, but it turned out to be one of the positive turning points of my life. Further confirming my unspoken theory – that to keep running will solve everything.

It’s this theory that’s currently bothering me. When I returned from London, I promised myself that wherever I landed, I would stay – so to speak. So I landed in Joburg. I lasted 5 months, granted at a torrid company (although only three months there) and off I popped to KZN, under the strict promise to myself that I shan’t move for at least a year.

Well, I found paradise in a log cabin…that turned out to be the 12th level of Hell (read my first ever posts)…and off I popped to Scottburgh…under the strict promise that I wasn’t to move for a year. It is here I find myself, but I find myself alone. Although surrounded by people, I feel utterly and completely alone. Any poor bugger with the misfortune of asking me how I am, will get an honest answer (not something you’d wish upon yourself…but perhaps your enemy). I have stresses I can’t talk of to those around me (aside from aforementioned poor buggers who I don’t see daily). I know this post may arouse interest and screening questions, but they will get nowhere. My stresses cannot be spoken in Scottburgh. Nor will they. They’re not life-threatening, nor disastrous, nor life-changing, I suppose, but they’re stresses.

And the only way I know how to change this is through change itself. In Scottburgh, there is no one to talk to, few to drink with and after 6 months of either living here or nearby, I’ve realised, there never will. I convinced myself that there would be someone beautiful and perfect waiting for me the other side of sanity, but I find myself swirling deeper into the abyss that is stress and self-absorbtion and know that I will be too blind to see it should it actually occur.

(Apologies, this is turning into a long one).

A touch of honesty – baring of soul so to speak – I’m a rebel…with a cause. I’ve long wanted a family, a kids, settling down (not in the white picket fence, kind of way, the traveling the world while pregnant, stupid kind of way). Lying to myself about my age is no longer possible. I know 28 isn’t all that old, but I’m hell of a broody, always have been and… to be honest…I just want to stop now. The chances of me having kids are less than the average person (or should I say woman?), perhaps not significantly, but it entirely depends on luck in my case. More so than the average person, at least. And with each year, my chances decrease. I have friends who’ve had children in their early, mid or even late 30s, but they don’t have my constitution. I’m not being pessimistic, I’m being a realist. And staying here is helping nothing.I want someone, not anyone, that someone. Yes, I do believe in that someone – illogical as it may be. I want someone who loves me regardless of what I wear, look like or act and I want that person to want what I want – an additional person to share the awesomeness of life with.

I’m loathe to move. I love my house, but I’m slowly on the way to losing the parts of me that make me…well…me. I’m not breath-taking, or utterly vibrant, I make very little difference in people’s lives, but after years spent trying to find myself, I found I actually liked, if not loved myself. And now I’m disappearing. Sucked deep into the same abyss I mentioned above.

I do not want to be this person. Should I move, will it change? I think it will. I’m not looking to move far, just an hour away, but somewhere where I am me, with no obligations, no preconceptions, a place I can truly be me….and a place with people my age. but I hate myself for even thinking of once again moving.  I feel I’m incapable of spending a year in one place. Should it not change, I’m not sure what I’ll do…perhaps see someone to still the swirling…who knows.

For now, I wait for my finances to secure themselves, so I can decide whether or not to change. For better or for worse. To see if I can find myself and to see if I can find someone who wants me as I am now – disheveled with a Merlot grin.

 

(side note to a friend: Yes, I started a lot of sentences with a conjunction. 1 point to you and 1 point to poetic license).

We all kick bum

Quick note, as I’m running around like an unlucky chicken:

We hit 2000 views yesterday!!

Yay! Ok, it’s not much in comparison to your average blog, but baring in mind my unstable blogging style, it’s freaking AWESOME!

Quick side note: Slash and the Handbag dog had a Mexican standoff last night. Slash sitting calmly on the steps, a meter away from Handbag dog, while Boggle-eyes goes bat-shit crazy, running loops and barking like mad. Each time he ventured to Slash, Slash took one threatening step towards him and he bolted….which is when Slash started to stalk him.

I’m so proud

Now back to being an unlucky chicken.

Slash vs the Handbag dog

This lasted a good 1.5 hours. The only time Slash moved, was to advance. So, so proud

The boggle-eyed handbag dog

I think I’d best admit that, without my psychotherapist and only wine, not vodka, in the evenings, I’ve resorted to blogging. I’m afraid you’d best get used to it. So, without further adieu, I present to you, my newest irk.*

Summary of my house/Guns**/living situation: I’m on a property with three flats facing a sea filled with disgusting dolphins. One is occupied by me (flat, not dolphin, don’t be gross), the other by a lovely old lady that can’t figure out the TV power button and the other by…. (dum…dum…dum…dum) the Caretakers.

Although nice enough, my problem thus far has been that, as some of you know, the owners specifically told me I’m not allowed to tell the caretakers that they’ve given permission for me to have cats – some sweaty, petty problem previously – until they return from their 3 month sojourn in Oz.

The first month of the Guns’ existence at my flat was filled with secrecy, taping down the curtains and generally being rather spy and secret like. Not surprisingly, they don’t trust me as far as they could throw me (it didn’t help matters when I told my friend ‘Be quiet about the Guns, they’re supposed to stay secret,’ within accidental earshot of them).

So now they return on Monday. Panic starts to well when the daughter arrives early. She’s come to set the place up for their arrival and stay an additional two weeks. She kindly brought with her the caretakers’ Chihuahua and her own motherf*cking large, male cat.

I’m not going to go into details about the cat, except to say: Who takes theircat on vacation with them and lets them roam? Highly unfair to territorial animals, if you ask me. Secondly, he’s twice the size of the Guns, about two years’ old and very, verynot-fixed. He’s got veritable bowling balls going on down there. I can see nothing but trouble coming my way, with 3 male cats at each others’ throats.

However, the handbag dog is just great. He’s actually smaller than my 6 month old cats. This dog is just plain arbitrary. I know that Chihuahuas are generally nasty looking animals, but this poor bugger takes it to a new level. I’m sure he’s thicker than a walnut, but he still has this very large, golf-ball pitted skull.

So, handbag dog skitters around the place, with his one eye way bigger than the other and perilously close to being cross-eyed. He then sees Axl and has a little chase. Good on him, not a single bark. Skitter, skitter, skitter, but it’s half-hearted. Axl puffs up into one big walking cactus, hisses and runs like a Shark out of Loftus.***

I manage to get him in, the handbag dog has all but skittered off, and I close the security gate. The back door is wide open, but the cats seem ignorant of this, so they perch at the security gate, waiting, watching. Well, Slash waits, Axl occasionally musters up the courage to have a peek (at nothing) and then shoots back behind the couch.

Finally, the big ol’ scary, boggle-eyed handbag dog skitters up to my security gate. Slash puffs up into a larger, sitting cactus. He doesn’t even bother to hiss, he knows he doesn’t have to. Handbag dog stops…pauses…and then dashes away.

Handbag dog = 0

The Guns = 1

Let’s hope this winning streak continues to the curious case of the mammoth cat.

*Not sure I can use this as a noun, but I’m going to anyway. Poetic license and all that crap.
**The cats, Axl & Slash – read further blogs to find out more.
***Special reference for my cousin. Just cos they’re being made to wear pink, doesn’t mean the Bulls won’t kick the Sharks’ asses

A morning made for Murphy

Let me tell you about my morning:

Got up at 5am, much to my disgust, with a raging thirst (possibly due to wine intake last night). Filled up my weigh-less Oros, as hardcore as I am, and went back to bed.

Took a sip of Oros and promptly spilled the entire pint glass all over my bed.

Continued sleeping on a towel, like a 8 year-old boy with mummy issues.

Tried the waking thing again at 8 to find Vodacom had decided I’m unworthy of service and thus will give me no signal. Not even one bloody bar.

Decide I need coffee a little earlier today, despite the fact I’m already sweating like an over-weight mule.

Make myself a nice cup of coffee, with extra milk to ensure my ulcer doesn’t go all volcano-like on me, and sit down in front of my laptop.

If you hadn’t guessed, it wasn’t working. The screen flickers on and off, Outlook ‘recovers from some blasted error’ and takes ages to load, random beeping suggests it’s about to die. The bugger’s around 4 years’ old now, well on it’s way out, but I’m self-employed. Money is some imaginary thing celebrities have.

So I take a nice long chug off my coffee, to ease the stress of the blasted laptop.

I narrowly miss the screen/keyboard with my projectile coffee, as I realise the milk that was perfectly fine, is now no longer.

Long-life, my ass.

Go to chuck coffee away, so I can make a fresh cup, with fresh milk and re-start the bloody day….only to smash last night’s wine glass in the process.

Bear with me…

Two posts in one day? I know, you’re ready to unfollow me, but bear with me. I’ve not started drinking yet and blogging quells my homicidal tendencies.

Each of us has a quote, proverb or lesson that we’ve been taught, that, in contrast to the platitudes we’re faced with every day, actually stick with us and, perhaps, teach us something.

I know many people would advise against posting this here, but I fully believe in transparency and, regardless, there’s no link from my site to here, only from here to my site, so I should be safe.

My parents have taught me much, but one point stands out today above the rest.

They taught me that when you run a business, you’ll come face-to-face with some downright nasty, rude people. I  have worse terms, but perhaps these base and simple words are more appropriate for the simpletons I’m referring to. People who send hateful, insulting and threatening emails in response to marketing or even quotations.

You are bound to get an email with a gazillion exclamation marks, at least once a month.

They taught me to not just expect this and accept it, but to realise that these people obviously are making little money themselves, as they have the time compose such a long and hate-filled email.

Firstly, let’s realise that we’re all fighting for our own success, if someone’s taken the initiative, we’re not trying to send viruses your way, orinsist you buy our products, ignoring an email hurts no one, but responding in a vile, disgusting way does.

They taught me to pity the people who have the time to compose such nonsense, as, not only are they deeply unhappy people, but they’re also people who have nothing else to do and are, quite possibly, without work.

However, sometimes complaints are just so absurd that I struggle to respond. I have just received an email berating me for charging people for setting up Facebook & Twitter profiles for them, as they are already free services.

Apparently, I’m merely trying to con old people out of their money, by getting them to do all the work and still charging them for what is already a free service. My services have absolutely nothing to do with Social Media Marketing, Corporate Marketing Strategies, Design, HTML, FMBL SEO, an understanding of user activity and preference and much more. I am merely conning people out of their money.

So, dear readers, please send me money and I’ll send you the link where you can set up yourOwn Personal Facebook Profile and I’ll maybe walk you through the hard work…if I feel like it.

So, the next time you want to bitch at a company, do so, but remember, there’s a good chance there’s actually a person behind that email address.

Here’s hoping this doesn’t fall into the wrong lap, but if it does, I don’t suppose I’ll lose anything…

 

The bottom of the bottle

I’ve not been around lately, mainly because I have little to get off my chest (except the increasing pounds).

[Note to self: do not spend your adolescence wishing for bigger boobs*, Murphy brings you bigger thighs, bigger stomach, and much bigger arms to match].

Not that I’m not constantly dwelling on my made-up, over-thought, miniscule problems, but I’ve had my very own psychotherapist living down the road (emphasis on psycho ) This therapist falls under the category of ‘friend’ and brings fags and vodka to every consult. Thus, my problems are drowned out by the vodka and the gyre my house becomes once it’s imbibed.

London, Bounds Green. My cousin and I finished 3 bottles of those bad boys and...I won't tell you what happened next. Hey, maybe this isn't a new solution?

I once had an empty fridge, now it is filled with half-empty tonic bottles, the remnants of lemon and about three half-full bottles of Smirnoff at any given time.

I have to say, although I’ve never been one to advocate drinking ones problems away, I’m quite keen on this solution for me. The answer lying at the bottom of the bottle doesn’t cause me much panic, I’m lucky enough to know it’s temporary and only social, so the only problem lies in the pit of my stomach. Well, duodenum to be exact – this is where my lovely ulcer lies.

So, in short, and to not bother you with my problems, as they’ve ceased to be the centre of my universe, every time someone pisses me off, I’m in pass-my-shotgun mode, I have an argument, I want to kill a client, or I’m quite ready to throw myself off a bridge, I call my therapist. She runs down with voddie in one hand, a pack of smokes in the other (okay, to be fair, we take turns in getting the voddie & smokes) and we talk it out…then we sing it out and occasionally we cry it out. It’s all good.

A few concerned citizens have expressed their worry that I’ll fall apart at the seams once she leaves….next week, but I have no fear of this. I’ll miss the chats, but there’ll always be my good friend, Smirnoff**

 

 

*I do love a good footnote, but just reading a book by Karen Rose – ok, a bit Mills & Boonsy, but a great plot, lots of twists- and a cosmetic surgeon is given an engraved watch by his wife saying ‘Thanks for the mammories.’ It gave me a good giggle… I do hope I don’t have to explain the pun.

**If anyone even thinks about reading this in a serious tone and offers me help for alcoholism which isn’t present, I’ll be forced to ram the humor down your narrow-minded throat (mixed metaphor allowed). Let’s read this in the way it was intended, okay? ***

*** Taking the footnote to the extreme, this therapist has also gotten me into healthy eating and, god forbid, exercising, so, well, blah.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

I’m probably about as demotivated as you can get this morning, so I figured a post might make me more…well…alive.

I did yoga for the first time in ages, but I was up early and it’s so hot, so I’m now a walking zombie. I now have to work.

This usually wouldn’t be a problem if I had something to do, but the joys of being self-employed is that being ‘pro-active’ is the only way to survive. I don’t have a set list of tasks or end goals that people give me, I have to sort them out myself.

So, after a long December and half-January, I find myself in a demotivational slump. I’m not a happy chappy. Those who run businesses that have been going for a while and aren’t dependant on tourist/retail/holiday income, know that December and January are slit-your-wrists, take up drinking months (when you can afford it – you are allowed to substitute food with drinking, thus saving you groceries).

Whilst you can be prepared for it financially and mentally, it’s still drains you. Counting your pennies every single day, getting to the point where your pride is almost non-existent and while you don’t regret being self-employed, you start to look at rich, old guys in a new, more positive light.

Most people know admitting this is like a kick in the shins for me, or a well-aimed face palm, but, as aforementioned, I have little pride left, so I may as well use you all as my shrink, so I can maybe get motivated again.

Let me have a little interjection quickly. I don’t want sympathy. I’m not actually on the bones of my arse, my business is actually doing well, apart from the normal Christmas period (as expected). I’m just being pathetic and feeling sorry for myself.

But woe betide the person who offers condescending sympathy – I’m looking for a slap in the face and get off your sorry arse talk, not a ‘Oh shame, honey, is there anything I can do?’ Anyone who does that, particularly those who haven’t yet hit the harrowing speed bumps that come with self-employment, will be treated as someone who is saying ‘Oh shame, honey, I’m doing so well at the moment, so I have the time to offer you useless sympathy and simultaneously offer you snide comfort, whilst reveling in my success.’

Technically, I’m on track. I’m exactly where I expected and hoped to be when I started up in September. So it’s really damned impressive that I’m on par, instead of a few steps behind.

But I’m broke. With that comes a new perspective. Everything revolves around money, and, as per bloody Murphy,* more bills and more bills come in (for instance: a mobile company, whose contract with you ended 2 years ago, suddenly black listing you for a R500, that you actually paid, without ever having contacting you to say they think you didn’t pay, and subsequently upping that R500 to R4500…; or the vet telling you the cost of the Guns’ vaccinations being well over R800).

And then clients don’t pay**

One of the first things my parents taught me, to a flabbergasted and incredulous face, was that ‘profit’ and ‘cash-flow’ aren’t synonyms. I pity those coming into self-employment who assume they are, and most newbies carry that comforting assumption around. The reality is that you often have to wait up to three months for payments, calling, threatening, emailing, just to get a payment. Sometimes, they don’t pay at all. Yes, it may come as a shock, but it happens. Legal fees cost too much to sue someone over a lousy K or two; so eventually, it dies and you move on at a small loss. Luckily, I haven’t had that yet with this company, or the three-month wait, but I do find someone stalling at present, and it irks me.  A lot.

So, I sit here, dwelling on when an appropriate time between emails has passed, so I can press on with that problem and I can’t seem to focus on anything else, such as making more money. I have many leads, but they’re taking their time to come through… and I sit here demotivated and making matters worse.

 

“Turning and turning the widening gyre

the falcon cannot hear the falconer”

*If Firefox hadn’t insisted I ‘proper noun’ his name, I’d have left it at my initial lowercased insult…but red lines upset me.

**I’m sure people will tell me not to put this on my blog, but hey ho, there’s no connection from my site to here, just the other way around, so hopefully I’ll be alright.