Who gets to choose, me or someone else?

Recently I went for a meal out in a restaurant with a small group of people. There were six of us. The restaurant was somewhat better than the usual pub style and I was very happy to be able to go. Beloved and I often went out for a meal and occasionally we treated ourselves to a fancier, classier place. Since he's been gone that's happened less and less for me, so an opportunity for a smart meal out is something I enjoy.

One of my fellow diners was new to me, that is to say I knew them but had never been to a restaurant with them. 

I was sitting at one end of the table and the waitress came to me first to take my order; I gave it and chose a glass of wine to go with the meal. It honestly never occurred to me to wait and see what everybody else was having, as we were all going to pay for our meals and drinks ourselves.

Gradually I became aware that ordering took the others rather a long time and there was much discussion as to what everybody should have and which wine to choose. And the new-to-me person decided that they should choose the wine and buy a bottle rather than for everybody to have a glass of their own preference.

As I had already ordered this did not apply to me and I kept quiet. The waitress had gone and promised to be back once the table was ready to order.

Eventually the discussion ended and the meals plus a bottle of wine were duly ordered. Embarrassment over, for now.

The meal was good and we had a pleasant evening with everybody happy to talk and laugh.

Until it was time to pay up. Again my bill was relatively easy and straightforward. I paid, added my tip and awaited events. 

There was now a great need for debate on how to pay; should everybody pay for their own meal and share the cost of the wine, or add up the cost of the total bills and wine; one person would pay by card; they would then get out their calculator and work out how much everybody's share came to. That also meant that everybody would have to have the exact amount of cash in their wallet to reimburse.

The waitress had disappeared once more and I was embarrassed all over again. Eventually they sorted it out somehow, I am not sure how they did it in the end. I went to the bathroom.

What would you have done? Waited and consulted everybody else?  I get to go out so rarely nowadays that I feel entitled to choose my own meal and drink. I also heartily dislike the kerfuffle arising when it comes to paying. I eat and drink what I like and pay for it myself.  

Right? Or bad manners?

Good, back to Spring,

for now, anyway.

Things are looking up. I have been putting in a few hours of hard work in the garden, on my own, sadly.  Handsome Hunk works well, when he comes, that is. No matter how intensely I beg him to come at least every two or three weeks, all he says is "I'll ring you", and then doesn't. Wiry and Willing hasn't properly worked for weeks either, but he has an excuse. He has sciatica badly. He is seeing doctors and physios but nothing seems to work. He came last week but after an hour I sent him home. He looked bad and sat on an upturned bucket to rest his back and leg. He will come when he can, of that I am sure. HH will come too, I just don't know when.

In the meantime it's down to me. I am still pruning and cutting back, there is little point in doing much else, this weekend there will be mild frost again. I can't say that I am totally happy with the hellebores and hyacinths in the first and third pictures. I find the colours rather garish. But I do love the gorgeous quince flowers. (Japanese quince or Chaenomeles) The whole wall is covered in them. If the frosts don't kill them I will have masses of shiny yellow quince in late summer. I no longer make quince jelly, it's far too much work and I don't eat much in the way of sweet jellies. The fruits are not to be eaten raw, they are potentially harmful, but boiling them takes many hours.

I had great pleasure at the garden society last night. A delightful, very enthusiastic grower and gardener gave a talk on how to create a border with interest and appeal for the whole year. Whenever I watch garden programmes on the TV (some of you may have heard of Monty Don and Gardeners' World?), or visit a show garden, or attend a talk on garden design, I come over all itchy and raring to go. While I am sitting watching, I can do anything. In practice not so much. But until such time that it becomes impossible I will struggle on. Did I mention that I have agreed to open again at the end of June? The saints preserve us! Next week I am planning a visit to a nursery for a splurge on plants. Well, why not, I rarely treat myself to anything nowadays.

I've also attended my first concert of the year. Excellent but very complicated music. I was exhausted from just listening. I hadn't realised it was a private performance, by invitation only. The concert was given in the barn of a friend (good acoustics), there was wine and nibbles beforehand and during the interval, and altogether it was quite an occasion. I was fully aware of the honour of being on the guest list in spite of having initially misread the invitation. I had thought there was something funny about it, no tickets to purchase! Still, I enjoyed the outing and behaved impeccably! The performers were doing it all again the next night, this time on a stage, with a ticket price. Afterwards, I thanked the cellist for inviting me and he let out that they were, in fact, using the barn performance as a kind of dress rehearsal and needed a knowledgeable audience to be present, with the feel of a proper performance. Ah well, gift horses spring to mind. But a pleasure and an honour all the same.

 

What happened to the Promise of Spring?

Yes, yes, I know, it's only March and I live in the northern hemisphere where March often has a sting in the tail, but, come on, my jonquils are flowering their tiny little hearts out! Or rather, have been.

And this is the scene in my garden now:

The ancient beech in the field over the wall  

the border bed between me and the castle

the view into the village

the Japanese ornamental cherry tree.

I love it when the snow accentuates the perfection of the

tree's bone structure

It's quite sad; for the first time in years (covid years) I had formally invited some ladies to come and join me for lunch. I planned it like in the old days, a proper lunch, with a starter, main course and pudding. Simple fare, but much fancier than my solo lunches. So what happens? First one rings up to say she can't make it out of her front door and the other one rings to say she can't make it down the hill from her house into the village. Actually, they would probably not have made it down my drive from the road either. Even a  delivery man refused to drive his van up to the house, but rang to say the drive had disappeared. I KNOW that, silly man, so I suggested he could just carry the stuff up. "Oh, but I am wearing ordinary shoes," he said, "my feet and trousers will be soaked." I am afraid that I said, "that's not very intelligent, you must have known about the snow on your delivery round." You'd think their depot would encourage them to carry suitable footwear for their rural deliveries, wouldn't you? Apparently not. I stayed heartless. His final feeble excuse was that, yes, he knew it had been snowing for 24 hours, but nothing like this in the town he came from. Pathetic.

So, for the last two days and the next two, I am eating the vegetables I had defrosted for my lunch party, a mediterranean mixture of red and yellow peppers with courgettes, shallots, a carrot, celery sticks, sun dried tomatoes, lots of herbs and spices. I didn't want to risk refreezing the dish. Also, four individual portions of tender chicken thighs remained on the menu. Luckily, I could freeze the smoked salmon starter and the garlic bread to go with the main course. But the chocolate puddings still smile at me every time I open the fridge. And there I was, hoping to scale down my consumption during lent!

Life is hard.

PS: because I am still having problems with commenting on some of your blogs I will try and answer any questions or  remarks that require a reaction under your comments  here in future.

Old Ladies

Just now I finished a phone call with a very old lady friend. Old in years, not so much old in friend years. One of these sweet old dears who rarely, if ever, have a bad word to say about anyone, gentle and mild, a white halo for hair, small in size, frail and delicate. Articulate, educated, well-mannered, a lady. Sometimes I have wished that she might drop the sweetness, even if just by accident and join the rough, crude, occasionally cross and sweary world I inhabit.

We got talking about Putin and the invasion of Ukraine. Is there anyone cognisant who doesn't? I said I want him dead, shot, eliminated.

"Shot?", she said. "Shooting is too good for him, I want him hung, drawn and quartered", she thundered, "I want him torn limb from limb". To my great delight the old lady was spitting nails. Obviously, I agree with her and told her so and it gives me hope that old does not automatically have to equate to lacking spirit.

Life is slowly, in minute increments, resuming pace. A well attended garden club meets monthly again in a village hall a twenty minute drive away. When I heard that two ladies (yes, oldish) from my neck of the woods were on the committee and would therefore go I asked for a lift. The driver very kindly agreed. These meetings take the form of a paid speaker giving an illustrated talk on their subject of choice with open questions at the end. I have in the past attended many such meetings elsewhere and enjoyed them and sometimes I didn't.

What is wrong with non-professional speakers? You'd think that, as they get paid, they'd get the basics right. The speaker that evening started by getting her microphone upside down, she then sat with her back to the audience staring down at her laptop, and mumbled her way through a very uninspiring talk with few and mainly boring photographs presented on the screen. How many beds of snowdrops can you take, how many pictures of men at work and heaps of earth waiting to be turned into flower beds? And finishing off with a picture of more old ladies crowding the cake counter in the cafeteria of the garden she was supposed to delight us with simply made me even more cross. All this and when you go to the rather famous garden's website you get some beautiful vistas.

As I had been given a lift by two friends active in the club I thought I'd better not say anything on the way home. Imagine how pleased I was when one of them said that the evening had been a waste of time, the speaker quite poor and not to be invited again. One of them asked the other if they should not point out to potential speakers that they should face the audience and speak clearly. "Not really," the other one said, "they might be offended". Such very good old lady manners, spend a boring evening rather than give offence.

The entire audience consisted of nice old ladies with just a sprinkling of old gentlemen. I didn't see anyone above middle height, under 65, and with any colour hair other than grey. I have a friend who says I am incredibly negative; she's right, of course. I must learn to stop being so judgemental and keep shtum, unless I find genuine cause for praise. I have my doubts, however, that I will succeed.

I have mentioned the German Conversation group before, well, we have commenced face-to-face meetings again; we are slowly working our way through "Die Deutsche Seele" (the German Soul) a many-paged book with essays on such German terms as Fussball, German Angst, Bauhaus, Wanderlust, all the way from A through to Z. Alternatively, we watch DVDs on German history, starting with the 9th Century and ending with the Weimar Republic, a thousand years later. That should keep us old ladies busy for some time to come.

All in all, life is picking up. 

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 Taxman, Viruses, Kindness and Otherwise

There is just about still time to wish you all a happy and peaceful new year. Had I waited until tomorrow, being February, it might have been both embarrassing and possibly even offensive. If only we could all assume that 2020 will be less harrowing than 2019 was, what with the horror news from so many parts of the world. Although the WHO’s warning of a global epidemic caused by an unknown strain of coronavirus doesn’t give cause for much optimism for the next few weeks.

Talking of the virus, one of the Ladies Who Lunch brought it up as a subject and the oldest member of the group, at 92 at least a decade ahead of the next oldest member, instantly remarked :”Well, I hope it doesn’t come here.” And, I am certain, she was definitely not thinking of anyone’s wellbeing but her own. It surprised me, I would think that at 92 continued life is precarious anyway. There was no empathy for anyone suffering the effects of the virus, which one would consider to be the automatic response to start with, just “not me please,” Does one get more selfish the older one gets? Of course, nobody, me included, welcomes any kind of illness, world-wide or localised, but a little of the milk of human kindness towards others goes a long way to make life pleasant. Or am I wrong? Too much rose-tint?

After two months of silence from me there may not be anyone interested in my thoughts. I developed a positive aversion to using my computer. I spent hours on the iPad and my phone, checking up on news and opinion pieces, but couldn’t bring myself to open the Mac. The reason is positively weird: I had the greatest trouble accessing the taxman’s site. Since October I have struggled to convince HMRC (Her Maj’s Revenue and Customs for those of you lucky not to have dealings with them) that I exist, that I have lived and worked and paid taxes here for decades, and that all I wanted was to be allowed to continue with the latter part in retirement. Do you think they believed me? Endless repeats of trying to gain access, endless rebuffs; each time I was told : you have tried to prove your identity too many times, come back in two days’ time. I sent emails, requests for assistance, even a long and heartfelt letter, all without success. So, since I use my Mac for official communications, (as well as blogging), it became my enemy, because HMRC remained closed to me. In the end I rang them. In an hour long call the first person I was referred to couldn’t help; the next person, a superior tax adviser person, scratched her head and was willing to cut me off when she was equally as flummoxed as the first.

I have to say that I am very good at begging and pleading and announcing my great age, and therefore great need, to all and sundry in the cause of soliciting assistance. Quite shameless, that’s me. So, once I had a real life person on the line rather than an uncaring computer, I begged and pleaded for all I was worth, even explaining that I was quite likely to be deported if I couldn’t prove my willingness to pay the correct taxes. I forgot to say that one of the questions the soulless computer threw at me many times, was, “do you have a valid British passport?” I don’t, but what has that to do with the price of fish, i.e. tax payments?

The superior tax adviser person softened and, during a further hour long phone conversation, dreamt up a whole new persona for me, going back to my tax records of years back. In the process she and I discovered that I have two “Unique (yes, unique) Tax References, two addresses, and two names. I think I am going to start next year’s tax returns right at the start, i.e. next April. And perhaps I’ll use a paper return. Last year I paid my accountant £600 to fill in my tax return, I am not willing to be fleeced again for work I have already mostly done myself, so now that this year’s return is done I am hoping that next year’s will proceed more smoothly.

I should mention that Christmas was fun. Ten days beforehand my son came; he put up the tree, with me giving instructions. We had  Christmas music, a festive dinner, some convivial family chat and rekindled old memories. This visit, on his own, is becoming a tradition I love. He also took me to the county town for a shopping trip; he carried my purchases between shops and car, which makes it all so much easier for me. I quite dread having to stumble my way through crowds, burdened with bags.

My friends were the real stars of my Christmas. Sue said I might as well come for Christmas Eve dinner as well as Christmas Day itself, which was really kind of her. She had some houseguests too and we all got on very well - no Brexit fallings out - and after a lengthy and leisurely dinner we read ’The Importance of Being Earnest’ with me taking over the role of Lady Bracknell. Halfway through the read-through my voice started to go which made it all the more grittily posh, just what is needed for the part. It was great fun and so much more so than slumping in a chair, replete with overindulgence and half drunk as well.

My voice going was a harbinger of the chest infection to come, which started more or less on Boxing Day and only stopped when the practice nurse forced me to take a course of steroids after New Year. I was really quite poorly with a cough to rattle every tooth in my head. The infection was doubly disturbing because I have recently been diagnosed with a recurrence of my childhood asthma. Apparently that is not uncommon, childhood asthma will frequently show itself in old age, when we become more susceptible to allergies. Strange that, you’d think we’d have become inured to many infections because we’ve had and survived so many of them through life. Not so, it seems.

I have mentioned Brexit but once today; in common with many friends I am sick and tired of the whole business, depressed too. In an hour’s time I am off to a Brexit wake party for remainers only.
I’ll be back here soon, unless we all throw ourselves off the castle battlements.

Happiness Factor? It’s a joke, right?

So there I was, aiming for human interaction resulting in happiness, or at least a semblance of contentment.

Fat chance.

Not that it was all bad. A friend and I went off to see a modern re-imagining of John Gay’s 1728 work "The Beggar's Opera" by Mid Wales Opera Company, a production for small spaces and therefore very intimate. Renamed “Mrs. Peachum’s Guide to Love And Marriage” it is a splendidly bawdy, ballsy take on relationships and the relative virtues of virginity. We enjoyed it and, what’s more, my friend and I didn’t fall out in spite of getting into politics.

Another event was a Spanish Evening set up by a local group. There was tapas, Spanish wine, some haphazard music and three short, separate, talks about the painter Joaquin Sorolla, Spanish food and how the speaker liked to cook it and wine talk. The wine talk was the only professional talk, which means that the whole hall could hear that speaker. The other two never remembered to speak into the microphone, in spite of an audience member begging them to do so. What made it worse for me was that I had chosen to sit at a table towards the back of the hall (ready to scarper?) just in front of the wine table where the volunteer wine server chose to use the time of the talks to rearrange his crates of bottles, picking up each bottle, checking it for dregs and plonking it back into its hole in the crate. He took absolutely no notice of my anguished looks in his direction and clinked on busily. Not the most enjoyable evening all told.

You can simply not rely on people to do as they say. I took a very wheezy chest to my doctor; yes, he examined me, asked a few questions and came up with the idea that my childhood asthma might have returned. And yes, he was going to investigate and consult another doctor. "So, should I make another appointment,” I asked. “O no, I’ll ring you later this afternoon.” That was two weeks ago. Not a peep out of the surgery since then.

Gadgets aren’t a whole lot more reliable, either. The whole area had a power cut. When the power came back on after several hours I mentally congratulated the electricity firm and settled down for a cosy evening. By and by the room cooled down, quite considerably by the time I bestirred myself to check on the boiler. One very dead boiler. This was Friday evening of the coldest weekend this year with frost and freezing fog forecast. I fiddled around and tried to relight it but it just grumbled and coughed at me. I spent some time online trying to find the nearest engineer but gave up and rang the manufacturer's company itself - Worcester-Bosch - who are many miles away but have always seen me right in the past. Many miles away also means an expensive call-out, of course. “Yes, we’ll come, On Monday.” Between Friday evening and Monday morning I wore thermal layers, several pairs of thick socks, my pyjamas under trousers and jumpers - who is going to undress completely in a freezing cold bathroom? - , carried around two small fires, and forgot about personal cleanliness entirely. What on Earth do people do who do not have immediate access to the wherewithal necessary to pay for an emergency like this? I had ice flowers on the windows, for heaven’s sake. The female engineer discovered that the power cut had blown the circuit board. She replaced it, serviced the boiler and made sure that all was back in order before she left.

Next stop a major building job. I had my windows on the South side of the house replaced, all eight of them. I was pleasantly surprised by the result. Beloved would have been livid, several years before we debated if we should swap wooden windows for plastic. “Absolutely not,” was his conclusion. "Wooden widows are so much more attractive.” No they’re not, says I. They require constant repainting, repairing and splicing, none of it cheap. So now I have perfectly fitting, draught excluding, plastic windows on the weather side. I was also pleasantly surprised by the workmen doing the job. They were relatively quiet, cleaned up after themselves and caused minor disruption, allowing me to escape to a different room with each window. Even so, there was a moment when the boss man and I almost fell out. Over Brexit, what else. He was a fervent Leaver who trotted out all the long-discredited lies we were told three years ago. There is no getting through to some. I wished him Good Luck and left the room quickly.  I had learned my lesson from a previous experience, much more painful and embarrassing, which I’ll come to next.

You see, there was this dinner party at a very good friend’s house, the guests being a couple from London, a couple from Valley’s End and me. We have met at this house in previous years, always get on well and usually have a splendid evening, with lots of wine, food, good conversation and a general feeling of goodwill to all assembled. Except this time I related my experiences and feelings about the need to apply for Settled Status after 50 years of living the UK, once Brexit has become reality. O dear. It appeared that the couple from London and the host, with whom they were staying for the weekend, had already had a falling-out the previous evening. So my remark simply stirred the flames all over again. It was most unpleasant for a while, a lot of wine had been consumed and tempers flared, in a quietly genteel way, neither bad language nor insults were employed, but tempers flared. I know that families have fallen out, co-workers have fallen out, friends have fallen out over this wretched business but I never imagined that a genial host and his guests would suddenly, in the middle of a most enjoyable dinner party, stage a mini-war. At the moment the UK is not a friendly place.

So, human interaction is all very well, but it does not necessarily lead to happiness.

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.

Sheer Escapism

Fully autumn soon, the nights are drawing in, there’s a chill in the air and the leaves of the Japanese ornamental cherry show just the faintest tinge of burgundy. Millie is still with me, she seems to be having a reprieve in her general health - not the arthritis, alas - and I have decided to shut the back door at night. It keeps the warmth in and she has a more comfortable time of it in the scullery. If I have to clean up after her, so be it. It won’t be forever. And it doesn’t happen every night either.

The hedge cutters are here, another sign of autumn. Raindrops are dripping on them but they are hardy young men; “it’s only water”  said the one I took round the perimeter of the garden to give instructions on what needed trimming. True, but I myself still sheltered under a big umbrella. And I needed his arm to help me over a very steep slippery grassy bit without falling over. He promptly fell over himself, should have asked me for my arm in return.

There is so little that is pleasant in this world at the moment that I am seriously keen not to add to the misery for myself. Yes, I am still obsessed with current affairs, yes, I still shout curses at politicians whenever they appear on TV spouting barefaced lies, yes, I still dread what is happening to our climate and the environment. What to do? Withdraw from the whole unholy mess of it? Could be. Escape at least occasionally. Evenings start earlier, earlier evenings require indoor activities rather than balmy nights spent outdoors. Reading, TV and maybe closer attention to this blog of mine again, after several years of neglect.

Which brings me to another question: are you old enough to indulge in bad taste books, films, TV shows without embarrassment? To my surprise quite a few of the ‘ladies who lunch’ admit to doing so. Well, in that case, so do I. Not exclusively, of course. I couldn’t possibly live on a diet of sweets and chocolates, burgers and ready meals, neither can I feed my brain exclusively on pap. However, a Georgette Heyer Regency romance, a cosy mystery from the 'Golden Era', a Mary Stewart adventure, a Robin Hobb fantasy, even a Scandi noir thriller insinuate themselves on to my Kindle now and then. (I am too embarrassed to put hard copies on bookshelves). All of the foregoing have one thing in common, they all end happily-ever-after. As for TV, well, the ladies admit to switching on certain channels which run endless repeats of British and American sitcoms, British country village thrillers and long running soaps. I have to be very tired before I give ‘Midsomer Murders' another go - it’s too much like painting-by-numbers - but it’s been known to fill the odd otherwise sadly depressing space. Morse, Endeavour and Shetland are more to my taste. I can take Agatha Christie's Miss Marple or Poirot as well, if needed. I am not so good on films, but a romcom would hit the spot nicely too.

So, there you have it, Friko’s image as culturally high-brow is shattered. I always knew it and now that escapism has become ever more urgent I am old enough to blow a raspberry at anyone who feels judgement coming on. Not you, obviously.

For those who like natural history and the science of it here’s a recommendation which is neither pap nor instant escapism: Peter Wohlleben’s ’The Hidden Life of Trees’, an informative study and fascinating look into the enchantment of trees that can talk and sometimes walk - no it’s not a fairy tale. You’ll gain a whole new perspective on the amazing processes of life, death and regeneration of woodlands. The better sort of escapism.

Room to Think

Rain, rain, nothing but rain.

Yesterday, when I saw the weather forecast, I was pleased. A whole day to myself with nobody to disturb my peace. It’s been a busy  couple of weeks, with gardening, a shopping trip, a family visit, a couple of luncheon engagements with friends, nothing arduous or stressful, but enough to make me look forward to solitude.  It was the American poet Marianne Moore who said "the cure for loneliness is solitude” and I must admit that seeing too much of people often leaves me feeling lonely.

Today, I feel differently. This rain is too depressing and I’d love a bit of company. So, in the absence of ‘live’ companions, I am turning to you.

One of solitude’s gifts is room to think. Not that thinking leads to much in my case on a day like today, but when I sit doing nothing else thinking stray thoughts is a natural consequence. Normally I’d sit and read but, unlike my natural hedonistic attitude to life, I felt a bit guilty for doing nothing all day. So I sat and thought. Mainly about people and my perception of them as relating to me. And that is, of course, where things get complicated. I do tend to overanalyse.

I may have mentioned it before: do you enjoy a good argument or do you go with ‘anything for a quiet life’? When meeting groups of acquaintances and friends do you prefer like-minded people or are you happy to leave your comfort zone and listen to opinions you don’t share? Do you bite your tongue when someone expresses themselves in a forceful manner on subjects which you find yourself diametrically opposed to? Do you allow them to have and hold opinions in the spirit of free speech or do you fight your corner, always realising that that might lead to a fight? Or do you say ’there is no arguing with some people’ and leave it at that? Some of the ladies I meet read newspapers I wouldn’t keep for toilet paper and they do insist on repeating the viewpoint, angle and stance such papers espouse. Sometimes it’s just gossip, for instance the permanent negative bias towards Meghan Markle or ridicule of the environmentalist teenager Greta Thunberg, at other times it's the vicious anti immigrant, anti gay, racist mindset. Bearing in mind that these subjects do not come up every time you meet and that these ladies are actually friendly and helpful in many other respects do you continue to meet with them? Or is meeting with them just not worth the hassle?

Tell me what you think.

Paula

Roughly once a month Paula and I meet for supper and a glass of wine in the White Horse. We book a small table in the pub window which seats two comfortably and four at a squeeze and spend several hours chatting nonstop until we’ve set the world and our small corner of it to rights. Paula has been widowed for several years more than me, she is also a good number of years older and wiser. In spite of her great age she has a permanent twinkle in her eye, she enjoys her life and has no intention of giving in to old age. In our rural world clothes are of little importance really, but Paula always makes an effort, uses make up and has beautifully kept nails. Compared to her I am scruffy.

Provision for old age is high on the agenda in our talk. Both of us own our homes and both receive an old age state pension. We also have additional occupational pensions; maybe Paula’s is worth more than mine as she has been a teacher for many decades and teachers’ pensions in the old days were generous. What I am actually saying is that, things staying as they are, neither of us needs worry about putting food on the table. And yet, we worry.

The funny thing is that Paula worries about the distant future. Her usually so jolly face turns serious. “But what if house prices fall when things get bad with Brexit?" she asks. It seems she has worked out how many years the value of her house would safely see her through the cost of residential care. “So, if in a few years’ time I have to go into a home and my house is worth less than now I could only  afford to have care for five or six years.” Paula sees nothing but penury ahead. Although she spends money on holidays she certainly doesn’t spend freely. Apparently her accountant has asked when she intends to spend a bit more, reminding her that she can’t take it with her. And yet, Paula worries. Paula is in her early 90s and fit mentally and physically so there’s no immediate prospect of her having to go into a care home. (If I could be like her I’d happily live into my early 90s too.) The average lifespan in a care home in the UK is between 1 and 3 years. Therefore, ‘in a few years’ time’ plus several years in residential / nursing care would bring her close to the end 90s. True, none of us knows what lies ahead but I think that her house, pensions and savings will probably see her to her end comfortably. When I tease her and ask how long she plans to go on for she laughs ruefully and admits that she’s both over-ambitious and over-careful.

Here’s a question which exercises me too:

do you splurge or do you hoard ?
do you live every day as if it is your last or do you save your money on the chance you’ll live twenty more years ?


PS: yes, I know this is strictly a first world problem and a very nice one to have. So please don’t remind me of the millions of people who have a hard time putting regular meals on the table and would only be too glad to worry about an old age they may never see. That’s a problem I cannot solve.

Gentle Everyday Life

Amelanchier in blossom

The high thin whistle of returning swallows and martins swooping joyously in the sky is everywhere, it is definitely spring. Finally. It’s still none too warm and I haven’t taken tender plants, the lemon and olive trees and ferns out of the conservatory yet but no night frosts have been forecast for the next week and I might risk having Paul carry them outside when he comes on Monday. I usually do this in the middle of May although there is always a warning not to do anything rash before the end of this month. In these ‘Franklin’s Days’ beware late and destructive frosts, thunder and unreliable weather.

According to a Devon legend, the sharp frosts which sometimes occur at about this time are the revenge of one Franklin, a beer-brewer put out of business by competition from cider. He therefore vowed his soul to the devil in return for frosts on each of the three Franklin’s Days around May 21st hoping that these would kill the apple-blossom and ruin the cider crop.

It will also be time to strim swathes of spent daffodils before the beginning of June. So many plants die untidily, leaving a horrible mess for several weeks but as they need the dying foliage to replenish their stores of energy to produce next year’s flowers we must put up with the yellowing flattened carpets. Having lost old gardener I am in a bit of a pickle. There is no way I can do all of it myself, certainly not the really hard jobs like dealing with compost, with digging, pruning trees and shrubs. I have an area of nasty plum tree suckers. Old gardener cut down the tree last autumn but the suckers have spread and infested a large patch. I have no idea how to get rid of them. It’s a problem. If I can find someone to dig them up and maybe poison the remains I could level the area off, put in what is known hereabouts as a “water feature” (very fashionable, a kind of fountain with a built in pump which allows for the water to rise and fall and produces a pleasant sound) and use bark chip or gravel to cover the earth. There is a very beautiful acer in the same bed which I want to keep. A water feature would be just the thing to set it off.

I am gently forcing myself to meet people, for lunches at a cafe, supper at the pub, a movie being shown at the village hall, a coffee here and there, a friend popping in for an hour, a poetry reading evening, and so on. Very mild, non-threatening and non-tiring entertainment. I think it must be doing me good. Once Millie is gone I won’t have the automatic daily conversations with other dog walkers.

Talking of dog walkers: I was in the High Street the other day on my way to the surgery when I passed a man and a woman standing by a gate, gossiping. I said “good morning” as I was passing them. The man turned, said good morning back and then: “Ursula? It is Ursula, isn’t it? I didn’t recognise you without your dog.” I expect I shall have to get used to people do a double take. Having said that, a long time village acquaintance came down towards me as I was going up a steep lane the other day. Again I said good morning; she stopped, looked at me closely and said “I didn’t recognise you with your head down.” Hm, have I become a changeling? It is said that mortal children are often substituted for a changeling during May, perhaps that goes for some adults too?

"Have A Nice Day Out”,

my friend said. "Enjoy yourself, stop worrying, I’ll look after Millie for the day." The man who arranges such things in Valley’s End had promised a rip-roaring time at the Malvern Theatre for Tom Stoppard’s ‘Rough Crossing’, a play to make us laugh until we peed ourselves.

I took him at his word, booked the trip, paid an exorbitant amount of money up front for coach and ticket and looked forward to the entertainment. Except the nice day out turned into an (almost) unmitigated disaster.

It started as I left in the morning on the way to the bus stop, about 15 minutes walk away from the house. It was blowing a gale, with driving rain. All the way there my umbrella turned itself inside out, every few steps I had to stop and right it. No matter how I held it, into the wind, against the wind, sideways on, the damn thing flapped and creaked and dripped. By the time I got to the bus stop I was drenched, trouser legs sodden from the back of my knees to the hems. Did I say it was also bitterly cold? A little chap walking by on the other side of the road as I was struggling laughed happily. “A bit wet today, isn’t it?” Hahaha. Sadist.

Some of my fellow theatregoers assembled at the bus stop shivered but others were made of sterner stuff. The shelter would normally accommodate six or seven people but a man in a motorised buggy, who had been the sort who feels “entitled” long before he became slightly disabled, assumed that everyone else would gladly leave the shelter to him and stay exposed to the elements. I didn’t, I had been the first to arrive, and I stayed perched on my little seat. Make of that what you will.

The bus arrived and we climbed on board. Luckily, the heating was on and gradually, during the two hour journey, my clothes dried on me. When we got to Malvern the rain had stopped. The mass exodus from the bus duly effected, a large knot of people formed on the pavement, everybody was making arrangements for the hour before lunch and where to have it. Didn’t they have time during the two hour journey to do that? I needed the loo and made for the theatre, shouting to a couple of friends that I would meet them at ‘The Italian’ in an hour’s time, wanting to visit a posh supermarket first to buy some of their famous ‘cook’s ingredients’ to take home to my back-of-beyond-village where such things are only dreamt of, never available.

Of course, I bought too much, now being burdened with an extra load of groceries, my large handbag (purse), my wet umbrella. True, I can’t blame anyone else for this oversight. I am still not a good walker, still limping when I’m tired or when the effort of walking straight and upright gets too much. I no longer use a cane, though. Malvern is a hilly town, I frequently had to stop on the way to the restaurant to catch my breath and straighten up. Gosh, I am an old crock!

The next two hours were a pleasure, I enjoyed my Tagliatelle Bolognese and we all had a couple of glasses of wine, not something we usually do at lunchtime. Everybody got merry, greatly helped by the waiters who flung their ‘per favores’, their ‘pregos’ and ‘grazies’, their ‘signoras’ and signores’ around with wild abandon, who burst into song while sinuously weaving  and undulating between the tables and made much of their giant pepper mills. I bet they were from Roumania really.

Finally it was time to go to the theatre and take our seats, having left coat and groceries at the cloakroom. Stoppard can be a bit of an acquired taste but he has written some really good stuff. Sadly, ‘Rough Crossing’ is far from good, it has the thinnest of plots:

Two famous playwrights, one jealous composer, an unorthodox waiter, and a mistimed lifeboat drill… let the sharp Atlantic winds turn to gales of hysterical laughter as our colourful characters become tantalisingly tangled in a Stoppardian string of absurd events…

If only. The Art Deco set looked splendid and promised much. The moment the actors appeared the promise evaporated and within the first ten minutes several of our coach party were sound asleep. The sound was bad, the dialogue barely distinguishable, the action messy and incomprehensible. The cast (all fairly recognisable TV actors)was lacklustre and seemed tired and bored. We were all disappointed and two of my friends decided they’d had enough and left at the interval, as did several of the others. I had nowhere to go and, in any case, couldn’t face lugging my groceries around, so I stayed to the bitter end. The action perked up for the last ten minutes but by then I’d given up on the play and was simply waiting to be released from captivity. All I wanted was to get on the bus and go home.

But my trials for the day weren’t over. I couldn’t swear to it but I may have, in fact, actually peed myself, even if for quite another reason as the one promised. When I came out of the loo right at the end, before climbing back aboard the coach, I felt a dampish kind of warmth spread over my belly. Yes, the front of my trousers was wet. I had been hovering over the toilet bowl, being loath to sit on the seat which appeared a touch insalubrious. But I had also been sprayed with warm water as I washed my hands afterwards. Enough to cause a damp patch in my trousers? We will never know. Suffice to say that I kept my coat on the whole journey back to Valley’s End and the first thing I did back home was to take a quick shower.

When did I become this irritating old person?

There is nothing easier than becoming a recluse, by accident or deliberately, they say. It doesn’t require action, no effort at all, in fact, it just happens and before you know it, you live in a world of one-and-a-half, the half being an elderly dog suffering from dementia. The dog doesn’t know that she is lacking in mental agility; so what if her circadian rhythms have changed, she is fed on demand and let out on demand.

But nobody feeds me and nobody lets me out when I scratch at the door and howl in frustration.

Back to me, the recluse-in-waiting. Loneliness can kill you apparently. It can cause heart disease and depression. Lonely people are more likely to develop Alzheimers. The UK now has a Minister for Loneliness although there is no pill yet. Just give it time.

So, reading about the dangers lurking in solitude I reluctantly made my way out of the house. It’s been cold and windy, not conducive to being out of doors. Besides, I like my own company. I accepted an invitation to join a ladies’ luncheon club, went to a supper for two at the pub, a birthday luncheon at a very nice cafe which was new to me, renewed visits to the gym, ad hoc chats with neighbours and dog walkers. Fine, all fine. By the end of this mad whirl I was searching the diary for an ‘empty’ day, a pottering day I call them. I am truly my Dad’s daughter, he too found the delights of company palatable only ever in small doses. Still, mindful of the dire warnings, I persevered. The ladies’ luncheon has become a fixture. One has to eat, after all, and not cooking my own dinner one day a week will be a welcome change.

Except, there’s a snag. There I was, having enjoyed eating what the waiter called “Spanish pork casserole” - rather tasty, the Spanish part being black olives in the sauce - I made my way to the cashier. A cane, a bag, my gloves, my purse, all in my hands, dressed in a bulky winter coat, I navigated through a narrow aisle and came to a full stop at the till. Well, maybe not a full stop. Momentum took me a step further than the counter and I tottered uncertainly. This caused me to a) drop the cane, b) my gloves. The cashier came out and picked them up for me. I then opened my purse and took some notes out. English notes are now made of plastic, very slippery. Obviously, I dropped the notes next. There was a fire close by and one of the tenners floated gracefully towards it. I snatched it up just before it hit the flames, again dropping my cane. I had stuffed the gloves into my coat pocket. The cashier didn’t bother to come out to pick it up this time, I imagine he was leaving that until right to the end of my transactions. My bill came to a tenner plus coins. I did that thing that old people in queues always do, I rummaged around in a separate little coin purse to find just the right change, promptly dropping several coppers. Picking them up - with difficulty - and handing them to the cashier he said “sorry, we don’t take coppers, there’s just not enough room in the till for them.” I resumed rummaging for silver, and found exactly the right amount. The problem of disposal of the coppers remained. I suggested he should put them into one of the charity boxes. Unfortunately, they were located behind me, in the narrow aisle, not easy to get at. By now there was a queue, naturally. I am not sure but I may have heard the faintest sigh from the person behind me, who took the coppers, turned and deposited them in the tin, all in one fluid movement. I really need to practice that.

If I had to accompany me out somewhere, I wouldn’t.

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. 

Backsliding

is my default position, it seems.
Not so long ago I promised myself that I would accept every invitation - well, ok, not the ones that primarily benefit others and cause me a lot of effort and mental and physical expenditure for little return - but my good intentions have already fallen by the wayside.  And for nearly three weeks now I’ve paid the price - that is if you believe in ‘just deserts’. Which I don’t. If there were such a thing as just deserts in this world a lot of people would not lead the happy and prosperous and untroubled lives they live.

Back to me and invitations. A big 70s birthday bash came first. The hosts had hired a hall, caterers, musicians, drink, and everything that makes such things successful. The celebrations were to embrace a ceilidh, my first, and a slight source of nervousness. Country dancing and singing? In public? Without being drunk? Maybe not.

Then came an invitation to an 80th birthday bash, again with food and drink, music and lots of people. Again I found a reason why I shouldn’t go.

The last major invitation was to the wedding of a young friend of mine. It was to be a huge do, with a big marquee in her dad’s field, sit down dinner and a dance at night. The event of the year, with ladies in hats and gentlemen in formal suits for the church service. I saw no way out, had had to accept when the invitation first came, several months ago. I no longer have formal dresses and ordinary day clothes would not have been suitable, so I searched the internet for something neither too expensive nor too formal, coming up with exactly nothing. Smart trousers, jacket and a silk shirt would have to do. I was less and less enthusiastic about the whole thing; you know what it’s like when you feel you must make the effort but really and truly would prefer not to? The idea of sitting in a marquee in 30C, dressed up and unable to put your feet up, surrounded by people you don’t know except for the immediate family of the bride who would, naturally, be too busy to attend to you personally, did not appeal.

And then it happened. An actual bona fide excuse for not going to the wedding of the year (locally) fell into my lap. Or rather, I fell into the excuse. Gardener and I were out, I was about to show him a bit that needed his attention, marched there ahead of him under full sail, saw a dog poo in my path, swerved, and landed in the dip between a flower bed and the lawn in my heeled mules and promptly fell flat on my face, luckily avoiding the dog poo. I scrambled up, gardener laughing his head off, my dignity badly dented but otherwise apparently unharmed if somewhat sore. I thought little more of it and continued gardening.

Two days later the first big bruises appeared. Then my leg swelled up, more bruises appeared, the colours deepening into midnight blue. Now, nearly three weeks later, I still suffer. The doctor says I must have ruptured a blood vessel and bled internally. “It will get better eventually”, he said, “your foot will be the last part affected. Don’t worry if it swells up.” Thanks for reassuring me, doctor, I’m awaiting results.  “In the end the blood will be reabsorbed and the discolouration will probably disappear too”.

For a good two weeks I have spent the days sitting in an easy chair with my very painful leg on a footstool covered with cushions, read and watched (whisper it), daytime TV. And been bored out of my skull.

What do you think, is this ‘just and fair punishment' for inventing excuses (well, actually, lying) to my friends in return for their kind invitations?

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.

Books

How do you read? Not so much which kind of books - although that comes into it - but how deeply and with how much concentration do you read? At a recent supper party there were nine of us (me making the odd number) and the talk turned to books when I casually mentioned, that when I passed his house, I frequently saw one of the guests sitting in his window seat reading, usually in the morning. I was absolutely not making a value judgement, the man is retired and he can please himself what he does and when he does it. So books it was. The fellow guest, call him Roger for now, said that he enjoyed leisurely mornings after walking his dogs and reading was his preferred occupation. As it is mine.

“What is it you read”, someone asked. "Any favourite authors? What are you currently reading?”

The sort of questions anyone asks when it comes to discussing books.

“I hardly know,” Roger said. "I just read and read, very fast, one book down and another started. I really am a very fast reader. Ask me what I’ve read and I find it hard to tell you.” I know from discussing books with Roger’s wife that both of them tend to go for thrillers, fantasy and blockbusters. Roger is an intelligent man, has successfully held down an important and well-paid job in business, and is an active member of the Valley’s End community. 

Everyone at the table tried to keep a straight face as Roger was digging himself deeper and deeper into his reading matter hole. I saw an embarrassed smirk appear on the face of his table neighbour who is a writer herself. His wife, sitting opposite me, was trying to shush him, obviously feeling that he was showing a side of himself that didn’t reflect well on them. Roger plowed merrily on, oblivious of the reaction around the table.

When Roger stopped to draw breath, the host’s son, who had cooked us an excellent meal providing equally good and plentiful wine, (possibly partly the reason for Roger’s lack of inhibition and poor self-awareness) intervened by saying “I am a very slow reader, very slow indeed. I even leave gaps between books. Mind you, I usually remember what I’ve read; titles, authors, content, message, if there is one, and the impression the book has left on me. But, as I said, I am very slow about it."

Lucky you, I thought. Although by no means a Roger type of reader, I frequently forget the names of authors, titles of books, although I can usually put a story to the memory of a book. Since Beloved’s death I have been an avid reader, even more so than previously, going for slighter and lighter stories rather than sad and tragic ones, and yes, I have, at times, been reading the comfortable kind of thriller which demands little attention. The only thing I insist on is that the writing is good and the editing has been done carefully. And I can foresee a time when more nourishing fare will be on the reading menu again. In fact, my diet is already becoming more substantial.

What’s the point of reading like Roger? Surely even a rubbishy novel has to offer more than instant gratification, a mere way of passing the time? Too many writers produce the same story over and over again, no wonder the people who read them can’t keep track. I went into a bookshop the other day, the first time since I have had the cataracts removed from both eyes, just “to have a look”. I was planning to get rid of some books, not buy more, but, alas, that’s easier said than done; I bought a small pile, not a blockbuster among them. The gift of renewed eyesight is just too precious to waste it.

By the way, I was also going to express my appreciation of my hosts at this dinner: they asked me on my own and did not feel it necessary to provide me with a table partner. Thanks very much!

Ruminations

15th November to 15th January - a long break from blogging. Only five followers have decided that this blog isn’t worth following now, so thanks to all of you who have stayed. This whole following stuff is a bit silly, I suppose, but there you go, silly is as silly does. Or is that silly too?

The year wasn’t even 12 hours old before I had the first accident: I broke a glass and caused a long, thin cut in my hand which bled a bit but has healed nicely. At least it wasn’t a mirror; anticipating seven years bad luck on top of the disastrous 2017 might have caused me to swoon and thus made burying the shards underground, by moonlight, hard to do.

I don’t do resolutions, but I did, sort of, this year. I was planning to stop being obsessed with the news, to leave Brexit and Trump to get on with things and concentrate on more pleasant aspects. There aren’t any. Brexit is a catastrophe, getting more so by the week, because our government hasn’t the faintest idea how to go about saving our cake, never mind eating it too. And Trump? I thought if I can stop myself reading about him and he presses the nuclear button, at least I won’t know in advance that I am going to be annihilated. So far I haven’t had much luck, the stupidity and hatefulness of those lording it over us remains fascinating.

What a world we live in. Interesting times indeed.

How was your Christmas and New Year? Good? Glad to hear it. Contrary to expectations mine wasn’t too bad either. Friends rallied round and gave me meals, drinks and a cosy place by their fire. There were a few modest parties, some good conversations, good food, plenty of books, schlock TV
and candlelight. Christmas day was a delight. Dinner, decent wine, poetry and Paddington Bear, the same kind of Christmas Beloved and I used to have.

There was something else which was good. My son came some ten days before Christmas, just for an over-nighter with a sufficiency of hours on each of the two days either side for us to have a comfortable and unrushed visit. He comes to ‘do jobs’. This time I didn’t have much in the way of ‘jobs’, he fixed a sticking music cabinet drawer and maybe something else minor which I have forgotten. There was, however, a pile of Christmas cards ready for distribution and we walked around Valley’s End, my son holding Millie’s lead and me popping up lanes and into courtyards to push them into letterboxes, introducing him to villagers out on similar errands every few yards. The great thing about the visit was that we reconnected; I had ordered a Nordmann fir, the first Christmas tree for several years, which was still sitting outside, undressed and unloved. Together we brought it in and dressed it with all the old family baubles, some of them dating back to my childhood, with coloured lights and all the usual kind of kitsch decorations. We had a wonderful time, listening to ancient carols and plainchant, eating Stollen and spiced biscuits and having a turkey dinner by candlelight and incense sticks perfuming the air. We talked comfortably. I haven’t felt as close to him for many years.

Both of us felt good, both of us hoped that this might become our own, private, tradition. We might even use the same tree. I am going to ask gardener to pot it on into a bigger container in the spring and then it can come back in next year, a foot or so taller.

My darling Millie is getting old, thirteen next month, according to her inoculation record card. I had thought she was ‘only’ twelve. She is doddery on her hind legs and she had a cancer operation just before Christmas. The wound has healed well and the current cancer has been removed completely. Unfortunately it is one of those that recur. Dogs are wonderful, she never turned a hair. Surely it must’ve hurt? Just a bit? She went in in the morning and the vet said to come back for her before nightfall. At three they rang: could I come and collect her, she had woken from the anaesthetic and wanted to get out of her cage. “She would be better off recovering at home and not to worry if she didn’t want to eat.” The first thing she did when she came into the house was to stagger to her empty dish and beseech me with big brown eyes: “where’s my dinner, I haven’t had a single crumb since yesterday evening!” She is still happy and keen on her food, so maybe she has a while yet. It will be hard when I lose her too.

More ruminations to follow, so don’t bother commenting just yet. That is if there’s still somebody reading.