When I Have Fears That I May Cease to Be

Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

                                                              ~ John Keats 

Dear Keats. Always fretting about something.   

An exciting development this week! My dear friend Prince Rehman has asked me to co-author an intriguing work of non-fiction. It concerns a lovely chap - we'll call him Johnny for now dears - and a quite torrid tale of military power attempting to quash the little man. 

The pen shall be mightier!

Also, this week, I have received several invitations to join yet another ridiculous virtual social club.  These, alas, I must decline. 

One does become a tad weary of the social whirl here in Internet Land. Not least, of course, because there are no canapés! What sort of party is this? 

All this sharing... c'est n'est pas ma tasse de thé, dears. One becomes jaded. 

And, if one stops to think, one might reason how damaging this Quest to Share actually is. Contemplate the fictional scenarios - those famous tales one knows and loves - and see how this modern desire to bare all would be the death of such! There are few enough plots in life or in literature, but those which resonate eternally are, my dears, invariably those wherein mystery plays its part. 


How, for example, might dear Romeo and Juliet have fared with Facebook, Twitter and Google+? Tell me dears? How would that story have played out? 

Badly, I fear. 

Romeo would not have cared to know how many times dear, sweet Juliet vomited into the toilet bowl after consuming too much Vino da Verona whilst out with the girls. Nor would he have wished to see photographic evidence. Likewise, would Juliet really care to see how her lover "likes" that Benvolio è appeso come uno stallion?

No, dears. She would not. 

It is, as the young say these days, TMI (which in itself, ironically, is too little information for my liking! Has time become so precious that a person cannot type out 18 characters instead of 3? Alas, I fear I am becoming a Curmudgeonly Old Dame - or, as my niece might say, a COD). 

So, there it is, my news. One fears it may be a little rambling... yet one must, I find, take heart where heart can be found. As dear Keats also said (when not penning woes on his fear of unfinished prose) circumstances are like Clouds continually gathering and bursting - while we are laughing the seed of some trouble is put into the wide arable land of events - while we are laughing it sprouts it grows and suddenly bears a poison fruit which we must pluck.

Frankly the man was a few commas short of perfection, but still. The essence is there, dears. One must enjoy what one can, whilst one can, despite it all. 

And, despite it all,

I do remain, as always, yours

Claudette x

Sing me another love song...

... but this time with a little dedication.

This is it, my dears. The human heart. Ugly little beast, is it not?

Puts things into perspective, I find, to view it this way.

Where have you been, Claudette? one might ask, were one remotely interested. Well, dears, I have - as always - been remarkably busy for a woman of my age. I shall be 135 in just a few weeks! Can you believe it? No, neither can I, dears, neither can I.

I spent this morning in the care of my dear consultant Monsieur Mors. Doesn't fill one with confidence, a moniker like that, but he's an awfully pleasant chap. He said Claudette, dear, you have the constitution of one a quarter your age! Though he did tick me orf somewhat for the wine consumption. Goodness these modern doctors have such repressive rules!

He proclaimed me quite sane. Quite sane. Something of a relief as one does tend to question oneself at times and it's reassuring to gain professional absolution, as it were. Acta deos numquam mortalia fallunt, as they used to say in Rome. And, of course, consultants are a modern god, are they not?

He informs me I am merely a tad weary, unsurprising for one my age, and has prescribed a shot of gin and a Latino lover. Incredible what one receives when one elects to go private.

Life has been hectic, of course. One's friends have a tendency to evaporate as one ages, so one must maximise Life whilst it's willing. Recently I did meet up again with my dear and oldest chum, Prince Rehman, and we had a wonderful evening - drinking tea! Yes, I hear your laughter all the way here in France, darlings, but when the company is good, tea is surely all one needs. Prince Rehman is always a positive force, I find, and I do love him so for that quality.

Paris was the usual heated frenzy over the summer. Ghastly tourists - Texans mainly - crawling over the place as though it were a specimen to be examined and not an oasis some of us dearly call home. Autumn now beckons and, with it, comes a slowing of pace.

Though frankly if Georges slows any more he'll stop. Really the man is insufferable, but what can one do? Having exhausted himself with the plumbing works, as previously mentioned, he has discovered the internet and mainly now spends his time engaged in war battles with imagined enemies. I fear this modern vice merely brings those destined to Lost Cause to their point of arrival so much sooner. Alas, it is both travesty and tragedy.

I haven't heard from dear Dapphers. One suspects the medication is keeping her subdued. Visitors are, apparently, no longer permitted at the clinic and thus we must wait - if not with bated breath, at least with decorum - for further news as and when it's available.

And Claude... what can I possibly say, dears. That was a rhetorical question, by the way.

We return to the heart. Its ugly, brutal and quite pathetic form. We'd eat it, were it not for social constraint.

And so I remain
Yours in eternal optimism for Life,

Claudette xxx