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Fun, fun, fun!

Anyone can make up a word.  Children do it all the time. For instance, the five year old Fabulous Ms V entertained us with her variations on ‘poo’ on Saturday. The trick, however, is to get them into wider use. To worm them into other people’s everyday vocabulary.  In fact, one of my more recent new year’s resolutions was to get one of my own made-up words into the Oxford English Dictionary.  Needless to say I have not yet achieved that particular goal.

Actually, 58 years worth of new year’s resolutions and I can only think of one that I’ve managed to keep to, and that was recycling wine bottles, which, frankly I should have been doing anyway.

This year’s, though, is a goer.  I’m sure it is.  Can’t go wrong. This year’s resolution (insert your own drum-roll here) is….

To have fun at every available opportunity.

There, I’ve said it.  Written in black and white and sent into the ether.  Everyone knows.  I’ll just have to keep to it.  None of that whining, misery, or cat-bum-mouthed sulking for me this year.  Oh no, just fun all the way.

I did consider the option of

Not being lazy

But that seemed a little out of reach.  A lot out of reach if I’m honest.

I did wonder about

doing something good every day

That also seemed a little unattainable.  Neither do I want to be seen as one of those po-faced do-gooders.

No, I think  I’m on to a winner with the fun thing.  And actually, it doesn’t have to be partying or going on roller-coasters (though any excuse for either is good), sometimes being a right old misery and having a good ol’ sulk can be fun  too.  Yep, I can do that.  Yep, its a winner.

May all your resolutions be as stickable-to.  Happy New Year!

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Musical me?

I like music.  I listen to some sort of music – ipod/radio – every day.  I sing to it and dance around the kitchen, and I have been known to cry to it.  I can still remember as a dumped teenager how every single word of a love song, any love song, cut right through to my soul in that dramatic way that only teenagers feel. Knowing ‘Everybody Hurts‘ doesn’t necessarily make you feel better when no-one hurts as much as you.

My taste is eclectic. I put this down to being exposed to pretty much all types of music as a child.  My father loved to stand in front of the fire, mock conducting choral and classical.  I particularly remember the stereogram belting out the cacophany of the 1812 overture making the floor shake, and we always listened to the dire ‘Sing Something Simple‘ at teatimes on Sunday (did it really run ’til 2001???). I watched countless musicals with my mum and nan, and can also thank my sister for introducing me to the Rolling Stones, The Beatles, and Elvis.

So now I have everything from the soft and beautiful ‘In Paradisium’, through every genre (except Jazz which fails to stir me) to the loud and brash ‘Start Wearing Purple‘, a track that always makes me happy from one of the many Gogol Bordello albums, on my ipod. Some days I’ll listen to endless Green Day and others a bit of Anthony and the Johnsons, The Civil Wars or The Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain.  For some reason, though they are all different sides of a spectrum, they are all capable of soothing me and cheering me up.  Without a doubt, music has strange and mystic mood enhancing qualities.

Now, there is one problem with all this.  Despite immersing myself in music, despite learning to play the violin and the cello at school, despite singing and dancing nearly every day of my life….. I am not musical in anyway whatsoever.   Anyone who has heard me will confirm that singing is a very loose term for what I do, and frankly, as ‘wii dance’ will testify, my movement is hardly ‘seemly’. Leans more towards dad dancing than graceful swan to be honest.

Despite my shortcomings, I recently joined a choir.  Choirs are big news in this country at the moment, and thanks to the fabulous Gareth Malone, they are springing up everywhere.  Retford is no exception, and when I saw the advert for the newly formed ‘Retford Community Singers – You don’t need to be able to sing to join us’ I jumped at the chance. Well, it’s their own fault, they shouldn’t have said it.

So I’ve been trotting off on a Tuesday evening to join around 65 others all belting out weird and wonderful verses in the round, and traditional folk songs in strange languages.  I’ve found I am an Alto rather than the Soprano I imagined, and hence can reach the notes (well nearly reach the notes) a darn sight easier.  Some people can sing better than me, and some (not many) worse, but the overall noise we make is amazingly good, rounded and uplifting.  I come away smiling and humming to myself.  So thanks Gareth!

All I need now is to find a dance troupe for which you don’t need to be able to dance.

Talking of music though, I just found out about the completely wonderful and amazing ‘Landfillharmonic‘ take a look, have a listen, and be prepared to be astounded by the ingenuity and skill of the adults and the talents of the children.

By the way, I have Christmas music on right now.  Don’t you just love ‘The little boy that Santa Claus forgot’?  What was his mum up to then? You’d have thought she’d have got something sorted…!

 

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I’ve gone all work shy

Hmmm…I’ve got an offer of work.  Oh blow.  Of course, this is good. It means some dosh coming in, it means I can go back to spending normally instead of keeping checks on my purse all the time.  It means I’ll be intellectually challenged again.  I won’t have to tick ‘housewife’ on forms again (I’m surprised at how much I loath that term) and  I can work from home.  Its only three days a week.  Perfect!

However…

I know I only stopped working three months ago, but really, I’m out of that mindset now.  I like jogging through my day, deciding what to do on the spur of the moment.  For instance, this afternoon I took the dog for a nice run round the playing field, came home checked a few emails, thought I’d get the bedrooms ready for the Christmas visitors, took one look and changed my mind and went and made some bread instead.  It’s great.  I am master of my own destiny.  I feel strangely fulfilled. Work is going to interfere with all that.  I’m going to have structure my day’s and everything.  I’ll have to be nice to people I don’t particularly like again. Oh blow.

Of course, I’m going to say yes, it would be stupid not to.  I’m hoping that I’m still going to find the time and inclination to blog, even if its only to have a moan (what are friends for?), and with any luck I’ll still be able to take control of my workload – one of the most important factors when it comes to job satisfaction I’m told.

Oh well, It’s not quite confirmed yet, so for the time being, I can carry on rebooting, and tell myself I’ve still got the rest of this year before I have to knuckle down!

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My dad, his birds, and me

My dad became a pigeon fancier after buying a pair, quite randomly, from a bloke that he met at a pub.  It was only when he got home that he realised that he had nowhere to keep them. Undeterred he emptied out and dismantled one of my mum’s cupboards. Frantically chopping and sawing, he bought and added more wood until he ended up with a huge white ‘loft’ which covered most of our tiny square of garden. It was fit for a pigeon king.

To my mum’s dismay, it wasn’t long before he added to his stock of birds.  Fed with the best pellet mix, they grew glossy, sleek, and fit and before we knew it, dad was embroiled in the pigeon racing club.  The birds would go off in their baskets on Friday evening, and we would spend every Saturday afternoon standing out in the garden rattling tins of food, and waiting for the pigeons to come gliding back home.  When they arrived my sister and I were drafted in to catch them quickly, remove the rubber rings from their legs and ‘clock’ them.

I used to love the pigeons. They were quite tame and were happy to be handled.  Dad taught me how to hold them correctly, and I knew each and every one by name.  So I was thrilled when one day Dad turned up at home with a present for me of two pure white fan-tailed doves.  I had never seen anything quite as beautiful or majestic.  Their shiny black button eyes were set into soft snowy feathers, their cooing was gentle and musical, and their tails when raised made a perfect half circle.  I bonded with them instantly.

However, despite their being ‘mine’, Dad had plans for these beauties. He was to be a magician.

Actually, he had always rather fancied himself as a bit of a magician.  He could pull a penny from behind your ear as good as anyone.  He could make a handkerchief disappear in front of your very eyes.  And now, he practiced and practiced until he could make doves appear from nowhere.  He practiced until he perfected his act enough to offer his services as performance artiste at the local conservative club.

Mum said she had never been so embarrassed in her life.

It was a Saturday night and the large smoke filled club was full.  There was a genial, drink mellowed atmosphere and apparently the act had started quite well with polite applause, and maybe a cheer or two, when Dad did his first couple of comparatively simple tricks. His sleight of hand was quite impressive and the crowd was attentive.  Half an hour later, a recorded drum-roll signalled the big finale and the doves were produced with a flourish. TaDa!

Unfortunately, they had become a little skittish having been jammed in a bag up my dad’s sleeve for so long, and decided to make a hasty bid for escape.  So instead of sitting politely on his hand as they had been trained to do, they flew up to the ceiling and round and round the hall, getting increasingly panicked and creating chaos.  Women were squealing as the men leapt about knocking over drinks and tables in their efforts to corner the fleeing birds. Mum said it took them nearly two hours to catch them.

I never saw them again. And dad didn’t do magic much after that either come to think of it.

He did carry on racing pigeons though, and had some success.  He became the secretary of the local pigeon club and it was in that capacity that the local paper came to him and asked if he would help to organise the release of pigeons from the roof of the local Granada cinema to mark the premier of the film ‘Custer of the West’.  He was, of course, happy to oblige, and arranged for the pigeons to be taken up in their special quick release baskets on the said Saturday afternoon.  They were not only his pigeons, but those of the rest of the club members too, and it was to be the start of a proper, timed, race.

Rather than having old men in their pigeon-pooed-on clothes to open the cages, dad had hired two young models to do the job. Unfortunately though, one of the said young lovelies was taken ill.  Undaunted, dad announced that I would be happy to stand in for her. Now, I was a skinny, underdeveloped, shy 14 year old at the time, so was mortified when I was marched off to a back office and given a white, plastic, rather inaccurate, ‘indian squaw’ outfit to change into.  The model whose costume I was forced to wear must have been of the Amazonian type, as the fringed dress was huge and the moccasins were a size 6 and wouldn’t stay on my size 4 feet. The elaborate feathered headdress constantly fell over my eyes and was stopped from slipping down round my neck only by my sticky out ears.  Dad didn’t seem concerned though as he, the manager of the cinema, the mayor, the other model and I climbed the usually off limits stairs that led to the parapet above the grand entrance to the old cinema. The gathered crowds and members of the press waited eagerly below.

The plan was that I and the proper model would pose either side of the roof while the mayor and the manager both gave speeches.  In the event, she posed in her properly fitting, mini skirted outfit, while I skulked, embarrassed, tepee like, towards the back.

The sun shone on us, the crowds clapped, and, speeches done, it was time for the big moment.  Dad had made it quite clear, briefing us at length on how to work the cage releases, and telling us with words of one syllable, that we should make sure the birds all flew off at the same time so that the race was fair..  We stepped forward, Hiawatha and mini-haha.  I tripped on my wayward moccasin, my head-dress went over my eyes blinding me.  I was thrashing about desperately trying to lift the head-dress and find the release at the same time, but before I knew it, Hiawatha’s birds were thronging off into the sky whilst mine were still behind bars.  Dad was bellowing at me to pull the cord out and shoved me unceremoniously out of the way.  Cursing rather too loudly he hastily managed to release the captives himself.

I’d fluffed his big moment. He was furious and in a huff,  barely speaking to me, for the rest of the day.  I’m not sure anyone else noticed though, and the crowds loved it.  I got free tickets to see the film, and our pictures were in the local paper.

Eventually of course Dad tired of his pigeons, and they were sold off, the loft dismantled, and a new hobby ensued.  She was the barmaid at the conservative club.

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This post is challenging

Writing a post feels like work today.  I’ve got loads of other things to do.  It’s that time of year.  The time when I should be dashing about shopping, wrapping, writing cards, panicking about who’s doing what.  Instead, I’ve been sitting here for an hour or two, trying desperately to write something vaguely interesting, as well as vaguely entertaining.

Three times I’ve written stuff and deleted it before I’ve got to the end.

I didn’t mean for it to become work.  It was supposed to be fun.  Supposed to get me in writing mode.  But today it’s pressure.  I haven’t posted anything for a few days, I must do it.  Must post.  Must post…

Do other blogger’s feel like this?  I don’t want to lose the (very) small number of readers I’ve got by  abandoning them at the first hurdle.  Regular posting is the way to build followers they say…  Must post something…

The daily prompt wasn’t helpful.  ‘My Hero’.  Hmm. Can’t think of one. I could be cheesy and say someone who’s been battling adversity, some celeb or other, or a superhero (well, those tight outfits they wear can be quite fetching).  What about a sporty type?  Nope, not a big fan.  Besides the only sports I watch (never participate in, please note) are team jobbies – Cricket, Rugby.  Though of course, did watch our Bradley winning the tour. He was a bit of a hero for that, but overall, not really ‘my hero’ material.

What about a band, a musician that’s inspired me?  Some talented bod who’s made a ton of money by doing a bit of singing.  Nope, not exactly hero’s are they?

Explorer’s?  People that battle against tough terrain, freaky weather, fearsome animals to get….somewhere.  Why…?  Nope, don’t get it.  Just sounds reckless, feckless.

Spacemen?  People hurtling into space, thrown around, eating dried food and seeing their pens float away (not to mention pooing in funny toilets).  No, again, don’t get it.  So you see the Earth from a distance?  So what?  (I’ve bought a globe, it’s much easier) Only crazy individuals, not hero’s, would volunteer for that surely?

Bet lot’s of people would say their dad, and all I would say to that is… No, no, and thrice no.

No sorry Daily Prompt people, I failed, miserably, to come up with anyone. Thinking about it, I don’t think I even know what a hero is now.

Well, I’m gonna have to give up now.  Got to get off out there shopping, organising, wrapping, writing. panicking. Only 15 days to go aargghh…

Come to think of it,  you know I was wrong before, writing this post isn’t like work.  Getting ready for Christmas is though.

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No Ho Ho

Now I promised myself I wouldn’t write a post about Christmas.  Too obvious.  It’s all been said before. It’ll only be yet another tick in the ‘are you a scrooge’ box.  Bah humbug…

But this is relevant.  Honest it is.  It’s about how not working is even more brill at Christmas time.

I’ll be frank, like many others, I dread Christmas, and the overlong run-up to it.  Good grief, even back in September people were asking me if I’d started my Christmas shopping. No I bloomin’ haven’t.  It’s wrong. Starting that early is wrong.  Suppose I see something better nearer the time? Suppose someone asks for something in particular and I’ve already gone out in mid-summer and bought early? And besides, buying presents should get you in that jolly ol’ Christmas spirit just at the right time.  Should.

In reality,  I’ve always left it to the last minute.  We live in a small market town, which is nice, but not especially good for full-on Christmas shopping sessions, so I’ve always had to take a day off work to go to the nearest shopping mall, and a day is never enough. I’m not one to pick up the first thing I see and buy it.  Oh no.  Instead, I’ll make a mental note and go back to it if I can’t find anything else, which I invariably can’t.  It doubles…triples, the time and stress involved.  Then, of course, you ‘re trying to manouevre through crowded aisles with huge heavy bags that are cutting into your fingers and turning them as blue as the air is from the cursing.

‘why don’t you shop on-line?’ you may ask.  Well, this would be a very sensible option, but of course, working full-time, I have never been home to take in the parcels when they arrive.  I don’t know which I hate more, those cards through the letterbox asking me to ring to arrange another time (I’m always at frigging work don’cha know), or ‘we’ve returned your parcel to the depot.’  Which means a trek across town to queue up while a surly post office bloke searches through a mountain of other peoples parcels before asking me for identification which I more often than not have forgotten to take.

Anyhoo, this year it’s different.  This year I have shopped on-line at my leisure, and been at home to accept my post from the smiley delivery folk, all of whom, to a man/woman, are relieved that for once, someone is home and they haven’t entirely wasted their day.

I’ve also ferreted about in the corners of our town which remain untouched by the pound shops and bargain stores, and managed to find some lovely privately owned shops selling unusual and delightful bits and pieces.  It was actually fun.  You actually get to chat to the shop owners, who actually care.

So despite not having so much dosh to spend (perhaps partly because of that too) this year my Christmas shopping has been, so far, happily, relatively stress-free. Now just need to face the supermarket to stock up on a mountain of seasonal food….ho, bloomin’, hoho…

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hmm…what to write…

I’m uninspired today.  Can’t think of anything to write about.  ‘Course, I knew it would happen sooner or later.  The whole point of writing a blog was the discipline of thinking up a topic and title a couple of times a week.  So far it’s been ok.  But today zilch, nada, nowt, nuffink.

Looking out of the window for inspiration, all I can see are the outlines of winter naked trees, and the grey light that comes at dusk on a rainy day. Through the brown beech hedge I can just make out the headlights of cars on the main road.  I guess people are travelling home after picking up their kids from school.  It’s about that time of day.

I miss the school run, even though when the kids were at primary school we had to negotiate the level crossing every day.  The line is a main, inter-city route, and if our schedule was just a minute or two out, we’d have to wait ages for the train, or more often than not, trains, to hurtle past before we could continue. It regularly made us late, leaving a blot on the timekeeping section of the girl’s school reports.

Waiting at the gates to pick them up was a time when all the mum’s got to socialise and bond.  Friendships were made, and gossip was circulated before the kids would pour out of their classes, clutching their latest artworks, with their un-put-on coats trailing in the dirt behind them.  On the way home, I’d here all their stories

‘Sarah got told off, she hit Lizzie’

‘dinner was horrible. Minted cabbage…yuck’

‘Mr H was reeealllly funny in assembly…’

Of course, they had bad days too.  When things didn’t go their way.  The days when they’d had had an unjust telling off.  (It was always unjust!)  Or someone had been mean to one or the other of them.  At least with their bad days I got to give them a cuddle when they got home, to make things better.

I still get reports of their days, albeit several days later and on the phone rather than in person. And I think it’s more than likely an abridged version of events.  It’s never that excited tumbling out of words that only kids can do.  And it’s always horrid when they ring after a bad day, and I can’t reach out to give them a hug.  A virtual one is just not the same.

It’s no good, I’ll never get used to being an empty-nester – it’s been seven years since they left home for uni and the house still seems empty and quiet.  But at least I’ve got the time to write now.  When I can think of something, that is.

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Me, the Poser

Triangle Pose

Triangle Pose

I practice yoga  (that’s not me in the picture, by the way, I wouldn’t dream of letting anyone take my picture while I’m posing!)  I remember telling someone that once and they responded, rather sniffily, ‘you mean a bit of stretching’.  I felt quite aggrieved.  Yes, it is a bit of stretching, but so much more too.

I go to a class once a week at the beautiful Jasmine Trust Yoga Centre.  At this time of year, we practice in soft lights with no music and no mirrors to distract us.  It is a time for us to internalise, to listen to our breath and try different breathing exercises along with the postures and poses.

Now many people might pooh pooh the breathing exercise stuff.  I admit I was a bit sceptical at first and certainly, even now, I don’t necessarily find them all useful and sometimes find them a bit absurd (alternate nostril breathing is one I find hard to take seriously for instance), but the main point, it seems to me, is to drag your mind away from its noise of troubles: I’m cross (see previous post), what’s for tea, need to do the ironing, what’s the women next to me doing etc.  instead you concentrate entirely on your breathing.  Sometimes, its short broken breaths, others so deep that your entire body feels light and full of air. It’s calming and meditative.

We also use breathing to help with postures, and stretching – an out breath can give you a little bit more effort in a twisting posture for instance, and Carolyn’s chanting of ‘take a nice easy breath, breathing out as you turn…..’ maintains the atmosphere of calm even when you’re feeling decidedly unstable, or the position feels like its pulling you in two directions at once.

mountain pose

Mountain Pose

Yesterday, at class, we used straps to pull us in to shapes our bodies were trying quite hard to resist, well, at least mine was.  Can’t say I enjoyed it much, I prefer the pure and powerful feeling of achieving (or trying to achieve) the poses without aids. Even just to simply stand firmly, straight and still, with two feet planted together in mountain pose for a few minutes feels surprisingly strong.

So ok, I’m getting on a bit, and not as flexible as I used to be, and am never going to be able to get my feet behind my head, or balance my crosslegged body on my hands. In fact, I dread to think what I look like sometimes, what with all the bridges, and bending and stuff, but each time I practice I get just a little bit stronger, bendier and calmer, which can’t be all bad!

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aarrgghh..

I’m cross. Annoyed.  Mardy. Pissed. I’ve go the hump.  And I’ve got a face on.

I don’t know what the right words are in other languages but I’m guessing they’d recognise ‘the face’.  My mum had a ‘face’.  You’d know when she was cross.  She didn’t have to say anything, it was just in the way she pursed her lips like a cat’s bottom and snarl ‘Nothing’ when you asked her what was wrong.

The trouble is, no-one knows I’m cross.  What is the point of wandering around all day in a foul mood when there is no-one there to appreciate it? No-one there to be grumpy with.The person with whom I’m cross isn’t here.  He knew I was cross when he left, and knows that it will probably have passed by the time he gets home.

To be honest, the thing I’m cross about isn’t really worth wasting my energy on.  So why am I persisting in making myself feel miserable?

I’ve tried to boil it down to its essence, my crossness. I’m in a position where I have had to agree to something that I really don’t agree with.  So basically, it seems like it’s ‘cos I’m not getting my own way.

Oh blimey, that’s not attractive is it?

Still cross though…

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Wish I was awesome

I wish I was awesome.  I wonder what it feels like to be awesome.  To have done something special or worthwhile.

I have never done anything of any note.  Never won a race, or game, or competition.  Never got a medal.  Even my exam results were mediocre to bad.  Oh, I’ve done lots of stuff, had lots of experiences that others would give anything to have had.  I’ve ridden horses, dived to the bottom of the sea, ridden on the back of a motorcycle going at 100 mph.  I’ve starred in am-dram plays, and written stories and poems which people have said they liked.  I’ve been to fabulous, exotic, far-away places, and met wonderful people.  These days I garden, sew, cook, and still write stories and poems that people say they like and I’m pretty good when it comes to techie stuff. But honestly, I’m not good, not good good, at any of them.  Just ok. Mediocre.  Sometimes, that’s a bit depressing.

Watching some pretty awesome people on Strictly Come Dancing – Louis Smith and Victoria Pendleton, who have both won umpteen medals in their own disciplines, and Michael Vaughan, who led England Cricketers to win the Ashes in 2005, I can see that even though they are truly awesome, they can still be as awkward, self-conscious and insecure as me when they are out of their comfort zone.

I guess you just have to find your comfort zone.  My comfort zone is my home, and watching my daughters becoming successful, caring and beautiful people.  I consider them to be my biggest success.

I understand from others that I’m also quite good at listening.  I can’t begin to count the number of times people rang me at work ‘just to have a moan’ and at the end say,

‘Thanks, I feel better now’.

I was the matriarch (according to the dictionary ‘a venerable old woman’!) of the organisation, the go to lady when life was a pain. Ok, I never did anything, and usually couldn’t come up with much in the way of words of wisdom.  But perhaps being able to make someone feel better just by listening is a teeny bit awesome.

And shhh…don’t tell anyone, but I realise now that perhaps we’re all (yep, even me) a teeny bit awesome on the quiet.