I Ain't Afraid of No Daleks

Not in my apartment house!

Just had some slob of a guy--apparently, a friend of the rednecks across the hall (no surprise, there), yelling (screaming is a better description) under our windows again--Hey! C'mon! Hey! Lemme' in! C'mon, damn it!"

Charming to hear, at 10 am in the morning. Apparently the nursery school let out early, today.

Instead of not paying his rent so he could buy a car he can barely afford, it would have been nice if my neighbour had invested $20 to $25 in one of those battery-operatd remote door bells. Sheesh.

I had a bad dream, last night. I dreamed my apartment building burned down, and I couldn't save my cats.

I do have a fear of fire, have done since I was a child.

It started on the night the bishop's mansion burned. Through the woods and Japanese style gardens behind my childhood home, up on a wee hill, stood a Victorian-era mansion. It once belonged to a family member of industrialist, Russell Sage (whom now has a women's college named after him).

The mansion in my memory, wasn't as big as some I've been in, but it was large enough. It had a drawing room with wide windows overlooking the back lawn. I remember the big piano in there. There was the kitchens, of course. A small ball room/dining hall was converted into a wee chapel, and there was a small greenhouse attached to that wall.

"The bishop's mansion" as we kids called it, was the official residence of the various Episcopal bishops of the capital city of Albany--at that time, Bishop Brown was in residence, a very kind man as I recall. The estate's gardener--a fantastic gent named Harry Best--and his wife, lived in apartments in the mansion, with their sweet-tempered ginger cat--whose name I have long since forgotten.

The bishop had traveled all over the world, and was supposed to be quite a good photographer, taking pictures wherever he went. Harry, I always considered a friend. He was as good and kind a gent as anyone I've ever met. Harry made time to talk to me, and I always enjoyed his tales of life in the big houses of the rich, in the heart of the Roaring Twenties and Great Depression.

Through Harry, I heard about what the estate looked like, before our suburban street was added on to the lower portion...always a fountain of stories and information, Harry. And, he adored my half-Scottish collie dog, Shamrock (so named because I felt lucky to have her, as in a lucky four-leaf clover)--and she equally adored him, and while she was gentle and loving, she didn't give her loyalty to just anyone, so that spoke volumes about the character of Harry. I was truly blessed to know him.

One night, whilst both the bishop and his wife, and Harry and his wife were all away on holiday, there was an electrical short at the mansion, and some draperies caught fire.

When the squawk box that all the volunteer firmen had in the village, that was installed in my dad's bedroom went blaring off at 11pm, one night in 1971, it woke sis and I up: "WOOO--EEEEE--OOO, BEEP-BEEP-BEEP. CODE ONE FIRE! CODE ONE FIRE! (location--right behind us!?!) IT'S IN THE AIR, IT'S IN THE AIR! (meaning it was through the roof). Then, the fire siren down on top of the roof at the Village Hall, went off.

Dad had only just been issued the little black box from the village a week beforehand. I'd only heard that eerie god-awful noise during the once-nightly radio check. "WOO-WEE-O. This is the M___ fire company radio check at 1800 hours." Which was followed by the usual 6pm siren check, where the fire siren would go off once, precisely at 6pm. Whether you were a fireman or not, you always knew when it was six O'clock in the evening, in our village....and, 11am on a Sunday morning, when the Presbyterian chruch rang its bell. Only two times you didn't need a watch.

Anyway, sis had the top bunk of the bunk beds, and looked out the window and got all excited. Then, she got mean. Sis wasn't always very nice to her younger, shamfully gullible sister (me). She told me the woods were going to catch fire, and that our house was going to burn down, and me with it.

Oh god, was I terrified. Dad had already got into his black fireman's gear (which they still wear, apparently), donned his black helmet and gone in the car down to the firehouse to get in one of the trucks, which were even then, grinding it's way up the motorway hill our street was off of, sirens blaring.

Our aunt Frieda from the village came up to the house, and mum and she left to stand in our back yard, watching the blaze from the lawn. Mum tried to get me to come with her, but I stayed hidden under my blankets, crying in sheer terror--mum didn't know what my sister did to me---so mum gave up and left.

For two hours, I cried under my blankets, honestly believing I was going to be burned alive and that no one cared.

I've been afraid of fire, ever since. For years, I couldn't even strike a match!

Part of the mansion was saved--the old ballroom, the remainder of it had to be rebuilt. The cat was lost, I believe, tho' Harry--kind man--evaded our queries and did his best to change the subject, because he knew how distressed we all would be. The day they knocked the big marble fireplace down--wow, it was like a bomb went off. Exploring the ruins of the chapel/ballroom, we found tons of black and white photos, scattered over the floor, for some reason...the bishop's pictures of Asian and black villagers, people we kids, in the age of only three television networks, no FM radio, and long before the internet and cable TV, barely were aware existed.

I am now partly over my fear of fire, but part of me never will be, I suppose.

I wrote my post title...and then the blog published my post! I definately have to get a new keyboard, sometime in the near future. This thing seems to be developing a mind of it's own.

I think I may have just damaged my rather carefully cultivated and rather stoic reputation as an uptight old maid.

The group at the pub tonight--a family act called "Tropical Explosion," originally from Trinidad and Tobago, were fantastic! A really fun night out--although a very breif one, as I do have an 8 hour long meeting/training session tomorrow.

It's a tiny little place, but it's nice. Tonight's only the third time I've ever gone in there, but the lady that owns the place recognized me, and waved hello. That was surprising. No bartender has ever done that, before. But then, being that I'm not a pub person and don't drink, I've not had much experience with bar-hopping (that's what we northeastern New Yorkers call a pub crawl).

I sat in the little Adriondack mountain themed pub (complete with a giant moose head staring at you from one wall), sipping my lime and soda (cheapest drink one can order), I was groovin' to the Carribbean beat of a steel drum and keyboard, and some very nice vocals from mum and daughter. The mum could really belt 'em out, too.

The pub's resident lush, a nice, happy lady--think she's Greek or something, was dancing by herself, and the rather stuffy people who came in--probably New Yorkers (from the big apple) in town to check out the new half-million dollar condos that were just built behind the pub street.

Well, these posh types studiously avoided the baseball capped beer-swilling locals, me, and the charming and utterly harmless pensioner. But let me tell you, she may be a a bit of a lush, but she has more class in her little finger, than the lot of them put together, let me tell you! Sorry, but since the age of 14, I've always found the nouveau riche to be both laughable and sad, and I find it really hard to take them seriously--well they take themselves seriously enough for ten people, actually.

Anyway, she was grooving to a pop/disco song, and trying to get others to dance with her, and they just stuck their noses in the air and walked back to the outdoor deck behind the pub. The locals were more interested in their beers, and the pensioner seemed so disappointed that no one would dance with her (her lady friend whom was with her seemed a bit shy about it)...so, even tho' I've literally not danced in about 30 years, I got up and danced with her--then her friend got over her shyness and joined us, and we had a good time.

Well, I say danced--I sort of shuffled, 'cos I don't actually KNOW how to dance...but, the shuffle-arm wave thing worked in the late 70's for me, so what the heck? When the music stopped, the old lady sincerely thanked me, and hugged me--that felt nice. First time I've been hugged too, since I can't remember when.

But, I'm an dedicated old maid, the librarian's daughter. I'm not supposed to go to bars and dance! What will happen to my reputation as an uptight old biddy who never dates and stays home with her cats all the time?

I didn't stay for the limbo show, as it wasn't going to be until about 10pm, and I'd gotten there a little before 7, and would have probably had to buy another drink, which I can't really afford right now...oh, they did find my wallet, by the way, in some shrubbery or weeds the walkway between Davidson's Pub & Brewery, and Wallabee's Jazz Bar. The theif left my useless library card--which is how they knew it was my wallet, but of course, my 75 dollars is long gone. But hey, I got my library card back--now all I have to do, is someday get to the public library at Corinth, NY to pay that 100 dollar fine for the books that were lost or stolen, so I can use it again.

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I pedaled home--that's another reason I left early, because with my night blindness getting slightly worse, my eyesight's not so hot between dusk and dawn, so I don't like to ride my bike after dusk, if I don't have to. Gosh, you can hear me coming though--that old bike's so full of rust, it sqeaks and groans with every turn of wheel or pedal. I really need to remember to get some WD-40 lubricant spray, next time I go to Tractor Supply Company.

Getting home, I found Boots waiting for me at the door--he was on the balcony when I left, so he likely heard me coming. He was delighted to see me. I picked him up and he buried his ginger head in my shoulder...he's such a love.

Pee-ewwww! A skunk (polecat) just sprayed in our neighbourhood, or was just hit by a car...ugh. Horrible smell. Burns your eyes and throat. Time to shut the windows.

I sat down in front of my computer, and checked my e-mails.

Oh god, not again.

I got an e-mail from some kid (at least I hope it was a kid), saying she got my e-mail address from my "website" (????), and she loves David so much and could I please (or rather, "please, please, please"), tell her where she can find his e-mail address?

I've not had one of these things in a while, and thought I'd finally heard the end of it. I was nice. I took the time to Google DT's agent's address, and e-mailed it to her, telling her he'd probably think more of it, if she took the time and effort to write him a nice, personal letter. Maybe send him a nice drawing or a poem or something personalized. Hey, I was young once

(Tho' I honestly don't think I ever even considered tracking down my favourite celebrity at home, or looking for a phone number or personal information, as far as I can remember--that aspect of DT fandom I find just a little strange--and a bit scary, that some people seem to be so closed off from the world around them, that he or she is utterly devoid of having any respect for other human beings, or any personal boundries either, that he or she would think it is perfectly OK for them to invade another person's privacy.)

Anyway, I am, as always, staggered to think ANYONE would assume I would know David Tennant. As I've said many times, even if such a thing were remotely possible (which of course, it isn't) the actor wouldn't EVER be mates with someone like me, not by any stretch of the immagination!

I just find these kids whom assume I might know the man, really sad--how desperate are they to meet this Scottish bloke, that they have to appeal to some total stranger, thousands of miles away? Why are they so desperate? I'm sure he's probably a nice gent, and sure, he's a wonderful actor--but he's just a bloke!

I saw a DT video on Youtube recently, where some girl posted a video titled, "David Tennant says "you bitch." Seriously. That was the title of some fan video.

Well, what the heck? He's a bloke, not a bliking saint! Yeah, he swears. 80% of the guys I know, swear, and a good portion of the girls too. Even I swear--but I don't want to, I try real hard not to, it's so incredibly low-brow and unlady-like. Still...do these people really think the actor is some kind of perfect stinking god-like figure? Do they not get that he poos and farts, picks his nose and belches, gets drunk and swears---and may even have experimented with drugs, for all I know--at the end of the day, Tennant is just a bloke, like a lot of other blokes....well, most blokes don't overact, but--you know what I mean. Crikey.