GROAN

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 93

Red Setter?

o-o-o

Sofa and no further?

o-o-o

I know they've cancelled half the bus

services, but this is ridiculous.

o-o-o

No? Not funny?

Very well, but I can't think of anything else

except

'this is where you catch the couch to Chesterfield'!

Gratitude

Painting by Stipan Tadic

The Blogosphere has been awash with expressions of gratitude during the past week. To have one day in the year when families,  communities, indeed a whole nation, unite in appreciation of the good things in life, is truly wonderful, and I hope that kind of special awareness does not evaporate as soon as the last farewells have been said and the dishes have been washed and put back into the kitchen cupboards. Genuinely giving thanks is not something we do often enough.

Saying 'Thank You' is as ubiquitous in the UK as saying 'Sorry'.  German friends and family always remark on it.  Both phrases are constantly used in the world I inhabit, and probably quite thoughtlessly at times. Still, they oil the grooves of social interaction and who am I to question their usefulness; in fact, I am as guilty of overusing them as the next person. 

The sweetest and most gratifying 'thank you' I remember, came from two men on two separate occasions; a frail, elderly, man and a strong and healthy looking boy, probably no more than eighteen years old.  I hadn't been in the UK long when I came across the first man. Waiting to cross a busy road, I noticed him hesitating at the kerb;  several times he put a foot out to step into the road, only to pull it back again as cars sped by. I simply took his arm and said "Let me help you", no fuss, no introductions, no question. I was very young. He thanked me fulsomely, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath, his voice as frail as his body. I was about to leave him on the pavement opposite and continue on my way when he asked "where do you come from?" I told him "Germany", and "why?" "You're only young", he said, you won't know much about the war. A bomb did this to me, I got this weak chest from being buried. And now here you are, helping me, and you are German." I was at a loss what to say to him. "Sorry," was all I managed. "It's not your fault," he said, "it's a long time ago now and we must all try to forgive and not let it happen again." And "Thank you again for your kindness."

The young man was a beggar on London's Embankment, no doubt one of the thousands of homeless, parentless youngsters who had been 'released' from children's homes into 'Care in the Community' at eighteen. He had a pleasantly cheeky grin on his face, as he held out his hand, which made me dig in my pocket for a coin. As I dropped it into his hand, he looked at it closely, and the grin grew into the sunniest, brightest smile, transforming his whole face. "Thank you, lady," he beamed. I was a little surprised, it hadn't been that big a gift. I was with a friend, we moved on, making for a drink at the nearby pub; the place was crowded and while we were still queueing for service at the bar, the young man came rushing in, one hand in a fist held high above his head, shouting happily "I have enough money for a pint, I'll have a pint, please."  I was as happy as he was to know that I had made such bliss possible and have rarely given a gift that has met with such instant reward.

There is one more story where kindness met with the opposite of gratitude. Again, a man and crossing a very busy road were involved. I was making my way to a staggered Pelican crossing, with railings and an island in the middle, outside a major London station, when a blind man waved his white stick at me. "Help me across, won't you," he demanded. "Of course," I said and took his arm. "The official crossing is no more than five yards this way, I'm just about to use it myself," I said, and "I'll take you there". "I know about the crossing", he said, " I don't want the crossing, I want to cross in this direction." "Are you sure," I said, "this is a dangerous road  and I'd feel so much safer using the Pelican crossing." He pulled his arm out of mine. "Stupid woman," he said, "I'll go without you then." He almost, but not quite, stamped his foot, assuming I'd give in. I didn't. I turned my back and left him to it.

November Lament, A Telling Tale and the Sun enters the House of Sagittarius

Ciclo dei Mesi - 1400

Meister Albert

November

oo oo  oo

No sun - no moon! 

No morn - no noon - 

No dawn - no dusk - no proper time of day. 

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease, 

No comfortable feel in any member - 

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees, 

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! - 

November!

Thomas Hood - 1844

oo oo oo

We had another visit to the Eye Clinic, Beloved's Macular Degeneration in one eye has indeed changed to the wet sort;  he is a candidate for treatment by injection and we have a date for the first of three. I am hoping that the treatment will stop further degeneration.

You all know by now what kind of nosey parker I am and how I watch my fellow men. I have a little tale to tell about a man and his wife; she was a patient at the eye clinic, he was her driver.  I noticed them because he had a very carrying voice, a dull, slow, monotonous, boom, which sort of thumped you over the head. There was no shutting it out, it seemed to bounce off the ceiling and reverberate around the small waiting area. He was a large man, sitting with arms folded and legs outstretched.

Worthy of further attention, I thought.

The wife went in to see the nurse, her seat was quickly taken by another patient, a very elderly man on sticks, walking with difficulty and sitting down heavily;  Boomer engaged him in conversation. Ten minutes later,  the wife came back out, she'd obviously  had drops in her eyes and was to wait for them to work before she was called back in. There was no free seat now. Boomer sat immobile. The old man offered the wife his seat and, in spite of her protestations, painfully heaved himself to his feet; it took him quite a while. Boomer remained immobile. He watched the whole procedure unmoved, his face completely passive. Luckily, the old man was called in by the time he was fully upright.

I am sure my mouth hung open.

oo oo oo

The Sun enters the House of Sagittarius

The man born under Sagittarius shall have mercy on every man he sees. He shall go far to desert places unknown and dangerous, and shall return with great gain; he shall see his fortune increase from day to day. At twenty-two years he shall have some peril, but he shall live seventy-two years and eight months after nature.


The woman shall love to labour; she may not see one weep without pity. She shall spend much silver by evil company. She ought to be married at thirteen years, and shall have pain in her eyes at fourteen; she shall be called the mother of sons, and shall live seventy-two years after nature.


Both man and woman shall be inconstant in deeds; but of good conscience, merciful and better to others than themselves.


Kalendar of Shepheardes 1604

Happy Families

"Oh dear", I said.

"What is it?" Beloved asked.

"Nothing. Everything"' I replied.

"That's sad", he said.

I was sitting at the kitchen table. We'd finished a simple supper, but there had been a glass of wine. The kitchen was warm and still, the lamp was pulled low over the table and we sat in a cosy pool of light. I had the perpetual birthday calendar in front of me. It's gardener's birthday in the next few days and I was making sure that I wouldn't miss it. At the hairdresser's this morning two women were talking about the imminent arrival of Christmas. "Less than five weeks to go," one of them said. "I know. Have you got a lot left to do?" the other one said. "No, I'm all finished. I've done most of it over the internet. John's girls want money, my sister's kid is six and you can get a six year old anything; my mum and dad were easy, so was my sister, and I've got a few bits and pieces from the shops for hubby and the boys, mainly vouchers and stuff. The boys want to do their own shopping."

Studying the calendar, this overheard conversation came into my head. I scanned the next two months ahead for birthday dates. "Do you realise Jack will be eighteen in January?" "No, really? Golly, that's amazing." "Will you do something special?" "I shouldn't think so."

When my grandsons turned eighteen I gave them a larger money present than usual. "I think I'll stop sending them money once they're twenty-one; they're hardly aware of my existence, they rarely say thank you and they've certainly never given me anything."

We have six children between us, all adults, and no really meaningful contact with any of them. Christmas and birthday cards, a few phone calls, and the odd duty visit from three of them, that's about it. Two of them we haven't seen for years. It's nobody's fault, it just happened. Divorce, moving house, jobs, imagined slights, a grudge having taken hold, even differing attitudes to life, religion, etc., but mainly a general lack of closeness. It never used to bother me, but now it breaks my heart when I think of it.

We already have tentative plans for the festive season, we are sure to see friends, we always do. We may  have an email nearer the time from one of the sons announcing a flying visit; on the other hand, we may not. I'd prefer not, I hate duty visits.

"Oh dear."

"Still sad?"

"Yes, I want to pull the roof over my head and not hear or see anything any more. Just wait for death."

"Yes, my dear, I know. It's November. November makes everybody feel sad."

I got up and put the calendar back on its nail.

"Will you get a card for gardener in the morning?"

Sleeping Beauty

Tess Kincaid's Magpie Tale No. 92

For other responses, click on the prompt.

Once upon a time, in a far distant kingdom, there lived a beautiful princess. Beautiful princesses live in castles, and Dornröschen,  for that was her name, was no exception. Life was good, Dornröschen was not only very pretty, but also a good girl. As in so many far distant lands of the time, a very wicked witch also lived in the kingdom. It is well known that witches were usually extremely envious of pretty young maidens, who also happen to be princesses, and this one ran true to form. She cast a spell on Dornröschen, which made the girl fall into a deep sleep destined to last for a hundred years. Just so that nobody would notice her evil deed - although quite what she hoped to achieve by turning Dornröschen into a sleeping beauty, is anyone's guess - she caused the thick thorn bushes around the castle to grow to enormous heights, much like my hedges, when they haven't been cut for a year.

Time passed, the thorn bushes gradually encroached on the lawns and pleasure gardens, until the long tendrils had almost swallowed up the castle itself. Dornröschen slept the sleep of the just, on and on, blissfully unaware of the world around her. Nobody had set the alarm, lucky girl.

And then, one day, out of the blue, a young man happened upon the thicket of thorn bushes. It was summer and the bushes were covered in the sweetest smelling blossom. He decided to investigate. He was a prince, not only handsome but also courageous - they always were, calling a prince cowardly just wouldn't do, would it ? -  so he hacked his way deeper and deeper into the thicket until he came upon the enchanted castle. He made his way inside and found the princess' bedchamber. She had slept so deeply and peacefully, that she had hardly rumpled the sheets, after all this time they still showed the marks where they had been folded after ironing. I wish somebody would do that for my bedlinen.

Dornröschen looked so very pretty and inviting, that the prince just couldn't help himself, he kissed her. He was, of course, meant to do just that, that's how you wake a princess.

Dornröschen stretched and yawned and stretched again. She opened her eyes.

"Hallo there, you've awakened me, who are you?  And how did you get in here?"

"I am the handsome prince, come to rescue you from the spell of the wicked witch." He must have had a sudden flash of inspiration, or perhaps he remembered a tale which his old nurse used to tell him; anyway he got it right. (If you, dear reader, are not satisfied with this explanation, you may make up your own.)

"Oh, thank you, thank you so much," Dornröschen cried. She vaguely remembered seeing the witch approach her with a malicious glint in her eye and cackling something unintelligible - we know it must have been the spell - . She remembered nothing after that.

The prince lay down on the bed but, as he had been brought up properly, he tenderly held her head in his hands and kissed her sweet lips. He remembered again the story his old nurse had told him and knew what would happen next. "We shall be married," he said, "we shall be prince and princess together and live happily ever after."

The princess quite fancied him and had no objections to the plan. But one thing bothered her, would he turn out to be a fortune hunter? In spite of her innocence she had seen the way of the world before she fell asleep. Her father - where had He been all this time? - had often enough warned her.

"Before we go any further", she said, " how about getting the lawyers to draw up a pre-nuptial agreement?"

Memory Boxes

Do you do what I do, namely, collect things?
Souvenirs, programmes, ticket stubs, magazines, ancient photographs, postcards, thank you notes, wish-you-were-here cards?

If you do, how often do you look at any of these?  Take them out of their boxes? Even just dust them or sort them? My enthusiasm for buying a programme at every event we attend, whether concert, play, opera, or anything else, is certainly not matched by any enthusiasm to revisit them. There they sit, in their boxes, on shelves, in closets, in trunks under the eaves, unregarded and unloved. Unwanted? But stored for all eternity, the piles growing in size, fading, collecting dust, yet dragged from one house to another. How could I possibly throw away ten year old gardening magazines? I have old supermarket and vineyard receipts from trips to the continent. We used to fill the backseat and boot of a large estate car with wine from France and Germany,  as well as boxes full of tinned and bottled food, which was then not obtainable in the UK. It made me feel efficient to keep a record of time and place of the purchases, no doubt another sign of mental impairment. I looked at an envelope of receipts the other day, the ink on them had long faded beyond legibility. It really hurt to chuck them out.

New lovers collect everything to do with the halcyon days of first infatuation, new parents cannot bear to discard first bootees, a wisp of hair, hospital wristband, and a million baby photos. Every minute of every day is recorded, documented and treasured. I am glad to say that, as new love grows out of the habit of being new and children grow up and become teenagers, this mania lessens, at least for the saner members of the human race.

There is a valid case to be made for preserving family documents, letters which give an insight into the time when they were written and the character of the writer, as well as all those documents which officialdom requires us to keep to prove who we are. I have never forgiven my mother for ripping up and binning a box full of  papers pertaining to my father's, uncle's and grandfather's role in the war; I would give anything to have them still. When I first learned what she had done, I was furious with her.
She said: "I don't want to be reminded, it's old history, it's over, times have changed." She actually believed that nobody would ever be interested in them. I think she was being particularly stupid and lacking in perception; I still think so, but nowadays I can understand. For her, the time had been hard, the feelings still raw, best forgotten. To her they hadn't been at all heroic, just doing what they needed to do and any official recognition afterwards was superfluous.

Old diaries are in the same category, even the silly ones, which run along the lines of "and then I did, and then I went, and then I said." And if they are worth keeping, how much more interesting are the ones which give an accurate picture of the way our forebears lived. Again, my mother did the unforgiveable: she threw my teenage diaries away the first time I left home as a young adult (as well as children's books). No doubt reading those teenage diaries today would make me cringe, but I'd still like to have a chance to see what a silly and pretentious ass I was.

This post is turning into an unintentional diatribe against my mother,  I'd best get back to the subject in hand, which is clutter. I have no idea why I keep so much of it. Take photographs, for instance. Last summer, I took an old suitcase full of ancient photographs, many of them holiday snaps, landscapes and badly lit groups of people. Sifting through them, I realised that I hardly remembered the holidays, didn't recognise the landscapes and that most of the people meant nothing to me. Very few of these photographs survived the bonfire and, guess what, I haven't missed them once since that day. Landscape photography is best left to the professionals, who have the equipment and the know-how. Digital photography has done away with boxes full of yellowing snaps, which were never any good in the first place. At least the worst of them can now be deleted instantly.

As far as I'm aware, nobody spends many hours pouring over their collection of objects from the past.  What is it that makes me collect train tickets, receipts and theatre programmes?  Is collecting memories less about memories than the action of collecting? The day will come when I will disappear into oblivion; am I trying to delay that moment by creating a barricade of memories around me?  Is writing a memoir part of the same syndrome?

Someday, somebody in the family will have the task to sift through my precious memories, all those bits of paper that prove that I was here. Why don't I make it easier on whoever that will be and make a start myself?

Impermanent Art - Our World Tuesday

Our World Tuesday Week 12 took me to the little town of Craven Arms, which calls itself the Gateway to the Shropshire Hills. The Secret Hills  Discovery Centre  takes you 4,500 million years back in time. There are exhibitions and displays and when you've had enough of lectures and a wonderful hot air balloon flight over the awe-inspiring Shropshire Hills in the company of our erstwhile Shropshire Hills neighbour, Pete Postlethwaite, you can refresh yourself with food and drink, all under the same grass-covered roof.

The outdoors isn't bad either; miles of wonderful meadows, hills and marshland, with a river running through, are yours for the price of a sturdy pair of boots and a walking stick. And if you have a dog to come with you, so much the better.

Nearest to the Discovery Centre is a large nature reserve and here artists are encouraged to display sculptures made from natural, mainly found, materials. The exhibits are left for nature to play with and if nature decides that their lifetime has come to a natural end, then so be it.

 Two Fingers Up To Art?

No, a lot of fingers.

A wind harp?

I've heard it play. It clatters rather unmelodiously, but the sounds are interesting.

Better is the play of light and shadow on the wooden planks, as they move in

the wind. 

A fish head in the trees.

A whole tree of fishes.

A colourful arrangement of drum-like shapes.

Perhaps the birds play them when they come for the holly berries.

I don't know what the last two sculptures represent 

but I recognise the dog.

This is one of nature's own sculptures: 

I can see a toad with golden pond algae still clinging to him.

I think this rock will still be here when all the other

exhibits have long withered away.

Where is Everybody?

Tess Kincaid's Magpie No. 91

Are you sure it was today?

November Light and Dark

Yesterday was Martinmas, the festival of winter's beginning; the day when German children carry lanterns in procession through the streets following  St Martin, a very good and kind-hearted man, riding a white horse to the church, where they come upon a poor beggar shivering on the church steps. St Martin, with a great flourish, takes off his warm cloak, draws his sword and cuts the cloak in two and throws half to the beggar, who receives it gratefully and wraps himself up. It's a lovely story which I have told elsewhere and quite a profitable one for children. Not only do they learn to be kind to those in need but they are also rewarded handsomely with a bag full of delicious bonbons, chocolates, apples and biscuits.

In the UK Armistice Day was commemorated and Valley's End had donned a suitably mournful mantle. the whole day remained grey, with very low visibility, the mist dripping steadily, sadly, as if nature herself wept despairing tears over the endless slaughter which mankind inflicts on itself and will no doubt continue to do, no matter on how many solemn occasions we stand and bow our heads in sorrow.

On such a day it is best to gather friends around you and spend a happy evening talking by the fire. A pleasant meal, a bottle of wine, a large dog to lie by your chair, who doesn't mind your stockinged feet warming themselves on his belly, and good-natured conversation, most of it undemanding, and getting more so as the evening progresses and the contents of the bottle sink to the kind of level where it's best to open another one, and perhaps another one after that. The kind of evening where you plan good things for the place you call home, where members of the community depend on each other and where warfare is something brought to you via TV. One of you mentions that the church roof is leaking badly and needs urgent repairs and perhaps you start to discuss means of fundraising. A Safari dinner seemed a good idea,  they always go down well and raise large amounts of money. Somebody else mentioned a christmas party for  children of the local Infants School, to be organised by ladies of 'a certain age' rather than young mums, who are too busy to to do more than buy small presents for Father Christmas to distribute.  A party which children remember as part of their growing-up years and look back on with pleasure.

Our plans grew in the certainty of being able to call on the goodwill of others in Valley's End; very little financial outlay and 'many hands making light work' would guarantee success, we were certain of it. Perhaps I promised a little more than I might want to do in the cold light of another misty morning, but a good deed is a good deed and a promise is a promise.

Besides, I am sorely in need of blogging material.

D is for DAY - Friko's Solitary Alphabet Game

Sun and Moon  -  Hartmann Schedel 1440-1514  -  Nuremburg Chronicle 

"A day is a unit of time, commonly defined as an interval equal to 24 hours. It also can mean that portion of the full day during which a location is illuminated by the light of the sun. The period of time measured from local noon to the following local noon is called a solar day." This is how Wikipedia starts the entry for DAY, very prosaically. Wikipedia's soul has no poetry.

Not like Philip Larkin, who asks:                                                     

What are days for?

Days are where we live.

They come, they wake us

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in;

Where can we live but day?

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor

in their long coats

Running over the field.

I've asked the day for an answer, but answer came there none.

When Hemera, Greek goddess of the day, daughter of Erebos (Darkness) and Nyx (Night) and sister-wife to Aither (Light) sends the first finger of light to tickle my eyelids and then puts her whole hand on my face to awaken me, my first question is not: 'what will you do for me', but: what do you want me to do for you today'. It is the answer to the next question which will allow me to establish a plan: 'which of the seven days of the week are you?' 

It's hardly the riddle of the Theban Sphynx and my answer will not condemn me to be eaten by the beast; I know it must be morning and I shall walk on two legs, rather than four,  just as soon as I have thrown off the bed clothes.

Days are where we live. Diaries and appointment books are the signposts and the instruction manual allocates tasks for the day. Whether these tasks be pleasant or hard, perform them we must, with grace and diligence. That is the purpose of the day. How else will we deserve the solace of the evening? Mealtimes and playtimes provide sustenance, rest and recreation, if we use them well. If friends and friendly acquaintances play a role in our day then we are to be congratulated. Whether they alone can account for happiness, I couldn't say. Happiness is a rare gift, those of us who are passengers in Phoebus' chariot on his earth-circling journey may catch a glimpse of it, as momentary as the flash of the swallow's silver wing before it rises out of sight. I think Larkin is wrong when he says days are to be happy in, how could we bear unalloyed joy?

I need my dull routine, I want my signposts to point to well-trodden and comfortable paths and my mealtimes to be pleasant. To share my bread with friends will be a pleasure, fair-weather friends will find the boat is full. If pleasant conversation, not gossip, is your aim,  please ring the doorbell, or better still, call round the back where you will find an open door. 

I freely admit, my day is dull, and priest and doctor can do nothing about it. So stay where you are and tend to those who need you more. If I have been fortunate and have been granted a glimpse of the silver wing of happiness out of the corner of my eye, I'll even return your medicine.

In the evening, when  Hemera's mother Nyx draws a veil of darkness between the shining atmosphere of the aither and the lower air of earth (aer), bringing night to me, I'll draw my curtain too. If wine, 'God's next best gift to man' makes an appearance at that time, it will be welcome. And furthermore, when the day comes and my answer to the Sphynx's riddle must be 'three legs', I shall be grateful if my days shall have remained as dull as they are now.

With Stevie Smith, I'll gladly say:

Put out that Light,

Put out that bright Light,

Let darkness fall.

Put out that Day,

It is the time for nightfall.

Helius, Nyx and Hemera-Heos, Athenian

black-figure  lekythos C5th BC, Metropolitan Museum

Conversational Riddles At Breakfast

It was a cold morning today, garden and castle meadow were bedecked with rime, and the tops of the hills having disappeared into a grey mist,  the great outdoors  looked hardly inviting. But we were due for the post-op examination of Beloved's eye at the hospital in Shrewsbury, which meant that we were having our breakfast muesli rather earlier than usual. Benno was lying between kitchen table and Aga and, as he wasn't going to come with us, but was lucky enough to be able to stay at home with his dog sitter, we envied him.

Lifting his arthritic hind leg, he started to scratch the area by his right eye. Being rather concerned with eyes at the moment, Beloved said:

"Don't do that, you'll hurt your beautiful eye" and took hold of the leg.

"Leave him", I said, "he has more sense than to hurt his eye. More sense than you anyway." Beloved used to be a sun worshipper and some of his skin and eye problems are due to the effects of excessive exposure to sun.

"You don't have more sense than me, do you?" Beloved said to Benno. "You can't do your seven times table, but I can!"

Benno scratched again, paying us no attention at all.

Beloved moved in his chair and winced.

"Something wrong? I asked. "Have you found a new place that might cause us to consult the doctors?"

We are really extremely fond of each other and my question sounded a lot more sympathetic than it looks here.

'Hm", he said, "you may not believe this, but I had a rather sharp twinge of pain in my ankle."

"Riddled with arthritis, that's what you are," I said.

"Can you say 'riddled' in this sense?",  Beloved asked.  "Of course you can", I said, riddled as in meshed. "Holey, you know."

"Yes, riddled with holes. Or bullets, they'd make holes too. Or how about maggots, or germs," he pondered.

"Riddled with germs? No that doesn't work. Germs don't make riddles. Or holes."

"There aren't any holes in the Golden Syrup riddle either", Beloved said. "Do you know the Tate & Lyle label?  The dead lion and the bees? It's a riddle in the Bible, from Samson ( in Judges 14: 14 - I looked it up) "Out of the eater came forth meat and out of the strong came forth sweetness." (Answer: bees making a honeycomb in the carcass of a lion he had killed.)
Tate & Lyle have used that label since they first made the syrup".

"Well, fancy that. Hadn't we better get going?"

There is, of course, the Exeter Riddle Book, but as that is medieaval, it has rude bits. Look it up for yourself.

We weren't finished with riddles, although the final one was not really a riddle, more of a question: for the first time ever in real life, rather than on tv, we saw a slight young man, with greasy reddish-blond hair and a very pale complexion, as if he hadn't spent much time out of doors lately, being taken to "Outpatients' in the hospital in handcuffs. He was being led by a male guard and a female guard followed them. He looked weedy and spindly and unsavoury. I have to say, I felt rather sorry for him.

Matters on the eye front are unresolved. There have been developments which might be bad. The dry macular degeneration in one eye may have turned into the wet sort. We have another appointment for next Monday; speed is of the essence. Beloved may be a candidate for a new kind of treatment. That's a riddle only the doctors can answer.

Progress Report on Writing - 1

Thank you everybody for commenting on the previous post about my intention to write a memoir. I'd like to say right away, that I won't stop blogging,  I am an addict. I will also try and visit my followers' blogs and anybody else who leaves an interesting or constructive comment. Perhaps it would be of general interest if I post an occasional progress report; there are a number of people in the blog world who are delving into their history and writing about it, we might learn from each other. It would also force me to continue writing as I'd find it hard to admit defeat publicly.

I am consumed with this idea of writing a memoir at the moment - no half measures for Friko, there's that 'bald-headed' streak coming through again -; I had a dream last night which was a textbook example of the subconscious dealing with daytime thoughts. My very confused and frightening dream told me how hard and strenuous the work will be and that I will have to rely entirely on my own recollections, and do some serious research.

I have already learned the difference between my own blogging and serious writing: a bit of waffling does no harm on a blog, facts don't need to be seriously researched, context doesn't matter and a blog post is best kept short, whereas a story will not come alive unless you add colour and detail and get the chronology right. I can write a blog post in twenty minutes flat, whereas the first draft detailing the events of just one day took me the best part of three days.

One chapter of Two Thousand Five Hundred Forty Seven words written  -  how many to go?

Writing is Such Sweet Agony

Some weeks are very quiet, nothing at all out of the ordinary happens and going grocery shopping is about as exciting as it gets. Weeks that feel a bit like pulling a steam engine uphill by a strap over your shoulder.
(I had to get a picture in, even though there will be no further mention of steam engines and they have absolutely nothing to do with this post)

Then there are weeks that are full of chores and appointments, the dog needs the vet, a doctor's visit is due, the washing machine needs fixing and even the book you're reading is the most boring tome, destined for the charity shop pile.

Occasionally, weeks take flight, leaving you breathless and exhilarated; I've just had one of the latter. Not that they happen very often, I probably couldn't stand the pace for more than one week at a time. As it is, I am glad the weather has turned gloomy and cold, giving me the perfect excuse to put my feet up and watch documentaries on tv for the rest of the day.

It started with an impromptu dinner party at my house. Some friends are going away for a month and we felt like having a convivial evening before they left. I also invited another guest whose work frequently takes him away from Valley's End. All three are connected with literature, drama and writing and all three are the sort of guests a hostess dreams of: lively, intelligent, without food fads and foibles and happy to drink a glass of wine or two. Okay, you might say, there are lots of people like that. Yes, there are, not lots, but some; what made these people stand out as far as this hostess is concerned is the fact that they all appreciate my writing! A blogger friend said in a comment the other day that I don't seem to be fishing for applause for my posts. Oh, but Mary D., you are wrong, I like applause as much as the next person, and to have these people come right out and say how much they liked my pieces in the local paper  absolutely made my evening.

More stimulation followed a day later. I belong to a group of people who get together once a fortnight to speak German. I am the only native German speaker, the others are British and their command of the language is varied.  Sometimes the afternoon is dead boring, people stumble over words and I am constantly translating and explaining. This time we took an easily understandable piece from a German newspaper about warring neighbours; people who fight each other to the death about a parking space outside their homes or chuck dustbins through windows when the volume of late night music becomes more than somebody can bear. And God help you if you let your sheep stray beyond your own land and they trespass and nibble the grass in my meadow!  Human nature is the same the world over, we all have similar stories to tell and we all enjoy a malicious snicker about the misfortune of others occasionally.

My special pleasure derives from standing just a fraction of a millimetre on the periphery and watching the show.

The writers' group seems to have found a firm base. No doubt, the cast of characters will change as we go along but the ones who were there this week all seemed seriously interested. We had some really good work presented to the group: an Irishman brought a fantastic poem on 'The Troubles', which he read in a broad Irish accent. Once the vague old lady had finally found one of the two poems she wanted to read - she never found the other - she turned in a marvellously lyrical piece of work about a small child growing up by the river Severn; she is obviously still the same, unfocussed, dreamer she was then, living in a world to which few earthlings have access. I asked how long she had been writing poetry and she said:

"I was taken away from home when I was three, when my mother died, and never knew where home had been. My teacher at school allowed me to sit in the library when other children had reading practice and I found the book of poetry. One of the poems said: 'I remember, I remember / The house where I was born / The little window where the sun / came peeping in at morn; (a poem by Thomas Hood). So I thought that poets must be very special people, because they knew where home was and if I became one then maybe I would remember too."

And finally, as the newsreaders say, all this literature has made my own fingers itch to pick up a discarded piece of work and start again. For one whole day this week I have been sitting at the computer composing a new chapter of a memoir, about just one day. I had planned to read this piece to the writers' group, but it grew and grew and is still not completed. The work flowed easily, I am happy with what I have written so far, and I will continue with it. As I said to my friend Deborah, who is going through similar birth pangs (she won't thank me for saying this out loud), "If I don't do it now, I never will".

And that might be the reason why you will see a little less of me round here.