life

by

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

by

An Ode to Models – from a more rounded lady!

Come on you thin things,
eat some pies,
get some blubber on those thighs.
Eat some chocolate.
Gain some pounds.
Make those boobies nice and round.
Get a spare tyre,
don’t be flat,
Boys don’t like their girls like that.

Make things wobble,
learn to twerk,
you can make that booty work.
Get some roses in those cheeks,
go and eat a bag of sweets
Be all jolly,
be all fat,
Boys prefer their girls like that!

I hope….

by

Three favourite songs – freewrite for writing 101

Apologies for lack of punctuation, paragraphs, any sense.  The challenge was a freewrite, so I tried to stick to that!  It feels a bit against nature to post this nonsense, but anyhoo.. here it is:

‘

Ah, music, one of my favourite subjects. Oh yes, I can rattle on about this for 15 minutes no worries.. I think, but this is a freewrite so we’ll go where my mind takes me I guess (hold tight, could be anywhere).   First song I thought about was My Girl, actually I always change it to My Girls, cos I’ve got twin girls and they do bring me sunshine every single time I think of them and I think of them a lot. They’re grown up now, doctors indeed ..I am very proud mum and throw that into the conversation as often as possible though when you are proudly boasting that your daughter is at medical school you don’t necessarily remember the risks this poses. One of them told me last week that she has to be fitted for special suit in case an ebola case comes into the hospital, it will be on her ward.  The other one had to deal with someone who had suspected leprosy.  Death and bodily functions are day to day for them. I’ve never seen a dead body, not in my entire umpteen very long years. Weird to think they have more life and death experience than me. Shouldn’t be that way round really.  Time of your life by Greenday is another song relating to my girls. I remember playing it for them when they went off to medical school at different ends of the country all their goods and chattels packed into plastic bags. I cried. Course I cried. I still get weepy that they are all grown up and independent. Well sort of independent.  They still need me occasionally.. We all need our mums occasionally, sadly though as they get older sometimes it’s us who have to take over the mumsy duties for them.  Making sure our loved ones are safe and well is darn tricky when it’s done from a distance like I have to do. it can get a bit depressing some times which happily brings me to my other favourite song ‘start wearing purple’ by Gogol Bordello. If you’ve never come across them, they are a Gypsy Punk group.  Their music is loud and bawdy, and makes me dance and smile every time I hear it.  It’s my go-to cheer me up song and we all need one of those occasionally.  Oh dear, I forgot to time myself.  Have I done fifteen minutes?  Don’t know, possibly not, but I have covered my favourite songs and I’ve been typing in a frenzy to do it my fingers automatically finding the keys as a direct extension of my thoughts.  Like playing the piano, though I can’t do that. Pretty hopeless at all musical instruments really, though I did play the Cello at school. I remember carting it home for practicing it was almost bigger than me, and then my mum and dad moaned because it was more of a screech than a tune.  No, I’ll happily listen to all sorts of other music (Jazz being the exception…I can’t stand all those notes being played in the wrong order..) but think I’ll leave it to other people to play. Gonna stop now fifteen minutes or no!’

by

A loo with a view

I must’ve been in many, many, rooms over the course of my life, so when I was presented with this challenge, for writing 101, I thought ‘easy peasy’.  Problem is, my mind just went straight back to rooms which held bitter memories; the gaudy hotel room where I argued horribly with my daughter on the last day, blighting forever the memories of an otherwise perfect holiday. My nan’s cosy bedsitting room, the room where she had a devastating stroke which she ultimately died from. The living room where I sat, fingers in ears, to block out the noise from our horrendous neighbours. It gets worse, but I won’t bore you.

So I consciously turned my mind to happier times and places. I could write about our newly decorated sitting room, whose huge French windows look out across our, currently, lush green garden.  This year, the summer has been perfect – lots of sun, and lots of rain, so the flowers are plentiful, the vegetables are abundant, and the grass is green (though to be honest, it’s probably more moss and weeds than actual grass). The birds flit from tree to tree settling on the bird table in between, and I can see the red and blue striped hammock, strung between the apple and the pear tree, rocking gently in the breeze.

That seemed a bit of a cop out though. It’s just what I can see right now. No, to properly meet the demands of the challenge, I need to use the colours of my memory.

Now, I know I keep harping on about toilets.  So I suppose I shouldn’t go there, but yep, that’s where I’m going.

I think you’ll agree that toilets don’t usually have views.  It’s not the first thing you think about when you think about a loo.  They’re often windowless, or if they do have windows, they’re mercifully glazed in opaque glass.

The one I’m thinking of had a window alright.  A huge picture window.  It wasn’t glazed either.  Nope, just open to the elements.

It was in Goa, on a spice plantation.  It was a very hot, humid day in a very jungly plantation.  We’d had the tour, seen lots of things growing on trees, bushes, under trees etc.  We’d seen a man climbing barefoot up a towering palm tree to collect coconuts. And we’d been shown how to eat our yummy lunch, properly, with our fingers out of a banana leaf.  It had been a lovely, and interesting morning, but sooner or later the inevitable happened.  I needed a wee.

I think it’s fair to say that some of the public toilets in India can be a bit dodgy. Very dodgy. I’m pretty blasé about it these days and go if I have to.

‘hmm… you gonna risk it?’ asked my husband as we were pointed in the direction of a small thatched building up a flight of rickety looking steps.

‘you go first mum, see what it’s like’ said my slightly less adventurous daughters.

‘Ok, bursting!’ I said. I was getting a bit knee knockingly desperate.

The little building turned out to house just one toilet, surprisingly a ‘western’ one, which was situated in the middle of the left hand wall as you entered.  On the right hand wall was a hole in the dirt floor besides which there was a pail of water with a coconut shell complete with handle that you could use as a scoop, so that you could flush the loo and wash your hands.

The back wall was non-existent.

This took me by surprise a tad, as, underneath my shorts and tee shirt I was wearing a swimming costume, which I naturally had to strip right off to be able to ‘errmm… do my thing.

Frankly, I could have stayed there all day.  Set on a  high ledge, the loo overlooked a large pond, nearly a lake in fact, covered almost completely in huge white water lillies. The pond was surrounded by different varieties of palms, plants with man-sized leaves,  and hanging pink and purple flowers that I didn’t know the names of.  Birds were swooping about catching insects just above the water. It was quite the most delightful view I think I have ever come across.

Sitting there, on the loo, naked, caressed by a cooling breeze and staring out across that wonderland, which looked as if it had been created by some Disney cartoonist, felt very surreal.  I’m pretty sure no-one could see me, but there was a queue forming outside, so I couldn’t linger for too long.  However, the memory of that place remains with me as the finest, and most surprising loo I’ve visted…….so far!

by

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?

by

Bahia Palace, Marrakech

A couple of years ago we spent a wonderful long weekend discovering the delights of Marrakech.  Bahia Palace, with it’s exquisite architecture and decorations was an oasis of peace away from the madness of Jamaa El-Fnaa (which we loved, by the way). It is most definitely worth a visit. These are just a few examples of its gorgeousness!

Bahia Palace 20

Unexpected stained glass windows

Bahia Palace 05

Beautifully complex decoration

A corner of contrasts

A corner of contrasts

Bahia Palace 41

Delightful quiet courtyard

by

Stormy Weather

There’s a big storm howling around outside at the moment. Torrential rain filling up the pond and flattening the flowers.  Yes, it’s British summer again folks.

My mum has never liked storms.  Always been terrified.  Hiding in cupboards if necessary. I can’t remember if it’s the lightening or thunder that she’s particularly afraid of, I don’t think she’s sure, but at 91 she’s still a bit of a wuss over them. Don’t expect she’ll change now.

I’m privileged to live in house that is surrounded by open spaces and can see storms approaching from some distance. We are also fortunate to have a ‘double aspect’ bedroom, so can watch the dark clouds and flashes closing in, passing overhead, and then sailing off into the distance.  I have many a happy memory of standing with my daughters, noses pressed against the windows, all of us mesmorized by the spectacle of a fierce storm lighting up the sky and clearing the air.  We’ve even danced outside, feeling the fresh rain tingle on our skins, while the clouds smash together overhead a few times.

However, I’m not quite as brave as I used to be.

A couple of years ago, I was alone in the house when a really extreme storm hit.  I have never seen rain like it. The road was a river and you could barely see outside for the rain on the windows. The thunder and lightning were incessant and the dog was a wreck – she’s as scared of ’em as my mum!  I was doing my best to calm her down, whilst wondering if it really was the end of the world, when there was the biggest, loudest, reverberating crack of thunder I’ve ever heard. It was as overhead as it could possibly get and shook the house to it’s foundations. Instinctively I ducked, convinced the house would be a pile of rubble around me at any moment.  It wasn’t.

Instead the alarm went off.

You may know that I am hideously neurotic when it comes to security.  It comes from being burgled three times.  Consequently our house is fitted with the finest alarm system money can buy.  It wasn’t set because I was at home, instead, it was shrilling it’s displeasure at being hit by the lightning.

As if the dog wasn’t traumatised enough.

Now, I don’t know if you’ve been in a house while the alarm is going off, but I can tell you, it’s not pleasant. It’s painfully earsplitting. You just want it to stop. Trouble is, mine wouldn’t.  It was stuck on. No amount of coaxing, putting in codes, hitting, or swearing would stop it.  The thunder was still thundering, the dog was barking like a lunatic, and the alarm was shrieking it’s high pitched war-cry non-stop, while I had to dig out the phone number for the alarm company, ring them, and try to have a sensible conversation.  The blokey at the other end of the phone, while being courteous, couldn’t quite grasp that the darn thing just wouldn’t turn off, and asked daft things like ‘have I entered the right code?’, I wouldn’t say I was rude, but….

Eventually, he said he’d send an engineer out.  This was at about four o’clock in the afternoon.  It wasn’t until nine in the evening that he turned up.  The alarm was still going, the dog was still barking, I was at the end of my tether, but at least the storm had passed.  It took him about three quarters of an hour before he managed to silence the darn thing. It had been fried.  We needed a new unit. It would cost. Cost a lot.

Since then, I’ve not been so keen on storms. Neither has the dog.

 

 

by

Three Views of Phewa Lake, Pokhara, Nepal

You can take a peaceful boat ride from the town of Pokhara which is strung along the shore of lovely Phewa Lake. If you wish the boats will drop you at the little island where the Taal Barahi Temple stands.

Boats on Phewa Lake

Boats on Phewa Lake

day 14_3 (11)

Taal Barahi Temple on Phewa Lake

day 14_3 (6)

Backdrop of Annapurna Range over Phewa Lake