Decisions, Decisions........

my favourite Japanese Acer hidden under the shroud.

space - you need more?

Now that my desktop is back  I can finally get back to boring the pants off you. What fun. Why you keep on reading this drivel is a mystery to me.

For the past several weeks I have been in a state of permanent confusion. 

"What am I going to do, am I leaving, am I staying, what is best?" has been the refrain accompanying my days and sometimes nights. 

Nothing very dreadful has happened, but there are times when it seems that you have to make changes to your life; at the same time it is difficult to come to a decision that is both suitable and sensible.

It started with one of next door's scaffolders. "Lovely house you got here", he said, "must surely be worth a bit." The last time I had the house valued was more than five years ago, since then house prices have risen sharply and it is said that many town dwellers have seen the error of their ways during Covid and want to change to a calmer, greener pace of living. Working from home has made it possible and space and fresh air is now something to aspire to. 

more space, if you want to go exploring 

Space and fresh air I have aplenty, I needed an estate agent (realtor) to put a price on it. A smartly dressed man turned up in a largish gas guzzler with a bundle of glossy, colourful brochures under his arm. The brochures were specialist ones in their range of 'Fine and Country' properties, nothing commonplace and everyday for a property I had described to him on the phone as "with a location to die for". I wasn't even exaggerating, who else can say they live right next to an English Heritage castle ruin with three gates directly into its grounds? Estate agents in the UK have three requirements for properties out of the ordinary: location, location, location. 

'my castle'

The agent came up with an astonishing estimate, three times the price we had paid 23 years ago. The country housing market is in a fix, too many people chasing too few houses; that meant that the agent more or less begged me to put my house on the market NOW. With his firm. Quite innocently I mentioned that I had nowhere to go and that I'd have to dispose of lots of contents first. Oh yes, they'd be able to help all along the way, finding me somewhere to live and auctioning off my goods and surplus chattels. They do indeed have an auction house as part of their set-up, a reputable one (in case you are warning me off).

After quite some time and a long chat I finally managed to get him to the door without committing myself in any way. Since then I've been deliberating along these lines:

First and foremost: I like my house. It's large and so is the garden, but it is also convenient and comfortable. I know the village, my friends live here. I can afford modest help around house and garden and if (not when) I get too infirm to go upstairs I have a shower room downstairs and can turn my study into a bedroom. 

On the other hand, house and garden are too large for one elderly lady. I am a little isolated from the village and nobody ever comes all the way up the drive just on the off chance. Isolation means utter peace and quiet, and endless green space and fresh air around me. And then there's the neighbour and his shroud which is actually damaging a part of my garden for which they may not be willing to compensate me, in spite of having undertaken to do so officially. However, everything passes, as will the shroud.

the shroud along one side of my garden wall.

under it is their barn, their house is further away.

Then there's the money. I'd want to downsize of course, and although I'd have to pay a fair chunk for a new house I might have a (smaller) chunk of cash over. But, is that such a good idea? In the UK interest rates are minimal, inflation is high, property is the only valuable asset to have, unless you are rich, of course. I'm not.

All things considered, I think selling up and leaving my little haven now would be a bit silly. As I said, I like my house. I'll never find another location to equal it. When the time comes I will probably move into a retirement apartment, there is quite a choice in my county town and rather than move twice, once into a smaller house with garden now and later into a retirement apartment when living on my own becomes more difficult would surely use up more energy, nerves, stress as well as cash than is sensible..

the flower bed hidden under the shroud

I may be elderly (OK, I am) but mostly I forget about it. Unless admitting to my elderly status comes in useful, which it does, at times, particularly when I need physical assistance. Many elderly people start the gradual process of reorganising their last years much sooner than me and maybe I am being foolish. But, while I can, I would like to continue enjoying my garden in particular, for a little while longer.

Sorry, Mr. Estate Agent, but not just yet. Maybe next year, maybe never. I am not ready to discard my hand trowel for good.

PS: apart from the shroud picture all others were taken at different seasons.

It's a bit early for such splendour.

Getting to know myself during Covid 19

It’s hard to find something to post about when you do nothing but spend time at home. We’ve had glorious weather and I’ve been working like a madwoman in the garden, physically exhausting myself in the process. The more I work the less there is to see, the more dry brown earth emerges. The more I dig the bigger the piles of plastic sacks filled with weeds grow, ditto the piles of brush, shrub prunings and whole uprooted shrubs lying in corners which should, by now, be attractive and tidy areas for sitting and watching the garden grow. I shall be ever so cross if I die before I can replant everything next autumn or spring; all that work for nothing.

There is a good thing about being physically active outdoors: it makes for a cheerful and happy state of mind, so maybe it’s not all for nothing. Paul still comes once a week, but now only for two hours, his energy doesn’t last for longer. I almost exclusively reserve the jobs which are too hard for me to do, nothing routine like weeding, he still has strength, even if his stamina leaves much to be desired. Agewise, I could be his mother yet I work harder than he does. I am glad that he officially stops work after two hours and doesn’t drag out his time with me to three hours, as previously, with a rather long tea break in between. There’s no tea break now and I only pay him for two hours. I like Paul very much, he is a nice chap and knowledgeable about plants and I certainly hope he continues to come.

There’s a chill wind today, I’ve allowed myself a day off. Once or twice, during the hot and sunny days, friends have come to call, by invitation, one or two at a time, and we’ve sat in the garden in late afternoon, at a distance of no less than 2 m and enjoyed a glass of wine over a natter. We are all very sensible and do not meet in each other’s houses yet, as per government directive. The incidence of Covid 19 in Valley’s End is minimal, less than a handful of cases and no deaths. Many of us are of retirement age and therefore vulnerable. There is one dog walking acquaintance who turns up once a week or so, who explains her uninvited presence by saying that her dog has wriggled through the bars of one of my gates and insists on raiding my garden. So, naturally, she has to follow him, scoop him up, apologise for her invasion by blaming the dog and look longingly at the chairs on the terrace. I must ask her to come on a specific day, she is obviously lonely.

Which brings me to a question I’ve been puzzling over. Ever since I’ve understood the meaning of the terms introvert and extrovert years ago I’ve thought of myself as an extrovert. I am not shy in company, I face meeting new people with equanimity, I am lively and chatty at parties, I talk to people before they talk to me. At the same time I can take or leave people and find solitude nothing to be afraid of. Sometimes, I am lonely because I lost my soulmate but, otherwise, my own company is sufficient for my needs most of the time. I even talk to myself.

But that is surely not how an extrovert reacts to the present lockdown? I am always reading about people who are terribly unhappy and longing for hugs and face to face conversations, whose loneliness cries out for human contact and who are in danger of becoming mentally ill. These people have all my sympathy, so many are old and alone, feel abandoned and shut out, but I simply do not feel that way myself. What is wrong with me?  When I read these sad stories I question my capacity to empathise, I have no idea what it feels like to be in their shoes. Solitude to me is something good, something to be welcomed. Does that mean I am an introvert after all? Or even more fortunate, I am an introvert/extrovert whenever either state suits me?

Considering that I’ve had nothing to post about I have used an awful lot of words to post it. That’s what Covid does, it makes wafflers of all of us.

Allegiances

It is time for all the heroes to go home

if they have any; time for all of us common ones

to locate ourselves by the real things

we live by.

William Stafford

It’s quite unbelievable, we have had the fourth flood! Five, if you count separate floods on two consecutive days. And it’s not over yet, there is more heavy rain to come by the end of the week and showers in between. Shrewsbury town centre is still under water. I was supposed to go to a funeral in the town yesterday. I’m afraid I chickened out, together with three friends who were going in the same car. We went to the local pub instead and drank a toast to the deceased. We weren’t exactly proud of ourselves but we felt safer and quite relieved once we had come to a decision. It doesn’t do for the old and infirm (one of us was in a wheelchair - one in her early nineties -  one disabled and only me reasonably mobile) to be foolhardy.

My image as a high-flying, brainy, intellectual and altogether smartypanty, (yea, sure) if foreign, pillar of our particular society is taking a thorough beating. There I was, at a party for people on the losing side of the Remain/Leave partition, every member an academic, artist, engineer and professional, all vocal and committed to our joint cause. All talking absolute sense (that is, if you are on our side of the argument), with the debate hotting up a bit as the evening progressed. This was the first party I had been invited to since I’ve been on my own, all previous invitations have been to small groups, lunches and dinner parties. Whenever I find myself in such company I instantly feel like an impostor, a fraud, somebody who shouldn’t really be there. My reaction to such discomfort? I talk, I argue, I debate, tell stories, until many eyes are on me. Afterwards, at home, I feel utterly embarrassed.

This time there was an additional embarrassment: my frequent attendance at the 'Ladies who Lunch’ was brought up by a gossipy guest and it seems that it is by no means a secret that I have truck with Leavers and right-wingers. There were nods all round when I asked if everyone in Valley’s End knew. Luckily, this was cause for good-natured hilarity and I was teased mercilessly, rather than shunned and berated. Having felt uncomfortable about the Ladies’ conversation a few times now, I will try and see less of them, although I have no wish to offend them. Yes, their opinions can drive me mad, but they are kind and welcoming every time.

Like I said, this was the very first larger party I attended on my own. I knew a few of the guests and the hostess is a fellow foreigner and we therefore can get together and vent about ‘the English and their quaint customs’ and find we have a lot in common.We’ve both been here for decades. But, I did miss Beloved, all the others were coupled and went home  two-by-two. No matter how welcoming and friendly people are, it takes quite an effort to find your personal shaped niche to settle into by yourself.

I am off to the Royal Shakespeare Theatre in Stratford with two friends tomorrow - both eminently able-bodied. That means I won’t have to look after anyone but myself if we get stuck in a flood somewhere. The play, “The Whip" is brand new, not sure that I will enjoy it. “Electrifying, compelling”, says the blurb.

Compliments and what they lead to.

"You are looking really well. Have you got over . . . ?” That’s where she stopped, a little unsure of whether she had paid me a compliment or been tactless. But she did sound surprised and as if she meant it. Christina is not one of my close friends; we just happened to have been invited to the same Remainers’ Party.

She was by no means the first person to tell me that I am looking well, several others have said so recently, close friends as well as casual acquaintances. Looking in the mirror I noticed pink cheeks but no great changes otherwise. Apart from a slightly shorter haircut. Jay, who is a friend, had complimented me only a few days earlier, also with a surprise in her voice. So I decided to find out what they thought the difference was.

“Tell me then, if you find me looking surprisingly well, how did I look before?” Both Christina and Jay were taken aback; apparently it is not polite to put people on the spot, we are meant to say ’thank you’ and move on. Both eventually gave in. “Well", said Christina, “you look less oppressed, freer, brighter.” And Jay said “a cloud seems to have lifted from over you.” Nothing to do with health, nothing to do with make-up or dress; nothing but a change in attitude. And because my general attitude has changed I sleep better, I appreciate small things in life, look forward more than backward.  There are days when I feel strangely elated for hours on end, burrowing into a a deep sense of well-being, as into a safe and cosy nest.

It’s taken three years since Beloved died to find myself again. I expect there will be sad and dismal days, but the worst is over. One never gets over the loss of a special person but it gets easier to cope.

I believe that Christina Koch had it right when she said : "Do what scares you. everyone should think about what intrigues them and what draws them in. Those things can be scary, but they usually mean you are interested.”

Ms Koch is the female astronaut who has just returned to earth after the longest continuous spaceflight a woman has ever undertaken. 328 days in space, just think of it, nearly a whole year.

Should we all challenge ourselves, no matter how old or infirm? Taking complete control of my life, dealing with authority, workmen, the day to day running of my household, having sole responsibility for finances and making them tally, overcoming such challenges as facing the taxman, lawyers and officialdom; rain coming through the roof and windows leaking; yes, I have had quite a time of it and, yes, it was scary most of the time. I have not been on a spaceflight like Ms Koch but I might as well have been for all the lessons I have learned.

As, for example, on just one tiny occasion I was dithering if I should accept the new toilet bowl the plumber had brought. I hated it, it left a large piece of flooring uncovered after he had installed it. I knew I would hate it forever and feel newly annoyed every time I went into the bathroom; the old me had Beloved to back her up, the single me was worried that the plumber might simply refuse to change the bowl for one with a bigger pedestal. Still, I stood my ground, quaking inside, and he agreed to dismantle the new installation. He charged me, of course, and next time I will know better and check before any job is completed. But, and this is the important bit, I felt enormously proud of myself!

No wonder I am looking better. It’s true, a cloud has lifted, I am coping.

So, what do you think? Is it good for us to come out of our comfort zone and face new challenges with courage and determination? Or should we look for anything for a quiet and undemanding life? There are times when the latter is not possible, of course. Many of my still coupled friends say they don’t have the first idea of how to cope without their husbands. I hope they won’t have to, but, if they do, I can tell them that anything is possible.

The Happiness Factor - Can I get hold of it? Part I

`’Do you live here all by yourself?”

Micky was new to the German Conversation group. She hadn’t been to my house before and during her visit she went and stood at every window downstairs looking out on to the garden covered in gold, red and orange beech leaves, the dark shapes of the yews and hollies punctuating the afternoon gloom and the vistas of the hills beyond my hedges. “Beautiful”, she said, “it must be a lot of work.”

It’s only when somebody else remarks on it that you realise that, yes, you are all alone in too much space, that the space calls for more work than you could cope with if you had to do it yourself and that, really, could you be considered selfish? Apart from having it brought home to me in no uncertain terms that I am indeed completely alone now I pushed the thought away. Environmental footprints, paying others to do my unpleasant work, using up more resources than one person should are all genuine and valid concerns, but I don’t want to complicate my life more than it is. For now.

There has recently been yet another study into the happiness factor. Truly happy people are ‘people who need people’, who have strong bonds with friends and family and regular contact. As you all know I have no strong bonds with anyone, I don’t feel I need people, but there are periods when I feel lonely, dejected, depressed. So I am giving the happiness factor a chance to invade my world by accepting every invitation, grab every opportunity for social interaction, take up any cultural entertainment on offer, talk to people in the street and in shops and butt in to casual conversations of a general nature.

The cultural entertainment part has been a great success: Donizetti’s Don Pasquale with Bryn Terfel as the elderly bachelor conned into thinking he is marrying a supposedly demure convent girl, only to find her a domineering, even tyrannical wife the moment the ring is on her finger, was fun. Terfel was made for the role.


Then there was an excellent production of
A Midsummer Nights Dream with Titania being played by Gwendoline Christie. The theatre becomes the forest – a dream world of flying fairies, contagious fogs and moonlight revels.
Hammed Animashaun was a very funny Bottom.

I’ve seen ’The Dream’ a number of times, this production will stick in the mind and not only because of well known stars of small and large screens.

Lastly a new play ‘Hansard’ about the private life of a Conservative MP under Margaret Thatcher
who comes back to his house in the Cotswolds after a week of controversial debate in London. There are only two actors on stage, the MP and his wife, who start out sparring in a sort of routine way but as the day draws on the familiar rhythms of marital scrapping quickly turn to blood-sport.

Lindsay Duncan and Alex Jennings were excellent. Towards the end it became so harrowing I held my breath.

So, the cultural element of my past few weeks was a success, enough to let a chink of happiness through my anti-social armour. Now for human interactions.

Looking back , looking forward

My darling Millie has died. In her last days she could barely make it to the lawn and often poo'd on the flags of the terrace. She deteriorated quite quickly and I finally had to make the decision to call the vet to the house. Lovely Marzena, my Polish cleaner, was here. She too loves dogs and she sat with Millie, cuddling her and scratching her neck while we were waiting for the vet to arrive. I gave her her afternoon feed hours early, which she ate with visible enjoyment in spite of her wobbly legs. Without Marzena I could not have done it; as it was, I cried and cried and was ready to change my mind again.  The vet knows me for the wimp I am and she and her nurse came within the hour. So that’s that.

I’ve not been terribly happy since then, in fact, I’ve not been at ease with myself ever since Beloved died. Millie was the last living link with him, she was my companion, a creature I talked to and petted, who followed me around and gave me a reason to get up in the morning, to go out in all weathers, to feed and water, to keep as happy as she was making me. With all of them gone, Beloved and Millie, before them my parents, the goodwill of one child gone for good and only a loose connection with the other, I am truly alone in any meaningful sense. The house is empty and quiet. I have no family here or in Germany.

So now it’s time to come to terms with the remainder of my life. A peaceful existence is what I am aiming for. This should be my time for being, not doing. No more struggle, no more achievement, no more passion. All passion spent. A time for being only myself, in kindness and forbearance rather than trying to make changes, in my life or  that of anyone else.

Old age brings calm, if we are lucky. With so much experience, a lifetime of ups-and-downs, of miserable times as well as deliriously happy times, of ill-health and good health, much like any other human being, why do I still feel that I must be doing, actively go forward, get involved, be part of movements, experience new horizons?

Tuesday evening I went to a restaurant with a friend who is madly active, who has just spent a week in London as a First-Aider during the Extinction Rebellion demonstrations. Once again I felt ashamed that I seem to have lost all fight, all passion. That I feel disinclined to climb on barricades, take up new studies, a new cause, an all consuming hobby. Soon people are going to suggest that I must be bored at home, that I must lack much needed stimulation, that I ought to go on exciting holidays. Etc.

Basically, if I am truthful, I must say that I am rather lazy now. There is a battle going on inside me, a battle between letting go on the one hand and feeling that I must not be seen to have stepped off the treadmill on the other; that my own little bubble, now much shrunk, is where I would like to live without shame or guilt. Being lazy makes me want for the desire for disappearing into my bubble to win. There are so many things right here at home which please me, books, talking to friends, my garden, modest social occasions, tv and visits to see plays or listen to concerts. Instead I seem to be recycling the same thoughts, the same questions, the same uncertainties, over and over again, without ever coming to a decision. I would be happy and contented if I could come to no more than simply a workable resolution that doesn’t particularly lead anywhere except to an acceptance of the status quo.

My friend Jay called this afternoon to help me with my Application for Settled Status in the UK post Brexit. About time too that I got down to that. Having prevaricated for ages is just another sign of my current state of mind. The Home Office still can’t cope with iPhones; my friend uses Android so she very kindly made the application for me on that. Afterwards we came to chat and I told her about my current lack of motivation. I speculated if I should go and see a therapist to rid me of the feelings of guilt and shame at my idleness. I have an inkling where these feelings come from: years and years of being responsible for the smooth running of my life and that of first, my parents, and then my children. My friend said, fine, now we know why you are feeling useless, but, and this is the big but: whose rules are these? Who says you must be doing, achieving? You are no longer responsible for anyone but yourself. Jay became quite heated. “If you want to sit all day picking your nose, you can.” She is right, of course, but how do you change the conditioning of a lifetime overnight?

This is getting to be a long post, I’d better stop now. No doubt I will be pondering these existential questions for some time yet, like many others have done before me. And many who come after me will do. And also no doubt, I will be rehashing them here. For now writing this down is helping.
 

Love, Affection, Feeling Fond

Here’s a question: Do we only truly love those by whom we feel loved or can we love without expecting a return? (Forget about unrequited young love from afar, I don’t believe there’s much substance to that, but you may, of course, think differently, particularly if you follow some of the greatest poets both in antiquity such as Ovid and Dante and more recently, Goethe, not to mention modern popular music.

I was thinking of love because of Millie, of all things. Remembering Beloved, with whom I was both in love as well as loving him deeply, unquestioningly I thought at the time of our lives together,  I now think that the fact that he loved me as deeply did no harm to our close and harmonious relationship. Many of you use blogposts to describe how warmly you are enmeshed with your families, children and grandchildren. Long may it continue and may you never be disappointed. That kind of relationship needs work, tolerance and understanding each other’s needs and preferences. My own family is not as successful at this as yours.

But back to Millie, she had a serious stroke the other evening. She has recovered now, at the time I thought the end had come. While I sat comforting and nursing her for the many hours it took for her to return to a more stable condition I realised, by and by, that with her death the last common link with Beloved would disappear too and that there would be nobody left by whom I would be loved unconditionally. I am not comparing the love of an animal to the love of a human being but, in my opinion, it comes at least halfway up the scale. I have more affection for animals than some humans.

Quite definitely we feel affection for good friends. But here too the fondness must be returned. For how long can you be friends with someone who ignores you, behaves in an off-hand manner or treats you badly when it suits them. Some people are natural door mats but I’d hope you are not among their number. If your friend refuses to accept your friendship in the spirit in which it is offered, change your friend.

We can, of course, grow fond of those whom we employ. Old gardener has worked for me for many years, we toiled together, sat and chatted (me listening to him more than the other way round since he became deaf), we got tired together, drank tea, admired the results of our labours, gossiped, sniped at others; in other words, we were on very friendly terms and I was very fond of him. And now my dear Austin, Old Gardener, will  garden no more. He is very ill, his strength gone, his good humour vanished. He is in the clutches of a pair of nasty cancers,  neither treatable; I shall miss him and his penchant for indiscreet gossip as well as his pleasure in telling long stories about life in the bad old rural days. I am not sure that Austin was as fond of me as I was of him but that doesn’t seem to matter in this case. It matters very much more in the case of Paul, whom I have also mentioned here several times in the past. Paul is back with me for the time being. I doubt that Paul is fond of anyone, maybe his mother, but no one else. He is a serious depressive and that depression allows him no room for anyone else but himself. I am sorry for Paul but I am not fond of him. I need a return which he is at the moment unable to give.

Lost In Space

Have you ever felt that you’ve lost your way, that life isn’t what it was, that you’d dearly like to become positive, active and energetic? That you’ve lost that magical special power, drive and energy which allows you to become effective and successful in your daily life, perhaps only in a modest way, but detectable, all the same. In other words, life is flat and purposeless. You’ve lost your mojo.

In other words, depression sets in.

Dear friends of mine invited me to share Sunday lunch. While tucking into a 'roast and three' I realised that I hadn’t had that for weeks, not just the pleasant food and drink, but more importantly, an easy, animated, flowing, intelligent conversation. Words came easily, I could hardly drag myself away and probably outstayed a normal lunch invitation. I came home alive and happy to be so.

And then the darkness descended. I came home to an empty house (Millie came with me), to silence. That in itself was fine, I had had my fill of interaction for the day, possibly for several days. I know that quite often interaction with other, less interesting people, leaves me bored, impatient, and that I often prefer my own company to company for the sake of it. Occasionally, I seek the company of people whose conversation is homespun, gossipy, unchallenging. It may be comforting at the time, not a bad thing. Like those ladies’ luncheons I mentioned recently. They get me out of the house, we commiserate with each other all being newly single and we share a giggle and relate tales of solitary adventures. Two of the ladies are relentlessly positive, admirably active and keen to hold forth. Not me, but who am I to mind. I should try and follow their example.

My problem is that I literally have no purpose. No engrossing hobbies other than the solitary one of reading. No involvement in charitable organisations, no interest in sport other than the gym, which is another solitary activity. I am not artistic, I don’t do crafty things, I like writing but have more or less given up on that sine Beloved died. Lectures happen far away, and the local talks take place mainly during cold and wet winter nights. I find it really hard to motivate myself to get off my behind and leave my warm and comfortable nest to shiver in a village hall, no matter how interesting the talk.

I am not about to fling myself into Scientology or any other religious sect, won’t be taking up the Kaballah, do flower arranging, write bad poetry, see myself as a benefactress, take up long distance running, discover the only true health giving diet. None of the above and a whole host of other obsessions. But surely I ought to do something?  Learn another language? Properly learn to take pictures? Travel is not possible while Millie is alive, although that appears an attractive thought now. I expect I won’t be able to drag myself away come the opportunity.

That’s me all over, negative, always finding reasons for NOT doing something. True, I’ve done things to the house, soon the garden will need attention, I’ve taken up the gym again, reluctantly and much against my inclination and I’ve booked a ticket to go on a coach trip to Malvern to see a play, which only mildly interests me. And I’ve come back to blogging. It’s been a pleasure to see your comments and I am trying my damnedest to stick with it. Thank you for your patience.

If only I could stop being a contrary, dissatisfied crosspatch. Any advice ?

(My 1000th post) - A new Beginning

maybe?

I’d like to make it so, but who knows? I have tried so many times since Beloved died but have, so far, not kept my word, either to myself or to others.

I had hoped that the new year would bring renewed physical and mental application, stamina, enthusiasm, reliability, confidence as well as physical well-being. No such luck. No sooner had the back healed when I caught a nasty cold turning into a chest infection and unpleasant cough. I am only just getting over the side effects.

However, there are signs that all may not be lost: I went back to the gym today for the first time for  many months; I am having to relearn to walk upright rather than a) as at first, like a penguin, and b) following on from that, like a very old person bent forward, leaning on a stick. Under strict supervision I am crawling through exercises, the very first, very mild stand biking, tread milling, getting up from a chair without leaning on aids, step ups, and just plain walking along a straight line, head up, chest out, eyes forward. "Do that twice a week for an hour or so to start with", says Dan, my fitness instructor, "and we’ll have you back where you were by summer." He’s a nice boy, very fit, enthusiastic and encouraging. “You’re doing really well”, he says, looking at me out of his earnest dark eyes. Maybe. When I came home afterwards Marzenna was there, my new Polish cleaner, a lovely young woman, very friendly, very clean and tidy. “You’ve been to the gym?” she marvelled. “So you keep active before?” She’s only known the penguin me. “That’s good, it’s better to move.” Her English is a bit lacking. “Now things will change. You be positive and things will change.” Blimey, I must have been a right old grump if the mere mention of the gym can make her see me in a new light.

The back episode frightened me so much that I decided there and then that I’d need a new shower room rather than a bathroom, as well as a downstairs study rather than a dining room to seat twelve. It is most unlikely that I’ll ever have twelve people sitting down to dinner again. The shower room has been installed and the dining table has been placed at one end of my sitting room. Sooner or later it will probably disappear altogether. I’ve moved a large sofa which is now in the sun room. The former dining room has become my study, it is a bright room with two windows, both of which look out on to the garden. I’ve lost the upstairs book walls, but there are enough shelves in the new study to satisfy this reader. I have also bought myself a music centre, the modern but old looking kind, which plays vinyl LPs, cassettes (remember them?) of which I have many still, and CDs. My computer is there too, my TV with many European channels will follow shortly and a large chair stands by the window, ready to receive me and my book. My cave awaits. If and when the time comes that I can’t manage stairs there is enough space for a bed, provided I scrunch up some of the other furniture.

Other than that I have been dealing with Beloved’s writings, old diaries (goodness, I am not sure that I would have been as fond of the young man as I was of the middle-aged one), and now, his books. What a bright spark he was, there are books on the sciences, geology, geography, history, politics, all many years old and, probably, long overtaken by modern day research. There are his shelves of novels, some of which I will keep, classical literature, art and photography. And poetry books by the metre, most of which I will have to sift through and either dispose of or keep. Being wrapped up in memories of Beloved and our time together has made me miss him all over again, in a deep and sad way now rather than the earlier, raw and painful heartache. The loneliness doesn’t fade away.

But spring will come and the garden will beckon. Maybe Marzenna is right, “you be positive and things will change.”

Mood Swings

From hopeful to hopeless, from dark to light, from cheerful to miserable. Sometimes all of these emotions overcome me in one day. Whatever is the matter with me!

The first few days of solitude, when the last of the carers said “Well, I suppose I’m redundant now” because I had had the temerity to take a shower without supervision, and she left, possibly in a huff because I had made a decision for myself, I felt free. And hopeful. I was still very slow - as I am now to a lesser extent - but I knew that, with care, things would improve from that day onwards, and the time would come when I could return all aids and equipment. So it was, two walkers, one crutch and one commode were duly collected last week; I have kept hold of a set of crutches which I have had for years, ever since I broke a leg a long time ago. I am still using at least one crutch for rough patches outside and when I am in a hurry to get somewhere inside the house. I have gradually added a detour here and there to lengthen my walkabouts. I may soon be able to get to the village shop, although walking with an aid, having a dog pull on a lead and carrying a shopping bag doesn't seem a sensible way of perambulating. We’ll see.

So, really, I should be happy, shouldn’t I. I can feed myself and Millie again, do small jobs around the house; with the help of a driver friend I've been to have my hair cut, taken Millie to the vet, seen the podiatrist for a treatment, and yesterday this friend took me to a supermarket  to buy some early Christmas treats. German specialities disappear quickly from the shelves although the feeble pound makes them very expensive for the average shopper. I’ve been to a couple of concerts and a live streaming of a National Theatre play, again with the help of friends. I am making progress, albeit my walk resembles that of a penguin.

Is it that the dark days of winter are with us? Is it that I am beginning to think of the holidays on my own? Who knows? I was out in the field with Millie just now for a final walk before the light goes and I was thinking how nice it will be to get back inside, lock all the doors, turn on the lamps, pour a glass of wine and get comfortable. What’s not to like?

In 1634 Henry Peacham wrote in 'The Compleat Gentleman': “Keep up your spirits with healthy exercise. Leaping being an exercise very commendable and healthful to the body, especially if you use it in the morning. But upon a full stomach and bedward it is very dangerous, and in no wise to be used”. Best not start leaping then.

Did You Know . . . .

that ‘The functions of the Mistress of the House resemble those of the general of an army or the manager of a great business concern.’

I have been dipping into 'The Housekeeping Book' of olden days and all sorts of wonderful information, instructions, prohibitions, advice to young women and new wives can be found within.
I particularly like the capitals for the Mistress of the House and the lower case used for a general and a manager, be they ever so lofty. Mind you, the Vicar of Wakefield had it that : ‘The modest virgin, the prudent wife, and the careful matron are much more serviceable in life than petticoated philosophers, blustering heroines, or virago queans’. (I looked up ‘queans’ - it means an impudent or badly behaved girl or woman, or a prostitute.) Serviceable to whom, one wonders. Independent minded women have always got short shrift from the mainstream of domestic theorists, so many of them men.

Having had little interest in new clothes for the past two years this interest was rekindled when I had a very close look inside our closets and wardrobes and chests of drawers; Beloved’s stuff has all gone now, apart from his dressing gown, a summer anorak and a couple of his favourite shirts, all items I now wear. Ditto some of his thickest and warmest socks, which will come in very usefully during the winter. However, my own clothes are sadly lacking in shine and rather shabby after years of wear and needed replacing. I get fashion catalogues and emails sent from fashion houses and department stores, all unsolicited (I may possibly have bought items in the past), so I consulted these. I hadn’t purchased new clothes for so long that I was horrified to see the prices. Nevertheless, a few tops, shirts, trousers and leggings (for the gym) arrived in due course and I admit it feels good to be wearing something that isn’t falling to pieces with age. I like the look of myself again, too.

Be that as it may, the activity of purchasing does not please one lady author, who had this to say: ‘This ranging from shop to shop has given origin to a fashionable method of killing time, which is well-known by the term “Shopping” and is literally a mean and unwarrantable amusement. I wonder if she would absolve me from blame, as I did my “Shopping” on the internet. I wish I could amble from shop to shop, all along the High Street, and take my time, browse around a bookshop, have a meal somewhere, linger over a cup of coffee and watch the world go by. I may be fancy-free and independent, but I am still accountable to Millie. Poor dear Millie, she is quite decrepit now, although her steroid medication has given her a renewed lease of a semblance of a doggie life. Her hearing is gone which makes her difficult to organise; I also think she has dementia, she does not want to let me out of her sight. Leaving her alone is a problem, there are just two houses where she knows her way around and feels safe, my friend Jay's, who is dog mad and Millie’s best friend and my other friend Ralph’s, who bosses her around in a nice way. I am having the suspicion of dementia being present because all her routines have changed, whereas before she had regular favourite bedtimes, doggie beds and toilet habits she is now all over the place. And yet, she still has a reasonable quality of life and eats well and happily, is fully continent, and appears to be happy provided I’m close. If I have to leave her alone it’s usually for no more than a couple of hours.

My leg is getting better. The swelling is now confined to the ankle and heel and even there disappearing noticeably, almost by the day. I have had all these weeks of mostly sitting and reading with the odd little Millie walk and a potter in the garden. When the summer was at its hottest I reclined gracefully and read novels, taking sips from cooling drinks. I am glad, that by living long after The Housekeeping Books’s strictures, I escaped its censure of indulging in the much decried pastime of reading novels. Apparently, young ladies were wont to indulge and could therefore not hope to achieve the heights of the housekeeping skills necessary to make a good match and thus become serviceable in life.

Onward and Upward

but not looking solely towards the future rather than being in the here and now. Continual learning is an essential part of life. (I looked up the difference between continual and continuous and have plumped for the former, continuous learning might be too headache-inducing).

Anyway, I had one of those lightbulb moments the other day. I took courage and invited three friends to supper, two came and one cried off; the three of us had a lovely evening. These ladies are easy to get along with, chatty, we had a conversation consisting of personal details, a bit of gossip, a few remarks about the state of the world; a friendly conversation in spite of quite marked differences in opinion. There was the first lesson: you can be on good terms even if you are not in agreement about quite serious matters. I had decided to go easy on the work involved, no hours of preparation, slaving over a hot stove; this was the menu:

cold smoked wafer-thin meats 

olives and feta cheese

crusty French bread

ice cold Zinfandel to drink

marinated lemon and herb chicken breast filets

roasted mediterranean vegetables

baby potatoes

Merlot

chocolate fudge brownie and cream

coffee

Looked at quickly it seems quite impressive but none of it was work. Shoving a dish of chicken filets and a dish of vegetables in the oven is no work at all. I burnt the fudge round the edges but as we were only three and not four as planned the middle of the dish was sufficient for our appetites. Second lesson: even when half the food served is bought at the deli the meal can still be interesting and good to eat. Something to remember for my next supper, I might even invite a chap or two, although I may have to put more effort into ‘sparkling’ conversation.

At the moment I am rather obsessed with the near future. I made two appointments with my favourite doctor, just to ask him for his educated guess as to my longevity or otherwise. I cancelled both appointments. You can’t just walk into the surgery and demand “how long have I got”; “what plans should I make” ; what hassle can I spare myself?” Solicitors and legal matters, house renovations, finance plans, even holidays. Round and round in my head they go. No longer having the person with whom you used to make decisions near leaves you a bit breathless. I don’t have family to consult - well, I have my son, of course, but I don’t think that I’d find his advice totally acceptable. He is a lovely man but we differ in basic ways of looking at the world.  

Apart from the damaged leg I am actually quite well at the moment, there is no reason to think that I might not survive for a good few years yet. Which is more or less what one of my friends said. She sounded quite nonplussed at my dithering about what needs doing. “But you’ve decided to stay in the house,” she said, implying that " there are maintenance jobs pending, there are legal matters after your husband’s death to settle, there are financial provisions to sort out". How right she is.

There is no need for advice on the necessity of doing these jobs, just maybe on how to do them. (Just to clarify: this lady is ninety and has been a very active widow since her husband died some years ago.)

So, lesson three: don’t go round and round in circles, look at the actual, current, situation and start at the beginning, in the here and now, not in a nebulous and possibly frightening future. So today I have booked a plumber to change some taps and sort out my aged radiator thermostat systems. 

I tried and

yes, it has helped.

It may have something to do with the weather or it may have something to do with a change in attitude, there is most certainly an occasional feeling of positivity. Strange how being told to “get your hair cut” and doing exactly that, can kickstart a new beginning.



Romeo and Juliet, a 'pair of star-crossed lovers’ who marry in secret and ultimately die because of their feuding families, at the RSC Stratford, was part of it. It’s not my favourite Shakespeare play but it certainly has some wonderful lines.

'Parting is such sweet sorrow.'

Are there lines more apt than these to describe the sadness at the loss of a loved one?

When we go to Stratford we often stop at a brand new upmarket supermarket for some choice foodie items on the way home. As we did this time.

In supermarkets many of the pre-packed things come in twos, two of fish filet, vegetables for two, puddings and pies for two, etc. I buy these double portions and put one in the freezer, but they just don’t taste as good as fresh. So, this time I decided not to freeze but share the largesse with a friend, from starters to main course to pudding, thereby renewing my pleasure in entertaining; (and not doing much of the cooking myself). Having just one chosen friend to a meal or a glass of something cool and delicious has boosted my confidence after two years of no invitations to the house at all. Sitting outside on a hot day, nibbling delicacies, drinking sparkling wine and gently discussing minor matters of the day, lifts the spirits of the gloomiest person.

Having single friends (not all widows) to a meal is not all I did, I also made dates with friends for meals at pubs and restaurants, common or garden ones in Valley’s End as well as some rather good ones further afield. And enjoyed them all. It still feels strange to do these things without Beloved and I still have the urge to tell him about them when I get home. It also still takes some time to realise that I can’t and never will again. Perhaps that will wear off in time?

There was a day out in Ludlow with a friend which was rather a success. Do you know these outings when everything falls into place? For months I had been saving up small jobs that needed a visit to a town of a size greater than the nearest one down the road. Really small things like a new watch battery, also a tiny battery for my kitchen timer which hadn’t worked for a good six months, a couple of visits to a bank and a building society, a particular kind of bath sponge only found at one particular chemist, a new pair of trainers, a drop off of a box of books at a charity shop, taking a poster to be framed, etc. I finally treated myself to some orange peel sticks coated in dark chocolate at the Chocolate Gourmet and came away happy that everything had been achieved. To top it off my friend took me to a pub for lunch. It doesn’t take much to rediscover that pleasure can be had for very little effort. If food is involved, it seems, my pleasure is almost guaranteed. I do rather mention food a lot.

Something else has taken up my time, requiring greater effort but easily achieved: the garden is once more on my agenda. Old gardener is back with me whenever the weather allows and the two of us garden companionably. We have our break, just as before, and gardener tells me about his adventures in his new home. His ‘missus’ seems to favour frequent house moves and he quietly - grumbling under his breath - falls in with her wishes. I think he is a bit scared of her. A couple of widows live near him and both have twigged that he does gardening. “I don’t want it known”, he said to me, “I wonder how they found out.” One of them he rather likes the look of. “She’s right tidy looking,” he said, meaning she’s attractive. An Italian lady, he thinks, with a name he can’t pronounce. He has now given up his bigger jobs like the one at the ‘Manor’ and only looks after me and another German lady. I can see him acquiring the Italian lady too. Possibly as an antidote to his grumpy wife. At seventy I feel he is entitled to a little light relief.

Change

One minute I am sitting staring into the void, the next I get up and the perspective on life changes.
The winds of change blow indiscriminately, sending you hither and thither without conscious volition. It might be a good thing for those like me who find it difficult to move into one direction or another deliberately. Times change and we change with them.

Or, as Dr Samuel Johnson had it (in his Drury-lane Prologue Spoken by Mr. Garrick at the Opening of the Theatre in Drury-Lane, 1747)

When Learning’s triumph o’er her barb’rous foes 

First rear’d the stage, immortal Shakespear rose; 

Each change of many-colour’d life he drew, 

Exhausted worlds, and then imagin’d new: 

I love the phrase “each change of many-coloured life he drew”. I should hold on to that thought, accept that change is inevitable and maybe even welcome it. Taking baby-steps. Life is for living and 'for the living’ and living it means being part of it in all its many-coloured facets. Death and grief are part of life.

The Syrian satirist and philosopher Lucian, whose works (written in ancient Greek) were wildly popular in antiquity has several very suitable quotations:

The world is fleeting; all things pass away;

Or is it we that pass and they that stay?

***

Realise that true happiness lies within you.

***

Not every story has a happy ending, 

but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth telling.

Beloved’s son and daughter in law came for a flying visit all the way from the US; as you know I live way off the beaten track, far from motorways and airports, and I would have understood if they had chosen to save themselves the extra two days’ travel to spend time with a relative-by-marriage only. But they came and I am both grateful and very appreciative; I had a great time with them, we talked about everything under the sun: politics, literature, music, travel, family news and, of course, Beloved. I handed over old photographs, family documents, music Beloved had written during the course of his life, even his school reports and records of prizes he’d won during his studies. I still have a large box of poems and diaries and other writings; in due course, after reading everything myself first, I will pass them over too. Beloved’s son is very like his father, in looks, bearing and intelligence; having him was almost like having Beloved again. It was a good visit.

My step-daughter-in-law was most encouraging, she told me that I must get a decent hair cut, find a colouring product that doesn’t provoke an allergic reaction, look after myself and get out from under the cloud of sadness. She also told me the story of an old aunt of her’s, who lost her husband in her early seventies and lived for another 20 years, apparently enjoying every minute of it, going travelling, making new friends and indulging her every whim. 

Very well, I will try.

Decisions . . . . .

and how to make them?

I don’t know how you would feel, but I find it very hard to make any at all since Beloved died. Being the only one to decide on major life changes is complicated; when there are two of you - preferably not more than two, otherwise there will be three or more different opinions - you can talk, sometimes for days, weeks, months, but eventually you will sort out problems and find solutions that suit both of you. With luck and goodwill.

I’ve had an unpleasant head cold since Friday afternoon, which fast turned into a chesty one. The kind of cold that you catch as if it were “thrown at you” as my mum used to say, without warning. All the cold remedies on the medicine shelves are long out of date, I haven’t had a proper cold for two years, but I am using some of the ones whose sell by date was sometime last year rather than two years ago. After all, can aspirin/paracetamol - the main ingredient - or sickly sweet cough syrups ever lose all their potency?

For two days I stayed indoors, barely washed and never got out of my pyjamas. A friend kindly bought my Saturday paper when he went for his own, waddled Millie along the drive - that’s Millie waddling, not my friend -,  and on Sunday a neighbour offered to take her for a quick walk. I was grateful but I should have turned her offer down, because this lady walks at a fair lick and Millie does fifty meters at fifteen minutes. And even then she has to have a little sit down on the way. She came home limping badly.

So Sunday night we were both feeling very poorly indeed. Millie woke me from a light, snuffly, snoring doze when she collapsed against the bedroom door as she tried to turn over. Obviously, I got up and calmed her, both of us lying on the floor. Whereupon, and not for the first time, it hit me. “What if something really serious happened?” You know what I mean, something serious enough to cause an injury which leaves you unable to get to a phone. And even if you get to the phone, whom can you ring for help in the middle of the night?

My mind flips from one side to the other. Do I sell, do I stay, do I find somewhere smaller, less isolated? Nearer a bus service, a train station, the shops, a cinema, a theatre? No point moving closer to my son’s town, he’ll be moving home himself again soon. I’ve even looked at residential retirement facilities, small one or two bedroom apartments, but there I’d probably live in close proximity with people a lot less mentally and physically active than I am.

I simply cannot come to any decision; could that mean that decision making is not a good thing at the moment? I’ve been feeling better again yesterday and today, have chatted with people, been to the gym, done some gardening - that always makes me want to stay put. Nowhere else would I get a location like the one I have now, no other home could be as comfortable as mine, the home I’m used to. So why move? Because of the comparative isolation and the larger than necessary house and garden, of course.

So, round and round in circles I go.

If I stay, I must do some decorating. If I leave, decorating will be a waste of time and money, not to mention the upheaval, the mess, the inconvenience. But moving house makes for upheaval, mess and inconvenience. And huge expenditure.

Perhaps it’s time to stop fretting and continue as I am, for now. Or, perhaps it’s time to make lists of pros and cons, weigh up things, get in touch with the professionals for estimates, house valuations, find help like the old-fashioned companions rich old ladies employed. Sadly, I am not a rich old lady. Besides, I am far too young for a companion.

Perhaps the solution is indeed to get organised, collect information, then evaluate and make those lists of pros and cons. How pathetic it all is. Help! I'm beginning to bore not just you but me too.

One year on . . . .

. . . . and last month I hit rock bottom. Just as that heart specialist (how apt, ‘heart 'specialist) told me a year ago, that the end of the first year would be hardest to cope with. I’ve barely been able to rouse myself to do anything at all, off my own bat, that is. When other people have encouraged me to do things I’ve given in and done them. But as soon as I’ve been out from under their well-meaning efforts I crawled back into my cave. The weather was awful too, cold and damp and wet, with snow and ice for a week twice, which meant that I couldn’t even get out of the garage and drive to a supermarket. Did I feel sorry for myself? Not really, it was more a dull ache, a feeling of loneliness and abandonment. TV, books, chocolates and wine were my constant companions, but even they didn’t do much to lighten the mood. I wonder what I’d’ve been like without those crutches.

What I need is a passion. I have friends who sing in choirs, work in spite of being in their late sixties and seventies, endlessly help with grandchildren, work on village committees and church affairs, run all sorts of do-gooding charities. None of these activities tempt me. Not for the moment, anyway. I’ve said it before, I am not a joiner. My voice is a croak, proper work has long left me behind, my grandchildren are grown up. I’ve been on committees in the past and hated it. Quiet, behind the scenes charity is more my bag than noisy, front of house, ‘look how hard I work and how marvellously I run the show’ charity. I have to admit, if anything were down to me it would probably not get done. Or get done without fanfare.

So, how do I get a passion? Gardening was once one, I’d love to start again when the weather improves. In fact, last week I already did a full morning’s work and several short spurts and paid for it. No matter, easy does it. I have gone back to the gym after a break of a couple of weeks, worked out and paid for that too. Aches and pains are the natural outcome for sudden onset of physical jerks by the elderly.

I kid myself that going back to college would do the trick, retrieving my failing memory of Medieval European history, for instance, but blame living in the sticks for non-availability of any academic, interesting courses. Perfectly true. Online courses don’t quite answer the need for human interaction.

It’s only been a year, perhaps it’s still early days and I should not feel guilty for my lack of enthusiasm and my inability to ‘look on the bright side’. Positivity, Arghh.

There is the theatre, of course. I had a couple of injections of stage dust. First, "Imperium, The Cicero Plays," a seven-hour, two part version of Robert Harris’ trilogy about the rise and fall of Cicero, the Roman lawyer and politician. (Robert Harris described it as ‘like the West Wing in togas’). We stayed overnight at a delightful boutique hotel dead opposite the theatre, which allowed us to do some shopping in Stratford, an interesting town quite apart from the Shakespeare connection.

Then came ‘Macbeth’. Shakespeare’s bloody tragedy of greed, ambition and lust for power is everywhere at the moment. We saw the RSC version with Christopher Eccleston (ex Dr. Who) and Niamh Cusack.




Both plays are gripping, of course, but hardly a bundle of laughs. What is it they use in theatres for blood? There is such a lot of it in Macbeth. Barely anyone left standing at the end of the evening. Sitting in the front row I got sprayed with what I assumed was meant to be snowflakes during the final fight between Macbeth and Macduff; the stuff stuck to my black cashmere jumper and wouldn’t come off. It has now, without any brushing. Clever people, back stage personnel.

We also went to the opera: the Mid Wales production of ‘ Eugene Onegin’. The opera combines Pushkin’s compelling and heart-breaking story with Tchaikovsky’s sweeping lyricism in a stunning exploration of love, death, (more death) life and convention. Filled with breath-taking arias including Tatyana’s great letter scene and one of my personal favourites, Prince Gremin’s aria, the tale contrasts the simplicity of country life with the sophisticated excesses of Russia’s pre-revolutionary court and tells of the fated love between the innocent Tatyana and the world-weary cynic Onegin.

 



In spite of Mid Wales Opera being very much a provincial company and the orchestra being reduced to one representative of each instrument for lack of space in the pit, the evening was a success, as we told a lady with a pad and pencil taking notes of what we said. Is that how reviews are written? Get hold of audience members standing around after the performance and take down their freshly received impressions? We didn’t realise we had attended the first night.






Although the opera made for a pleasant evening, much more memorable was the meal beforehand in a pub/hotel in the centre of this small Welsh town just over the border from England. The place was heaving, very noisy, with beefy young men milling about everywhere. One giant TV screen was
showing an important rugby match between Scotland and England, (The Six Nations Championship is an annual international rugby union competition between the teams of England, France, Ireland, Italy, Scotland and Wales. The current champions are Ireland, having won the 2018 tournament.)

These for the most part young Welshmen bellowed their approval every time Scotland had an advantage,  (I don’t know the rules of rugby) and their dislike of and disdain for the English team couldn’t have been expressed more clearly. We were just barely half an hour away from the English border; amazing how much animosity there exists between some Welsh and the English. I had a taste of that myself once when an elderly Welsh lady pushed me and Beloved off a bench on the promenade at Aberystwyth by shuffling closer and closer, first to the middle, and then to our side of the bench. We gave in gracefully.

This and That

This

As I’ve said before, I now accept more or less every invitation extended, in fact I appreciate it when people include me. We always went to every social occasion as a couple, so being invited on my own is flattering and heart warming. I assumed that Beloved was the attraction, and that I simply came as the lesser part of the package.
Not so? Maybe.

However, I tend to gravitate towards widows more than couples in my own invitations. In the olden days I never saw widows as ‘widows’, just as women on their own. There is always a slight feeling of unease when it comes to couples; even the most friendly ones. Is it perhaps that the new widow reminds them that it could happen to them too and they’d rather not face up to the possibility? Is it that we’d rather push the thought away as far as possible? After all, as my son said “it really doesn’t bear thinking about.” Beloved and I thought about it a lot during the last couple of years but it still didn’t feel ‘real’; not until it happened.

Being with other widows is easy. Of course, we talk mainly about the person we lost, and how we lost them. Perhaps we repeat ourselves at each meeting, that doesn’t seem to matter. We go into detail about the final illness, what the doctors said, what the children did or said, how shattered we felt, how grief is all pervading and how hard it is to pick up the threads of life afterwards. We all share that knowledge and understand. Spending time with other widows is easy and healing.


That

The other day I came home after a lovely long and chatty lunch with one of these widows. I was feeling relaxed and, after chewing the fat for several hours, I was ready to sit quietly and put my feet up back home. Before I reached the front door I was stopped in my tracks by a tremendous din outside the gate into the castle grounds. Those of you who pay attention to such matters know that my hedged boundary marches with an open expanse of greensward which is used by dog walkers and tourists visiting the castle. I rushed to the gate, the row really was fearful, with screaming and shouting and high pitched dog yelping. Lorna’s greyhound was attacking a smaller dog as well as Robert, its owner, both of them howling in pain and anger. Lorna was some distance away, but a friend walking with her was nearer my gate; looking down on the fracas I saw the greyhound turn away from Robert and his dog and run back to Lorna. Everybody was shouting by now, me included. As the greyhound reached Lorna she began to beat him with the doubled lead, viciously, with all her strength. Now the greyhound howled too. Seeing the carnage I screeched for Lorna to stop, which was the signal for her friend to screech at me. I couldn’t make out much of what she said but “you don’t know what happened, mind your own business” came across loud and clear. Lorna was still beating her greyhound and I was frantic to make her stop but Lorna’s friend screeched all the louder the more I tried to bring Lorna to her senses. Nobody paid any attention to anybody, all was uproar and noise. Perhaps it’s a good thing that there’s a steep bank between my gate and the path below where all this was happening otherwise I’d have rushed down and beaten Lorna with her own dog lead. And might have been had up for assault and battery myself.

By now Robert had picked himself up, gathered his badly bleeding dog, examined his own thigh which showed a deep bite and, cursing Lorna and swearing to involve the police he went off.  Apparently, this was the second time the greyhound had attacked Robert’s dog. This story was quickly all over Valley’s End, with everybody taking Robert’s side.

Lorna is a mad woman, everybody says so. In the evening she came ringing my doorbell, ostensibly “to apologise for her friend screeching obscenities at me” but really to convince me that she ‘has never beaten a dog before’  - not true acc. to consensus around the village - and that Robert only got bitten because he came between his dog and the greyhound. Some excuse! The greyhound is out of order and needs muzzling and training, not beating. According to Lorna he ‘fully understands that he has done wrong and equally understands that’s why I beat him” .  Did I say she is generally considered to be mad? When I remonstrated with her, pointing out that animals do not reason, she calmly said 'we must agree to disagree’.

The greyhound is still roaming unmuzzled, Robert’s and his dog’s wounds are healing, incurring hefty vet’s bills and some painful treatment for Robert, and the police have indeed been involved. Robert is grateful ‘for all the support he has received in Valley’s End’ and Lorna is licking her wounds, still promising to all who want to listen that she will do everything to keep her dog under control. So far nothing has happened. The next fracas is only just around the corner with everybody saying “what if it's a child being attacked next time?”.

Yet More Rumaninations

An old acquaintance's funeral was held today and although I promised the person who told me of the death that I would present myself punctually at 2pm at St George’s I failed miserably to keep my promise. At 96 the friend was old indeed, his wife died several years ago and he had been in a nursing home for some time. I have yet to formulate a reasonably valid excuse; suffice it to say that it’s been a cold and miserably wet day, with snow and rain, the church itself is bitterly cold, there are always people in the congregation who are nursing winter chills and flu, apt to pass them on, funerals rarely do the deceased justice, and they are no longer on my list of must-attend occasions, particularly the formulaic Church dos, except in the case of people who matter to me. Call me what you like, weak-kneed, lazy, mean, selfish, all of those could apply.

Nowadays I find it hard to force myself to do things I don’t want to do. Perhaps I don’t try very hard? And I really, truly, definitely, do not mind if nobody comes to my funeral, which is going to be a very basic, simple and quiet affair.

In Victorian times things were very different; they shrouded grief in elaborate and complex rituals.

“The depth of the band on a man’s hat and  the width of a black border on a piece of writing paper indicated to the world the precise stage that mourning had reached. Whether this made sorrow any easier to bear is debatable. Perhaps all that can be said of these fashions in mourning is that their intricacy kept people occupied when they most needed to be and provided an elaborate facade behind which to conceal their sorrow.” (Debrett’s Etiquette)

Lately I have started to think of the future. It’s still very hazy and rather than making plans for what I might want to do, I have clearer ideas on what I certainly don’t want to happen: having lost the most important person in my life I do not want to replace him; there will never be an unconditionally welcoming space within friendly arms again, all I can hope for is a companionable hug from a male or female friend to say ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’. There are advantages to living on one’s own, i.e. without a co-habitee, house sharer or lodger. We cannot know what the future holds but I prefer not to have my space invaded, I prefer to be without a dependent being, or someone who tries to look into my mind and soul. I do not want to be disturbed or disarranged, and I do not want to be a caregiver again. I have brought up two children, taken care of my parents in their final years in different ways and looked after and cared for Beloved’s every need in his last year. I tell myself that I would love to be able to take care of him still, but I am not sure how keen I would be as his illness and confusion progressed into total disability. As it would have done had he lived. I miss him dreadfully, but maybe ten months later I see him more as the man he was before he fell ill.

Today I can make up my mind about what I want to do and when and how and why I want to do it. I don’t need to make compromises, I can arrange every day as I want it. Not an unalloyed pleasure, of course, it is a privilege which could easily bring loneliness and boredom and a descent into self-absorption. One can have too much of a good thing, as they say. I expect with time will come a way of finding activities that will fill the empty space.

I am not done with mourning. Strangely, grieving for Beloved has stirred up the pain of old losses. I find myself missing my parents all over again, thinking of them and their way of departing this world; I am even mourning the loss of my home country, something I have only ever done in the shape of temporary Heimweh. (Home sickness is not entirely the same) I also mourn the loss of my daughter who is alive and well, but lost to me all the same. I mourn my callow youth, the loss of friends here and in the old country and I mourn opportunities I missed and roads I have not taken.

Perhaps, with grief not as deadening and all-encompassing as it was, with finally accepting Beloved’s death and learning to come to terms with it, a period of calm reflection will bring relief and renewed hope for a bearable future. Darkest winter must turn to spring eventually.

More Ruminations

Goodness gracious, how lovely to see so many of you return to this tardy blog; it made me feel all warm and wanted. Thank you so much. I shall pick myself up and start visiting and commenting too; what a community we are!

One thing I’m glad about is that I stayed in our house, now just mine. At first I felt that I should move as soon as possible, telling myself that the house is too big, the garden is too big, it’s too empty, too lonely, too isolated. When your partner or anyone else you love dearly falls terminally ill and dies you feel helpless, hopeless. There is nothing you can do to regain control. So you grab at anything that makes you feel in control; moving home being one such undertaking. Rearrange the externals and you’re back in charge. Except you’re not. Less than ever, because now you have upped anchor and lost everything that gives you a grounding, the comfort of the familiar. In my case common sense prevailed, or perhaps it was just lethargy, cowardice, fear of the unknown. Anyway, I am still here and likely to stay here, who knows for how long. Somehow, Beloved is all around me, literally so, of course. I have made a small memorial garden for him with a bench, where I can sit and talk to him. It’s snowdrop time, his long drawn out dying time, has been since Christmas, when the first little bells poked their heads out of the muddy, at times snowy, then again frozen, ground. Once they have faded I shall dig up a clump and plant them in ‘his’ patch, awaiting all future anniversaries of his death.

The problem is that there is work to be done to the house, nothing major, just some painting and maybe rearranging rooms, deciding whether to live downstairs and upstairs or just downstairs, changing a downstairs room into a bedroom. This makes it sound rather grand but it isn’t, it’s just that the original owner of this house, who built it to suit her needs, more or less built two bungalows on top of each other, making it easy to divide the house.

So, what to do? When I asked a friend, idly speculating that perhaps I am too old to go in for great redecorating schemes - the usual thing: is it worth it? will I have the time to enjoy it? how long will I be able to stay? - he recalled an anecdote. ‘Two clergymen met. One of them was wearing a suit which had clearly seen better days, looking rather frayed round the edges. “Thing is, do I bother to buy a new one at my age,” the wearer asked his friend. “Buy a new suit?” his friend replied. “I don’t even buy green bananas.”

The story cheered me up no end. I used to tell Mum to go ahead and treat herself to anything she fancied, no matter how short the time to enjoy it. Now I myself am the kind of ditherer who can’t make up her mind because it might not be ‘cost-effective’. (Sorry about the word, I don’t really speak in such terms, just couldn’t think of anything more apt for our mercenary times.)

Talking of cheering myself up: I have seen a bereavement counsellor who let me talk for an hour, singing Beloved’s praises and going back over the wonderful thirty years we had together. Although close to tears at times it made me realise how very fortunate we were and what wonderful memories I  have. A whole treasure chest of them. I will see her again. Talking really is the best cure for me. My step-daughter recommended that I write to Beloved, a kind of daily diary, I may yet do that too, although I prefer to talk to him.

Another coping mechanism is increasing physical activity, releasing endorphins, happy hormones. "any of a group of hormones secreted within the brain and nervous system and having a number of physiological functions. They are peptides which activate the body's opiate receptors, causing an analgesic effect.” My doctor came up with that one when I consulted her about depression. So now I go to the gym and enjoy it greatly. I do exercises, pound (or rather went from shamble via amble to walk) the treadmill, cycle on a beautiful stand bike  and will be doing weights and other infernal machines by and by, as soon as my personal instructor gives the green light. I have to be careful because of the heart condition which is otherwise fully under control.

Eating chocolate and/or falling in love also produce endorphins; I’ve tried the chocolate cure with great enthusiasm but that had rather sad side effects for my hips. And unless you can show me a sweet kitten or puppy I shall probably never fall in love again.  

Picking Up and Moving On . . .

. . . starting with a visit to the Royal Shakespeare Company’s production of Marlowe’s play 'Dido Queen of Carthage’ which is based on Virgil’s Aeneid. It is a play of intense human passions.

SYNOPSIS
Fleeing a war-torn Troy, Aeneas is a refugee seeking new roots and a new identity in Europe. Queen Dido is ready to help him when meddling Gods intervene and turn help into an all-consuming love.

The goddess Venus complains that Jupiter has been neglecting her son Aeneas, who has been lost in a storm on his way to found a new Troy in Italy. Jupiter calms the storm, allowing Aeneas to land safely on the North African coast.

Aeneas meets with other surviving Trojans who have been receiving hospitality from Dido, Queen of Carthage. When Aeneas meets Dido, she agrees to supply his ships and he tells her about the fall of Troy.

In order to keep Aeneas safe Venus sends Cupid to make Dido fall in love with Aeneas to stop him resuming the dangerous mission to Italy. Venus and Juno come together to create a storm, forcing Dido and Aeneas into a cave together. There, they declare their feelings for each other and consummate their love.

Meanwhile, preparations are made for the Trojans to depart for Italy. Dido removes the sails from the ships so that they cannot go, although Aeneas denies intending to leave. Dido announces that he will be king of Carthage and they decide to found the new Troy there instead.

Hermes informs Aeneas that he has no choice but to leave as his destiny is in Italy. Aeneas reluctantly agrees and goes to tell Dido. She is horrified and burns everything that reminds her of him. Heartbroken, Dido takes fate into her own hands and kills herself while Aeneas’ s fleet, with him on board, sails for Italy.

I enjoyed the outing very much. No matter how convenient and stress-free live streaming to local cinemas is, a live performance, on stage, in Stratford-upon-Avon, is always a special occasion. There’s nothing like the buzz you get from the collective anticipation of a theatre filled to capacity.
My friends and I have already booked tickets for a series of plays starting from January. Additional excitement will be added to the trips by spotting that we were passing a branch of my favourite supermarket in a town on the way. We stopped on the way home and I indulged in some unnecessary and excessive food shopping, mostly treats and luxuries. OK, so I added a few vegetables to my cart for virtue.

There you are, something to look forward to.

Social life is picking up. I wonder if people round here are psychic? Or perhaps I am giving off more receptive vibes? For the past few weeks I have been very aware of the fact that my loneliness is always more intense at weekends. Beloved and I made something of them and sitting at the table in solitary state, no matter how tempting the food or palatable the wine, there’s none of the warmth of two people in perfect harmony sharing a meal. So I am glad to report that I have a Sunday luncheon invitation for tomorrow! I had an invitation to supper last night and last Sunday I had two invitations: one to drinks before lunch and one to lunch, at  two different houses. I will accept every invitation coming my way even those I might have turned down previously. On two occasions recently I met with people whom I liked very much, one of them a brand new acquaintance. Perhaps I’ll write about them presently.

It looks like life might be returning. In one of my prolonged bouts of sitting on the second from bottom step of the stairs in the hall after returning home from a walk with Millie I’ve been asking myself where I think my life might be going. Who am I, now that I am alone? I never did identify myself by my relationship with other people, i.e. wife/mother/grandmother. With Beloved gone there is now nobody who depends on me and, for the time being, I do not depend on anyone either. The latter will eventually change, of course, if I am unlucky. Decrepitude comes to us all in the end. Sans Eyes, sans Teeth, sans Taste, sans Everything, as Shakespeare has it. But not yet.

Finally, the relationship with my daughter has broken down again, for good I think. She won’t say why. Marlowe has a wonderful line spoken by Aeneas to his friend and fellow Trojan about his disappearing mother, Venus:

Stay gentle Venus fly not from thy son

too cruel! why wilt thou forsake me thus?

or in these shades deceiv’st mine eyes so oft?

why talk we not together hand in hand,

and tell our griefs in more familiar terms?

But thou art gone and leav’st me here alone,

to dull the air with my discursive moan.

Strikes me it works the other way round too. Or for anyone left by someone they love. Whichever way, in life or in death.

If I come up with an answer as to how I see my remaining years go I’ll let you know. Does anyone out there ask themselves a similar question?