The Remorseful Day

When I heard young Morse (in a repeat of Endeavour)  recite the last two stanzas of A.E. Houseman’s  “How Clear, How Lovely Bright"  I realised that my attitude has lately changed to a calmer, lighter mood. Not that there have been any great differences in our circumstances, it’s simply that I am perhaps coming to terms with what cannot be altered. At least, I hope so. What lies beyond our control must be endured. Sitting, like Mimir the Dwarf in the hole at the foot of the dead sycamore tree, plotting, worrying and endlessly turning the same problem over in my mind won’t bring relief.

I’ve also found my material feet, which helps. All the legal formalities have been dealt with - and paid for. ouch! - . I have a brand-new, fat file full of solicitors’ letters, legal documents and official declarations. Neither one of us likes it but, there you are. It was necessary.

Most of the long neglected jobs around house and garden have been tackled; I have assumed responsibility for them and, being a rather methodical and tidy person, they have been initiated, if not completed. Beloved is more the type who puts jobs on lists, where they are allowed to grow whiskers. In his opinion, collecting items on a list means that the job is half done. Not so, as far as I’m concerned. Now there’s only the large-ish stain on the sitting room ceiling to be dealt with; the bath in the room above overflowed and the stain is most unsightly. I dread the thought of emptying the sitting room of furniture; let’s see, perhaps I can organise a couple of hefty chaps to do it. Painters are notoriously slow in coming, so maybe I shall have to live with the stain for a while yet.

Another thing which has helped enormously is that I have taken to gardening again. I know I’ve rather been going on about gardening recently, but the mouth speaks what the heart is full of. The same applies to keyboard and fingers, in this instance.  The place already shows signs of improvement, which spurs me on to get out there and labour.

There’s one other thing which has gone by the board, i.e. unresolved issues with people, family and acquaintances both. Up to a few months ago these issues would pop into my mind at the most unsuitable moments, I’d fret and worry at them and allow them to depress me. No more. When you are faced with a situation which goes right to the heart of existence itself, anything else becomes mere ballast, an irritation to be shed until such time as you actually have the strength - and time - to bring it up again from the depths. I am, of course, hoping that these issues will  have disappeared into outer space by then anyway. Never to resurface. Going back to the first paragraph: it’s best not to burden yourself with things you cannot change.

So, dear old A.E. Housman, who wrote the haunting poem "A Shropshire Lad" and whose ashes are buried just outside St. Lawrence’s Church in my county town of Ludlow, sent me a timely reminder on how to avoid The Remorseful Day. I cannot promise that every day I shall see the bright new morning, or that I shall be strong every day granted us, me and Beloved, but I shall endeavour.

How clear, how lovely bright

How beautiful to sight

    Those beams of morning play;

How heaven laughs out with glee

Where, like a bird set free,

Up from the eastern sea

    Soars the delightful day.

To-day I shall be strong,

No more shall yield to wrong,

    Shall squander life no more;

Days lost, I know not how,

I shall retrieve them now;

Now I shall keep the vow

    I never kept before.

Ensanguining the skies

How heavily it dies

    Into the west away;

Past touch and sight and sound

Not further to be found,

How hopeless under ground

    Falls the remorseful day.

Sunday

Sunday wears a crown, and has a golden beard and a ring.
Sunday sings his psalms, and laughs and jokes,
and teaches his lessons in a booming voice.
And all creatures sleep in the peace of the earth,
and the earth in Sunday’s hand. *

I like this poem, particularly the last two lines; true, the mystical aspect of it is of less importance to me than to the poet, but the image and feelings he conjures up go right to the heart of my own Sunday self.

For as long as Beloved and I have been together I have made our Sundays stand out. The only exceptions have been the Sundays when he had a Sunday engagement, an afternoon concert, say, in some spa town, or at summer festivals. Moonlighting at weekends. If I went along we’d usually have a quick pizza between rehearsal and concert, which was all that was on offer in places like Tunbridge Wells or Brighton. Things might have changed a bit since then.

Until we met and moved in together, Sundays were nothing special to Beloved. Many English people use Sunday for d-i-y jobs, shopping trips, household chores. During my years of single-parenting and a full-time job I did as much as I could on Saturdays and always attempted to keep Sundays free; admittedly, mainly to recover from the past week and recharge batteries for the week following. There was a lot of solitary putting up of feet, involving listening to music and reading. The kids were old enough to amuse themselves and happy doing it. All three of us enjoyed solitude. except at Sunday dinner, which was a far more elaborate meal than weekday ones.

In my years with Beloved I have kept up the custom of making our Sunday meal special. Three courses with wine are the minimum requirements. Not that I do all the cooking, I might buy something at the delicatessen’s, certainly the starter, and sometimes the pudding too. But we sit and eat at leisure, savouring the food, sipping a glass of something pleasant, and talking. Talking is the main ingredient. it’s almost as if sitting at table fires up neurons and loosens the tongue. We are never at a loss for topics, even now. We might start by remarking on the weather: “Isn’t it still today, not a leaf stirring”/ or: "Heavens, just listen to that rain pounding the glass roof (of the conservatory)”. Then there are compliments about the food and, after careful sipping of the wine, a remark about how pleasant it all is. We'll mention what we did during the week, recall people we met, a play we saw, maybe a lecture we attended. Because it’s Sunday and Sundays are for being kind, I keep criticism to a minimum. Beloved is always kind, even on weekdays. Until we reach politics, current affairs and the deplorable state of beastly humanity, as evidenced by scores of examples daily. We never have to look far. We might not always agree on the causes or the strategies of amelioration; the debate could even get quite heated. It’s amazing how (mildly) reactionary I have become with age, when I was accused, for most of my life, of being “your textbook bleeding heart liberal’.

In this fashion we spend a good two hours being friends and enjoying each other, until Millie nags me into getting up and feeding her. She has her second meal of the day at 3pm on the dot and woe betide me if I forget. So I don’t. Usually.

And after that? Like the creatures in the poem we “sleep in the peace of the earth”. The wine might have had something to do with that.






*Eliseo Diego
1920-1994

transl. from the Spanish by J.M.Cohen

Calmer Waters

And so it goes, there’s little change; days flow into each other, one after the other.

This is how I started the last entry in a private diary about our slow slide into oblivion. I don’t feel that I can - or want to - share every moment with all of you, some things need to remain private. Pain, distress, the inexorable progress of disease, mental and physical, are not suitable subjects for the mundane and often frivolous confessions we spill into social media.

I have since realised that the first statement is not altogether true any more. There’s little change in the situation, yet there is some small change in me.  I may have said, here or in my private diary: “I am permanently stressed and permanently depressed.” If I haven’t said it, or written it, then I have thought it. But that’s not true now, either.

There comes a time when one accepts even the most hopeless situation. Life goes on. An innate sense of survival takes over. I think that is what’s happening to me.

The weather has been fine, I have spent a lot of my free time gardening and when it’s been too hot to go out I’ve read indoors. Beloved has been happy to potter about outside, leaning on his stick, snipping at this and pulling on that and when he’s been tired he’s just sat in the sun.

I’ve stopped watching him all the time. In an emergency he’d soon know how to get my attention. Besides, he has a panic button. I’ve gone out for up to three hours at a time and he’s been fine. He’s not likely to attempt anything that requires physical strength or mental athletics.

Even Millie is settling into the new routine. I take her out for a short walk in the morning and not again until late in the afternoon. She has a daily paddle in the river and several doors are open for her to come and go as she pleases. She is not meant to leave the garden - we are hedged or walled in and gated, but the other day, during a violent thunderstorm, she panicked and got out, I don’t know how or where, but she made her way into the village and ended up at the pub after having raced along the high street. I expect the pub door was open and she made for its darkish, cool and cavelike interior which might seem to be a safe haven to a frantic dog. I happened to be out in Ludlow at the time. Beloved never even noticed that she was gone until a young man brought her back after the storm. Two messages told us not to worry, she was safe; we didn’t listen to either of them until afterwards.

Perhaps Millie has the right idea, a village pub is indeed a safe haven in a storm and we should all three seek its comfort more often.

My Own Worst Enemy?

On the terrace of the RSC Stratford-upon Avon

Beloved sitting on the left.

The thought has been in my head off and on for the past two weeks, so yesterday I googled it. Mr Google has the answer to everything and cites many examples of self-sabotage. Picking just one of the many, here is a psychiatrist and career consultant saying:  "We unconsciously respond to stressful situations in ways that hurt us.”

My situation is stressful, yet, there are women in Valley’s End who have a much harder row to hoe than me. And, in public anyway, they appear to be coping better than me.  I can tell they are tired, I can tell they wish things were easier, but they remain cheerful, they smile, they cajole and badger and drag their poor old relics into the bright light of public display. And it does both them and their spouses good.

I went to see my lovely GP for a minor niggle of my own and, him being an absolute gem of a man, he said that I must get out by myself at least once a week, that I must continue with activities I enjoy and, most of all, stay in contact with friends and have as much social interaction as is available.

And that is exactly where the doggie lies buried: I am not, never have been, a fan of organised or communal entertainment. The ladies I mentioned in the earlier paragraph are never happier than when they are in the company of many, sitting at a table for twelve, say, in fast and furious conversation, shouting louder than anyone else - in a nice way - and generally having a wonderful time.

We’ve tried it. We’ve joined a pensioners’ luncheon club. Beloved sat over his plate, miserable, deeply bored, irritated by the noise; I sat opposite him, equally bored, inwardly fuming. Why can’t we see these lovely people for what they are: salt of the earth and making the best of a bad job. My hearing is good, I can’t decide whether that was an advantage or a disadvantage during the riotous banter going on.

We have yet to try a daycare centre. On the face of it, it would be a good place to drop Beloved off while I continued into Shrewsbury for some me-time, but the moment the kind and compassionate staff showed signs of organising games and communal activities he’d grab his stick and crawl out of the place.

Call us stand-offish, conceited, superior twits, but we find a quiet lunch for four or a trip to the theatre much preferable. We did both, had a lovely lunch with a couple where the husband is in the advanced stages of Parkinson’s, when we mostly talked about books; we also went to Stratford to see a performance of Shakespeare’s Cymbeline with just two friends. Whereas the communal jollities happen frequently, the outings we prefer come round only occasionally, leaving us isolated and at a loss to know what to do for the best. Although I may wish we were temperamentally suited to join in and, in the safety of a group of sociable, boisterous and gregarious people, forget our woes, going against our nature - Beloved and I are very similar in that respect - won’t do us any good either.

Once life was joyful and exciting, complex and satisfying. Now we realise that it is finite and sad and can be intensely frightening. Whatever it is, it has to be borne. And I don’t believe that going with my instincts makes me an enemy to myself.

To each his own.

Thanks very much anyway,

for the kind enquiries I’ve had from  many of you as to my state of mind and general wellbeing or otherwise.

You realise, don’t you, that if you ask me “how are you?”  I might just possibly tell you? No manners, that’s me. Telling you how it is is not at all the done thing in the UK and the correct answer is always “Not too bad, thanks” if you’re common and “Very well, thank you” if you’re posh,  even if you’re shortly to be thrown into the fiery furnace, weeping and wailing and gnashing your teeth. Like if you push your shopping trolley (hard, and maybe deliberately, because they’re slow and you’re in a bad mood)) into someone’s ankles they invariably turn round and say “Sorry”. Whereas I would quite likely say “Watch where you’re pushing that thing!"

And if you ask me “What’s new?” I have nothing to say at all, except maybe that the garden is overgrown and weedy, that Millie is getting fat for lack of walkies, that I’ve had three separate bouts of AFib in the last four weeks, but am feeling better (who knows for how long - see, there’s positive thinking!), that Beloved's still eating and drinking and sleeping, and making bad jokes, that I’m bored out of my skull and utterly depressed most of the time when I’m not stressed to the point of wanting to rip everybody’s head off.

Told you I’d tell you. Satisfied?

What’s even worse is that I’m compensating for stress and rage by eating chocolate, loads of it. And getting fat. Without chocolate I’m a fiend in human form, impossible to get along with. I did an hour’s round trip to get to my favourite chocolate shop on Friday, taking Beloved along for the ride and his own chocolate fix. What do you think happened? He ambled along the shelf, pawed a bar of the stuff here and there, put them all back and said “I don’t really feel like chocolate!”

On the drive to the chocolate-selling town we’d stopped off at a very fancy Food Centre, posh and horribly expensive, and what did we do? we argued about bread. Apparently, all bread has a rubbery edge now. Or so he says. He wished to explore the breads this Food Centre had on offer, he said in a posh voice. He’s good at big words in a posh voice. So I said that one of the freezers at home is stuffed full of bread of all kinds, shapes and sizes, wholemeal, sourdough, white, black, French pain de campagne, German rye, English soft. Very well, he says, no need for me to go in then, you go and buy what you like.

It was lunchtime, attached to the Food Centre is a restaurant, nothing fancy, good enough for a bite and a drink. We even had a table outside in the pleasant sunshine. Millie came too; she lay between us looking up first at me, then him, hoping for a handout. She was in luck. Beloved said his lunch of pulled pork was tasteless, practically inedible, chewy, too bready (bread again) and as for the salad, which consisted of rocket leaves, well, he said, how am I supposed to eat this? With my fingers? Apparently the fork wouldn’t spear the blasted leaves.

When, in the name of all that’s sane in this crazy world we have been pitched into, will we get used to the status quo? There is no hope. The prognosis is bleak and cure is there none. We can bicker and row and make the rest of our time together a penance or we can stop and enjoy what’s left. Positive action is the only thing that helps. How long does it take to accept your hand and play it for all you’re worth? Even the doctor said ‘it’s quality of life that counts, not quantity’. When I told her that I wasn’t going to nag Beloved into giving up his glass of wine, eating only the most sensible food, stopping him from sleeping several hours during the day, making him take exercise he can no longer cope with and any or all of the good advice handed out by helplines I thought she’d want to tell me off. But no, staying as happily together as we’ve been for many years was the thing to do, she said. Put the nagging on hold.

I am leaving the comments section open for this post. Although I am very grateful for your empathy, your kind thoughts and prayers, please don’t go soft on me. If I need anything, it’s a calm and competent and very thorough talking to, otherwise known as a kick in the backside.

Sheer Misery

There’s no point pretending it’s not happening. No point in sticking my head in the sand or hiding behind a nice big woolly mum. It is happening, it is real; Beloved is ill, both mentally and physically. It no longer matters who or what caused it, if last year’s medications tipped him over the edge we must accept it. Playing the Blame Game won’t make a blind bit of difference.

We are once again waiting for an assessment of his state of health and therefore in limbo. I have a permanent headache, feel flat, depressed and obsessed with the situation. It’s like standing at a carousel in the Arrivals Hall at the airport, helplessly watching a big suitcase full of demons going round and round and round and nobody claims it for their own, least of all me.

What on earth can I blog about? Perhaps I could start a new blog: 'The Road To Oblivion’. Or I could list the outings we undertake, singly or jointly, like meals with friends or in the pub, shopping trips; there have been some rare family visits, one where the visitors actually made a difference by clearing some long neglected jobs; there’ve been long or short walks with Millie, depending on the weather. Also depending on weather have been stints in the garden. Nothing has brought any lasting relief, that merry-go-round in my head is merciless.

So deep is this misery that I don’t want anyone to try and coax me out of it. When I told a friend how flat I feel she said that coming out with them to see a movie would be good for me, that I always seem to rally when circumstances demand it. I know all about brave faces and accepting their invitation might have been a good idea but afterwards I still have to go home and climb into my screeching head again.

I’ll come back here when the load lightens, or when we’ve had the assessment. In the meantime forgive me for wallowing in misery.

.

New Year New You -- What Happened?

Do the Chinese go in for New Year’s Resolutions?

Mid-February already, so what’s happened to your New Year’s Resolutions?  Kicked into the tall grass and lost or thrown under a speeding bus and squashed flat? That ambitious contract many of us enter into with ourselves, being absolutely determined to lose weight, get fit, take up the ukulele, travel the world on a tricycle, blog regularly....etc. etc.

What, you are sticking to it? I don’t believe you. For the sake of the vast majority who made rash promises while in the company of others, equally inebriated, I sincerely hope you have forgiving or short-memoried friends; if these friends aided and abetted you in your folly or made similar promises, you are home and dry. Resolutions? What resolutions? Never speak of them again, at least until next New Year’s Eve comes around and the embarrassment at a year-long failure to pull your socks up and finally master Mandarin Chinese brings a hot blush to your face.

New year, new you, entirely new life, was the slogan of an online advertisement sent to me (and a million others) by a  department store with a seemingly benevolent face in early January. I was told that completely remodelling my home, buying the latest colours, hard and soft furnishings, would leave me revitalised, as new a woman as my new home; a woman enabled to stride forth into this shiny, brand-spanking new year with renewed vigour and determination, master of my fate and able to control and overcome all obstacles in my way. I may be exaggerating a bit here, but not by much.

What is it with this new year rubbish? Why do we tell ourselves that a change in the calendar year will make all the difference?

You may recall that 2015 was an annus horribilis for me - as the Queen would say - a year of disaster and misfortune. Towards the end of it things improved a bit but there was never any hope that all would be sweetness and light once the numbers changed. I am no more in control than I was in 2015. I don’t make New Year’s resolutions now. In another life and at another time, there were long years when I promised myself that “next year I will be brave, take courage and make changes” but I never did until my hand was forced by outside circumstances and change imposed itself on me rather than the other way round.

No resolutions for me last New Year’s Eve except the one: I would develop the ability to take what was coming, to accept and, hopefully, be without overwhelming resentment. Well, dear ones, I can’t even do that. In many ways life is easier than last year but my attitude hasn’t changed all that much.

When I ask people paddling similar leaky canoes like mine how they cope they tell me “just get on with it, there’s nothing else you can do” I see the resigned look in their eyes. They’re right, of course.

Resignation and resentment, two singularly unpleasant and unattractive attitudes. Where’s that speeding bus? If any state of mind ever deserved being squashed flat, these two do.

Wishlist

Castle Moat

It’s summer, it’s June and therefore double birthday month at Castle Moat. A pair of Geminis for those who attach importance to such matters.

“So, what do you want for your birthday? Anything you can think of?”

“Hm, what about you? Is there something you’d really like?”

A perennial problem, one which we rarely solve. There was a time when Beloved bought me jewellery. Gold one year, amber another, jet from Whitby a third. Silver, pearls, a not terribly precious stone or two, rings, bracelets, necklaces, ear rings. I enjoyed them and wore them when the occasion arose. I hardly ever wear jewellery now. In fact, when I look at individual pieces I wonder who in the family, or more likely, among my friends, might be glad to have it.

Clothes too, a silk blouse, a cashmere jumper, stuff I don’t wear often because I can’t be bothered with frequent dry-cleaning. In London things were different, with a dry cleaner in walking distance and your cellophane wrapped item speedily returned. In the country it takes a week and costs a fortune. Besides, when would I wear really smart clothes? Gardening and dog walking demand jeans and a fleece to cover the t-shirt.

What about perfume? Nina Ricci’s L’Air du Temps was my favourite for years and I frequently found a pretty bottle on the breakfast table on the big day. I still use perfume occasionally, but so seldom, that I have a whole untouched bottle waiting to be broached in my dressing table drawer. (Heavens, that antique dressing table was a present once.)

Hawthorn Blossom

The dressing table came when we hit on the idea of joint presents, after all, our birthdays are within two days of each other. A small piece of antique furniture, or a non-essential household item, a beautiful bowl, or a painting. Something decorative. (I hate ‘practical’ presents, I hate ‘useful’ presents). Something we could both equally enjoy.

Now our house is full of stuff which we would love to pass on to an appreciative recipient, we are certainly not in the market to add to it. We look at our acquisitions and wonder “ would X like it?"

Wild Orchid in the Field

We bought each other books galore, music CDs too. Now we mainly read ebooks and listen to digital music. That leaves the choice of vouchers for digital downloads. How romantic is that? 

For a while, we bought the more expensive bottles, a crate of French vintage wine or an oak-aged single malt. True, we still like a glass of wine and Beloved will have a glass of whiskey on cold winter nights, but an ordinary wine will do now. We never finish a bottle at one sitting and letting a good wine stew in the bottle for days on end is a crime against Bacchus. Beloved has also finally admitted that single malts do nothing for him and he much prefers an ordinary Scotch.

 Laburnum hanging over the Back Wall covered in Red Valerian

and long fronds of honeysuckle waiting to bloom.

What remains? Can you think of anything? A good meal at a nice restaurant is always an option, but we do that anyway when we feel like it. Our needs and wishes have shrunk dramatically and those few things which could be deemed special and worthy of present-giving are within reach any day. Should I wait for that book, the silk shirt, the box of hand-made truffles until my birthday or buy it for myself now, while I feel like it?

What to do? What do you do? When I asked Beloved just now he said “I can’t think of a single thing that would give me more pleasure than for us to have a nice day, maybe have a special bite to eat and lift a glass in a toast to us and our pleasant life together.”

Lovely man, if a bit unimaginative.

I won’t even get a bunch of flowers. There are untold bunches to be gathered in the garden right now, all of them more beautiful than artificially bred, stiff-necked, one size fits all supermarket arrangements, irradiated for long life.

Hold on a minute, though. I’ve just thought of something I really want: a cottage on the coast in Germany. And while we’re at it, how about a small flat in London for those hard to reach theatre visits? Not asking too much, am I? Oh yes, and a chauffeur to drive me from one to the other. And a housekeeper to take care of things while I’m away living in one of my several abodes.

There you are, I knew I would come up with something if I thought long and hard enough.

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.

Sunday Sunday

“What’s libertarian?”  Beloved couldn’t give me a definite answer. We were both guessing.

It’s late Sunday morning and we are having breakfast. I must hurry because I want to watch a programme on German TV at 10 am our time, a weekly discussion on socio-political and cultural topics. At breakfast I invariably open my IPad to check the day’s news: on the BBC, The Guardian online and HuffPost. The three teenaged girls who appear to have run away from home to join ISIS make the headlines. They’re either still in Turkey or have crossed the border into Syria by now. Their families are distraught.

“Authorities Failed Girls”, screamed one headline. Instantly I get cross. Is no one responsible for themselves anymore? Or have fathers and mothers abdicated responsibility for their underage children and expect the authorities to take over?

So then I thought of Libertarianism . I looked it up on Google. I often look up definitions on Google that I used to look up in dictionaries. I don’t think I like it. I like the idea of the weak and helpless being safe in the arms of a benevolent society until such time as they can help themselves again.

Getting back to the three teenagers. Apparently there are dozens of young people from European countries following the call. We all know that ISIS revels in unspeakable acts of cruelty and barbarity. They say these young people are brainwashed into joining; what kind of mental deficiency allows them to overlook these acts? We all have this pat little phrase: ‘I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy’. I expect we even mean it some of the time. If these girls and others like them know what they’re doing they deserve everything they’re going to get.

The discussion programme on German TV was on the Police. Your friend and helper in times of trouble on the one hand and the abuser of power on the other. It was a lively programme, spoilt for me by the sole politician member who tried to monopolise it by dragging party politics into it. I shout at the screen: ‘yes, yes’ we all know that’, 'you are repeating yourself', 'that’s not the point’, but he paid no attention to me. Politicians never do. The moderator wagged his finger at him to shut him up. Do these people not know how annoying they are? Hides like a rhinoceros, politicians.

I was glad when it was time for Sunday lunch. We have a thing about Sunday lunch. It’s special. I cook meat and several vegetables, roast in winter, and there’s often a starter and aways a pudding. Wine at lunch is not a good idea because I must walk Millie in the afternoon but the weather was foul and I knew I wasn’t going to go far, so I treated myself to an extra glass. Beloved has sherry beforehand and wine with, but then he only has to fall into his chair afterwards, where he promptly nods off. I like our Sunday lunches, they are cosy and companionable, with a table cloth, good china and glassware and candles on dark days. We had roast pork, roast root vegetables and apple tart today.

The bottom field was awash. Sue was sloshing through with Jake, a gorgeous long-haired golden retriever, about 100 years old. Jake never misses plunging into the river, Sue was racing ahead, waving at me from a distance. Normally we stop and chat. Not today. Brian was throwing tennis balls for his two collies, Murphy and Badger - Brian likes Irish stout. I lifted my golfing umbrella slightly so I could see him. ‘Filthy weather’, ‘that wind goes right through you’, etc. "Go on, get on home. Have a nice cup of tea", Brian advised me. Nice cups of tea figure high on an Englishman’s list of priorities on a day like today.

Millie didn’t seem to mind having her walk curtailed. Poor girl has to go in for yet another operation next Thursday. A growth on her belly, not a fat lump this time. I’m being extra nice to her, feeding her lots of biscuits. If she gets too fat she can’t have an operation, so I’d better watch it.

J.K. Rowling has written a couple of thrillers. I finished one of them lying on the sofa, duties done for the day. I never read her Harry Potter books, nor ‘A Casual Vacancy’, her first book for adults. The latter has been turned into a TV series; I saw the first episode, didn’t like it, and gave up on it. The thrillers aren’t great either but, what the heck, I’ll try anything once.

Which brings me to supper, very light because of the large lunch, eaten in front of another German TV programme, a cop show. English cop shows are cosy and bloodless and usually portray genteel murderers in picturesque villages, solved by bumbling policemen with a side kick who makes inane remarks. German cop shows are nastier, grittier, full of big city realism and the kind of murderer you want caught, hanged, drawn and quartered. I know which one I prefer. The English variety is soporific, asks nothing except suspension of disbelief, an ability to overlook wooden dialogue and looks pretty. What more could you ask on a wet evening in February.

There you have it, Sunday chez Friko. It might make a fitting punishment for my worst enemy, being bored to tears should describe it adequately.

A Valentine for Beloved

At a 93rd birthday party recently I was sitting on the sofa next to Wendy, a sweet old widow lady, a fellow guest. Nearly all the guests were elderly, the host and birthday boy being the oldest.

“Are you making any plans for the summer” she asked me, probably meaning trips and holidays.

Beloved was sitting at the other end of the room with the men.
I pointed to him and said: “ Not at the moment, my husband isn’t really up to travelling. He feels most comfortable at home, where he can arrange his life to suit his needs.”

Wendy made sympathetic noises. I didn’t want to sound like a woman put upon and hard-done-by, so I continued :”I don’t really mind. He is such a nice man that it is no hardship to spend time together at home.”

I didn’t get any further. “O,” Wendy burst out, “ how wonderful to hear this. I am always listening to women going on about their husbands, how tiresome they are. You have no idea how refreshing it is to hear of a couple who are friends, who like each other. If only I still had my husband; when I hear these women complaining I ask myself how would they feel if they lost them, would they be glad or would they actually miss them.”

Pleasantly surprised by this outburst, and a little touched by Wendy’s obvious sadness at her widowhood, I realised once again: it isn’t how much time you spend together, or how busily you spend this time; it’s harmony in your dealings together, and the pleasure you derive from being with each other, which matter.

As Berowne says in Shakespeare’s Love’s Labour’s Lost, which we saw only Thursday evening:

And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods

Makes Heaven drowsy with the harmony.

Unconscious Coupling

I looked at the everlasting calendar this morning to find the exact date for a friend’s birthday, mainly to see if there was time to send a card or if it would have to be an email.

“It is March, isn’t it? Goodness, 27th already.”

A vague thought entered my head: isn’t there some special date in March?

“Beloved, we forgot our anniversary.”

“O dear, so we have. I do apologize. I remember mentioning it earlier this month, but then it totally slipped my mind.”

“Don’t worry dear, I forgot too.”

For the first time in 27 years of marriage we both forgot our anniversary. No matter, we shall have a slightly belated celebration.

Contrary to Paltrow and Martin and their ‘conscious uncoupling’ - ( have you ever heard a more pretentious way of announcing a divorce? Are they a train?) - we shall stay together.

Actually, I blame having two gardeners for our absentmindedness: it is totally confusing to have them turn up on two separate days of the week, stay for three hours and disappear again. It means that I have to be around, ready to work alongside them, make tea and conversation, answer questions and make suggestions, listen to gossip, give instructions and have them gently ignored in favour of each gardener’s ‘better idea’ and make sure their dates never clash, twice a week.

One of these days I’ll have to come clean, if only for the sake of my marriage.

This Year, Everything Will Be Different,

                              I will be kinder, more patient, eat less, exercise more, read improving books, leave behind childish and frivolous things, help the aged and succour the young, always wash dishes after a meal and not wait until the next morning, sew on buttons the moment they come off and long before I need to hunt for a matching one in the button tin, and I will never ever give anyone cause to find me ‘scary’ again.

Sally and Frank walked Millie today; standing on the doorstep, Sally confided that after we had left yesterday’s party, another ‘friend’, in the course of a quick explanation about us behind our back (you know the sort of thing, a new acquaintance asks casually “who are these people” in the nicest possible way), this ‘friend’ - you note the inverted commas! - tells the new acquaintance a few pertinent facts about us, finishing off by saying: “Friko can be a bit SCARY sometimes”.

Scary? I am a PUSSYCAT, I’ll have you know.

So, for about two minutes, under the above heading,  I thought of becoming a brighter, sweeter, leaner, fitter, kinder me in 2014.

The problem is that it is 2014 now and I would therefore have to make a start instantly. Have you seen the weather? Have you seen how dark and gloomy it is and how persistent the rain lashes the windows? Have you heard the slates on the roof rattle in the wind ? The baubles are packed away for another year, the candles have been extinguished and the lingering smell of myrrh and frankincense is turning a bit rancid. Villagers are exhausted after the relentless festive jollities, although it helps that grandchildren have waved a fond farewell and are once more the sole responsibility of their parents. Hibernation seems an admirable plan to follow. Leavened by chocolates, schmaltzy TV, and a lot of reclining on sofas with a not-necessarily-improving book, and a sprinkle of self-indulgent outings now and then to ensure that life support systems remain functional.

If double-faced Janus, the Roman God who looks back to the old and forward to the new year, who gave this  long, dreary month its name, cannot make up his mind which way to march, who am I to decide for him?  By the time January is over, any pious resolve as to improvement of character will have got buried under the paving slabs of the road to hell, so why bother?

On second thoughts, no New Year’s Resolutions for me.

Advent Diary, day 5 - I’ve done it,

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re wearing them.”

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.

Sod’s Law

Nine months ago we accepted an estimate for a complete overhaul of the windows on the South side of the house, all eight of them. Ditto the back door, which has been quietly rotting away at the bottom. “Please don’t come during the week before ‘Open Garden’,” I said, "but any other time will be fine.”  ‘Open Garden’ was in June.

“Well, it depends on the weather and the order book,” said Kevin the builder, a very nice chap. He’s a local contractor,  all of his sub-contractors are pleasant chaps; we’ve used them all for one job or another and liked them all. Once you’ve found a good set of traders and workmen you bend over backwards not to lose them.

Three months ago, when Beloved had a small operation to remove a BCC,  the surgeon said :”What’s that on your arm, that doesn’t look good to me. Better make an appointment for a biopsy.” For weeks both Beloved and his GP have been pestering the Dermatology Department at Shrewsbury Hospital for an appointment.
“We are very busy but we'll arrange for a check-up as soon as possible.”

In due course a letter arrived from the hospital with a date: “5th November.

Yesterday we had a phone call from Kevin the builder: “Okay if we come tomorrow, 5th November?”

Purely a rhetorical question, by the way.

Beloved is no longer able to drive, he can’t see well enough. The Licensing
Authority are particularly unwilling

to issue licences for half-blind people.
I can see why, there is a certain kind of logic to that.

What to do? To go or to stay?Hospital or builder?

“I know, I’ll ask the Community Car People for help.” I’m nothing if not quick on my thinking feet.

“Mary (the person who runs the scheme) is away in Shrewsbury,” Keith, her husband said. "I’ll give her the message, when I pick her up. It should be no later than 3 o’clock.”

By six o’clock, when neither Keith nor Mary had got in touch, I became a bit restive. I had to make a decision one way or the other. Keith sounded awfully fuzzy when I rang back. “Mary isn’t back yet, they’ve kept her in.” Kept her in? Kept her in where? It emerged that Mary was in hospital and had made no arrangements for anyone else to take over from her. I gave up on Keith and started ringing round for the names of the volunteers who man the car service. It then emerged that Keith is no longer the man he was, a bit ‘out of it’ as you might say, but that Mary was keeping it quiet. “She doesn’t like it generally known.” Poor Mary.

A former volunteer was able to give me two names of people who might be willing to take Beloved to hospital in the morning. I rang them both. The first number died after four rings and the second number was answered by a machine. “Sorry, we’re out at the moment.”

By now it was eight o’clock and I still had no idea what to do in the morning. Because of the many calls I had made, my plight had become known. Betty said Nigel might do it.  I rang Nigel. Another machine. An hour later I rang Nigel again, just to make sure I had called the right number. Still the machine. Don’t people stay at home anymore on dark and wet November nights?

Beloved and I decided that we would wait for the builders to arrive, and give them free access to the house and windows, while I took him to his appointment. We’d hurry back and would be gone for no more than between three and four hours.

At ten o’clock Nigel’s wife Joan rang. “Nigel won’t mind driving Beloved in the morning. He’s out all evening but tell me what time you want him and I’ll see that he gets to you.”

I like a determined woman, who knows her husband’s mind, don’t you?

The builders will be with us for a few days yet. I’ll be on hand to provide the tea.

First Things First

“Have you lost interest in blogging? “
Beloved seemed a little concerned.

“No, why?”
Beloved has noticed that I spend more time downstairs than in my study. The busy time is done and I could get stuck in again. The problem is, where do I start? What is conceivably of interest to anyone but us?

“Well, you could start with food,” he said.
Trust him. He is thin to the point of emaciation in spite of a good appetite.

So, let’s start with food.

First, a supper party. A good friend had returned from five weeks’ exploration of the environmental impact of hydro-electric plants on the Tapajos river in Brazil and it was time to catch up. I thought it might be nice to invite another good friend whom I owed several meals. (not that we keep track - well,  ok then, I do, just a bit) It was all a bit last minute, but unplanned parties are usually the best. At 11 pm two nights before the supper party Andrew rang.

“Thank you for the invitation. I’d really love to come, but I have two guests staying.”
“What a pity, another time.”
“Well, we could all come. Think about it. It would be brilliant, just for the conversation. I’d bring the food for me and my guests, who are lovely people. You’ll love them."

I was rather taken aback. Andrew seemed merry and very enthusiastic; in the background I could hear sounds of conviviality.

“Think about it”, he repeated, “you won’t have to do a thing. I’ll bring lots of food and wine.”

I was beginning to feel flattered. Andrew has been something of a grand personage in the past and isn’t exactly a nobody now. That he should be so keen to come to a humble supper chez Friko . . . . . .
I do a lot for a bit of flattery.

I made up my mind. I’d rearrange the position of the table, and add an extra leaf, to seat more than six. I’d buy the peripheral courses and do a simple main course. It could be done without great effort.

The next morning my in-tray pinged.

“Abject apologies. I should never have imposed on you. I phoned you on the spur of the moment after a very bibulous meal. (Who’d have guessed?) Of course we won’t crash your party; could you and J. come to me  for drinks before dinner on Sunday, instead?”

I persuaded Andrew that it was all settled, that I’d consulted the other two supper guests, that the food was taken care of and that he should present himself and his guests at seven the next night. Which he did, laden with three bottles of wine, a large cool box and his house guests, two delightful South Africans. Many hours later they went home with the cool box incl. contents, but minus the wine, which had joined further bottles provided by Beloved and the original guests.

It was a great evening and now Andrew owes me big-time.

o-o-o-o-o

Autumn is nowhere near our birthdays but Jay, another friend, decided that she wanted to take us out for a very belated birthday lunch. Pub meals are carb-heavy, just the kind of meal suited for a wet, cool Sunday in late autumn.

This is a plate of roast beef, with roast potatoes

and vegetables, as well as a giant 

Yorkshire pudding. Millie had lots of leavings in a doggy bag.

The Lion in Leintwardine is a very attractive pub with rooms, a restaurant and bars, and sits smack on the banks of the river Teme. The pub garden runs down to the river and they even have fishing.

Leintwardine is a large village in north Herefordshire, close to the border with Shropshire, with origins in Roman times; it has been inhabited ever since and was mentioned in the Domesday Book of 1086.

I Wouldn’t Call It Research, Exactly . . . .

If anybody checked my Google searches they’d either have a fairly detailed picture of me quite quickly or they’d get a headache. With one half of Europe (the populations of the countries involved) disgusted and the other half (the governments of said countries) declaring themselves innocent of all knowledge of nefarious deeds by the NSA/CSS,  I fell to wondering how the secret services tell friend from foe.

I actually googled ‘security services’ and came up with reams of sites and pages and pages of newspaper articles on the recent scandals. Will this curiosity now put me on the list of suspect individuals? I’m probably there already because I carelessly said in a comment that, as far as I’m concerned, whistleblowers like Edward Snowden deserve a prize for bravery.  It beggars belief that vast resources are used to amass, sift, evaluate and store all the rubbish that floats about the world wide web. Every email, tweet, FB update, blogpost, etc. of millions of people is studied electronically.

It’s impossible to put the genie of the internet back in the bottle; whatever would we do without it. Personally, I find the internet a good thing, it is enriching my life quite miraculously. But, having made these remarks electronically, I have the uncomfortable feeling that somebody somewhere might now consider me a threat to national security.

However, be that as it may, my real googling activities are nothing to do with spooks and how they are out to get me, but a lot with cooking, literature, gardening, etymology, birds, plant names and what’s in the news locally.

Here’s a small selection from last week:

Imperial Rome in the 1st Century AD  
Reading a history of the emperors of the period, as well as going to see Shakespeare’s gory play ‘Titus Andronicus’ who is absolutely nothing to do with the historical emperor Titus.

Wasabi Chocolate
I bought a bar, to see ‘what it tastes  like’ . It’s disgusting stuff, I’m going to throw it away.

AM Homes - Who she?
Another book, a novel, “May We Be Forgiven”, for which Homes won the Women’s Fiction Prize.
It’s good but not that good. Too many detours, red herrings, unnecessary paddings.
But worth reading anyway, at times moving and funny and an absolute action packed tour de force.

What are Chinese Lanterns?
There’s been a horrific industrial fire in a recycling warehouse; fire investigators blame a single Chinese lantern seen floating above stacks of packed recycling material on CCTV images. We only knew the horticultural variety of Chinese lanterns which look very pretty but have never been known to cause more than a rash.

Nouns Of Assembly
A breakfast ramble. We were arguing about collective nouns, in particular jackdaws and rooks.  We have hundreds of these noisy, greedy, gregarious birds, at this time of year they bring along their entire families; all my clapping, shouting and beating a pillow with a stick to mimic a shot doesn’t frighten them into leaving.
Jackdaws collectively are known as a train or a clattering, whereas rooks collectively are a building or parliament. I like the phrase  'a murder of crows’ , another member of the genus Corvus.

Etymology of ‘barbecue’
The reason for wanting to know this is easy, we’ve just been to one. There are lots of explanations but the most likely one is that the word originally came from the West Indian “barbacoa” which denotes slow-cooking meat over hot coals.


There you are, all of it totally innocuous and inoffensive, not a search term amongst them which would give a spook cause for a sharp intake of breath. And all thanks to Mr. Google. It would have taken me days to assemble and dig through book information on these subjects.

Now there’s a thought - would that have been more fun?

Friko’s Everyday World

Often I find myself in complete agreement with the people whose blogs I read; the reason is probably that I tend to follow bloggers who are broadly the same age, have roughly similar attitudes and background,  even though we find ourselves on opposite sides of the globe. The differences in outlook seem negligible, although our daily routines may vary wildly due to unimportant factors like geography and nationality. Occasionally a blogpost makes me stop and think; one of these was a recent post by Irene who writes the blog The Most Splendid Day, wherein she said :

I find that not one day is like the other and that you can not predict what any day in your life is going to be like, although I used to think until quite recently that I had some control over that. But then I used to think that I had control over all kinds of things, and I have come to find out that this is not true at all.

You can not predict what any day is going to look like, and as much as you would like to plan for it, it really can't be done, because the day unfolds as it will and you have to be flexible enough to accept that and not take it personally.

I thought about it, but I can’t agree. Other commenters did agree.

Either I don’t understand what Irene is saying or I live a different life altogether: my life is totally predictable from one day to the next. Basically, it’s all mapped out, not dull or boring - well, sometimes it is -  but planned, laid down in advance according to necessity, duties and obligations, appointments and dates.

There is a diary with entries for all sorts of things: pleasant outings like theatre trips, meals out with friends or meals in with friends, or just meeting friends; the day gardener or the cleaner is coming; not so pleasant whole day shopping trips on days which are otherwise empty; taking Beloved to hospital and surgery appointments, having dealings with officials, like banks or the tax inspector. Hairdresser, chiropodist, beauty treatments, massages, all booked in advance.Village events are planned months ahead and I usually know which ones I’ll attend.

I even know what individual days are like when ’nothing’s on': I wake up around the same time, have the same breakfast, read the same paper, tidy the same rooms,  walk the dog at the same time; I know which areas of the garden I’m going to work in, they’ll be the bits that need it most. I know which household chores need doing when (but at least I no longer have my mum’s laundry or cleaning day).

It is the most mundane and humdrum existence, with duties and obligations, leisure and entertainment, me-time and time for others, all laid down and planned in advance.  I even know my favourite TV programmes which I’ll either watch or record for another day.

Having read Irene’s post and thought about my own life I realise what a regulated and tramline-tracked routine I live.  We are retired and there is scope for spontaneity; occasionally things just happen  but even that usually depends on the weather;  living deep in the countryside makes every outing into an expedition requiring careful forethought.

What I don't know is whether I'm going to be alive tomorrow.


The only place where I go on flights of fancy is inside my head. Here ideas crowd each other out, philosophies and dreams jostle for space. Here I courageously and curiously follow that rainbow from beginning to end.  Inside my head humdrum doesn’t exist, routine marches to a very different beat. I never know what my head is going to come up with next. Sometimes the noise is deafening and I quickly go and iron some complicated shirts to soften it.

Bored with routine? Me?

Tables

I am from a poor people’s kitchen with a large table . . . . . . 

What has happened to tables? In particular kitchen tables? What has happened to the idea of sitting around a table for meals, for work, for conversation? A place for families to sit at the end of the day and exchange the day’s news, to air small hurts and share happy moments, at eye level, as equals. The anchor that provides a safe place, a place where body and soul find nourishment.

We had supper at a friend’s house not long ago, six of us sitting around a large kitchen table. There would have been room for at least two more, but as it was, we could  spread ourselves and when wine and conviviality loosened our tongues, there was plenty of space for elbows leaning on the table and hands gesturing to make a point. I remember how happy this expansiveness made me feel. I was also aware that there are now very few houses where sitting in such comfort is possible. Many younger people go without tables and eat their food from a plate held on a tray, even in company.

Am I just showing my age again, lamenting the demise of shared meals round a table? In my childhood and my children’s childhood the kitchen was the centre of the house. When I was small we had what was called a live-in-kitchen, a large room with a table and chairs in the middle, a cast iron range to one side and a dresser to the other. Lifestyles have changed and I am not advocating a return to the ‘olden days’, far from it. I am very grateful I no longer have to work as hard as my mother did early in her marriage.

If the kitchen was the centre, the table was the heart of our home. We had our meals at it, father spread his newspaper out on it and I did my homework. Extended family discussions were held here, fists banging the table for emphasis when the talk became heated. The few visitors we had were invited to take a seat, and uncles and aunts had their own regular places. I took my books here, from colouring and picture books to  reading books. In the evenings mum and dad and I played cards or board games, and after I had gone to bed they would still be there, finishing off their day. When we moved from the country to the town and the old table had to go because there was no room for it in the new home I missed it terribly.

We have five tables now, too many you might say. If ever we decide to downsize, several will have to go. But three at least have a history and losing them would mean the loss of that history.