How to win friends

When we moved to the countryside from the city, twenty-five years ago, we were struck by the open friendliness of people. Passers-by would nod or smile, shopkeepers would chat and neighbours quickly became friends. There has been a gradual change: village life is drawing ever-closer to city life. Now,  bumping into people in the village has taken on a literal meaning as they walk along reading and sending text messages. There is no need to stop for a chat or to seek out the local gossip since the most private of affairs are bellowed into mobile phones for everyone to hear.

I, however, have found a way of grabbing attention.

 Meet Ruby, a twelve week old cocker spaniel who belongs to my friend, Dr P.  I look after her on Fridays while Dr P is on duty. When Ruby and I go out for a walk, everyone stops to admire her and to talk doggy-talk. We have made friends with a whole range of people from babies to octogenarians; even teenagers have put their mobile phones in their pockets in order to pet Ruby. 

This experience reminds me of walking around Hampstead, pushing my first grandchild in her pram. People would smile fondly at her if she was laughing or sleeping and sympathetically at me if she was crying. Shop assistants would chat about their own babies or grandchildren. London seemed a very friendly place.

I wonder why we need the excuse of a baby or a puppy to make contact with strangers? Is it just because we are English or is this a universal trait? Were we friendlier in the past or is that my imagination?  A friend came to visit us yesterday. He recently retired and is having a wonderful time travelling around England's canals on his narrow boat. He said that people will wave from the towpath, offer to help with the locks, walk alongside the slowly moving boat and chat about boating and life in general. But..... when he moors the boat and walks to the pub or the local shop he becomes a stranger again and is totally ignored.

Maybe a puppy, a baby or a boat is a kind of visibility cloak, temporarily singling us out as interesting or perhaps "safe" people to speak to. Whatever the reason, I am enjoying Fridays in the park with Ruby.

Nothing new under the sun

The internet has given us instant access to a world of words. Whether that is an advantage or otherwise is open to question. I love the fact that I can look up a quotation that I can only half remember but I'm also put firmly in my place when I think I have an original idea and then discover lots of people have written about it already. Poets seem to have the advantage: as great observers of the minutiae of life, at least one of them will have covered whatever you are thinking about.

The theme for our writing group yesterday was faces and our inspiration came from Walt Whitman's poem of the same name:

Faces

SAUNTERING the pavement, or riding the country by-road--lo! such
faces!
Faces of friendship, precision, caution, suavity, ideality;
The spiritual, prescient face--the always welcome, common, benevolent
face,
The face of the singing of music--the grand faces of natural lawyers
and judges, broad at the back-top;
The faces of hunters and fishers, bulged at the brows--the shaved
blanch'd faces of orthodox citizens;
The pure, extravagant, yearning, questioning artist's face;
The ugly face of some beautiful Soul, the handsome detested or
despised face;
The sacred faces of infants, the illuminated face of the mother of
many children;
The face of an amour, the face of veneration;
The face as of a dream, the face of an immobile rock; 10
The face withdrawn of its good and bad, a castrated face;
A wild hawk, his wings clipp'd by the clipper;
A stallion that yielded at last to the thongs and knife of the
gelder.

Sauntering the pavement, thus, or crossing the ceaseless ferry,
faces, and faces, and faces:
I see them, and complain not, and am content with all.


Do you suppose I could be content with all, if I thought them their
own finale?

This now is too lamentable a face for a man;
Some abject louse, asking leave to be--cringing for it;
Some milk-nosed maggot, blessing what lets it wrig to its hole.

This face is a dog's snout, sniffing for garbage; 20
Snakes nest in that mouth--I hear the sibilant threat.

This face is a haze more chill than the arctic sea;
Its sleepy and wobbling icebergs crunch as they go.

This is a face of bitter herbs--this an emetic--they need no label;
And more of the drug-shelf, laudanum, caoutchouc, or hog's-lard.

This face is an epilepsy, its wordless tongue gives out the unearthly
cry,
Its veins down the neck distended, its eyes roll till they show
nothing but their whites,
Its teeth grit, the palms of the hands are cut by the turn'd-in
nails,
The man falls struggling and foaming to the ground while he
speculates well.

This face is bitten by vermin and worms, 30
And this is some murderer's knife, with a half-pull'd scabbard.

This face owes to the sexton his dismalest fee;
An unceasing death-bell tolls there.


Those then are really men--the bosses and tufts of the great round
globe!

Features of my equals, would you trick me with your creas'd and
cadaverous march?
Well, you cannot trick me.

I see your rounded, never-erased flow;
I see neath the rims of your haggard and mean disguises.

Splay and twist as you like--poke with the tangling fores of fishes
or rats;
You'll be unmuzzled, you certainly will. 40

I saw the face of the most smear'd and slobbering idiot they had at
the asylum;
And I knew for my consolation what they knew not;
I knew of the agents that emptied and broke my brother,
The same wait to clear the rubbish from the fallen tenement;
And I shall look again in a score or two of ages,
And I shall meet the real landlord, perfect and unharm'd, every inch
as good as myself.


The Lord advances, and yet advances;
Always the shadow in front--always the reach'd hand bringing up the
laggards.

Out of this face emerge banners and horses--O superb! I see what is
coming;
I see the high pioneer-caps--I see the staves of runners clearing the
way, 50
I hear victorious drums.

This face is a life-boat;
This is the face commanding and bearded, it asks no odds of the rest;
This face is flavor'd fruit, ready for eating;
This face of a healthy honest boy is the programme of all good.

These faces bear testimony, slumbering or awake;
They show their descent from the Master himself.

Off the word I have spoken, I except not one--red, white, black, are
all deific;
In each house is the ovum--it comes forth after a thousand years.

Spots or cracks at the windows do not disturb me; 60
Tall and sufficient stand behind, and make signs to me;
I read the promise, and patiently wait.

This is a full-grown lily's face,
She speaks to the limber-hipp'd man near the garden pickets,
Come here, she blushingly cries--Come nigh to me, limber-hipp'd man,
Stand at my side till I lean as high as I can upon you,
Fill me with albescent honey, bend down to me,
Rub to me with your chafing beard, rub to my breast and shoulders.


The old face of the mother of many children!
Whist! I am fully content. 70

Lull'd and late is the smoke of the First-day morning,
It hangs low over the rows of trees by the fences,
It hangs thin by the sassafras, the wild-cherry, and the cat-brier
under them.

I saw the rich ladies in full dress at the soiree,
I heard what the singers were singing so long,
Heard who sprang in crimson youth from the white froth and the water-
blue,

Behold a woman!
She looks out from her quaker cap--her face is clearer and more
beautiful than the sky.

She sits in an arm-chair, under the shaded porch of the farmhouse,
The sun just shines on her old white head. 80

Her ample gown is of cream-hued linen,
Her grandsons raised the flax, and her granddaughters spun it with
the distaff and the wheel.

The melodious character of the earth,
The finish beyond which philosophy cannot go, and does not wish to
go,
The justified mother of men.

Walt Whitman

Looking back to my student days, I remember finding Whitman a master of description but rather too wordy for comfort. I have learned patience with age and can now appreciate the detail in his work: how vivid the word pictures in this piece.

******************************************

We have been experiencing some pretty fierce gales accompanied by wintry showers. For us, that means  showers of rain with  occasional sleet or hail; further inland, especially over the moors, they get snow. I woke very early on Tuesday morning, before dawn, and looked out of the window. In the dim light, I could just make out a few heaps of whiteness in the sheltered corners of the yard. Snow! Only enough for a few snowballs but snow - the real white stuff that everyone else gets! I had a cup of tea and looked out again as the darkness faded and lo,the snow was nothing but scatterings of paper. The dustbin had blown over in the wind and its contents lay in tidy mounds around the yard. Robert Frost wrote a poem about it!

A Patch of Old Snow

There's a patch of old snow in a corner
That I should have guessed
Was a blow-away paper the rain
Had brought to rest.

It is speckled with grime as if
Small print overspread it,
The news of a day I've forgotten --
If I ever read it.

Robert Frost

 There really is nothing new under the sun.

Wisdom and maturity

Everything is conspiring to remind me that I am getting older. It doesn't help that I have a birthday later this month. (I can just about remember the days when I couldn't wait for birthdays.) I had such a busy few months with visitors and visiting that I've had to devote November to catching up on wear and tear appointments: dentist, optometrist, chiropodist, hairdresser, hearing care etc. All reminders that things are not what they used to be.

Yesterday, I had to go to the hospital in Exeter for my six-monthly check up with the lovely Macmillan nurses who have cared for my arm since I developed breast cancer related lymphodoema (BCRL) in 1995. Alison and Jayne have become special friends through the years and these appointments are more about celebrating life and survival than reminders of physical decline.  In the early days, when the arm was very swollen, I would go for two-week stretches, staying in a hotel and attending the hospital daily for massage and bandaging to reduce the swelling. Things are much better now and the condition is managed with a compression sleeve - my "badge of survival." My check-up appointments tend to be routine and an excuse to chat and share my home made cakes or biscuits.

As Jayne was marking off the measuring points on my arms and inspecting the skin for any signs of potential problems, she noticed a small lump on the affected arm. I told her that it wasn't troublesome and that Alison had been keeping an eye on it. "It's probably just another sign of ageing," I said, gloomily. Perfectionist Jayne asked if I minded having it checked out and she returned a few minutes later with a bubbly, attractive young woman who, despite her youthful appearance, was a consultant dermatologist. She looked at the said blemish and laughed. "That's a seborrhoeic wart," she said. "A mark of wisdom and maturity."

From now on, I shall not flinch at the sight of a new grey hair, a thickening toe nail or a yellowing tooth.   No more miserable signs of ageing for me - just more marks of wisdom and maturity! Bring it on!

St Valentine's Day

Valentine's Day used to be fun. When I was in primary school, we made little cards with silly riddles and rhymes on them and secretly left them in the desks of our friends. We would giggle as we waited to see which boy the recipient would turn to, hoping he was the anonymous sender; then we would tease her at playtime, chanting 'We know who's your sweetheart.'  All quite innocent fun which turned to more serious stuff as we reached our teens. In my all-girls school, February 14th was a day to be dreaded: would we have one or more valentines to flourish triumphantly or would we have to slink away shame-faced? Oh, the agony of being fourteen. As I remember it, we didn't care about the boys who might have sent the cards but about our social status in the form room.

Romance came much later and Valentine's Day took on a serious note in the days of dating and waiting: waiting for the telephone to ring and the postman to arrive. The agonies of youth! I hope that modern youngsters still experience some of this, even in these days of social networking and instant messaging. Waiting, even if it is sometimes painful, is an important feature of life. How can we learn appreciation if we haven't experienced both anticipation and disappointment?

I have been reading about an unlikely couple who found  romantic love late in life. The great preacher, Henry Grattan Guinness (1835 - 1910) was a lonely widower when he met and fell instantly in love with Grace Hurditch in 1903. Henry had prayed for five years that he would meet someone who would fill his heart with love and this is the poem he wrote in thanksgiving when Grace  marryied him:

She has come to my arms, she has come to my heart.

And the dream of my soul is fulfilled

And the love that unites us shall never depart,

Nor the love that our union has willed.

O thanks to the Giver, O thanks for the gift,
From the gift to the Giver we turn;
From the bliss he bestows to himself we uplift
The hearts which with gratitude burn.

There is heaven below, there is heaven above,
And they answer like ocean and sky;
For heaven is found in the bosom of love,
In spirit to spirit made nigh.

Happy Valentine's Day to all. If you didn't receive such a beautiful, personal verse today then I hope you have the memory of one to make the day special.

Mild excitement in Arcadia

 
Very little happens around here. Holiday visitors drive through on their way to the beaches and then drive back again to use our shops and restaurants but there isn't very much for villagers to talk about other than the state of the weather and our gardens. We did have a little flurry of crime back in 2007 but there hasn't been anything to exercise our Neighbourwood Watch in recent years.

And then ....... at 19.15 hours on Thursday last,  there was a frantic knocking on my front door. The MM was out but, being a modern and fearless woman,  I walked boldly down the hall and opened the door to find an elderly man on the doorstep. He was visibly distressed and barely able to form coherent sentences. I managed to establish that he had been passing the electrical store when he noticed the door was ajar. He had tried all the neighbours but either no-one was home or they were all keeping their heads down. No-one gets unexpected visitors here at 19.15 hours.

"It's lucky you came to me," I said. "I am the Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordinator. I'll look into it." I then fearlessly approached the building, noticing that the security gate was open and the inner door ajar. I stood at the door and called, "Is anyone there?" Getting no reply, I went inside and looked around. Electrical cable, pots of paint and piles of paper covered all the surfaces but it was impossible to tell if the chaos was caused by an intruder or just the way the business was run.  A car drew up outside and my elderly informant said he had to leave as this was his friend come to take him to the bar skittles and shove ha'penny championships. I had to deal with this situation on my own.

I went back to my house to telephone the owner of the office. (I couldn't use my mobile as there is no signal in this part of the village.) She was very shocked and said she would drive over immediately. I stood on guard outside the open door until she arrived about 15 minutes later, accompanied by her 9 year old son. He was impressive! His father was away on a business trip and Junior was in charge. He told us to wait at the door while he went in to investigate. Meanwhile, his mother fretted about her computer with all her accounts and addresses, nothing else mattered. Junior came out and assured us that the computer was in place and nothing appeared to have been disturbed.


Mrs H gave me a hug and thanked me profusely, locked the door and turned to go home. "Wait," I said, "how did the intruder get in? Where is the padlock from the security gate?" "Oh, there isn't a padlock, we never lock it. One of the boys (the employees) must have come back for something after I left and forgot to close the door. I'll have to have a word with them all tomorrow." Case solved!

It may be four more years before my Neighbourhood Watch services are called on again but I think I will be able to ask the young Sherlock for assistance. He certainly enjoyed the excitement and he made a lovely thank you card to go with the bottle of fine wine that his mother brought me next day. It all happens in Devon!

Suspended between life and death

My mother-in-law has suffered a cerebral haemorrhage and is unconscious. We are told that she will not recover and members of the family are taking turns to watch beside her in her hospital room. As the days and nights pass, nothing changes visibly, she looks as if she is in a deep sleep and it is hard to believe that she will not open her eyes. But there have been significant changes in the atmosphere in the room and in the behaviour and attitude of those who come and go. The limbo state has been a blessing in disguise.


Limbo:  a place or state of oblivion
             an intermediate, transitional or midway place or state
             a region on the border of heaven and hell


Purgatory:  a place of expiation

Hearing: develops at around 8 weeks of gestation and is the last sense to go in unconscious patients




I'm sorry, there is nothing we can do but keep her comfortable 'til she slips away.
Her consciousness has gone, she cannot feel your touch
but that first sense developed in the womb goes on, deep in the sleeping brain
and she will hear your voice.
So speak to her of happy, long-past times,
recount her triumphs and adventures, her travels and her loves.
Forget the recent years of endless repetitions and mistakes,
make her a child again, winning her races, playing on the beach,
a beautiful young bride, accomplished hostess, gifted raconteur.
Roll back the years and let her dream of sunshine, vigour and romance.


This vigil is a healing time for all.
Her faithful carer, now a son again, returns to happier times and memories,
while those with lives too full to spend an hour in aged company
now sit beside her through the night, remorse transformed into a fantasy of duty done.
And those who found her difficult in life have time to reconcile their hurts.
This limbo has become a purgatory for all. And all will rest in peace when she is gone.

The Great Declutter

I have been talking about decluttering the house for years. Every so often, I've filled bags and boxes to take to the charity shop but you would hardly notice; clutter just seems to multiply overnight. Well, this time I really, really mean it - it all has to go!

The trouble is that I keep on finding really interesting things: boxes of letters from my husband's days in the Merchant Navy, pictures my children painted and their first attempts at storywriting, my wedding dress and veil ..... each discovery takes an age to unpack and ponder over.


This was yesterday's find:

 The recorder case to match my new school uniform as I prepared for the first term at the convent high school in 1957. And inside, still with its original waxed thread in place, my Schott's descant recorder.

It has a beautifully mellow sound, much more pleasant than the plastic recorders that schools use now. Of course I'll never play it again but it has a story of its own and it is so hard to throw out memories and it doesn't take up that much room .........


When I was 11 years old, going into the nearest town was quite an adventure and we never went to the city which seemed very far away. In fact it is less than 20 miles from our childhood home but that was a whole day out by bus or train then.  My father was to take me to Liverpool by bus to buy my recorder from Crane's music store. We took a bus into town and waited in the town hall square for the Liverpool bus to arrive. Dad said we should sit upstairs to get a good view of the places we passed through.


As we entered the city, I was fascinated by the enormous buildings and I can remember turning to my father to ask him about one of them when he suddenly put his arms round me and told me to hold on tight. Then the world seemed to spin out of control as the bus toppled over onto its side. Fortunately, we didn't hit the ground or we might have suffered more than scratches and bruises. The bus had come to rest on top of a car and we were left at a strange angle. The passengers in the offside seats fared worse because they were thrown out of their seats, some of them through the windows.


I remember seeing people running out of their houses with jugs and bowls to collect the petrol that was pouring from the fuel tank of the bus. I was shocked to think they were stealing fuel while people were screaming but Dad said they were actually trying to prevent the tank from catching fire.


Then there was the excitement of fire engines, police cars and ambulances. My father assured everyone that he and I were all right so we were helped down the stairs and, after a quick check by the ambulance crew, we set off to walk to Hanover Street to the magnificent music store.

Crane's was an awesome place to a girl who had only seen a grand piano on the cinema screen. I imagine that I must have walked among the instruments there with my mouth and eyes open wide. I do remember that our request for a descant recorder was handled with as much courtesy and seriousness as if it had been for a baby grand or a double bass. Dad must have told the shop assistant about the accident we had been involved in, probably to explain our bloodied appearance, because we were treated to a tour of the premises, including the beautiful Neptune Theatre above the store. 


I have forgotten what else we did that day, except that my father insisted that we should sit upstairs on the bus on the homeward journey.  I didn't become an inspired recorder player but I have always had a great affection for my Schott's descant recorder, the cause of one of the most exciting days in my childhood.

 Does it deserve a place in my decluttered house or shall I consign it to the dustbin?  And does anyone believe that I really will have a decluttered house?

Anniversary music

Yesterday was our 38th wedding anniversary. We had to cancel our celebration dinner as we both have a flu-type virus but I thought it would be nice to listen to some of the music that our friend, Nigel, played on the day.

I would like to say that I remember walking down the aisle on my brother's arm to C.S Lang's Fanfare but I was too nervous and excited to take it in. I'll just have to imagine I'm there again:

We signed the register to Samuel Wesley's Air and Gavotte

And, like so many newlyweds, we walked out of the church together to Mendelssohn's Wedding March.

We were married in Much Woolton, near Liverpool, where my husband was based at the time. We are thinking of going back there in 2013 to celebrate our ruby wedding anniversary, then on to North Wales, where we spent the first few days of our honeymoon before driving down to Aldeburgh, where we had a lovely house on the beach for two weeks.

Happy memories!

End of summer

Whatever happened to the summer months? After a very promising late spring/early summer period of brilliant sunshine, July came in wet followed by an even wetter August. We had lunch in the garden yesterday, the first time since 11 July. I have been filled with sympathy for the holidaymakers (those Grockles who usually annoy me! ) as they spent hours in traffic queues trying to get to the few indoor activities the region provides. North Devon has beautiful sandy beaches and stunning countryside but only the hardiest like to spend their holidays in the rain.

So what have I been doing on these rainy days? The cupboards are full of jams and chutneys, the freezer packed with vegetables from the bounty of neighbours' gardens. Friends and family have benefited from the time I have spent in the kitchen:

Courgette (zucchini) teabread

tomato and cheese pinwheels

Italian cheese crackers I saw on TV on a wet afternoon

choc chip cookies, for the fun of it

I have finished a little sweater for grandson Benjamin - the first thing I have knitted for him, I'm ashamed to admit. I have lots of patterns for girls' sweaters but I will have to look out for more for boys.

I will be very glad when August comes to an end tonight. I want to put the miserable weather and gloomy news that August brought behind us: two very dear friends were diagnosed with breast cancer but the prognosis is promising and September will be sunny and warm and filled with optimism. All will be well and all manner of things will be well!

So, tomorrow we set off on holiday. Our plans have changed many times because of family circumstances but we have finally settled on a few days in Oxfordshire to see Adelephant and family, then a few days in the Peak District before we go to Yorkshire. We are staying in a variety of guest houses, one smart hotel and then a week in a  farm cottage. I'm taking the camera and laptop with me so I'll try to keep you posted. It will be interesting to become someone else's grockles!


Just because I love it, here is the Eva Cassidy version of 'Who knows where the time goes?' Enjoy the end of summer.

Silver linings

My husband and I have become like the two little figures in the weather clock since my mother-in-law came to live with us eighteen months ago: we cannot both be out at the same time. We make the most of the rare days when we can get away; last month we went to Westward Ho! and on Friday last we had planned a visit to the neighbouring county of Somerset.

We set off on our perfectly planned day: a 45 minute drive to the motorway and then a further 20 minutes to our destination, a couple of hours to do some shopping, have a leisurely lunch and walk and then back home by 6pm. We had forgotten all about the holidaymakers who now go home on Friday instead of the traditional Saturday changeover day. After two hours of inching along behind camper vans and caravans we still hadn't reached the motorway. Not wanting to spend our precious day off in the car, we abandoned the shopping trip and headed for the Fisherman's Cot:

This is where I came in October 2007 to meet my now very dear friend D of 60goingon16 (can it really be so long ago?), so I had some very happy memories as I sipped my chilled orange juice.


As I had expected nothing more interesting than shops on this outing, I left my camera at home but I did have my new all-singing-and-dancing mobile phone. I have been waiting for my son to visit to teach me how to use it but finding myself in this lovely spot, I just had to have a go at sending a picture message to my daughter. I sent her the photo of the bridge and by return she sent me this picture of Millie in the garden - isn't modern technology wonderful?

Last week we had to make the difficult decision to cancel our planned trip to see my brother on his lovely Greek island.  The Fisherman's Cot offered a small compensation in the form of an excellent Greek salad:

After lunch and a very restful time by the river we returned home, not at all disappointed by our frustrated journey. We had a delicious lunch, a peaceful couple of hours by the river Dart, I learned to use my mobile phone and we had an instant picture of Millie at play. What more could we want?

Unfinished business

A friend once asked me, "Why don't you just finish one thing before starting another?" That was about thirty years ago and I still haven't resolved the issue. I always have several sewing and knitting projects on the go; there is always at least one room in the house with half-sorted bookshelves, drawers or boxes just waiting for me to find time to finish; I've been working on the family tree for several years, ditto the sorting and assembling of family photos. I could go on but I can't change the habit of a lifetime by actually finishing something!

That particular friend had the most organised house I have ever seen but I confess that her tidiness used to unnerve me. I expect she felt overwhelmed by my chaos but we got on surprisingly well together, she with her routines and order and me with my rushes of enthusiasm for trying new things.

Our resident blackbirds are rather like me. They produced four babies and as soon as they fledged they started on another clutch.  Mr Blackbird is busy feeding the first lot, while Mrs B is sitting on the nest. I'm afraid there only seem to be two fat little youngsters now, although it is hard to spot them in the undergrowth where they have taken up residence.

Yesterday one made it up onto the birdbath, so I think they will be fully independent soon and Mr B can get back to looking after his wife.

 

Meanwhile we have taken on some of his duties, providing Mrs B with a constant supply of food so that she doesn't have to leave the nest unattended for too long.

The garden is another example of my haphazard approach to life. I started with a plan; a very costly plan as I consulted an expert. We went through catalogues and design books and agreed on colours, shapes, height of plants and so on. Then my true nature took over and I have added whatever pleases me and the bees and butterflies. The garden will never be "finished" according to the plan, but I don't think I would like too much order there. Even this rose chose not to wait for one bloom to die before producing two more on the same stem:

 

Chaos reigns and I love it!

 

I am currently spending as many hours as I can in the garden, pottering about, reading and simply enjoying the abundance of life. It is an excellent way of avoiding finishing off those tasks that are waiting indoors.

One project I do plan to finish soon, though, is a quilt for baby grandson, Benjamin. Here is what I've done so far:

Twenty-four little boats, ready to be assembled. I'll have to press on because I'm already planning the next project, something for granddaughter Charlotte's first birthday in August.(Yes, Fern, I can hear you telling me to concentrate on one thing at a time. I'm sure I am better than I was thirty years ag. Oops. Perhaps not.)

Home

My daughter is moving into her new house today. It is a huge undertaking with an active toddler and a new baby, so I hope the day goes smoothly. The new house has a large garden with a pond, fruit trees, a vegetable plot and plenty of room for the children to play. The beehives will soon be on their way from London and I'm looking forward to comparing Oxfordshire honey with the London honey we've enjoyed for several years.

I'm sure the house will be a home very soon. This poem sums up what my home is to me (except for the reference to the cat) and I can't wish for anything better for my daughter and her family:

I've come to know a place I can call home:

It walls me gently round, it gives me space,

It offers me stillness, it contains my fears,

It roofs me safely under, gifts me grace,

It is both books and art, colour and light,

It shelves and stacks me, my life storage space;

It's work and love and dust and green growing things,

It's laughter, friends and food, it's cat's own place,

It is so full of me and all I am,

I've come to know a home, a sacred space.

Rosie Miles

Just M

I'm sure that I will soon be longing for the sounds of hectic life which have filled my days for the past months but right now I am enjoying a little tranquillity. I have had a week of catching up with chores in the house and garden and I've even read a book that wasn't written by Julia Donaldson. I haven't been Mum or Grandma - just M.

While I wasn't paying attention, the garden has been turning blue. The pinks and reds of magnolia and camellia have been replaced by the blues of ceanothus, wisteria, Spanish bluebells and some Heavenly Blue lithodora in the neglected rockery.

With no visitors to cater for, I put away the tablecloths and got out the everyday place mats that a friend made for us more than thirty years ago. How threadbare and shabby they looked:

time to put the sewing machine into action again.  My former needlework teacher would surely find many faults but I am pleased with my new double-sided mats. I can have a yellow or blue themed table, or even mix them!

The me-centred interval will soon pall but just for a little while longer I will enjoy being just M.

Hasta luego!

The MM and I are off for a few days of sunshine and relaxation. Back soon with photos, if I can remember where I have left the camera and without pictures if I can't.

Outa space

My house (pictured here c.1940) was built around 1700, a time when life was simple and uncluttered. The farmer and his family lived in a room at one end of the cottage and his cattle lived at the other end in the linhay. The records show that the property remained reasonably untouched until 1948, when the thatched roof caught fire and the owner used the opportunity to modernise. If you know anything of the materials available, the standard of workmanship and the "modern taste" of post-war Britain, I need say no more about the changes he made.

I am grateful that he installed electricity and running water and I have added my own modern touches with central heating and carpets (those straw-strewn floors were the devil to keep clean!) and I confess that I have a love of gadgets. The problem is finding space to store them. There is neither cellar nor utility room so everything has to be kept in the kitchen. This is the ledge where I keep my everyday gadgets:
While I was in Bristol last week a new toy arrived for me: a steam generator .

My sister-in-law has been singing the praises of hers for several years but I couldn't see the point of replacing my perfectly sound steam iron. Then perfectly sound turned to spitting and leaking and a frayed cord, so I drew in my breath and ignored the fact that there was an extra zero on the price tag and ordered this beautiful piece of space-age technology.

Yesterday, I carefully unpacked the box, read the instructions, filled the water tank, set the temperature and waited for the green light. I was half way through the pile of shirts, marvelling at the light weight of the iron and the smoothness of the ceramic soleplate but wondering at the lack of the remarkable results that sister-in-law had promised. That extra zero on the price tag started to nag. Then I noticed a dial that I hadn't seen earlier - back to the instructions - I hadn't turned the steam on!
Seconds later I was whizzing through the ironing with the promised professional-looking finish I had been promised. It was worth every penny of that zero! BUT...... you see my problem - out goes the old steam iron but where does the new giant system go?Perhaps I should go back to using the old flatiron that came with the house?

The barbecue season?

The meteorologists are telling us that the Atlantic jet stream has lost its way again. For the third successive year it is sweeping across the UK instead of passing harmlessly across the sea to the north of us. Instead of the "barbecue summer" we were promised, we are suffering high winds and torrential rain.

While your barbecue equipment and recipes remain unused for yet another year, here are a few images to remind you of what we are missing.

The elegant 1960s version

I settled for the barrel barbecue

My brother prefers this type of chimena

My husband, who grew up in southern Africa, always refers to barbecues as braais or braaivleis. I believe his family simply had a pit dug in the garden but nowadays they are landscaped and architect-designed:
In today's edition of the Bulawayo Morning Mirror, my favourite journalist, Margaret Kriel, has written a very entertaining piece about her experience with a braai:

TO BRAAI OR NOT TO BRAAI THAT IS THE QUESTION

I am looking in awe at the coals on the braai. Instinct tells me they are perfect, just perfect. Many years of marriage to HeeHoo have trained me to know when the braai coals are ready, because then it is time for me to rush around and get all the last minute bits and pieces ready. You know the unimportant trivia to do with a "Guys Braai" the plates, the salads, the potato bake etc etc.

The really important stuff though of course, is the nyama. Is the boerries good today, did Rose Valley Butchery get the right recipe ? THE AWARD WINNING BOERRIES RECIPE ?

There is much laughter generally at a braai, loads of men willing and able to turn their hands at turning the meat, regularly, meticulously, lovingly. They say many hands make light work, and men sure have that one down to a fine art ...

Many many hands and many many Castle Beers, make a fine braai, especially when there is a Game on at the same time, and all "game Lovers" can have their braais perfectly positioned where the Game can be watched, probably on a full screen TV where not a moment needs to be taken away from the Nyama, or a sip needs to be lost from the can in the cuzzi.

But today was different, HeeHoo has gone to SA and I had accompanied HeeHoo Must Fish on a cattle buying expedition to Binga, and HHMF had not returned.

The fire was laid perfectly, the aroma of mopani wood filled the air, aromatically air-dried by the Zambezi Valley heat. The coals were second to none, just the absolutely perfect temperature (not sure how they tell, I always use a meat thermometer but guys seem to know instinctively. )

Maybe its that dull warm glow that settles over one, when the braai ambiance is at the perfect pitch ?
But where was the Chef ? Were the cattle a tad rambunctious today or had he stopped off at the Manjolo Growth Point to have a beer with the farmers ?

I suspected that the fire required another Mopane log, but anxious not to burn the tassels of my silk pashmina, I carelessly threw the log in, instead of nestling it lovingly in the coals. Wrong tactic, I knew immediately as the little blaze of satisfying embers was dislodged rather haphazardly. My luck would be that HeeHoo Must Fish would roar in at top speed, stomach rumbling majestically, and the coals would be too hot/too cold/ too scattered ?

Now Mopani wood is supposedly infallible, a real braai- master never uses anything except Mopani in Zimbabwe and Mesquite in Texas !! But these logs were starting to annoy me. Twenty minutes later, still no Fuming Farmer, so I toyed with the idea of "lovingly tenderly inserting another log", this is far too scientific for me, maybe I should just cook the steak and boerries on the stove top ?

The Binga night was beginning to scare me, last night the hippos had been munching steadily outside my bedroom window all night long, they are the most silent creatures. Apart from the odd intermittent uh uh uh uhuhuhuh, and the sound of half a kilo of grass being wrested out of your lawn, you never ever even hear a twig snap.

Were they watching me balefully from the lake end of the lawn ? And then there are the crocs, HeeHoo actually did a macabre dance with a baby croc not long ago. He was crossing the lawn (as men do at a braai) when what he thought was a puff adder attacked him. HeeHoo did an amazingly adroit tap dance similar to Michael Flatley in the River Dance, and avoided death by a millisecond. Only to find a baby croc, lost and annoyed, snapping at his heels like a rusty rotweiller, said baby croc, apparently took a nightly swim in the pool and was most put out at being danced on by a human !!

Apart from my own frivolous fears about the fire and the four footed ferocity waiting out there for me, I was a tad worried about HeeHoo Must fish (aka Adam the Angler), as he had been gone since dawn.

But nothing deterred me I poured myself another glass of wine, and went back to the braai fire. THOSE COALS were problem enough, but I should surely start cooking something or we would be eating at midnight ?

Smoky, nasty fire ? Oh no I do not do smoky nasty fires, ones hair smells horrible. Would it be a dead giveaway if I did it under the grill, maybe I could scatter a few coals in the bottom of the pan to give it that charred carcinogenic look that Braai masters long for ?

But I was freshly showered and smelling of magnolias, I would have to take another shower before bed if I had to tackle that mopani pyromaniac blaze !!
Oh gosh, it suddenly occurred to me .... all those years I have underestimated the male species.

Braais, Humpf, men love braais, cos the women do all the work and the guys get all the glory !!
But I had never ever actually been up close and personal with a braai fire !! Till now !!

I could feel a lessening of the heat on my ankles, (this particular braai was a pit in the ground, carefully crafted by Angelo Sip into a masterpiece of mesenteric beauty.

Another log ? Or another glass of wine ? Big decision.... when will Adamski get here, I can hear those darn hippos emerging from the lake as we speak !!

Staring sullenly at the fire was achieving nothing so I gently lowered another beautifully matured Mopani log onto the fire, whipping the pashmina tendrils away from the blaze with ease. This is a piece of cake thought I, why were men so painfully anal about the "coals" I wondered ?

Its merely a matter of keeping the wood on track with the glasses of wine !!
After all its quite easy to remove a piece of wood at a moments notice is it not. ?
I was beginning to enjoy this, I could now, with ease, join in any discussion with any braai expert, on the heat of the coals. I could be an aficionado like the best of them.

I could just picture HeeHoo standing back in awe as I took over the coal management board !! He would be so proud of me, I would endear myself to him forever ! I could just picture it !!

You will be relieved to know that HeeHoo Must Fish returned eventually, stomach rumbling loudly, headed for the shower, followed by two "Black Label" bombers in quick succession, and then proceeded to burn the steak on my beautifully manicured fire !!

Men !! Hummpfff .......

I hope this will make you smile as you look out at the rain-washed garden and plan another indoor meal.

Speech friends

This review of the much-loved 'Miss Read' books reminded me that I had a copy of A Peaceful Retirement languishing in my TBR pile since my own retirement from teaching almost three years ago. I immediately rescued it and it has been my book at bedtime at the end of the last few exhausting days of sorting, packing and disposing of many hundreds of books.

As Nan pointed out in her review of Village School, these books are usually classed as 'gentle reads' but that is a misleading description; they are not accounts of a cosy life in rural England in the 1950s but accurate depictions of the sometimes harsh realities of that life. 'Miss Read' is a close observer of people and their behaviour and she brings the villages of Fairacre and Thrush Green to life in the same way that Elizabeth Gaskell and Flora Thompson capture the essence of life in Cranford and Lark Rise.

While her friends bemoan the fact that Miss Read has entered retirement as a spinster, she is far from being in need of pity. She treasures her independence, leads a full and interesting life and has a suitor or two in the background should she ever tire of the single state. The peaceful retirement she envisaged is, in fact, so busy that she would have great difficulty in fitting a husband into it. Like most of us, she had certain expectations of life in retirement only to find the reality to be quite different and 'peaceful' might not be the most appropriate adjective to use.

One of the intentions that Miss Read doesn't manage to fulfil is that of keeping a diary. She has always been a keen reader of great English diarists such as Kilvert, Pepys, Evelyn and Woodforde and recognises the importance of preserving the observations of ordinary people for future generations. She also sees that keeping a diary or journal has another function, fulfilling a need in the writer:

Over the years I have had so much pleasure from other people's diaries and I was interested to read recently that some psychiatrists recommend the activity. The theory, so I gathered, was that everyone needed a 'speech friend'.....
..... I recalled Virginis Woolf's comment on Parson Woodforde's diary-keeping: "Perhaps it was the desire for intimacy. When James Woodforde opened one of his neat manuscript books he entered into conversation with a second James Woodforde. The two friends said much that all the world might hear, but they had a few secrets which they shared with each other only."

Miss Read might have failed as a diarist but she would have been an ideal blogger. I think we bloggers use this medium in the way that Parson Woodforde used his manuscript book, not only recording observations and opinions but also perhaps as a way of conversing with our inner self. I think that I can recognise a 'speech friend' in my monix persona and our secrets are safe!

Coughs, sneezes and comfort TV

I didn't stray very far from the sofa today. Curled up with my box of tissues, hot lemon and honey drinks, a book or two and the remote control for the television, I was determined to enjoy my enforced inactivity.

I watched an old interview of Paul Newman on Inside The Actors' Studio. What an interesting, intelligent man he was and how well he handled those supposedly deep and revealing questions put to all the interviewees by James Lipton. Q. "What is your favourite curse word?" A. "I wouldn't want to favour one above the rest."

Later, I watched the 2004 dramatisation of Nina Bawden's book Carrie's War and then I recorded Swallows and Amazons to watch another day. If you are going to indulge in a day of viewing then it is good to scroll through all the Sky channels and you might stumble across a gem like a recording of Pink Floyd's The Division Bell concert on Sky Arts. The MM and I watched it this evening. We were there at Earls Court in October 1994 when the concert was recorded.

As I said in an earlier post, this is not Pink Floyd...........but this is........

I hope you enjoy it without the accompaniment of coughs and sneezes!

Something understood

December 10th was the fortieth anniversary of the untimely death of Thomas Merton. This photograph of Merton with the Dalai Lama accompanies an article in the Catholic Register and there are many more tributes to be found via your search engine.

The BBC Radio 4 programme Something Understood on Sunday 14 December will feature the Archbishop of Canterbury talking about Merton: The Archbishop of Canterbury Dr Rowan Williams talks to Mike Wooldridge about the influential Trappist monk and activist Thomas Merton, who died 40 years ago. He discusses his fascination with this complex and passionate man, who combined a lifelong devotion to the Catholic Church with an increasing openness to the needs of the modern world and to the wisdom of the East.

The programme will be broadcast at 06:05 and again at 23:30 and you will be able to find it on the Listen Again page later in the week.

Breast cancer - trusting your instinct

Kylie Minogue has made a courageous statement about the initial misdiagnosis - perhaps more accurately, missed diagnosis - of her breast cancer. She tells how she was assured that she was 'fine' just weeks before being diagnosed with cancer.

It isn't easy to speak openly about one's personal encounter with cancer for a number of reasons: the story is never entirely personal because one's family and friends are affected; the successful survivor feels for those who were less fortunate so celebration is always tempered with sadness; most people experience tremendous support and care from their medical team and fear that speaking out about any negative aspects would make their gratitude seem false or would undermine the great work that they do.

Kylie's message should not be seen, therefore, as a criticism of the wonderful care she had but as a warning to women and to the medical profession that the diagnostic tools that are used are not foolproof. Instinct, intuition and fears should be taken seriously. Early-stage cancers do not always show up in mammograms but most of the women I have spoken to 'knew' they had breast cancer before the medics could detect it.

I went to see my doctor in December 1994 because I had found a breast lump. My doctor couldn't feel it and thought I was having empathetic symptoms because I was closely involved with a friend who was dying of breast cancer. He agreed to refer me to the hospital but he obviously didn't consider the case to be urgent because I didn't get an appointment until 10th January 1995. By the time I saw the surgeon, the tumour was the size of a tennis ball and urgent surgery was carried out the next day to remove it. Unfortunately the cancer had spread and two more lots of radical surgery followed and then a year of aggressive chemotherapy.

I don't normally speak about my experience because I am so grateful for the care I had from the surgeon and his specialist team, the Macmillan nurse and hospice staff who supported the whole family through a traumatic year and the continuing support they give me for the secondary lymphoedema that developed after the second operation. Had my GP acted more promptly things might have been different, we all know that early diagnosis and treatment offer the best chance of survival and usually involves less invasive treatment. I certainly don't blame him - I think doctors are wonderful and I know how difficult early diagnosis can be - also, he is a personal friend and I know how much he blames himself; but I know that he always errs on the side of caution now when patients suspect something might be wrong.

So well done, Kylie, for speaking out. I hope your honesty will encourage women to trust their instincts and to ask for further investigations if they are concerned.

For a bit of breast cancer awareness with an element of fun go and read Juliet's Tackled Pink post on Musings from a Muddy Island.