Wouldn’t you know, Man proposes

and God disposes. Whether it’s God, Fate or more likely, Sod’s Law*, sometimes you just cannot get past the obstacles in your way.

It takes me a great effort nowadays to motivate myself to drive to Ludlow, my county town, for a bit of comfort shopping and running a few errands. I was going to pop into a supermarket on the way for an urgently needed large bag of oats for my homemade muesli and a few self-indulgent goodies at the Ludlow Farmshop like posh pies and pickled herring. In Ludlow itself the Chocolate Gourmet was beckoning, as well as more mundane shops. So, there I was, having tricked Millie into submission (i.e. not queuing at the front door to be taken along) by generously sliding a few biscuits towards her in the kitchen and set off. I got as far as the cattle grid to the road when the knocking started, a hard knocking sound, getting louder and more insistent as I accelerated. Knowing nothing at all about the innards of cars I tend to get scared quickly. By the time I reached the outskirts of Valley’s End, less than a mile from home, the knocking was freaking me out and, after having stopped at the surgery to drop off a prescription for my next batch of medication, I turned tail and car and made for home again. I rang the mechanic. No reply. No call back. I imagine he’s on holiday. The car has sat in front of the house ever since Monday morning a week ago. I will try to get hold of him tomorrow.

The weather had been rather good the latter part of last week. Saturday, I decided to do a couple of weeks’ wash, there just isn’t enough to do a full load of anything per week now. Three loads I collected, bedding, towels, smalls, etc., dark and lights, which I wash separately. I don’t own a dryer, I prefer an outside line. I had just put the first two loads out on the whirlywizzer (rotary washing line) when clouds came up. By the time the third load was rinsing the rain started in earnest; I rushed to take everything down again and loaded several freestanding indoor dryers which I set up in the conservatory. Botheration! Had I known the outcome I’d never have attempted three loads.

You know that Millie is very old and now she has become incontinent. Up to very recently she has slept in my bedroom at night; again, until recently, she managed to wake me in time to rush downstairs and let her out. Several times lately she has not managed to get out in time and presented me with the signs of her incontinence. Dog poo, in other words. Dog poo on the carpet, a heck of a job to remove and clean. It got so bad that I kept waking up in fear of her needing to get out and me not realising in time, hardly sleeping at all. So then I decided that she had better stay downstairs at night, shut in kitchen and scullery, two fair-sized rooms with hard floors, quite sufficient for a sleeping dog. She had her bed. She didn’t seem to mind. Or maybe she is just too confused. All was fine for a few days and then, bingo, lots of presents in both rooms, from tiny little spatters to solid matter. (Too much information?) So now I spend the first half hour of every day picking up, disinfecting and washing the floors. It’s not as if she didn’t have the opportunity to go out in the evening, the back door is wide open until I go to bed at 11 or later. She’s fine and continent during the day, why not at night? I think I may have to leave the door open all night during the warm weather. Poor sweet Millie, she is still such a darling, she can’t help it. I cannot bring myself to do anything drastic just yet but my ideas on how to deal with this problem have dried up. If only she would dry up too.


*Sod’s Law is the axiom that “if something can go wrong, it will", with the further addendum, in British culture, borrowed from Finagle's law, that it will happen at "the worst possible time". This may simply be construed, again in British culture, as "hope for the best, expect the worst"

Disposal, Acquisition, the Kindness of Family and Humbuggery

My son’s 4monthly visit was due after Easter and being the dutiful man he is he came, staying for one full day and two halves either side, an improvement on his plan of driving up one day and leaving the next. I wonder if he and his wife remind each other that it's  'that time of year' again , time to go and see the old dear, see how she’s doing and if she needs any kind of assistance. I persuaded him that two half days just didn’t get anything done, particularly as I wanted to spend the middle day in the nearby county town for some much needed shopping and a number of errands which had been queuing up for a good six months.

Once upon a time I’d have been looking forward to an exciting family visit, with meals in restaurants and all sorts of walks and outings. Last week we did what we always now do on these occasions, we filled a carboot with bags of junk and garden waste for the municipal dump.  Nowadays excitement comes from chucking large and small items into huge containers and mountains of general waste through a giant window. There was a time when pleasure came not from disposing of things but acquiring them; how times change.

Still, on the in-between-day I did some acquiring too, mainly smalls. (Underwear for those of you who don’t know the term) Once a year I go to a particular, well-respected and straight-laced old ladies’ store to replace knickers, camisoles, pyjamas, socks, etc., everybody goes there for their underwear, even young ladies. In days gone by replacing ordinary smalls was a boring chore, now it’s the highlight of a shopping trip. I was in need of a fairly extensive order, there hadn’t been a chance to go to Shrewsbury for a good year, so I filled a few bags. A strong man to accompany me was a really good investment, he carried all the bags and trooped from shop to shop with me like the patient and kind soul he is. By the end of the day my back was pretty sore and I was leaning forward quite painfully. My son also drove me, another wonderful circumstance, I was in pain and so tired at the end of the outing that I was enormously glad not to have to concentrate on driving for an hour. When I am well I can manage to drive myself to Shrewsbury for a shopping trip with no problem but not when I am as crook as I’ve been for a good year now.

I have seen a physiotherapist who has given me a list of exercises to do. She examined my back and exclaimed :”nothing moves at all, everything is locked in.” The exercises are fairly light for now, mustn’t cause a new spasm in the lower back, and I sincerely hope they’ll help loosen me up and get me fully upright again. Apparently these things take time, older people do not recover as easily as young ones. I think there is a small improvement already after a week. I also went back to the gym for the first time in weeks today.

I experienced a couple of cons recently, one of them during the shopping trip. Sometimes I wear Beloved’s watch, which needed a new battery. A smooth, be-suited, highly groomed and politely spoken salesman said :”Yes, Madam, we can do that. What we do is charge you £20 for which you get a ten year guarantee, for ten years we replace the battery free of charge.” On the face of it a reasonable deal, you might say. But it’s an average watch, nothing fancy, will it last another 10 years? Will the shop still be there - so many shops disappear from High Streets all over the country almost overnight. And will I remember about the guarantee from year to year? Up to now a battery replacement cost no more than £10 and less in some jewellers. But I was tired and although I recognised the con and even said “I might not live for another ten years”, I went along with it. I sincerely hope that for them it turns out to be a bad deal and that I will indeed go back once a year or so to have them replace the battery.

The other con was really much worse because it was almost fraudulent. Drivers need to renew their licences on reaching 70 years of age. I had a letter from the relevant government department telling me to do so and emphasising that it could be done quickly and easily via the internet. “Just fill in the questionnaire and we’ll send your new licence.” said the government website. Keen to save time and effort - letters need to be carried to the post office - I had duly filled in the questionnaire when I came to an abrupt stop. In enhanced capital letters across the middle of the page it read “PAY NOW” £70.”

Underneath this demand there was a very small paragraph saying that the government department has nothing whatsoever to do with the people making the demand, but that these people check over the answers and expedite the application process. UTTER RUBBISH. Applying for a new licence is free, the applicant will receive it within 2 weeks and, in any case, can continue to drive until then. A prime example of outsourcing that beats all. And it’s not even necessary! I wonder how many people fall for it, after all, it is a government department which deals with driving licences  and one should trust them, shouldn’t one?

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.

The Significance of Giving

Did you leave your boots out last night for Sankt Nikolaus to fill with presents from the sack he carried over his shoulders as he roamed the lands in search of good children?  If you have been good since he last came this night a year ago I am sure he didn’t forget you.

Over the blog years I have mentioned the myth and mystery of the legend of Bishop Nicholas The Miracle Worker several times, this link will take you to a story of what happened one Sankt Nikolaus eve in our family.

Today, Nicholas, in the guise of Santa Claus, is the Bringer of Presents rather than the Miracle Worker. Christmas is just around the corner and the orgy of shopping and giving continues. We give throughout the year, of course, always have done, since time immemorial. I bet the first caveman worked a tiger’s tooth to present his inamorata with a trinket to adorn herself.  Giving has been an important part of mankind’s history, an opportunity to show our love, respect and affection for those we hold dear. Psychologically, it appears that the giver often benefits more from the act of giving than the recipient.

"Have you done your Christmas shopping? I’m all finished already, I usually start in October and by the beginning of December I only have a few trifles left to get.”  This statement is not at all an unusual one, it’s a sort of rite of passage to differentiate between the efficient, grown up ones, and those who leave everything until the last minute. Which hat fits you?

More and more I come across a small, but growing, minority of people who feel uncomfortable about our habit of splurging and dishing out often thoughtless, meaningless, unwanted tat. These people make donations to charity, both in their own name as well as the recipient's name. I can’t see a child being terrifically happy when told: "the money for your present went towards a bed for a homeless child,  a donkey sanctuary in Transylvania, to feed a family of four over Christmas. Maybe the child would feel a warm glow momentarily, but the lack of a present would be felt much more keenly.

There are people who make a present of their time at Christmas, working in homeless shelters which take in rough sleepers over the holidays. I have the greatest respect for them and their selflessness. They are not always people who themselves are on their own, I have been told that whole families derive great pleasure from such an act of kindness.

And giving for the sake of receiving is always wrong. We have a saying on the Lower Rhine which goes: “if you throw a sausage to gain a side of bacon you may be a good reckoner but you have no idea what giving means.

Giving presents can be a vexed business. My Dad used to say, year after year, “just a small token of appreciation will do, nothing fancy, nothing ostentatious, nothing grand or expensive.” Poor man, that is exactly what he got, a pouch of tobacco, some cigars, socks, a bottle of Schnapps. I believe he was happy. Besides, in the early postwar years we had no money to buy anything that wasn’t absolutely useful and none the worse for that.

Ephraim Kishon tells the tragicomic story of a spoilt young couple who swore to each other that they would not, would NOT, give each other Christmas presents. Come Christmas Eve they both unpacked   great piles of the most glitteringly expensive gifts. Both had deeply expected the other to break their promise, neither had been able to bear the tension of not-giving - giving in a purely material sense.

I am not Scrooge, I am pro-giving, in a small way. Giving is symbolic. It stands for thoughtfulness, solidarity, affection, closeness, friendship, love. Even a friendly smile, a kind word, an offer of help, a listening ear are gifts worth giving. If anybody wants to add a book and a box of chocolates I will happily accept them.

Shadows of One Sort and Another

I was quite pleased with myself last week. There are few weeks when I can sidestep the black hole altogether, and keeping a black cock hatched in March as a protection against evil spirits - it is said they are terrified of his crowing - isn’t on the cards as I don’t keep chickens, so feeling good about myself and the world around me was surprisingly pleasant. I must try it more often. This week started a little less bright but at least the weather wasn’t all bad. Afternoon sun threw shadows across the field, and the river sparkled. Paul and I chucked a couple of hours' work at the garden too, another first for the year. I’ll get those pesky endorphins moving yet. In fact, I’d better. A winter of sitting on the sofa reading books and eating chocolate has done my shape no favours at all. I got on the scales the other day and took a quick look over my shoulder to see if anybody behind me was putting a foot on; but no, it was all me. A lot of me.

The reason I was feeling proud of myself last week was a very simple one: I rediscovered the joys of going outside my comfort zone. In a previous existence I depended on no one but myself for everything, child raising, money earning, household keeping etc. All the obligations of adulthood landed on my shoulders. Not a state of being I’d wholeheartedly recommend. With Beloved it all changed; the children had grown up and left - that blissful state all of you whining about empty nest syndrome will one day come to appreciate - and I became not only a kept woman but one who found a solid presence beside her at all times. 

And now that solid presence isn’t quite as solid as it was and I am having to relearn being the one who not only does, but also makes a lot of the decisions to do what, when, where and how. It happens. Take driving to town and going shopping. Any kind of driving, in fact. Beloved didn’t feel like coming  along, so I went off by myself.

“I am a bus virgin”, I said to the uniformed driver of indeterminate gender, as I stepped on board the ‘park-and-ride’ in the county town - s/he had a kind of curly halo of dark hair and I didn’t want to stare - “please tell me how this works.” I always find people are willing to teach you anything provided you act dumb and ask nicely. 

Shrewsbury is a lovely town, with steep lanes and smart little shops. Once I’d completed the main errand, collecting a watch from the jewellers’, I decided to roam. I bought some new undies, a lipstick, some smart notepads, a few tasty treats at the delicatessen’s and made various other totally unnecessary purchases, only limited by having to carry them to the ‘park-and-ride’ which would take me to the car park on the edge of town, the supermarket for boring groceries, and thence the hour's drive back home to Valley’s End. 

It was nothing, most of you do this daily, but I’ve been leading my life in tandem for many years now and going it alone is a whole new, slightly scary but not unpleasant, departure. Throughout the week I kept up this determination to step out of the twosome. We had dinner guests, a meal which I planned, shopped for and cooked - something usually goes wrong, this time I burnt the roasted vegetables. Prof. Tony was kind enough to say that he preferred his vegetables crispy - ; I drove us to a theatre one night, only a short journey, but I’ve been avoiding night driving for a long time;  going to a restaurant on my own was something I did all the time years ago, now I am doing that again too. Beloved will still accompany me on many outings but sometimes he feels the effort is too much and not worth it.

The shadow of old age encroaching on daily life is something we must all face eventually, but it needn’t be the death knell of all endeavour, singly or jointly.

SHORTS: Bad Temper

The old couple were second in the supermarket queue. It wasn’t a long queue and the young man at the till moved items across his scanner with admirable skill and dexterity. Watching him, she idly listened to the chat between him and the customer ahead of her; they were smiling and obviously in good spirits.

Then it was the old couple’s turn.

“Hello there, how are you today?”
“Not particularly happy, I hate shopping,” the woman said, filling her bags.
“I’m with you there, I don’t like it either,” the cashier replied.
The woman laughed. “How refreshing to hear you say that,” she said.
They giggled; the man looked on grumpily.

Shopper and cashier continued their good-natured banter until the trolley was emptied, the bags packed, the bill paid and a receipt handed over.

As she turned to leave, she said to the still smiling cashier, “Thank you very much, it’s been a pleasure.”
“Not at all,” he said, “glad to be of help. Might as well make the best of a tedious job. See you soon.”

As the couple left I heard the old man say: “ I wonder what HE was ON.”

Grumpy old git.

Is it over yet?

No, not quite,

go back to sleep for a bit longer.

It’s Boxing Day (St. Stephen’s Day) - on this day tradesmen, servants and children went ‘Boxing’,  soliciting gifts and tips from householders they had served during the year. The tips were put into slitted, earthenware ‘Christmas Boxes’.

When Boxing Day comes round again

O then I shall have money.

I’ll hoard it up and Box and all

I’ll give it to my honey.

or, more likely,

I’ll take it all to the shops.

It’s the first day of the post-Christmas Sales,

and  some people were queuing to be first into the shop at midnight!

Advent Diary, day 13 - Pre-Christmas Rant

There I was, thinking I would manage to post every day during the 24 days of Advent; okay then, I admit defeat. Who was it who said “the best laid plans of mice and men go oft a-gley”, or similar? At least my punishment is not grief and pain, just feeling a bit sheepish. I really admire bloggers who post more or less daily, particularly those who write about more than their daily routines.

We’ve been shopping, ordinary household shopping as well as Christmas shopping. I hate it. I have yet to meet anybody who has a good word to say for the pre-Christmas mania which seems to overcome a goodly portion of the population. For heavens' sakes, people, the shops will only be closed for 2 days max., and how much can you eat at one or two meals anyway? I am getting too old for pushing through crowds or standing in long queues, waiting for my turn at the check-out. Too old, too impatient, too cross, too cranky.

An added irritation is the canned music. Tinny Christmas songs on a loop, over and over. I stood in line, fuming, mouthing “Oh, shut up already” and glowering at people who were singing along. The proverbial old witch killing the Christmas spirit.

The only kind of shopping I can bear at the moment is the posh, expensive kind; small speciality shops where the customer chooses with care and baskets hold just a few items - you couldn’t afford to buy more - patisseries, hand made chocolate shops, smokeries for smoked fish and meat delicacies, a delicatessen, a cheese shop, a wine merchant. I love foodie treats. Ludlow, our local market town, is a foodie Mecca, a genuine slow-food-city, which still offers a choice between mass-produced and artisan-sourced goods.

I seem to remember having posted a similar rant last year, and probably for several years running. What can I do, give up pre-Christmas shopping altogether? I’d have to find something else to complain about.

Advent Diary, day 3 - In Ludlow

The plan was to leave home before midmorning, to drop Beloved off in town to do his errands at his own pace and for me to scoot around, rather faster, do some Christmas shopping, pop into Country Clothing for some much needed new trousers and maybe also replace a jumper; then go off to my afternoon meeting with the German Conversation group, which was the main reason for driving into town. I’d pick him up again in the supermarket car park and off we’d go, back home.

“So, what’s the plan then? What exactly is it you want to do in Ludlow”, said he.

“The same as I said last night,  do some shopping and pop along to the meeting”, said I.

“How long will you be?”

“That depends on when we’re leaving. Are you ready?”

“Yes, but seriously, how long will you need in town? I am thinking of the time I have to spend wandering around. And what about the dog?”

“Three hours, no less.”

“That’s rather a long time, isn’t it? And what about lunch?”

“The group will take up 90 minutes minimum. I won’t have time for lunch, I’ll buy a sandwich and eat it before the meeting, probably sitting in the car. And the dog will have to stay in the car too, until I have time to give her a walk.”

“There isn’t really much point in me coming, is there”, said he.

“That depends on what you need to do in town”, said I.

“Well, I have to go to the Bank, but everything else can wait. If you could go to the Bank for me, I could stay here with the dog.”

We had had a very similar conversation the previous evening. Beloved is by no means confused or mentally impaired, he just doesn’t like being left behind and he also doesn’t like spending time in town on his own. I think his secret plan was for a long, leisurely joint lunch, a quick visit to the Bank and for my shopping to find itself done miraculously, perhaps by the efforts of  Heinzelmaennchen,  those mythical fairies who in olden days allowed the good burghers of Cologne a life of indolence.

“Of course I’ll go to the Bank for you. Anything else?”

By now mid-morning had been and gone, Our conversations take a lot less time in the writing than in real time. They are dropped and picked up again in the ordinary course of leaving and entering the room, sorting bags, writing shopping lists, falling over the dog, getting the car out of the garage, putting the phone on charge, checking the temperature prior to choosing a coat and scarf, and making sure that the kitchen sink is safely stowed in the boot of the car.

Finally, I was off. On my own. Exhortations to take care and come home safely following me. I reached Ludlow just after 12 noon. No time to eat, barely time to shop, and as for Country Clothing, some other day perhaps.

Men.

March Gardening? You must be joking!

As far as the Life of a Lady Gardener in March is concerned, the whole thing was a snow-out.

This is the fruitcage-as-was. More like a double tent now. 

Two rows of summer and autumn fruiting raspberries grow under the protection of netting, to stop birds getting to them before we do.

Fat chance. We stupidly forgot to remove the netting across the uprights. Heavy snow collected on the top and the sheer weight of it bent the poles into V-shapes.

I am not pleased. Not at all.

And my home-made swing in the beech tree is pretty useless too.

As are the table and bench beyond. 

At last we are free to leave the house again.

My friend and neighbour, Frank, whose name should be

Sir Galahad, Knight in Shining Armour,

dragooned his Easter visitors to come and dig us out.

 Lucky visitors.

If they’d known in advance they might not have bothered to come.

I promise that the next picture will be the last snow picture of the current winter.

My friend Jay, who today very kindly took me shopping in her car for the second time,
took this picture on her phone as I pulled the groceries through the field
on my sledge, with snow shovel in the other hand.

Before dusk fell I took a look at the drive and the courtyard. The snow is definitely softening and large patches are already free. Finally.

March borrowed from April

three days and they were ill.

The first was snow and sleet

the next was cold and weet,

the third was sic a freeze

the birds’ nests stuck to trees.

Can April be any worse?

Three months to go before 'Open Gardens'

and so far I’ve not been able to tell what, if anything, has survived the winter.

There’s hard work ahead.

On the A49 - Stream of Consciousness

Good.  Not rush hour yet.
Things went rather well today. Home in an hour.
Errands done, shopping done, a full tank; don’t think I’ve forgotten anything.

Millie’s head pops up in the rearview mirror, she settles down again with a sigh.

Not long now sweetheart, dinner’s coming.

Good that they’ve installed traffic lights here, much easier to negotiate now;
massive roundabouts can be a pain.

Damn, it’s starting to drizzle; that’s all I need.
Glad I had the car washed, the windscreen's clear; at least it’s water rather than mud swishing about.
Those car washers, strange lot. East Europeans, I suppose. Romanians? Bulgarians?
Small, swarthy, unintelligible. Girls too. With identical trolleys and equipment.
Do they ever get tempted? Car doors left open? Wallets, handbags forgotten by the driver?
I wonder how they live, who owns their trolleys. Some East European boss man, I suppose.
Perhaps they rent the equipment? Or pay it off in instalments? Poor sods. But handy to have around.

Come on, this is a sixty zone, Get a move on! This is an open road, for crying out loud!
Slow drivers, worse than fast ones. No overtaking here.

That chap outside the walk-in centre, handsome old man. Well set-up, well-dressed too. And well-spoken. First thing I noticed was the toe of his shoe on the newspaper on the ground. Strange thing to do.  A little surprised when I handed him the paper. “Thank you very much,” he said, “ I couldn’t get down there. would have kicked it to the nearest seat and picked it up that way.” He had a nice smile too, not the usual cross old man angry about his infirmity. The indignity of it all, don’t ever want to be like him, perhaps I’ll die before old age cripples me.

Leebotwood. Where do they find these village names? The Pound Inn looks quiet. Too many pubs and restaurants forced to close. Will The Pound last? Hope so, nice place, decent food. Bit far from home but good place to stop on the way to town.

O come on, going down to forty really is not on. Ah, his indicator is on, But where the heck is he going? There’s no turning  . . . . . . . Ah, a lay-by, is that what he was looking for? I never pushed him, did I? No, always leave a good gap. Definitely. Thank YOU.  Good, let’s go. Nice straight open stretch to the Strettons. All Stretton, Church Stretton, Little Stretton. "Stretton = ‘On The Street’ - Roman names, obviously."

Caer Caradoc up ahead, his usual brooding self. Why do I call hills ‘he’? Wonder if he looked different in megalithic times when they built the hill fort ? Trees perhaps?  Too many sheep nibbling away for centuries? Must come out for a walk in the Stretton Hills soon. Millie’d love it.



Oops, I seem to have jumped the lights. Can't see  speed cameras around here.  Marshbrook, descriptive name. At least it’s obvious why it’s called Marshbrook. Pretty wet here during the last floods. Affcot, ‘The White House', lovely restaurant. Dark now, no signs at all. Bet it’s been sold as a private dwelling.
Such a pity they left, can’t stand the new place they opened, all plastic tables and catering company food. Won’t see me there, blast them. You find a good place, cosy, good food, friendly service and ambiance, exactly to your liking, not over-priced, and they bugger off. Makes you spit.

Here we are, the Valley Road. Calm down. Home soon. Pouring with rain now. Typical!

O Joy !

You might ask what’s changed since yesterday : weatherwise it’s all the same. In fact we’ve had more snow today and the going is getting tougher. 

But, and it’s a major BUT,  there’s been contact with the outside world. The postman called for the first time since last Thursday, bringing me some of the books I ordered last week. He struggled up the 200 metres of the drive on foot (we’ve never actually measured it, but 200 m seems to be the consensus in this house). The podiatrist came too. we spent more time chatting about weather conditions than anything else. She visits many houses in this very rural area and tells a tale or two about the average English person’s fascination with all things weather related. It seems I am an apt pupil.

Comfort food brought pleasure too, mashed potatoes with Cumberland sausages and frozen peas. An excellent lunch, quick and easy to prepare, with enough zing in the sausages to tickle the tastebuds.
The groceries were delivered, which is a major worry off my mind; we were down to the last three portions of Millie’s food, not a comfortable thought.
The lady driver helped us transport the delivery to the house from the road. She too didn’t want to risk the drive but very kindly took hold of a large and heavy plastic box and pulled it up by means of stout string Beloved had tied round the rim.
I was pushing the wheelbarrow and Beloved carried plastic bags filled with lighter stuff.

A lot of dissatisfaction with the status quo - any status quo - for me derives from lack of control over daily life. Frustration overwhelms me and suddenly it feels like the world is 'ganging up on me’. Not a rational reaction at all, I know.

Beloved was becoming quite depressed himself when he saw me turning listless so we had a rummage in the wine racks and he came up with two very elderly bottles, the remnants of a once proud collection. There are other single examples of the noble vintner’s art left from years gone by, but these two will do to begin with. A Chateau des Graviers, cru artisan Margaux from 1999 and a Hering Gewuerztraminer grand cru Kirchberg de Barr from 2002. Both bottles are covered in dust and cobwebs. When we bought them and their fellows they probably cost only half of what they would go for now. We kept them for a special occasion and more or less forgot about them. I am very glad the weather turned me into a moaning minnie.

What I need now is for the snow to settle in for the duration, or at least for as long as there are bottles remaining which need urgent attention. Cheers!

It’s Bedlam In There,

the dun coloured woman muttered crossly, pointing over her shoulder to the Ludlow Speciality Food Centre. Our paths very briefly crossed in the car park, as I was allowing Millie to stretch her legs on the broad grass verges and the mouselike creature was searching for her car. Everything about her was colourless, from her hair to her shoes, even her canvas shopping bag, which held a small lump of something in the bottom, was grey.  When she stopped at a small red car I was most surprised. Admittedly, the car was covered in mud, but so is mine; it goes with country living. As I was moving off she volunteered the remark: “I don’t go much for Christmas.” Who’d have guessed?

We’d already been inside the large and very expensive indoor market and given it up as a bad job. As soon as Millie had done her duty we were going to go on to Ludlow. It was Saturday, the worst shopping day of the week, but a fierce and persistent chest infection had lost us a whole week of preparations and it was high time we caught up. The Aldi parking lot wasn’t too bad, we quickly found a space; however, they are the nasty kind of supermarket who have cameras installed that check you in and out, and as I had already fallen foul of them on a previous occasion, being done for a £40 parking fine, we drove on into the town centre. Bedlam here too. After a ten minute stop in a ‘loading-and-unloading-only-bay’, with Beloved staying in the car while I raced to collect a few pre-ordered items, we saw an actual, honest-to-goodness free parking space for disabled badge holders. Beloved has one of those because of his poor eyesight; that slot was ours, we would grab it or die in the attempt. Beloved got out, rushed - well, tottered - down and across the road, and planted himself in the space, furiously waving his stick at all comers, while I manoeuvred myself into a position from which to access it. We should have tied Millie into the slot; I am certain there are drivers who would gladly kill an elderly man for a parking slot on a Saturday morning before Christmas, whereas surely nobody would run down a defenceless dog. 

They were selling Christmas trees in the market; another couple was looking at the same time. I saw one I liked and stood it up in its pot. “Actually,” the chap said, “we were just debating whether we should have that one you are holding.” Debating?  Well, wait while I fetch you a chair to make your debate more comfortable. What the man was really saying was 'We’ve had our eye on that tree but we’re still dithering over the purchase and  please do not take it away from us’.  In my thirty years in the UK I’ve learned to decipher the small print in-between the spoken words and although I am often tempted to make an ordinary Englishman (including mine) come to the point, I usually can’t be bothered. I chose the next tree along,  pretty much an exact replica of the first one. Time to get it into the car, not an easy undertaking. All the shopping was repacked and went into the back with poor Millie, who simply budged up and never said a word of complaint. The small tree sat on the back seat, leaning forward, obscuring my view of the rear window. But we had succeeded in getting it into the car, with the help of the stallholder.

We were hungry by now and decided to stop off at a roadside eating place on the way home. This too was packed. We asked to join a couple whose table had two spare seats, not something one usually does; Beloved leaves that sort of thing to me, I wanted food and I wanted to sit down and eat it and there were two spare seats - what’s the problem? The couple was friendly enough and even smiled their  willingness to share the table. No sooner had I sat down when there was an almighty crash behind me and cups and saucers, jugs, teapots including contents, came flying past me and shattered immediately to the left of me, hot water and tea forming a puddle around my shoes. Like a pilot who just manages to avoid the village and crash lands his plane in the field outside instead, the young man carrying the tray had the presence of mind to aim for the gap between two tables when he took the flying leap that turned his load into a potential weapon of mass destruction.

Did I say it’s bedlam out there? We came home and in the evening, for the first time ever,  I sat down at my computer and ordered a whole month’s worth of groceries from an online supermarket, to be delivered to my door at my convenience. We will still have to go into town for a few special items, but we’ll choose time and place very carefully indeed.

Things That Brought Joy - Tuesday

I hardly dare show the above picture (which I've kept deliberately fuzzy); it's a plate of chocolate which we bought in a shop in Ludlow today. You may consider this  a very poor and certainly greedy kind of joy, but as we had hardly any chocolates for Easter it was about time to restock the larder. We buy chocolates in bulk - yea, yea, I know, stop sneering, and there's no need to feel disgusted either. It's not as bad as it seems, there may be a dozen bars or so, but I shall collect them all and put them away as soon as I have finished this post. They'll go into the treats cupboard and come out over the next month, bit by bit, until there's nothing left. Oh joy!

The reason for the chocolate orgy is that I've been to Ludlow for the first time in many weeks, to attend a session of the U3A German Conversation group. I don't go in winter and since March I've always been busy on meeting days. We had a lovely get-together, even the chap who usually monopolises the session with long-winded,  often incoherent ramblings, was less voluble than normal; he had a cold and possibly a sore throat; a pain for him but a boon for me. The members' fluency in German is varied and there are few rules to govern the conversation, but we do tend to stick to literary subjects when we are not having a free-for-all about events that have caught our attention since the previous meeting. I think they were pleased to have me back, I'm the unofficial dictionary, being the only native German speaker.  Obviously, that felt good, and as we also read and discussed several modern German poems I had not read before, the whole occasion proved to be a great pleasure. I shall definitely try to get to the next meeting, which is on  May 1st and I shall take with me the great socialist battle anthem "The Internationale" in the German translation. That should prove interesting. More joy! I do love stirring the pot.


I could get used to this exercise in awareness, it works. And no, I do not see it as counting my blessings. Counting blessings is something good, even Christian; I find joy in rather more mischievous occupations too.

A Day in the Life . . . . .

Market Hall, Shrewsbury

The last traces of the week of woe have been tidied up, health problems are resolved and most importantly, we have a new fridge freezer, which is doing its job. I know how boring it can be when  bloggers tell each other about mundane trivialities of daily life, but bear with me, this is my excuse for having been absent for a few days and not visiting. All shall be remedied in due course.

Beloved had his second skin cancer operation yesterday, which brings us to the end of this current spate of hospital visits. Everything seems to have gone well and we are looking forward to opening a bottle tonight, having something  extraordinarily extravagant for dinner and letting the stresses and strains of enforced contact with the medical profession for both of us dissolve while watching a fluffy, undemanding film.

I felt pretty tense yesterday, not an advisable state to be in after my own recent health scare, but Beloved took it all in his stride. What it is to possess a calmly benevolent and imperturbable demeanour.  At times I envy him, but it can also also be utterly infuriating.

Finalising the last bits of organising for the day (he had packed his own bag), I called to him,  "We have about an hour." (The hospital is an hour's drive from us and what I meant was "Get on with it.") Whereupon he assumed his best bass voice and burst into the phrase the gaoler sings to  Cavaradossi before the latter's execution in TOSCA.

Il resta un hora. Un sacerdote i vostre ceni attende . . . . . .

I'm not at all sure that I've got the Italian right, having only ever heard the words sung, but "You have an hour, a priest is here, should you wish to see him . . ." is roughly what it means in English. Did I say he also has a sense of humour?

If I tell you that I very nearly broke into somebody's car yesterday, you get an idea of my own state of mind. After I left Beloved in the Day Surgery Unit I went grocery shopping in the town. The new fridge/freezer - second attempt at getting the size right - only came on Tuesday; the job to fill the appliance awaited; spending a few hours shopping was as good a distraction as any and fulfilled a useful purpose into the bargain.

After stowing the final load in the boot, I took the trolley back to its parking space and went for a coffee.

When I came back to retrieve the car, I found the aisle without any trouble, I am quite good at remembering where I've parked. I blipped, heard the click of the doors opening and tried the handle. It didn't give. I blipped again, the click came and I pulled once more. Still no luck. I pulled harder, tried to rattle the handle, pulled, pushed, blipped again; nothing doing. I could hear the click each time I blipped but the blasted door just wouldn't budge.

Frantic now - this sort of thing would have to happen on the day when my schedule was fairly tight anyway - I looked into the car for help. The bag on the passenger seat was gone! I checked the boot through the back window. No shopping!

Something wasn't right, my car had sprouted fancy black seats instead of grubby pale tan ones. Finally, I understood: the blipper click had come from the car next in line, an identical red to the one I was attempting to break into, and therefore mine.

Back at the hospital Beloved was still perfectly calm; he allowed himself a slight feeling of irritation at the time it all took, but he was glad when the nurse brought him tea and toast; it had been a long day without food or drink.  

I got us home safely (I hate driving on these drizzly dark evenings) and my stiff-upper-lipped man finally cracked. "Thank you for looking after me", he said, "I'm so glad it's all over."

The Day The Country Mouse Went To Town

Even a country bumpkin needs the occasional breath of mildly polluted air, the noise of many footsteps, the glare of traffic lights, and, above all, a shop or two above the level of hardware store, animal feed store and basic village grocery shop; occasionally, a girl needs to shop and that is why I kicked off my rubber boots, combed the straw from my hair, changed my muddy dog-walking jeans for a clean pair of trousers and  attached earrings to my ear lobes and with me thus prepared, we took ourselves to the delights of lovely Shrewsbury, Shropshire's county town, where centuries of history jostle for attention with a slowish pace of modern life. 

My pictures here are just of two sides of one ordinary Shrewsbury square.

 The Prince Rupert Hotel

Some of Shrewsbury's history is pretty bloody, as this tablet records; 

but that's history.

When was it ever not bloody.

It's not just the shopping though; I also enjoy good food in pleasant surroundings. The Draper's Hall, a prestigious Restaurant with Rooms has it all:  six centuries of history as well as delicious food and a civilized ambience.

By the 1440 the drapers of Shrewsbury had formed their own guild and had become prominent in the town. They had their own chapel in St. Mary's Church. The present Hall was built in 1576 to provide a meeting hall for the Drapers' Company. The Hall, although much altered over the centuries, retains original features of the Shrewsbury School of Carpentry, especially the frontage. The majority of the original Elizabethan fittings and purpose-made Jacobean furniture is still in place.

Shrewsbury still has many individual shops, spending money is easy and could be a great pleasure. Keeping your purse closed  is the hard part here. Some of the items I bought are none of your business, after all, a girl needs to replenish certain items of her wardrobe even before they are worn out.

But I can tell you that I bought a bag,  larger than the one I usually use, mainly because nowadays I need to carry a camera or two and maybe a notepad too, for the purposes of blogging. (see how seriously I take keeping you entertained and glued to my blog? And hopefully incite one or two more of you to become followers? I'm shameless, I know.)

It's a pretty ordinary bag, made of a kind of woven straw,

(I'm sure there's a name for it) with leather trim. 

It really was not expensive, when you consider that handbags have become status items.

I also splashed out on three fat volumes of poetry; they come highly recommended by a number of reviewers in various newspapers and, as it's my birthday this month, I felt like giving myself a special treat. For once they are not second-hand, I had some money left over on gift vouchers I hadn't fully cashed in on a previous occasion, so the total outlay was less frightening than it might have been.

Soon I will believe that I wasn't extravagant at all and that these books were an essential purchase.

Maybe.

Madam, can you cook?

Butcher's shops are wonderful places to do a spot of people-watching. If you are a vegetarian or vegan, click off now.

We buy our meat from a very grand butcher's; the shop itself isn't grand, it looks pretty ordinary, but it sells mainly free-range, outdoor reared, organic and, in the case of pork and beef, many varieties of rare breed  meat. It makes you feel less guilty when you know that the animals had a reasonably happy existence while they were alive. They also taste better after death.

The butcher's shop is famous for miles around, many of our local restaurants buy their meat there and are proud to proclaim the fact.

We often recognise other customers; people stand in a long line on Fridays and Saturdays waiting to be served and while you wait you exchange comments on cookery, the kind of meat you hope to buy and what you are going to do with it.  It's a water cooler kind of place where people meet to discuss recipes rather than last night's TV.

The unusual thing is that many of the customers are men, big burly, red-faced, weather-beaten chaps, farmers and outdoor workers, not at all the  type you would associate with cooking, not a bit like the precious, full-of-and-up-themselves TV chefs, who faff around with fancy ingredients, producing airy-fairy bits of foamy fluff and nonsense.

So when this new women customer appeared, driving up in a brand-spanking new Land Rover which had never seen a muddy track let alone driven up one,  we all perked up.

"Yes, madam", said one of the butchers serving, "what can I do for you?"
"Erm, I'd like some meat?" Not a good start.
"Yes, madam, what would you like."
"Well, we are having this party tomorrow, some people are coming down from London and I'd like to give them a Sunday roast". A bit better already.
"A nice bit of roast beef, Madam, or lamb perhaps?". The butcher was all friendliness.
'Yes, that would be nice", she said. Back to square one.

The butcher has been serving long enough to recognise a duffer. He turned and went into the cold store and came back with a magnificent rolled joint, nearly as long as his arm from shoulder to wrist. We gasped in admiration and envy. She was going to have first choice.

"Oh yes", she said, "that looks lovely, I'll have that, please."
"Erm, madam, how many people will you be entertaining?"
"There should be eight of us", she replied.

The butcher laid the joint on the block and proceeded to cut it, ending up with a larger and a smaller piece.  Madam pointed to the large one.

"Are you sure, madam", butcher is still friendliness and helpfulness personified. "This piece will feed about fourteen people. I would suggest you have this piece", pointing to the smaller one.

'O, very well, if you think so".  All this time everybody else stood transfixed; nobody stared directly, sniggers were kept discreetly behind raised hands, eye contact was carefully avoided, but no other transactions took place.

Butcher wrapped the meat, handed it over, madam went to pay.

She had nearly reached the door on her way out, when she hesitated.

"Erm, excuse me, what do you think ? How does one cook . . . . . . . . . . .?"

A great sigh of joy went up. That was exactly the question we had all been waiting for.
Butcher obliged and the rest of us all went back to minding our own business.

Fashion

Marie Antoinette

What on earth am I going to wear?

Who hasn’t stood in front of a wardrobe bursting with clothes  and
exclaimed: “I haven’t got a thing to wear”.

It’s Spring, fashion shows in New York, Milan, Paris, London, Berlin make the headlines, shiny magazines and a dazzling array of the latest fashions in the stores tempt us to spend our money. From haute couture on the catwalks to
piles of cheap t-shirts in the mass market outlets, clothes are the preoccupation of the moment.

Fashion and the drive to adorn ourselves are nothing new. From earliest times mankind has worn jewellery, made up body and face, dressed up. We have records of prehistoric people and tribes in distant jungles, who have never heard of fashion designers, who still felt the need for physical decoration. If fashion were sensible and served purely practical purposes, it wouldn’t be called fashion, it would be called clothing. Actually, I’d even say fashion wouldn’t exist.

John Willmot - Earl of Rochester

The way we dress tells us and the world around us who we are. The richer the outfit the heavier the purse that pays for it. You only have to look at paintings of noblemen and –women in history, ostentatious display of fashionable apparel denotes their relative importance; clothes are a status symbol, a visible sign of wealth and position.

Fashion is, and always has been, big business. Even Shakespeare advised:
Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy ; but not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy, For the apparel oft proclaims the man.
In German there is a similar saying: ‘Kleider machen Leute’, ( dress makes the man).

Although we have become much less formal about clothes, many of us still spend a lot of time and thought on the way we present ourselves to others. Fashion is like a second skin. Even if we wear nothing but jeans and t-shirt, we still declare our adherence to particular dress codes. Remember punks? Or goths? Tolerance is all, but I still secretly shudder at the sight of them.  I realize that my reaction is silly, all fashion is a kind of theatre, a public display, artificial by definition; we constantly change fashions – I understand new collections come into the shops monthly nowadays.

Followers of fashion play with fashions, constantly re-inventing themselves while doing so. There is this wonderful word “fashion victim” for those who must have, and be seen to have, the latest outfits. People suffer for fashion, just think of those heels models and actresses wear. There was a photograph of a group of women of 60 + in the colour magazine of a reputable broadsheet the other day. All the women were wearing the most uncomfortable looking shoes; I cannot imagine that any of them wore those shoes for longer than it took to photograph them. Three hundred years ago it was men who teetered about the courts of Europe on high heels. How sensible of them to give them up.

For the life of me I cannot admire and certainly don’t covet those horrendously expensive, huge, bags which are all the rage. Shoes and bag are often worn by the same woman, who constantly reassures us how comfortable she is while tottering precariously on her heels, being weighed down by half a ton of handbag.

Personally, I am at  that boring stage of life where comfort is the most pressing concern; I am an out-of-fashion has-been. I enjoy buying clothes, enjoy choosing what I feel suits me and I certainly make an effort not only for special occasions but also for going into town. Living in the country one gets so used to dressing down, throwing on jeans and jumper and gum boots, that getting out of them is a treat which happens not nearly often enough for me. But my special occasion clothes are rarely fashionable, they are more likely to be "sensible" and even "serviceable", although I much prefer the term "classic".

Scenes From Rural Life

How many feet attached to how many legs

shall I use for my shopping trip today?

Two legs good, three legs even better ?

Hi sheep!

What do you think?

Can you give me some advice?

I suppose having four legs makes the question irrelevant for you?

Baaa!

Protect your lambs against cold and predators.

Young broom or good pasture thy ewes do require

Warm barn and in safety their lambs do desire.

Look often well to them, for foxes and dogs

For pits and for brambles, for vermin and hogs.

Tusser: Five Hundred Points of Good Husbandry, 1573.

Let's buy some eggs first. 

Fresh eggs, laid by genuinely free-rage hens wandering about in the farmyard.

Cow pat and straw still attached.

Money in the bag and on we go.

All week the shoot has been busy in the hills and fields around Valley's End.

The season is about to come to an end, so perhaps

we'll bag a brace or two for the freezer.

There's never any need for a stalking horse, behind whose shoulders the gun

must shelter. Pheasants round here are bred in enclosures, well-fed and fat, and

released for the shoot.

They are almost tame, too lazy to fly up until the beaters stumble over them.

Not much sport in that.

The blackbird in my garden is better off.

Seeds and nuts, fat and apples, supplied on demand, and no guns allowed.

It won't be long before the big males like this one, 

start chasing younger males and females 

to expel the males and impress the females. 

Napoleon has started already.

Laundry service?

Unlikely.

Or Taxi Service?

Quite likely eventually.

In the country, everything is mended and re-used.

Christmas Miscellany - 16th Window

Musical Santas at Dobbie's the plant sellers.

We needed to find a present for gardener. Where better to look than in a large plant nursery-cum-garden tools-cum tat emporium. Gardener doesn't read my blog so he won't know that he is getting a pair of secateurs for Christmas. I almost bought him these Santas but they were part of the shop display only.

They played and sang non-stop Christmas carols. We didn't stay for long.

Don't you all hate supermarkets at this time of year? In spite of trying my hardest to avoid them the need for a visit could no longer be ignored. Cleaning materials, bog roll, every day groceries, potatoes, dog food and such boring stuff I buy there; the cold weather is forecast to return and my stores have to be replenished. So off we went to the supermarket.

Twenty minutes into the experience I was ready to commit murder. At this time of year they change their stock around; I normally try to get in and out as fast and efficiently as I can, but some very inconsiderate person had messed up my familiar aisles just to confuse me. Where there had been juice there were spirits, where there had been rubber gloves there were Christmas crackers. All I wanted were some food bags and clingfilm for leftovers.  And while I was stomping through the aisles, backwards and forwards, I was forced to listen to an endless loop of Christmas jingles, a tinny, badly arranged, flat, featureless cacophony of sound.

The more I resented it the more obtrusive it became. I went through those aisles like a thing possessed, hissing 'ssshhhut-up-ssshhhut-up-ssshhhut-up' with every step I took. I actually came across several people singing along to the atrocities on the sound system! Morons! I have no idea why they stared at me and gave me and my trolley a wide berth. 

I was still fizzing with nervous tension driving home.

How much more civilised it was to sit after dinner and write Christmas cards. A few chocolates, a glass of mulled wine and a CD by the The Sixteen playing quietly. Sublime. My rage melted like snow in the sun.

Today, on the 16th December, is traditionally the beginning of mince pie season, according to some ancient household books. Originally rectangular in shape and said to represent Christ's manger, mince pies were abominated as 'Popish and Superstitious' by Puritans, and described thus in 1656:

Idolatry in Crust! Babylon's whore

Defiled with superstition, like the Gentiles 

Of Old, that worshipped onions, roots and lentils.

Later however, the 'solid, substantial, Protestant mince pie' became the champion of the English Christmas against ' imported foreign kickshaws'.

Eat mince pies made by as many different cooks as possible: for every cook's pie, you will have a lucky month in the coming year.

Don't blame me, I'm only the messenger.