family

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Pass the Pins

My dad used to go to the pub a lot. I think it would be fair to say he liked a drink. As a child, I didn’t necessarily know where he was going, if I asked he’d only say he was going to ‘meet a man about a dog’.  I have no idea where that saying came from, all I know is that I spent many hours excitedly anticipating the arrival of a new puppy that never came.

On Sundays, he used to go to the pub while my mum and nan cooked a huge roast dinner.  We’d always have to wait for him to come back before we ate, but nevertheless we were always pleased that he went because the fish stall used to park outside the pub on Sunday’s, and dad would always come back weighed down with bags of shellfish for us to have for tea.

After the obligatory Sunday afternoon watching a weepy on TV from the floor while Dad snored on the sofa, I’d go and help mum and nan prepare the salad.  No fancy salad bowls brimming with multi-coloured mixed leaves and chopped vegetables for us. Oh no…our salad’s constituted:

a pile of lettuce leaves in a bowl

a pile of tomatoes in a bowl

Some very thin slices of cucumber in a bowl

Some cress in a bowl

Some full length sticks of celery standing up in a glass (how posh)

And a bottle of salad cream

These bowls would be distributed about our gingham-cloth covered table leaving space in the middle for the stars of the show, the shellfish.

Oh how I loved the messiness of the shellfish tea.  Getting pink prawn husks and eggs stuck to our fingers, shelling the scampi (fresh ones the like of which I’ve not seen since), using dressmaking pins to lift the grey ‘lids’ off the winkles and wheedle the curled fleshy bit out, and the peculiar yellow cockles, that looked like the result of a violent sneeze, yet with a shake of salt and splash of vinegar tasted like the finest gourmet food.

I loved to see my fastidious old nan digging in and getting just as mucky as the rest of us, even licking the fishy juice from her fingers like I did.  .

Afterwards, the bin would be full of the smelly shells, and mum would have to take the table-cloth out to the back garden and give it a vigorous shake to get rid of the stuck on bits of prawn antenna and legs, and winkle lids.

There was always salad left over, and more often than not the next day, all I’d find in my lunchbox was a cucumber, lettuce and tomato sandwich, with a stick of celery nestling alongside it.

Those days are long gone, and it seems that, these days, we have become over-sensitised to eating anything that looks a bit strange, or having to do anything as weird as wheedling out a winkle to get our food.  But I remember those family teas as a bonding time. It was the one time of the week, when we sat down and ate together, little was said, and we all got on.

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Missing you

Eric

I had a daughter once, she had a red coat. Red, just like that yarn that woman’s knitting with. I remember when we bought it. The wife had been doubtful

‘she’s only two. Red is a bit harsh for a two year old don’t you think? They’ve got it in pink. Let’s get the pink’

But I stood my ground. My girl was going to be feisty. Look out world she’s coming to get you! And (and I think the wife would agree in hindsight) it did make her easier to spot when she ran off, which she did, often.

Yes, it makes me cry when I think about her.  You got something to say about it? I miss her.  And the wife.  I’ve got no-one now. I’ve just been left in that place to rot.  Of course, they do wheel me out from time to time ‘to get some fresh air’. I guess they’re obliged to.

Well, not ‘wheel’ me exactly.  I’ve still got use of me pins. Quite sprightly really. Not like some of those old buggers in there.  Sitting in their chairs  all day, dribbling.

It is quite nice to get out in the park, instead of sitting in the sweltering conservatory which they insist is ‘lovely’, and this young woman seems friendly enough, though she does insist on holding my hand to stop me wandering off.  Perhaps they ought to put me in a red sweater.

Julie

What’s he blubbering about now? He used to be so sharp.  ‘ Cut hisself on his own tongue one ‘o these days’ me mam used to say.  Now though, he’s a sentimental old fool.  Cries at anything. Good job I bought the tissues.  He forgets about his nose.  Leaves snot dribbling down his chin all the blooming time, It’s disgusting. Can’t even be trusted to wipe his own bum these days. I’m just glad we found him a place in the home.  They can do the dirty work.

Mam insisted I take him for a stroll

‘hang on to him though, he’ll run off and fall in the duck pond if you’re not careful.’

Run off my foot. He can only just put one foot in front of the other. I don’t think he enjoys ‘strolling’ anyway. It seems a bit of an effort, and he just cries all the time. No point in asking him why, he’ll probably only say ‘sausages’, that’s about all he says these days.  Can’t get his words out since the stroke. What with that and the dementia, he’s pretty well gone.  Doesn’t recognise us.  I don’t know why we bother visiting really, but mam insists.

‘We can’t just leave him there. He’s still your dad somewhere inside.’

It’s alright for her.  She just sits there knitting.  That jumpers going to be way too small for Keiran. Like he’d wear it anyway.  I keep telling her 10 year old boys don’t want knitted jumpers, especially not red ones.

Grace

Nice to see them together holding hands, just like they did when she was little.  She used to skip alongside her dad, and he used to swing her with one hand, lifting her little feet right up off the floor.  You should have heard her laugh!  Him too.  He used to laugh a lot. Now he cries a lot.  Looks like he’s blubbing again now.

I wonder what goes on in his head.  He doesn’t recognise us at all these days, and I don’t recognise him.  He’s certainly not the man I married… goodness, nearly 60 years ago now. He used to be dashing then.  What my mam called ‘suave’.  I think it’s a word she picked up from a novel. Swept me off my feet he did.  Now look at him.  Poor old soul. It’s been better since he’s been in the home. I couldn’t look after him, he kept wandering off down the street muttering to himself and frightening the kids.

I miss him though. Really miss him.  Even as he was at the end.  The day before he was due to go in the home, I looked up from my knitting and he was sitting there holding my ball of red wool in his hands and smiling, a warm smile, not a cheesy grin, but as if he was remembering all the old times with a glint in his eye.  It nearly broke my heart.  I nearly caved in and kept him at home. But it was only for a few minutes, and then he went all vacant again.  Just like that.  There’s nothing behind the eyes now.  Just blank I think. I’ve just got the knitting to keep me occupied now.

Julie keeps telling me not to bother knitting any more jumpers.

‘People don’t wear ‘em these days mam. You can get nicer ones from Primark.’ She’d said.

She’s wrong though.  Primark one’s don’t have memories attached.

Written as part of the writing 101 challenge – three points of view

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Beam me up

Just back off me hols.  Yep, we’ve had a wonderful couple of weeks in Kerala, India.  Splendid grand hotel with wonderful staff (The Leela, Kovalam), yummy food, fantastic pool, and beautiful scenery.  Who could ask for more.

Me.  I could.

Like everyone else I love being on holiday.  Not a care in the world, the only decisions to be made is whether to lie by the beach or pool, or what to choose from the buffet that won’t add on immediate pounds and make your wobbly bits even more wobbly when you lurch on to the sunbed in your cossie.  I don’t even mind getting a bit burnt here and there, or even being covered in bites that keep me awake.  What I really don’t like about holidays though is the getting there and back.

Despite being fairly well travelled, I still loathe airports.  The endless queuing. Firstly. to book in.  Will we get nice seats? Together? Will we get seats? (The last question being the direct result of being victim to the scandalous overbooking that apparently all airlines undertake.  We were fortunate that through bribery that particular airline managed to persuade some other passengers to relinquish their seats to us.  Others in our group weren’t so lucky.)

Then of course you wave your bags goodbye, wondering, as they trundle off, if they’re ever to be seen again, and if so, will they be in one piece.  We always pack spare keks and swimwear in our hand luggage… just in case.  I figure, at least, if I have swimwear I’ll be able to sink myself in a nice cool pool while I’m waiting for the rest of my carefully chosen accoutrements to arrive.

Through into departure lounge via the queue for security.  I always beep.  Why do I always beep? No idea.  I take off my belts, bangles and shoes, but still I beep.  Is it my underpinnings, being of the wired variety? Do other ladies that have wired underpinnings beep?  Surely I’m not the only one.  Suffice it to say, I beep, so I need patting down by a severe looking security woman.

After patting me down and finding nothing, one unfortunate woman in an airport in Nepal, chose to search my handluggage.  Poking about with her bare hands she managed to find a very squishy manky banana in the bottom that I had completely forgotten about.  I will never forget her look of disgust as she pulled it from the bag.  She didn’t search further, just waved me on.  That’s the ticket!!

Anyhoo, eventually through security.  There is the interminable wait.  There’s only so many times you can walk round the shops in a departure lounge.  Who buys stuff in there anyway?  I’m always puzzled by the luggage shops. Isn’t it a little late for that?  So we sit and people watch and eat uninspiring sandwiches until we are given the gate number and cheerfully told it’s a ten minute walk away.  En masse down the walkways, rushing as if they might leave without us when we know we’ve still got more than another hour before there’s even a chance the plane will be fully boarded.  I’m worn out before we’ve started.

Then there’s the almighty rush to board.  Everyone pushing and shoving, fighting for space in the overhead lockers.  Only then can you claim your seat.  You know, the one next to the very big person/very chatty person/snorer/dribbler/drunk/weak bladdered…the one in front of the kid whose up for spending the next five hours kicking the back of your seat whilst either whining or screaming.  The one with the air hostess who believes in service with a sneer, not the nice one who works the other side of the aisle.  God I hate planes.

Then take off. I still white-knuckle at every take off.  I try to go to a happy place, honest I do, but there really isn’t one that can include those scary engine noises and the sicky feeling as the earth drops away.

Settle in, get into a film maybe, and the food comes.  The little tray of horrors. Everything crammed on it like a jigsaw with spillage.  You eat what you can and are stuck with the table down across your knees when the bloke next to you decides he ‘needs to go’. Great.  If anyone has found a way of successfully dealing with that scenario please let me know.

Meal time over, you try and nap.  It really is impossible to get comfy in a plane seat.  Try as you might, your legs are never right…. straight out under the seat in front and your bum falls off the not wide enough seat. It’s not wide enough widthways to curl up either.  You try some sort of in between thing with your head propped on your hand, and, despite the kicking in the back, just about manage to nod off, when the bloke next to you wants another wee.  Shouldn’t have had that third beer should you mate.

Eventually, the pilot lets you know that you’ll be landing shortly, but first we have to go ’round and ’round for half an hour because there is a queue.  Who’da thought it?

Despite the warnings to ‘remain in your seat with your belt buckled’ everyone unbuckles and stands up the minute the wheels touch the ground, and there is the usual push and shove to get off the plane.

For our trip to India, there was a three hour wait before starting again on another plane.  What can I say, it was great to arrive, and even greater to eventually see my luggage clunking on to the carousel.  It was also great to forget the prospect of the return journey, if only for a while.

So yes, I would ask for more.  I would ask for one of those machines like they have in Star Trek, that will beam me to my destination (with my luggage!) in the time it takes to say ‘chicken or fish’.  Come on, this is the twenty first century, surely someone has invented it by now?

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I need support – or – feeling discomboobulated

Love ‘em or loath ‘em, on the whole, we ladies have to wear bras.  They strap us in, bolster us up, and, not putting too fine a point on it, stop things, well, bobbing about.

I was in Marks and Sparks the other day when there was an announcement over the tannoy reminding us that there was a ‘Bra Fitting Service’ available in the lingerie department.   Well, since I was there to buy some underwear (well, why else would I be there…can’t afford the food..), and I was feeling pleased with myself for losing some flab since last time I bought such items (ok, that was some time ago as the tired old once-white scaffolding I was wearing at the time would testify), so I thought I’d take advantage of their most kind offer to reassess my size.

I picked the chosen confections from the rack in the size I thought I probably was, and stood and waited at the door of the fitting rooms.

‘Have you made an appointment’ ‘Linda’ asked.  I knew she was Linda, because she was sporting a fetching name badge telling me that she was the ‘fitting assistant’.

Well to be honest, I had no idea that you had to make an appointment.  They didn’t mention that on the tannoy, and crikey, I only wanted a quick measure up.  Anyway, Linda said they could fit me in if I would care to wait a few minutes.

Eventually, she showed me into the changing room, and told me to whip my blouse off.  The measuring took place under unforgiving lights which made my flesh look like risen dough. Fortunately I didn’t have to remove my underwear so some dignity was retained.  Just.

She gave me the verdict.

‘Ah, you’re in between sizes’

Well, fancy that.  Who’d a thought.  I’m not average…

Having immediately discounted my original choices, she went off in search of the perfect item.  She brought back half the shop.  All different sizes and shapes.  Good grief, did you know that you can be a different size according to what shape the ‘cup’ is? Or that it’s ‘dangerous’ if the wires sit too far round the side and your boob isn’t fully wedged in there?  What the hell does that mean? Dangerous!  Thanks to Linda I now have instilled in me a morbid fear of ill-fitting bras.

I must have tried on dozens.  Some were too squishy, some made me look like a ship in full sail, some were too baggy (Linda took her life in her hands when she told me that ‘older people lose their muscle tone up there’. She was darn lucky I didn’t show her exactly what muscle tone I’ve got in my right hook, I can tell you) some made me flob out over the top, some moved about when I swung my arms over my head.  Who knew I was such an odd shape?

I was feeling quite discombobulated (boobulated?? I was going to say deflated but that wasn’t the case at all), when she eventually bought one in that vaguely fitted.

‘Ooh I like that one, that’ll do’ I said, a little bit too overenthusiastically.

She stood there, hand on chin, sucked her teeth like a mechanic inspecting your tyres

‘No, it’s too tight. I’ll get you the next size’ and before I could object she disappeared through the curtain.  Needless to say the next size up replacement was way too big.  Ho hum.

It took another few abortive attempts before she bought me that same bra again.

‘I’d picked up the wrong size before’ she admitted.  ‘This one should be better’.

By then, I could only just about manage a tight-lipped smile. I’d been trying on bloomin’ bras for the last three-quarters of an hour, I was having this darn thing whether it fitted or not.

It was, of course, about three times the cost of the one’s I originally picked up and, miraculously, it was the same size as those.  Who needs a fitter?

After I’d paid for my mega fitting bra, I went to another shop.  Their underwear was on special offer.  I bought two bras without trying them on.  They fit perfectly.

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A good sport?

Oh dear, I suppose I’m going to have to do it…write about sports that is.

Anyone who knows me, even remotely, must know that I am, and always have been, rubbish at all and every sport.  I have been told that I ‘mince’ rather than run.  I can’t throw for more than a couple of feet in front of me.  I can’t catch (crummy hand/eye co-ordination).  I can’t kick (but then I am a girl..).  You may as well forget anything that involves a bat or a racket (crummy hand/eye co-ordination again...).  I can’t jump or skate or ski or do anything else other people seem to do with ease and dignity.  Even my bike riding is pants – can’t take my hands off the handle bars without falling off.

Well, you get the picture.  Sports is not my thing.  It’s why I like yoga.  Lots of standing still and laying down. I can just about manage that.  And, and this is a big AND, it’s not competitive (usually,- though I gather there is something called competitive yoga growing in the US, which sounds conflicted to me).

See, not only do I not like playing sport, I don’t much care for that competitive ethos.  It seems to me that for every winner there are a hell of a lot more losers.  The odds are agin’ us being winners. Who wants to expend that much energy to forever have regrets that you were just not good enough.  Certainly not me.

I do, of course, enjoy watching some sporty type thingys.  I really enjoy a bit of brutal rugby union. The thump of the scrum and the ball floating in a perfect pass.  The slow tension of cricket – The stupid names ‘silly mid-off’ ‘googly’.. and the strategy of the spinners and slow bowlers. I especially enjoy the limited over matches, where it really comes down to the wire. Then of course, there is tennis.  The gladiatorial matches between two great players can be epic, but I’m afraid the crushing one sidedness of many of the early matches in a tournament can really be a turn off.

And that’s about it. That’s about the measure of the sports I’d turn on my TV for, and half the time I only turn it on for the highlights even then.

When I was a kid (some time ago now) we used to religiously watch the wrestling on our black and white TV on a Saturday afternoon.  My mum, my dad, my nan, my sister and me, we knew all the wrestlers, and the referees names.  Knew their skills and weaknesses, knew the names of the moves.  Believed the whole shenanigans was real.  We would all cheer when our favourite baddy thumped three times on the mat to ‘give in’  and booed when they cheated and threw themselves on our favourite goody when he wasn’t looking.  Now that was entertainment.

Now I know that is all it was.  It wasn’t sport, it was acting.  Perhaps that’s why I liked it so much. It was non-stop action, albeit carefully choreographed and rehearsed (I’m sure there will be many who object to that description, but its as I understand it).  Perhaps that is why I find other sports so, well, dull, in comparison.  In a real match or game, there are deathly lulls and gross injustices.  The best man doesn’t always win.  Outside factors contribute. The weather, the state of the pitch, an awkward bounce, injury, the list is endless.  Now for some that might add to the excitement, but for me, it feels unfair.  A brilliant cricketer getting out ‘for a duck’ for instance…’give him another go..go on..he can do better than that.. he just missed that’s all, give him another go…’ but it doesn’t work like that.  He just gets to wander back to the pavilion with his bat under his arm and his bruised ego heavy on his shoulders.

Guess it’s time I mentioned the elephant in the room… football.  For some reason football has taken its place in my soul as the most reviled and hated of all sports.  I despise football.  The overpaid little boys that spend their youth kicking a ball from one end of a pitch to the other. Try as I might I fail to see that as being worth the gdp of a small country for each match. The fans are loud and ridiculously partisan with seemingly no acceptance of the opposing teams skills. The clubs charge the fans extortionate amounts for related goods – have you seen the price of football shirts??? Its a disgrace.

Okay, I know I’m in a minority, and most people will be too busy watching the world cup to read this.  I know football is supposed to be our ‘national game’ I’m supposed to love it.  I’m afraid I don’t. I hope the best team wins.  I doubt, from what I’ve heard, that it is going to be England.  Predictably though, I won’t be watching.  After all Wimbledon starts next week….!

 

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Where do flies go in Winter?

Happy New Year everybody!  Hope you had a happy and cosy Christmas.

Sorry, I’ve been away for a while, not literally, just, you know, away from my blog.  Not making any excuses, sometimes there are more important things in life than writing on here ya’know.  I’ve been busy having a good time with my lovely family – eating, drinking and being merry.  Piling on the pounds.  But now I’m back on the 5:2 wagon to try and lose said pounds, and am going to get down to my blog again to focus my jellified mind…

This last couple of weeks have been somewhat dominated by errmmm… small critters. I was going to say insects, but that’s not technically correct (Ha! I’m not giving any smartiepantsies the opportunity to lecture me if I can help it!).  Doesn’t seem right at this time of year though does it? One would think they’d all be hibernating somewhere out of sight in January.  Where do fly’s go in Winter? I’ll tell you later, but first the Cave debacle.

Creswell CragsWe are lucky to have a wonderful prehistoric site quite local to us called Creswell Crags its a pretty limestone gorge dotted with caves where archeologists have found artefacts dating back 80,000 years.  It is also the home of some Ice Age wall art – the oldest in Britain.  There is proof that Bears, Lions, Tigers, Hyenas and Mammoths have all walked through the gorge at some time in the past.  Its fascinating.  We thought we’d do a tour of the caves.

We were provided with hard hats with lamps on the front (very fetching) and followed a very nice chap into the cave where he was telling us about all the exciting finds, and letting us hold flint arrowheads and stone tools etc.  We were in a very low part of the cave, and had had to keep our knees bent to stand up (all eleven in the group, including me, banged their heads on the ceiling at some point) when the nice chap grinned, looked at the group, and said ‘and how are you all with spiders?’

Well, those of you who know me know that I suffer from quite extreme arachnophobia and despite my best efforts I started to panic at even the mention of the darn things.  It got worse as he shone his torch to the ceiling to show us the large shiny brown Boris’s (and Boris’esses it turns out…. he told us how to tell the difference…ewww…who cares…) that were dangling from webs that were attached to said low ceiling.  Yes, that one. The one where my head had been.  Where probably the hood of my coat had been, which was probably now full of ’em.  I was sure my back was covered in them, Indiana Jones style. (incidentally, somewhat pleasingly one of the children, an eight year old boy, who was busy pointing and saying ‘oohh..there’s another one, and there…’ was called Harrison. It didn’t make me feel any better at the time though.)

‘Are you alright’  asked nice blokey, shining his torch into my pink sweaty face.  He’d heard my rapid breathing. ‘Er no…’

‘Its’ all right they’re slow moving’ Bless, he was trying to cheer me up. Ewww…

He took my arm. ‘I’ll show you something really wonderful, you’ll really like it. It is spider related, but really lovely, you’ll like it’ he coaxed.

I was practically curled up in a ball trying not to touch any surface, I was struggling with tears (it was really enclosed and dark, and I am a wuss) so with great, really really great, reluctance I let him lead me to a dark corner. He shone the torch up in to a gap in the rocks

‘get your head up here’ he said yanking me forward (‘noooooooo’ I thought) ‘Isn’t it beautiful, like a christmas decoration?’

‘Noooooooooo’ I thought again. It was a bloody nest. A bloody Spider’s nest.

‘There’s thousands of little one’s in one of them’ He said, grinning. Not sure if he wasn’t just being mean now.

Frankly, I couldn’t get out quickly enough. Palpitations and sweaty palms, brushing myself down and ewwwwwwing went on for about half an hour after we’d got out into the fresh air. The trauma of it is still affecting me. It’s why I had to write it down.

It’s silly. Phobia’s are silly. Irrational. Daft.  A grown woman should be able to get over herself.

I can’t. It’s both a mental and physical revulsion/fear and I’ve been trying since childhood to control it.  I’m a bit better these days, and can catch small blighters in my catcher contraption.  I would never kill them, and I hate it when someone squishes them on my behalf.  I just wish they would be as fearful of me as I was of them, as people keep telling me they are.  (they are not. They would not come into my house if they were.  And those ones in the cave didn’t run away and hide when they saw us coming, they just stared haughtily at us.)

Anyhoo, I promised to tell you where flies go in Winter.  In my loft it seems.

We have suffered an infestation of Cluster Flies.  Never heard of ’em? No, neither had we until a couple of weeks ago.  Apparently, they like to sunbathe on white, southfacing walls like ours, and when the sun goes in they crawl up under the eaves and snuggle down for winter.  If it’s nice and cosy, they invite all their friends round.  Gazillions of their friends.  I gather that if you leave them they will go away in the Spring.  We chose to use special smoke bombs on them.  They’re all gone now.  Sorry flies.

 

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The routine trap

It seems that, despite my best efforts, I have fallen into the routine trap. Monday is writing and catching up on correspondence, bill paying etc day, Tuesday ironing and housework, Wednesday swimming and long walk day, Thursday shopping and yoga, Friday winemaking and gardening.

Hmmph…that wasn’t supposed to happen.  I naively believed that when I left work, I would leave all routine behind.  But no, the alarm still goes off and I still get up at the crack of dawn so that we can breakfast together before my husband goes off to work for the day.  The dog still needs walking first thing in the morning else she gets tetchy. There is still washing up to do, the bed still needs making.  But hey ho… that’s fine.  Actually come to think of it, a good routine can be a very fine thing.

When my twin girls were born they were a bit on the small side, at least one was, so they spent two days in in the special care baby unit.  I wasn’t able to visit them, let alone feed them, so through necessity the nursing staff fed them like clockwork every four hours. Consequently when they were returned to their excited mummy they were absolutely and resolutely in a four hourly routine. It was great.  None of that feeding on demand, which frankly, would have been a nightmare, for me.  Nope, they woke up at the same time, got fed at the same time, and slept at the same time, giving me some much needed rest in between.

It also meant, that as they grew up they instinctively knew what ‘mealtimes’ meant. They weren’t snacking because they ate regularly, at the right times.  Now, I know that ‘feeding on demand’ is the big thing these days.  Babies cry, you feed ’em. But I have a theory…

I believe that maintaining a feeding routine right from the word go, could be the answer to the twin (though diverse) pandemics of fussy eaters and obesity.

I have heard children (and adults) described as ‘grazers’. They just spend all day popping bits of food into their mouths, but seem unwilling to sit down to a ‘proper’ meal. ‘Course not. They’re not hungry.  It seems to me, that if they have been fed every time they’ve felt a bit, well, peckish, since they were born, then they really wouldn’t know what an empty stomach feels like.  I’ve seen kids crying that they’re starving, and being given a packet of crisps to keep them quiet, even though lunchtime is nigh.  Wouldn’t it be better to push them to go without a little bit longer? If they were really ‘starving’ surely they would be more likely to appreciate a plate of healthy food?

As adults we all feel ‘peckish’ or what my nan used to call ‘fanciful’ sometimes (I frequently fancy a bar of chocolate, and no, I’m not necessarily hungry), but hopefully we recognise that that is all it is and don’t necessarily indulge those cravings.  We mostly are fortunate enough not to be starving, but if we don’t eat between meals, we are more likely to properly recognise hunger.

As you know, I’m following the 5:2 diet, and whilst sometimes it does test my willpower to go without lunch, the lightness of an unusually empty stomach is energising and pleasing in its own way.  I feel ‘cleansed’ by giving my tummy a bit of a rest, albeit only for 12 hours or so. And the light meal I have in the evening after my fast is the best meal of the week. My tastebuds, starved of stimulation for a day, are exceptionally receptive to the nuances of the herbs, spices and flavours of any and all foods (‘cept jelly and coffee obvs!!)

Anyhoo… I fear I’m straying off subject. What I’m trying to say though, is that allowing myself to fall into a routine, in both daily life, and eating, I’m giving myself the pleasure of anticipation, be it knowing that the ironing will be done and dusted for the week once Tuesday morning is over, or that I will enjoy a delicious meal at the end of my fast.  In the words of John Lennon ‘life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans’ so teaching ourselves, and our children, to appreciate a daily routine of mealtimes and work, together with down time (not to mention a bedtime routine for kids), should ultimately make us more content surely?

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Preaching to the converted

Dunno if I have mentioned previously that I bought my mum a kindle for her 90th birthday last year.  They’re great for older people who have trouble holding bigger books or reading the small print, and it’s been a stonking success with her.

Mind you, she doesn’t feel confident enough to order her books herself either through the device or through her laptop, so I have to choose for her.  If I say so myself I’m getting quite adept, and actually enjoy the challenge of choosing books that she might like, but I know I would absolutely loath…all the potboiler romances, the stuff about ‘the old days’.  She doesn’t like anything based abroad preferring descriptions of places she recognises, which is a bit limiting, but you’d be amazed at just how many of the ‘she was a poor girl, who fell under the spell of  evil Lord Whatsismame who imprisoned her in the cellar of his mansion where she found love through the soot covered coal merchant who had his own secrets…..’  (blimey that’s good –  I could positively write ’em myself!) genre there is.

Every now and then I sneak in something unexpected, and have pushed her to read things she wouldn’t have considered before.  Consequently she is now an avid Agatha Christie fan, and enjoys the odd biography.

She did do requests, but that has stopped since she insisted on getting, and then reading, Fifty Shades of Grey.  I’ve not read it myself (really not my cup of tea, prefer more eloquent and elegant writing) I did warn her.  I did – robustly, but still she insisted I download it for her.  Her response

‘eugh, do people really do that? Made me feel sick!’  needless to say she didn’t want the next two instalments.

What this exercise has reminded me though, is that, although we all may like different things, books can be compelling for everyone, if they take the trouble to find the right ones. You have to be prepared to be disappointed occasionally by dreadful, unfathomable plotlines, or irritating writing styles.  You have to expose yourself to genre’s that you may think you have no interest in – for instance  sci-fi may not be an obvious choice for us all, but they are just as likely to contain romance and mystery as the next book, and often the authors can employ unusual, creative, improbable, but thoroughly entertaining storylines to keep you engaged all the way through.

I’m the opposite of my mum.  I like to escape into a different world, whether that may be contemporary, historical or futuristic.  I want to really live with the characters, believe in them, and understand them and their motives.  Although there are many books I love, and am happy to reread, probably my favourite is A Suitable Boy by Vikram Seth.  Its a long book, a saga if you like, but I feel like I’ve visited the people in their homes, I know them.  I know the heat, smells, noise of the places they frequent.  I’m sad when I get to the end, even though I’ve read it several times now.  That’s what I want from a book.  Oh, it doesn’t have to be long, or heavy, I enjoy a good beach book as much as the next man, but only as long as the author can use language in a convincing, entertaining, emotional and readable way.

If I’m honest, there are one or two exceptions.  Despite the quite dreadful writing style which I found distracting, I did enjoy The Da Vinci Code, but couldn’t be doing with the other books in the series at all, I did give Angels and Demons a go…gave up after a couple of chapters though.

It is, of course, all a matter of taste. All I would say to anyone is Read.  Read a lot.  Read anything you fancy, and some things you don’t.  Life will be all the richer for exploring other worlds and ideas.

‘course…you’re reading this, so you know all that already (especially the read anything bit), so well done you, and spread the word!

 

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In memory of Bet

She never lived to experience the new water feature in the pond, which makes me sad. She would’ve liked it, she always enjoyed a shower under the old one…

Bet Lynch

Bet Lynch

Bet was one of our first goldfish. Brought home in a plastic bag with 16 others and placed proudly in the brand-spanking new pond that we had dug out with our own hands. We called her ‘Bet’ after Bet Lynch, the brassy barmaid from Coronation Street (see pic), because she was a white goldfish with just a smudge of bright red, much the colour of her namesakes lipstick, across her mouth (actually, when I looked for a pic, I was struck by just how much like her she looked – Bet Lynch’s hair looks positively scaley).

I named them all at the time, and many since, but now we have some sixty fish it is a bit hard to keep up. But I’ve still got Bob, who has red eyes and looks like he’s been on an overnighter; Squiffy, who’s got a dodgy mouth; sixpence, who’s only got one red eye so is half of bob (you have to be a certain age for that one!); Alice, who appears to be wearing a dotty headband; Jaffa, who’s scales look like orange peel; Bullet, who’s head is a bit of a strange ermm bullet shape; Big Red, who’s got a big red patch on his head; Splosh, who looks like he’s been dripped on with red paint, ….well, you get the picture..

Yes, sixty odd fish, in our little pond, interbred and jostling for position. We never meant to have sixty fish. Seventeen seemed about right. But they would breed, and now it is a tad overcrowded. But they seem ok. As indeed, do the frogs and toads that co-habit with them.

Damselfly

Damselfly

When we built the pond and brought those little fishes home we had no idea of the pleasure (or the stress) that having that little microworld would bring. I can spend hours just gazing into the water watching the fish busily going about their business, the waterboatmen skidding about over the surface, and the huge, exotic, damselflies swooping down for a sip of water. We worry endlessly about the clarity and condition of the water, whether or not the pump is blocked, whether it’s leaking, and we spend god knows how much hard earned dosh on different types of bacteria to keep the water balance right.

Now, the landscapers have changed it’s shape, from being hexagonal it is now circular, and in the process they managed to make a hole in the lining – fortunately only quite near the top. However, it let enough water out for our Bet to get stranded, and we found her lying caught in one of the plants, above the water on Saturday. Poor Bet, not a nice end.

We buried her, wrapped in a paper towel shroud, in the front garden (we’ve no longer any room for a goldfish burial ground in the back – the men haven’t mentioned finding any remains but there have been many burials over the years, not only of fish, but all the other small friends we once had too…mice and hamsters who died with what seemed quite alarming regularity).

Anyhow, our original little ‘Heath Robinson’ waterfall has today been replaced by a cascade around the pond’s entire circumference. And as I type I can see them laying paving slabs around it. From a distance it looks more formal. But don’t be fooled. That little microworld will still be the same. A playground for the fish and wildlife, and a beautiful distraction from the real world for us.

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Distractions Distractions

Sorry. I know I’m a bit tardy with this post. I’ve been a bit, well, busy. Busy-ish. I couldn’t really tell you what I’ve been doing all this time, just living I guess. But you know how it is, things get in the way of writing sometimes.

Of course, they shouldn’t. When I gave up work I was determined I was going to write regularly, and start earning a bit through it if I possibly could. Well that hasn’t worked out has it? It started off ok, stories were flowing, rhymes formed in my mind in the way other people’s minds form intelligent thoughts. But then I started doing other things. Cooking. Sewing. Crochet (am I someone’s granny for goodness sake?) and now….THE GARDEN…

Well, to be fair, I’m not actually doing anything at all in my garden, but the landscapers are, and I find it very, well, distracting. Even though they are busy working, bricklaying, pulling up, digging down, doing other stuff with big tools, even though they’re not spending they’re time peering in my windows, (and no, they haven’t got their shirts off), it does feel like I’m living in a goldfish bowl. And they’re noisy. Drilling, banging, concrete mixing, radio playing, electric something or other using…always with the noise..

Hah! The noise. The neighbours are getting a bit of their own medicine. Oh, don’t get me wrong, they’re not that bad. They are nice people. A nice family. A nice family who are a lot richer than us. A nice family who’ve got a pool.

Have you any idea how noisy kids in a pool can be? They screech. They splash. They shout. It’s never just a couple of them either, always dozens (at least it sounds like dozens) and the pool is right alongside our boundary, so we hear it all in glorious surround sound. Well, we did. We now have fence. BIG fence. MAN fence. And we’re hoping that it will bounce the sound back their way a bit.

Did I mention they have a jacuzzi too.

You’d think that would be quieter. A grown up thingy. Well, it is a grown up thingy. They certainly use it in the (very) late evening/very early morning. We know ‘cos of the giggling and the chinking of glasses.

Now, I’ve never really wanted a jacuzzi. They make me wrinkly, and the chemicals make my eyes sore. However, I have always, always, wanted a pool. I love swimming. I love the feel of the water slinking over my skin as I pull myself through along using otherwise rarely used muscles. I love to float (floating is my special skill… once in Tobago I was floating in the sea and a tiny girl came up to me and said ‘how’d you do ‘dat? Did Jesus teach you do ‘dat? I had to answer honestly ‘not directly’) or dive under the water and experience the other worldliness of it all, even in the local leisure centre swimming pool (top tip, never wear goggles in a municipal pool, it’s quite revolting what you can see in there). And I have been swimming there weekly for a while. For once using old age to my advantage. You see, they have an ‘over 50’s’ session, where everyone is wrinkly and odd shaped, everyone swims sensibly up and down, and no-one shouts. Almost perfect, but still not as good as having your own pool.

The irony is, that our garden is plenty big enough for a modest pool. And the amount the make-over is costing us would easily be enough to get one installed. Hang on a tick…just going to tell them to stop…Stop what they’re doing..what they’ve been doing for the last three weeks, stop with the landscaping, the bricklaying, the deforestation…stop….put me in a pool instead..!!

Nah, not going to happen is it.