Scramble

My mind meanders through lists of words.
I view the grid and while I try to string letters together time ticks by.
How do these people have time to pass messages as the clock slices away
at each three minute slot?
My eyes turn somersaults finding words longer than three letters.
At zero the graphics change - a revised list of scorers pop up plus a list of all the words
in the grid, many of which are incomprehensible.
Are they plucked from some World Dictionary?
I wonder who searches them out.
Are we being duped, victims of a huge joke?
Someone on another part of the planet sniggers as they make up words,
the weirder the better?
Even so, when the clock starts the count down the pulse quickens and you hope
your eyes can pick up the sequences of letters.
Your fingers slide over the keys, illuminating the developing words.
Each word registers points, hopefully rapidly enough to lift a players position and
thereby raise each word I.Q.
My brain/hand/eye co-ordination seem so sluggish in comparison to other players
and then the laptop freezes - exasperation seethes as seconds melt away.
I resent the phone ringing with a minute to go, it equals words/points missed.

There is very little give and take.
Anyone exceeding the maximum room I.Q. is ordered off to higher places.
The Great Glory is the "greenie" - the green highlighted word scored only by
one player.
What exultation!
Eventually, reason surfaces and I take myself in hand.
I return the game to its rightful place and remind myself that in the great scheme of
things it is inconsequential and still second to the Great Solitaire,
the ultimate panacea when stress levels rise.

Dear Blog, you must think I have abandoned you and I admit my guilt in neglecting you but you must realise that there are other dimensions to my life. However, I will try to do better.

The particular story I am about to relate started with my calming two, near tearful, members of staff who were at the end of their tethers with a difficult client. Then onto calming said client who, in floods of tears, couldn't understand why we couldn't just pick all her sixteen stone up, bodily, and place it just where, when, how she wanted, without the use of equipment.
By eight a.m. I ached everywhere and mused that this was just the first hour of the shift. This client is one of several who need lots of our physical and emotional effort plus the two we are nursing in bed, both looking at death at very close quarters. Then I juggled the various dynamics of staff tensions. If I didn't have another agenda, one that is spiritual rather than temporal, would I work this five day week, including evening, weekends, bank holidays, for eighteen thousand a year? I'm pretty sure no man would!
It's hard work and even more so at weekends when we have one less pair of hands and the same amount of work. So, we do more work for the same money. It rankles but I am told this is the way it always was, will, has, to be. Put up and shut up.
Rant over.

Onslaught

I have survived the onslaught of the two youngest grandchildren, one, two and three-quarters, with eyes full of attitude, and the other, one year old, with bi-lateral dimples. One trampolines along the shattered sofa, the other lolls against it leaning on one elbow contemplating the possibility of toddling across the gap to the futon.
Miss Attitude tosses her long, dark, crisp and sumptuous hair that almost, but not quite, overwhelms her elfin features.
Miss Dimples' shorter, light brown hair, like a cap, gently curves around her chubby features with her trade mark extra long tendril trailing beyond the nape of her neck.

There are brief hiatus when their attention is held by Tomliboos and Pontipines. Miss D. lays her head by her sister's feet, flips herself over so that she looks endearingly at her sister upside down. They murmur to each other gently then Dimples, revealing two rows of lethal biters, attempts to fasten her mouth around Attitudes big toe. Not quick enough though! The older one withdraws her tarsals, casually, and recommences bouncing and flinging cushions accompanied by high pitched squeals.

Daddy reappears from his shave and hands out dishes of thinly sliced apple and high tech juice receptacles.
Attitude nibbles delicately, precisely, leaving thin, red arcs of peel while her sister bites fiercely, sucking in large chunks.
Attitude purloins her sister's slices, pretending to feed her, swapping them while diverting us all , from one bowl to another. "All gone!" She presents an empty pink dish to Daddy with innocent eyes.

On the floor they slide past, over, around, each other, interacting as they pass with varying degrees of gentleness and in their own language.
How I wish I had more energy; that I didn't haltingly pull myself up each stair and heave this non- conforming torso onto the landing to the toilet. I want to play with them but despite a willing spirit the flesh is weak and uncooperative.
I hate this getting older and having to accept that many and various bits of me aren't as efficient as I would like.