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Well, I am English…

We are known here in England for talking about the weather.  A lot. Well, there’s so much weather to talk about. It’s perpetual change.  Today has been beautiful.  The sky an uninterrupted blue, and the sun warmer than it should be for mid-November.  We have been out in the garden most of he day.   Well, it was a case of having to be really…

Last night the rain hammered on the windows, and a 60mph wind howled.  So much that it brought one of our old trees down.  To be fair, it was a pretty dead tree and we had talked about taking it out at some time, but it felt like an enormous job – it was a big old tree.  We never knew what type it was.  Just a big old tree.

We heard the crash, and when we went out in the dark, and wind, and rain, we saw that it had landed in my beloved pond.

My pond is my pride and joy.  We fuss over it endlessly – checking the filter, clearing out the waterfall-y bit, scooping out leaves that get blown in despite it being permanently covered by a net to stop the Herons.  Having started with seventeen fish, we now have around 65, although many of the original seventeen did get distressingly gobbled up by said Herons.

Since I was so worried about the fish, we spent an hour or so in the rain heaving the heavy fallen trunk and branches out onto the grass.  It was a filthy job, in filthy weather.  This morning, on inspection, the fish were all fine and still begging for food, so no harm done, and we had to set about the exhausting task of breaking up and disposing of all that dead wood.   Thank goodness it was sunny.

It has to be said that English weather, on the whole, despite it’s changeable nature, is pretty tame.  We rarely have hurricanes, or earthquakes.  Though of course, they do occur from time to time. I will never forget the Hurricane in 1987 which brought winds of nearly 100mph leaving me and my six month old twins with no electricity for over a week, and stranded in our home as the roads were impassable.

Since we have moved North we have felt the earth, not quake exactly, but shiver, twice, the only noticeable indication being the rattling of hangers in the wardrobe.

We’ve been lucky.  Some folk’s homes in the south are flooded today, and at least one person lost their life to the storms last night.  And of course, we can never forget the appalling devastation that happen’s in other countries as a result of fierce forces of nature.

They say we are due for high winds and rain over the coming weekend, but at least, here in England, we know that it will pass, and before long, we’ll be blessed with winter sun again.

Keep safe.

 

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What’s wrong with a stream of consciousness then?

My husband doesn’t ‘get’ blogging

‘Who has time to read other people’s streams of consciousness?’ he’ll snort.

Well, these days I do.  And I write a stream of consciousness myself.  Oh, I know it should be more than that, and I know most blogs are more wonderful, funny and informative, than mine.   But the thing with streams of consciousness-es is that they show us that, across the world, underneath it all, we all have the same basic irritations, anxieties, and joys in life.

For instance, the great blog that I read by Nathan Badley ‘Dear man in front of me at the gas station’ certainly rang bells (read Nathan’s Blog).

I’m very new to blogging, and new to reading them too, and I’ve been delighted to find so many like-minded people, spending often what little spare time they have, telling me about their lives.  It’s also a delight to read pieces with an oblique slant on things, blogs that make me think. I’ve seen some funny ones written, and sometimes, drawn, by talented and interesting individuals.  I found recipes and advice, and critiques on books I have yet to read.  The blogging world has been a revelation to me.

And what of my own efforts?  Well, I intended to use this blog as merely a tool to encourage me to write most days, and it’s working.  The discipline of thinking up a topic and title is forcing me to expand my thoughts (not far…yet!).  You see, having had a tough time at work for the last year or so, my thoughts have dwelt obsessively and depressingly there.  My mind was shackled to the office, my previously soaring imagination suppressed and unused. However, despite it taking a little time, gradually the grey dullness is receding and being replaced by the rainbow.  I find myself making up verses randomly, as I had done in the past, and potential stories are seen in everyday situations.  People walking along the street are potential characters – murderers??  My writing is beginning to flow again.

So I apologise for the stream of consciousness, the ramblings, and any rantings which may well follow, but it really is helping me reboot!

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It’s just killing me

I walk, I practice yoga, I do housework, I garden (a bit, in fine weather) I occassionally have a go on the wii too, but apart from that I don’t do exercise. We do have a cross-trainer sitting dustily amongst the books and papers in our study, and every now and then I’ll have a spurt of enthusiasm and go on it every evening for a week or two. If I haven’t started feeling the benefit, or losing a pound or two after that, and I never have, I give up and months will go by before its pedals are turned again.

I have this theory see, that once you reach a certain age, too much exercise stops doing you good and starts killing you off. It certainly feels that way. After ten minutes on gym equipment, of any sort, I am puffing and sweating, and frankly, just need a lie down. My heart is a muscle that works hard enough keeping me alive, anything over and above that is just wearing it out quicker! That’s why I appreciate yoga so much. It makes me feel stronger rather than weaker. My brain isn’t addled by my lungs failing to suck in enough air like it is for five minutes after a gym workout. I feel good. I feel invincible. I believe I am a warrior!

Trouble is yoga alone isn’t keeping me in shape. I might feel like a warrior, but I certainly don’t look like one. I’m guessing I should cut down on calories, deny myself wine and sweet things, and then I might revert back to my young slim self. It is a cruel fact, that in my youth I hated being thin. Hated my scrawny limbs, and my shapeless torso. I still cringe when I remember being fitted for a bridesmaids dress, which to start with I was so excited about, until my aunt, who was the dressmaker, said she didn’t need to measure me all over because I was just straight up and down. And I was. Twiggy was a chubster compared to me!

The truth is, I believe we all look better with a bit of chubbiness, certainly as we get older (I give you Victoria Beckham vs Nigella!) It fleshes out the wrinkles, and makes us look robust and healthy. Many oldies get bent and boney, their faces sunken. Well I’m blowed if I’m going to let that happen to me.

No, its alright, I’m not going to get obese, and I’ll do enough to keep healthy, but just maybe I’ll be satisfied to stay a little bit bigger than I’d really like to be, so that should I ever be graced with grandchildren I’ll be a proper, cuddly grandma.

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Grandmother said…

My grandmother was a Cockney.  Yep, a full blown, registered, born-within-bow-bells, rhyming slang saying Cockney through and through.  She died some 35 years ago now, but I still remember her clearly.

She was never anything but old to me, even when she must have only been in her early 60’s (it is a truth that 60 is now so much younger than it used to be – thank goodness!). I remember her ‘perming’ her own hair into tight little grey curls using thin plastic rollers lined with cigarette papers (no I don’t know either) and foul smelling home perms.  I remember her and my mum making jellies for my birthday teas, every year, even though to this day I loathe jelly in any shape or form, and floury Sausage rolling at Christmas.  I feel like I remember all her mannerisms, and sometimes see them manifest in either myself or my sister.

Most of all, I remember her sayings.  It seemed she had a saying for every occasion.  We had a ‘lick and a promise’ instead of a wash. Things were always in a ‘muddy puddle’ (about as near to bad language as I ever heard from her).  I often came home from school looking like ‘the black ‘ole of Calcutta’ or the ‘wreck of the ‘esperus’.   Things went ‘up ‘n down like a fiddlers elbow’ and if I had a stain on my clothes ‘a blind man would be glad to see it’!  Not very pc these days I suspect.

However, my favourite saying, and even now I use it more frequently than you might imagine, is

‘It stuck out like a tanner in a sweeps ear’ole’.

Of course, whenever I use that one, I have to explain it.  No one these days remembers that a tanner was a shiny silver sixpence, which would have twinkled amongst the soot in a chimney sweeps ear. And why exactly would he have had a tanner in his ear in the first place?  Who knows? Who cares?  It’s silly, but you have to admit, very descriptive!

These sayings have now become part of my family’s lore, something that the children laugh at, but keep in their hearts as part of their history.  It’s a way of them knowing their great-grandmother even though she is long-gone.  I wonder how their grandchildren will remember me?

Well, I do make up my own expletives I suppose, ‘Cripes-a-lawky’ being a favourite.  I don’t know anyone else that says that, though perhaps, dear blog reader, you might pick it up and bring it to its rightful place in the national consciousness.  Or how about ‘pigs-and-fishes’ in place of your favourite swearword, as I do, or if it’s really annoying just ‘pigs!’  I’m sure my husband and daughters could fill you in on others, but the thing is, I don’t even know I’m saying them these days.   They are just verbal tics that are part of who I am.

We may share the same language, but each and everyone of us uses it in unique ways,everyday.  We should all do our best to use it wisely and memorably!

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Who’s mum?

I’m travelling to London (again) today.  I have to go to accompany my 90 year old mum to a hospital appointment.  She hates doctors (my doctor daughters are, of course, the exception), and hospitals, and taking any sort of medicine, including over the counter jobs. She really doesn’t want to go.

‘I’m fine.  I feel fine.  They’ll only give me pills, and they”ll give me side effects, which will make me worse’ she says.  

Fine, except for the shortness of breath, the tingly hands and feet, the skin lesion that won’t go away, failing eyesight and hearing, the fact that she is housebound…  

They’ve called her in over a dodgy blood test, and the implication is, that it could be something nasty.  You know the one.  Begins with a C.  She hasn’t quite grasped that, and it’s down to me (with support from my girls) to make sure she goes, and doesn’t put up that knee-jerk wall.

I am of course, fervently hoping that the news isn’t as bad as I fear, and at 90 she will just play her remaining years out in comfort without any ghastly interventions. But, I’m going to hold her hand, and listen carefully to the experts, ask questions, make sure she understands and accepts that some treatment may be necessary to make her life more comfortable …  Just like she used to when she took me to the doctors as a child.  When she made me take disgusting medicine ‘for my own good’.

When did I turn in to mother?

 

 

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Dog brain

ImageAnother perk of being at home so much is spending more time with my little dog, Suki.  The thing about dogs is that they are joyful.  Practically all the time.  She had to spend this last weekend in the kennels, which she’s not so keen on, but happily joins in with the other inmates, her bark, as recognisable as my baby’s to me, as I drive off.

She was a rescue dog and has ‘issues’, particularly with other dogs, but despite her problems, she is a happy sort, and her favourite thing is, without a doubt, running.  Running, running, running.  Like the wind.  Her paws barely touching the ground, she is off like a bullet as I release her from her lead.  Huge circles round the fields, hareing back, tongue lolling, cheekily knocking my legs as she does a handbreak turn halt when I whistle for her.  It looks like there are no thoughts in her head at all, she’s just enjoying the sensation of running.  She has an enviable zest for life, a joie de vivre that I can only dream of.

Nothing is ever an effort.  She’s up with the lark, waggy tailed, and ready to run in the garden before my eyes are even open.  She is inquisitive, and will investigate every small thing she finds with the same happy curiosity whether it be a bit of carelessly dropped veg in the kitchen, or an ant wandering across the patio. She loves learning, and seems as pleased as I am that she can understand me when she finally gets the hang of a new trick.

Perhaps we could all do with a little of that doggy attitude. Making the most of those times when we can just do our own thing, taking pleasure in the small things, and actively enjoy picking up new skills.

I can just feel my joie-de-vivre seeping back already!

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U bloomin’ turn!

These days we live some 170 miles from London, but my husband and I are Londoners, we know our way around London, well most of it.  As it happens we just didn’t know the bit we were travelling to on Saturday.   We know our way there, in fact the car could probably find its own way since we’ve done the journey so often.  We know that we use either the A1 or the M1 to get there depending on which side of London we want to end up.  I just wish our satnav, Emily, understood that too.

From the moment we left our drive, she insisted that we take the A1.  My husband, driving, was quite calm at first, just muttering ‘yes we know, thanks Emily’ the first couple of times she asked us to ‘do a U turn’.  We saw her recalculate, but she was still insisting on us ‘doing a U turn’ even when we approached the M1, by which time both my husband and I were yelling back ‘For God’s sake, we’re taking the ******* M1 Emily’.  Yep, we were still addressing our satnav by name as if she could hear us.  Both of us.

We didn’t name her Emily, it was the name of the mechanical voice which tells us to ‘go st-ray-eight’ or, more frequently ‘do a U turn’.  But she was instantly treated as another being in the car, getting thanks when she found the right place first time and ridiculed when we thought (usually incorrectly) that she was taking us the wrong way.  She is often the receipient of the full force of my husband’s ire, particularly when he takes the wrong turning thinking that he’s already gone 500 yds.  It has become apparent that neither of us have the slightest inclination of what 500 yards looks or feels like. We dither about in the middle of heavy traffic
‘does she mean this one?’
‘must be’
‘Oh **** it wasn’t, she’s bloody recalculating!’

‘Do a U turn..’

When are they going to come up with a system that tells us to ‘follow the white car’?  Or ‘Not this one, the next one’ or, for my sake ‘LEFT, LEFT, LEFT…YOU’RE GOING RIGHT LOVE’.  When will ‘Do a U Turn’ become ‘Oh dear, you seem to have gone the wrong way duck, any chance of turning round somewhere?’

Until that time, Emily will have to take the brunt of our curses and our disobedience I’m afraid.  To paraphrase…. ‘This lady’s not for U turning.’

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It’s not working

Today, for the first time in seven weeks, I had to get up, tart myself up a bit, and go to work. Well, if I’m honest, it wasn’t really work, even though it was very nearly a full day of doing something other than pleasing myself.

It was actually my first shift helping out in the day care centre at the local hospice. I went with some trepidation. Did I know how to deal with very sick people? Am I up to standard re tea making? Without my realising it, Thursday’s are men only days at the day centre, and goodness me, despite their obvious sickness, they were a cheeky bunch.

Some of the time I was standing round like a spare part, but a lot of the time was spent chatting cheerfully, looking at rude jokes on one chaps phone, and playing Rummikub, a game I’ve never played before. We had a lovely lunch, lots of tea, biscuits and cake, and several of the men had aromatherapy sessions. I saw photographs and heard stories. I chatted to the other volunteers and found that despite some age differences we were like-minded. The overall atmosphere was warm and friendly.

One very poorly chap, who spent the day attached to an oxygen machine told me ‘you won’t find a person with a proper serious disease who hasn’t got a sense of humour’ and after today, I can believe it. These were all gentlemen with plenty to be miserable about, but instead of dragging me into the gloom, they brightened my day. It certainly wasn’t work.

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At last, some time

Yesterday evening I went to put on a recently purchased jacket.  I’ve only worn it a couple of times, and yet pulling it on I found a tear on the sleeve.  Goodness knows where it came from, but guess what?  This morning I had time to sew it up.  It didn’t get put on a pile to be done at the weekend (I can only sew in daylight, poor old thing, eyes are going) it got done straightaway.  This is the gift of giving up work.  Time. I had time to phone the electricity board and was able to arrange a time for them to come.  Quickly.  I don’t have to arrange time off work for electricity board visits, or any other workmen type visits anymore.

I had a letter from our travel agents who needed some information for our forthcoming (exciting) trip to India and Nepal.  Instead of surreptitiously phoning from work, and not having the right information there, I had time to do it straightaway.  Its a revelation to me how much easier life is generally when work doesn’t interrupt it.

I met with a friend for lunch.  In the past I have always had less than an hour by the time I get to the restaurant, to scoff down the food and catch up on gossip.  This time we lingered over lunch had two pots of tea, each, and even ran to puddings.  Two hours later we were gossiped out.  A leisurely lunch with an old friend is definitely one of life’s small pleasures.

This afternoon, with not too much to do, I indulged in watching a tennis match on tv (Murray vs Djokovic since you ask. Not sure if spelling is right, sorry!) and I still have time to type up a blog post before getting in the kitchen to make dinner.

My time is now my own.

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Am I bored?

So, after 15 years of dedicated service, I left work six weeks ago and am now enjoying being a lady of leisure. Whilst I was miserably serving my full, four months, notice, there was excited talk about my taking on bits and pieces of work ad hoc to bring in a little extra dosh. However, the longer I have spent at home the less inclined I am to start looking, and, if I’m truthful, am hoping that nothing turns up.

I am in the very happy and fortunate position that my not working does not mean destitution. My husband is a high earner, kids are independent, and we’ve paid off our mortgage. My income was generally being saved for our retirement and treats, such as expensive holidays to far flung and exotic places. So some income for me would be nice, but not necessarily essential.

So far, I’ve managed to keep myself busy all day, every day. People have asked ‘don’t you get bored?’ No. I don’t. I am filling my days with homely, housewifey things. Things only previously done cursorily at weekends. For instance, this morning, I cleaned the windows…vigourously and actually enjoyed it. I’ve baked bread -without the machine. I no longer have outstanding ironing, and the dog is enjoying lots more exercise and attention. I’ve been digging over the garden ready for vegetables next year, and of course, I am writing.

I feel great. I have energy and enthusiasm once more. No longer dragged down into depression by the stress and responsibilities of work, I can be silly again. I have found my lost self.  I was switched off, now I am switched on again.