Wednesday’s fortuitous facial with a sneeze thrown in.

Image Wikia - Miss Piggy

No small pleasure this, more a great bit of luck: Helen, the beautician, rang to say she had a cancellation and did I want to make use of it, my original appointment having fallen through. I’m always happy to have a shave and some hot towels applied to my face, I’ll even put up with a massage and a mask, and today’s treatment was a joy, as always. 

Something in one of the products she used made me sneeze; as this would be a very meagre little post otherwise, I’ll add some wisdom which might come in useful during the winter months:

“Concerning Sternutation or Sneezing, and the custom of saluting or blessing upon that motion, it is pretended and generally believed to derive its original from a disease wherein Sternutation proved fatal, and such as Sneezed died . . . . Yet Sneezing being properly a motion of the brain, suddenly expelling through the nostrils what is offensive to it, it cannot but afford some evidence of mental vigour. Sir Thomas Browne 1646

Another bit of luck: I met no one on a three mile stretch of very narrow country lane, with both edges muddy and deeply rutted; I’d have had a heck of a job to get out of the way of another vehicle, particularly if that vehicle had been a tractor.

(Only day 2 of my positive thinking week and I’m already scratching around in the mud for material).

The Eye of the Beholder

It is almost too late in the season to sing the praises of one of my favourite wild flowers, the humble cow parsley. For nearly all of May most country lanes and hedgerows are edged with the frothy white blooms of Anthriscus sylvestris. The scent is unmistakable. Some of the paths I wander daily are only just wide enough for Millie and I must wade through the narrow opening between the mass of silken stems as if were swimming in a green sea.

Cow parsley has many names, among them adder’s meat, bad man’s oatmeal, Spanish lace, kex, Mummie die, Grandpa’s pepper; my favourite is the one Beloved called it when the two of us first tramped the country lanes of South East England many years ago,  Queen Anne’s lace. There is a lovely story about Queen Anne, who suffered from asthma, and her ladies coming out into the meadows and fields around Kensington to get fresher air. As they walked along in spring sunshine, they carried their lace pillows and made lace. The flowering cow parsley resembled the court ladies’ lace patterns, and so the country folk began to call it Queen Anne’s lace. It is a pretty tale, albeit too pretty to be truth.

The garden is bursting its seams, self seeders (volunteers) and deliberately chosen herbaceous plants vie for space with each other. For the moment there is ‘Lebensraum’ for all; the shrubs are still young and haven’t yet reached their final seasonal height and width; for the moment all-comers are welcome, particularly if they are as pretty as the wild geranium, which has insinuated itself amongst purple aubrieta. Wouldn’t this arrangement make a splendid wallpaper? Or rug?

How do plants know what sets them off best, which neighbours to choose to dazzle the eye of the beholder? Or is it that in nature nothing ever clashes as it does in artifice? I have seen pink, deep red and purple colours close together in a flower bed and admired the audacity of the wearers but I’d never dream of matching these colours in fashion, say, or room furnishings. Perhaps I am just not brave enough and too easily guided by the taste of the moment.

Old Gardener came today and we worked all morning. Neither of us lasted the full four hours. I noticed several times that Gardener sneaked a crafty sit-down on a wall and once on a bench. When he saw me looking his way he started to pull up weeds growing underneath. Poor man, I know only too well that the spirit may be willing but that the flesh is getting increasingly weak. Neither of us is as young as we once were.

Not so much Wordless (Wednesday)

as speechless.

This is a picture of the clock tower in the little Welsh market town of Knighton, just over the border from Valley’s End.

Speechless might not be a suitable word either, for the good burghers of Knighton have had plenty to say since it’s become known that a new inhabitant of the peaceful town has made an official complaint about the clock, under noise nuisance regulations.  Every fifteen minutes, day and night, there’s a ding, and a dong, and a ding dong, just like it’s been for 142 years. “It may be an irritating clock”, the townsfolk say, “but it’s our irritating clock.  Besides, you soon stop hearing it going on about its lawful business; and we’d all miss it if it weren’t there any more. It’s part of our heritage.”

God help those who interfere with tradition in a sleepy, openly old-fashioned, slightly batty Welsh market town, which has a fair sprinkling of ex hippies, poetry and violin and book group lovers and a flourishing young farmer’s drama society.

The new inhabitant is a writer from Ireland. She has bought a large house in the square and opened a B&B for nervous writers who need a retreat to concentrate on their muse and whose delicate sensibilities suffer from the noise a clock makes.  Did it seriously not occur to her, that the chiming clock tower, that is barely 20 yards from her window, might be a slight drawback? It’s not as though she can’t have noticed it, what with the thing going off every 15 minutes, night and day. And walking up and down the high street to the ‘narrows’ , that warren of small streets and higgledy-piggledy houses on the border of which the writer’s house stands, you have to step sideways not to hit the tower. It’s large, it’s ugly, it’s unmissable, a typical Victorian monstrosity.

I went to see Helen in Knighton for a facial treatment this morning and this story was the first she told me. “It’s gone viral,” she said. It’s true, I’ve since googled ‘Knighton Clocktower’ and it’s all over the media. One thing’s for sure, whether the lady silences the clock or not, and I don’t believe she will, the Welsh are nothing if not bloody-minded, she’ll have had some very good publicity.

Advent Diary, day 5 - I’ve done it,

I’ve joined the ranks of the doddery, confused old ladies.
The ones with capacious bags, shawls and gloves and a head like a sieve.

I went for a hair cut today. It was a bitterly cold day with very strong winds and I shuttled up and down the high street as fast as I could. Perhaps that’s why I couldn’t find the Post Office on the way there. Actually, they’d moved it since the last time I went. Would you believe they’d hidden it in the back of the Boar’s Head ? They’re doing it to confuse old dears like me, I’m sure.

Much worse is what happened after the hair cut:  I left the salon, coat done up to the neck and scarf wound round head and shoulders, spoiling my fresh hairdo instantly. Half way down the high street I thought my face felt funny, something was missing.  I turned round and went back into the salon.
The girls looked up from the heads they were beautifying.

“Did I leave my glasses behind”, I asked, slightly shaky and unsteady from being buffeted by the wind. "I can’t see a lot without them. Or perhaps they’re in my bag?” I upended my large handbag and rummaged around in the contents, now piled on the waiting area sofa.

“Which glasses do you mean,” Justine asked, looking round for them, then looking back at me.

“You’re wearing them.”

Where was I . . . . .

Anyone for Hopscotch?

Make sure you don’t step on the cracks.

The crops are in, the hay is in, the fields round about look

smooth and neat and tidy, ready for winter sowing.

o-o-o-

Apparently Egypt is a very cheap holiday destination at the moment. I wonder why? 

I had my face scraped and plastered and de-fuzzed this morning and the delightful beautician lady was all in a flutter. “We’re off on holiday”, she said, - dramatic pause - “to Egypt.” As I was recumbent on her treatment couch, my jaw didn’t have far to drop.

“Bryn decided he needed a holiday, right now, somewhere warm and cheap; I haven’t slept ever since he told me.” Helen giggled manically. “A lot of my clients have just come back from Egypt - is the Knighton estate agent getting commission ? - and they’re all saying how wonderful it is at the moment. We’re going nowhere near Cairo, of course. The tourist industry is desperate to get going again and hotels can’t do enough to attract guests.”  Yes, they are taking the kids.

Happy holidays, Helen; tell me about it when you get back. 

o-o-o

Next stop back in England, (Knighton is over the border in Wales) to the little town down the road and the hairdresser’s salon. Once I’ve decided that refurbishment of the outer Friko can no longer be avoided I cram it all into the same day.  I used to have a massage as well, but the resulting palpitations put an end to that. Justine was waiting for me. “You’ve got an IPad”, she trilled after I’d sat down and dug it out of my bag. I usually read while I’m at the hairdresser’s but today we discovered our mutual fascination with all things Apple. Once that subject was exhausted, we talked about dogs; we both love them and like all dog lovers we competed madly and trumped each other’s stories about the intelligence and all-round superiority of “dogs we have owned".  (I know that cat lovers are no different).

o-o-o

And finally:

At the risk of my US readers hating me for ever: hasn’t Downton Abbey gone stupid? or rather, how stupid do the programme makers think we are? Every new strand of story line is hinted at, set up and executed with all the grace and subtlety of a duck dancing Swan Lake.

Autumn Cheer

Today is Michaelmas Day, and therefore a good day for getting rid of gremlins and bugbears and thorns in the flesh. (For those of you who don’t know such things, or haven’t got an Almanac handy on the shelf beside your computer, the Archangel Michael fought against Satan and his evil angels and cast them out of Paradise; hence my decision to cast out  Dark Days  and return to the brighter side of life.

I must also say how moved I was by the many kind and helpful replies I had, when I threw my weeping head on your collective bosom and nourishing crumbs of comfort promptly came my way. Thank you, dear all, your wise words have helped tremendously. Bless you.

It’s been a glorious day, the sun was at his most cheerful, bathing the hills around me in happy autumn tints. I’ll share a few of my discoveries with you by way of thanks and a general feeling of pleasure. I came across a man and his two collies, who has lived in Valley’s End for almost a year now. When I asked him if he liked it still, he said “Of course I do. Who wouldn’t.”

Can you see why he said that?

 I found a small clump of cyclamen in a hedge. Perhaps a bird dropped a seed 

and survival did the rest.

Seedheads are putting on a spectacular show at the moment.

There is beauty in nature at any time of the year’s cycle.

Smoke bush and willowherb form the most intricate patterns

and sunlight turns the tracery into spun gold.

The autumn garden isn’t half bad either.

Colours seem to be at their most intense just before dying.

(I know the physical reasons for this phenomenon,

just indulge my fancy and let me see something extraordinary

in the most ordinary course of the natural process.)

Somehow, today is special.

Blogger’s Drought

What a lot of blogging mileage there is in weather. Not only here at Friko’s but  on many blogs I visit. It’s weather all the way; it’s got to stop!

We’ve had the remains of the snow, now gone. Whenever I point my camera in the general direction of utterly insane Jay she grabs the opportunity to play the fool. So serve her right that I am actually putting her picture up. 

After the last of the snow we had the flood. Saturday evening Beloved and I very gingerly picked our way to dinner at Sally and Frank’s; drive and field were lethal with a mixture of deep, softening snow, frozen puddles and slippery mud. I was complaining all the way (all of the 250 metres it takes to get to their house) that I really didn’t want to go, that I’d much rather stay safe and warm at home and that people should show consideration for my advanced years and unsteady pins on a foul night like this.  Beloved didn’t take a blind bit of notice. Neither did Sally and Frank when we arrived at the same time as the other guests. The party turned out to be the best antidote for weather induced miseries; how glad I am, that in spite of being a compulsive moaner, I never let it stop me from going out.

This was at seven. When we finally managed to drag ourselves away reluctantly at midnight the snow was practically gone and we paddled home. The next morning the snow had turned into a flood.

Many appointments have had to be cancelled over the past weeks, not only because of the weather but also  because people have been poorly with the winter bugs that do the rounds at this time of year. When Helen rang this morning to say she had a slot for me, I dropped everything and drove over the border to Wales for an hour’s pampering. I believe I have my priorities just right. This is me under a mask. I always thought masks were white and chalky, but then I’ve never had my picture taken on the couch, mid-treament, before.

Sorry about another weather post, like I said, it has to stop, and it will, just as soon as I can think of something a little more interesting. How do you feel about a list of quotations?

Beauty Salon Blues

Image: Hair with Scissors

Good Housekeeping Magazine

'Hillary Clinton has gone back to nature',
somebody mentioned on a blog.
I forget where I saw it.
Perhaps it wasn't a blog,
perhaps a newspaper said it.
After all,
a woman's age and her appearance,
are always worthy of a snide remark.

I don't want to go back to nature,
my old face cannot take the weight of it.
The girls at the hairdresser's are young,
they look the part, beauticians,
polished, licked and smooth of face.
No beauties, though,
their faces emptied of intelligence and humour
by artifice;
boyfriends and babies, last night's reality tv,
are topics of their conversation.

My temporary girl,
a raven's plumage on her head, pink cheeks,
a missing chin and vacant eyes,
attempts to turn my rat's tails into a Roman helmet,
while what I wanted was a simple, quite old-fashioned 'bob'.
Highlights and lowlights she can manage,
my grey is nicely hidden,
but while she cuts and snips and layers,
her blank gaze swivels from my head,
as if controlled by magnets,
to moving shapes beyond the windows,
huddled against the rain,
and I resign myself to being made to look like
someone other than myself.

The mirror she holds up confirms my fears,
my head is smooth and shiny, the helmet fixed in place.
She smiles at me, 'that's better'.  I nod weakly.
I pay her, tip her (why, she hardly even tried to please me).
'Five weeks' ?, she asks.
I gather all my courage, ask 'when will my girl be back'?
I feel so mean, I hesitate, not wishing to offend her.
'Not for a while', she says, her face fixed on the pages of the diary.
'What is a while' I ask, a little braver now.
'A long whi-yelle' she says, two syllables, the emphasis on 'yelle'.

I slip my card into its slot, and close my diary.
'I'll ring you, round about five weeks', I say.
A coward to the end.
Go back to nature? Maybe a thought to bear in mind.

Beauty Treatment

Facial Mask  -  Wikipedia






Hello, come in, how are you?

I'll be with you in half a mo. Hop on.

There we are, is this comfortable?

Are you warm enough? We don't really need the towels, do we?

She wipes my eyebrows, then proceeds to pluck them.

That's fine, not a lot today.

She puts on eyebrow tint.

We'll let this sit for a minute.

That's fine, all done.

I'll just lower the couch and switch off the big light.

A narrow towel is wrapped around my hair. I shuffle about a bit on the couch, making myself comfortable. I relax and close my eyes. The process of deep cleansing begins. Cool, small, deft fingers wipe the last vestiges of tension from my eyes.

Ah, avocado and ginseng today, smells good enough to eat.

I'd better pop into the greengrocers on the way home, 
we could do with some fresh veg, some carrots, broccoli and maybe an avocado or two for  salad. 
There's enough time to prepare a salad lunch. 
I don't suppose Beloved has remembered to get bread out of the freezer; 
a French roll shouldn't take too long to defrost.


Flat palms and fingertips smooth and massage a layer of cleansing cream into face and neck.

Has she got my collar tucked in safely? 
Shouldn't have put a clean shirt on before coming here. 
Some of the cream is bound to rub off.  
It's a question of doing just the centre or going in deep and messing up my shirt. 
Too late now to take it off. 
The ironing, oh hell, did I remember to switch the iron off? 
I must have done. 
Will Beloved notice? Probably not. 


Men! 

The massage proper is starting. Fifteen minutes of sheer bliss. I snuggle deeper into the soft couch. Experienced hands perform a dance of repetitive movements across my face, under my chin, around the eye sockets, circling and stroking and patting and drumming.

I drift off.


Ah, lovely, more please, more.

.I wonder if that boy is going to be any good while Gardener is away. 
He looked a bit like he was borderline Down's. 
Funny that he should bring his Mum along. 
Why do they marry their cousins round here? 
Down's is nothing to do with in-breeding, or is it? 
Must get started on the Larsson trilogy soon, 
Damn blogging, I don't read enough since I've started. 
Lots of my favourite bloggers seem to be away at the moment. 
Wonder how Suze is getting on with her sister. 
And Debs, haven't heard from her for ages. 
At least my favourite Edwardians are still around.
Would that Amnesty tea party make a post?
Perhaps a bit too fragmented? 
And personal?
Sally hasn't confirmed Andrew's birthday do yet; 
if she leaves it much longer there'll be something else in the diary. 
Hope she can arrange for a car and driver for all of us; 
a party without drink ? No thanks.
God, I still haven't been to see Audrey, I am such a cow, always promising to visit and never going. 
Poor Audrey, she can't help going ga-ga.  
Everybody is getting so damn old. 
Is it poetry on Thursday? 
I must find a couple of poems on birds. 
The others are bound to bring the Romantics, 
I'll have to look out some new poets, 
shock them out of their cosy complacency. 
God, I am a cow. 
Always stirring things up. 
Why can't I leave people be? 
Why must they be so boring?


No don't stop, Pleeeeaaase.

The massage is finished. Similar movements continue for another two minutes, this time to remove the massage cream, using cleanser and witchhazel.

It's time for the mask: a balancing mask for the 'T' zone, (forehead, nose, chin) containing kaolin and peach kernel. A soothing mask for cheeks and neck, containing aloe vera. This is the part where I usually doze off for 5 minutes. Witchhazel pads on my eyes mean that I couldn't open them even if I wanted. I don't. If I allowed myself to feel embarrassed, now would be the time. I don't.

The beautician tells me what she does with each new process, otherwise there is silence; there is the faintest hint of Classics For The Retarded in the background, played on an instrument which sounds like a harp for a web-fingered dwarf; I have no difficulty shutting the sound out altogether.  Perhaps I'm snoring.

Five minutes later and the idyll is over. The mask comes off, the beautician rubs at my face, hard. No more 'Miss Nice Guy'. A cleansing cream takes the last bits of plaster off, the big light comes back on,  and the pore police appears on the scene. Any remaining criminal blockage is attacked mercilessly by means of a metal squeezing tool, probably invented during the Spanish Inquisition;  the beautician's face is now so close to mine that I feel claustrophobia coming on.

Ouch! That hurt!

She slaps witchhazel all over my face, it feels very cold on my warm skin and I wake up fully. She pads me dry and her fingertips follow with a very thin layer of moisturiser to finish the job. The towel comes off. She hands me a mirror and picks up her diary.

Lovely. All done. Your skin feels gorgeous, so soft.

Three weeks?