The Sally Forth

Don't mention my name, I don't want anyone to know about me, he said.
Och, Pet, don't I know.
That's the crux of the cuckoo, the very heart.
I need not say my Father's name.  He's a private person, like myself...though we've both spent much of our lives on stage, well lit and highly amplified.  

An hour later...
So, you're writing in there?  You're not talking about me, you're not writing about me?
No, Da.  I've got enough to say about myself.  In fact, the first line of the first blog is just that..."don't mention my name".
Was that me who is saying that, he asks?  Yes, Da.  That's what you said - strict instructions!
Oh.
And that's the first line, He wants to know?
Yes.
A small smile, then some humming.

Give us this day our existential crisis, settled squared well away.
Dinner - that Beast
I've been ill, I have not been cooking, chaos has reigned.  My dear friend has rescued us, she has brought copious amounts of food, there's nothing to dread, today.
My hands are not yet recovered, pain, ever reddening. 
I return to our music room, but only to lightly swish my fingers over this sleek screen.  
I'm surrounded by keyboards. Surrounded, I tell ya!  The borrowed electric guitar is squatting in the corner. ( an act of aggression ? No. No, Pet.)  I planted her there recently, then out, OUT they came!  Accordions....everywhere, ready to rumble.
Just after this new arrival of the stringed creature to this room sanctioned for keyboards, for reeds, just immediately after, I was bitten by a spider, and my hands became my torture.
My everyday endless swiping away of blood, grime, dust, the de-germing of floors, laundering, my everyday endless endless pursuit of clearing a path through the germy jungle that is Casa de Cuckoo, has been made near impossible by this  new affliction fanged into me.

Lesson learned.  I'll no longer coddle the visiting spider, and I'll rescue the stringed beast and bring her back to the fold, my room.
I'll not name names, and I'll invest in my own, wee amp.