Saturday, 20 March 2010

Nefertiti’s bonfire 10.10.2009
According to Shifty, bonfire night in Lochgilphead is the tits, mind you Shifty says everything the tits after a few.
He says being in the Lantern Parade is an honour and I should be honoured. But Shifty does have a warped sense of wit.
This year the theme is Celtic wars and guesses who’s been asked to be Scotland answer to Boudica?
I get to sit on a horse and scream like a banshee.
My class is going to be so impressed, all two of them. Sheryl says once Lochgilphead has seen me ride a horse there will be no stopping us- every women with a pulsating pelvis will want to join.

Nefertiti ‘s pinnacle - Boudica 01.11.2009
It was a horse but not as we know it, I pictured a large white stallion decorated like a Celtic Christmas tree. What I got was a Paper Mache statue of an old hack with a few tea lights wheeled about on top of a hospital trolley-( my faith in the NHS has never been the same since that little slip up they had with testosterone years ago).
The horse was so wide that I had to sit in a yoga position to stay on it. Thanks goodness I have a flexible pelvis – (my Rodger would definitely agree).
It was so high I had a perfect view of the pipe major’s bald patch who was leading the Lochgilphead pipe band.
They ; being the organiser- (anyone in an orange jacket and clip board) insisted on a beard, apparently Boudica had one – I refused, Nefertiti does not do facial hair on any terms. What is the point of going to all that bother of a flexible pelvis and the like if I have facial hair? I eventually relented on the face paint. Little did I realise that I would end up with a face like a constipated brave heart warrior, where any facial expression resulted in me looking like a set of piles stood between me and the relief of said constipation.
So I am perched on this paper Mache horse like a pregnant woman on a bed pan with a 6 foot spear in one hand obeying whatever wind passed and my other hand clutching the impotent reign attached to the horse. The pipe is playing a flower of Scotland – at the front in a desperate attempt to drown out the salsa drums playing at my rear (everything is so hot hot hot with them).
When one of the boys begins to oil the wheels with vigour rarely seen in a student, “you think that wise?” says one of the orange jacket brigade “that trolley’s no brakes”.
Before I had a chance to shout I’m off we were off! Heading for that infamous hill at the top of the main street with a ‘braw view ‘ of the loch and it’s (at least a month’s rubbish) scattered about . No attention is worth this I thought with a ‘questioning help me look’ at my Rodger in crowd. He, reading my expression as something completely different gestured something about prunes. And I realised I was complete on my own.
The wind picked up speed sending my spear plus flag into a frenzy, ‘I getting off ‘I shouted in my best banshee voice. But apart for a ‘your a fanny’ response which I chose to ignore with as much dignity as constipated looking warrior could achieve, no one heard and no one recognise me – So much for the class being impressed; apparently they were in the pub enjoying Shifty’s Happy hour!
Happy hour! Mine was later on that night with ice pack on my flower Scotland and Rodger by my side feeding me prunes ‘You’re Boudica ‘he said ‘was the pinnacle’.
‘Bless his cotton G’string!’

Nefertiti x

Sunday, 7 March 2010

the retreat December 2009

Rodger says I am all stressed out for Christmas, he says I should relax otherwise my Pandora magnificence in the panto will not be up to her usual.

So he booked me into a retreat- a dance retreat, next week I will be getting touch with the goddess within and the mother earth out with.

Salutations to the sun


The retreat was not a great experience.

It was contact dance- no music- just rolling around on the floor with old men and hairy lesbians. Not that I have anything against old men or lesbians, some of my best customers are old and I never comment on their hair. The amount of hair on ones body is all subject to taste, it's just that I don't like a mouthful of it, especially unaccompanied by music.

The couple in charge where into all things "tantric" and were not afraid to show it. They along with a rather attractive Polish man spent their spare time rolling about on the floor like teenagers on Viagra- in the pursuit of the perfect massage. I am telling you it was enough to put you off your camomile.

They suggested we get in touch with our inner animal and make as much noise as possible. We were all given the "freedom" to choose what ever animal we felt was lurking in the corners of one inner child. Cat seemed to be the most popular - something to do with stroking and rubbing.

An elderly gent (who was known to carried his teeth about in a box in his pocket) decided that he was a gorilla - looking for a mate. He stood up, beat his chest and started to growl. It was only after his second coughing fit that the "gorilla" decided that there were probably more advantages to being a cat, and that a good stroke was probably the best he could hope for, even with his teeth in!

That afternoon I tried to leave but was stopped at the gate.
"Don't be afraid of what you feel," they said "this is you chance to heal what is within you just have to be with it!"

Two days later I still had no idea what I was supposed to "be with" but I knew where I didn't want to be- at that retreat - it was cleaning day and the last thing I felt like doing was polish the toilet of said gorilla /cats.

Oh and by the way everyone had a frigging cold!

Since then I have been in bed with a cold dreaming about toothless lesbians and hairy men with toenails even a bird of prey would be ashamed of- not even Rodger's balsamic vinegar rubs make me feel better.

For now, the sun can shove it's salutations