The Summer of My Dreams

So what’s so great about summer? Those ‘lazy, hazy days of summer’? We long for them all through the winter. We anticipate them from the very first day of spring. We dream of sauntering along the prom in the sunshine, ice cream in hand, wearing our favourite summer outfit, with not a care in the world.

That’s the point, isn’t it? ‘Not a care in the world’. It’s not really about the weather, but about how the weather makes us feel. The sun on our shoulders, that gentle breeze blowing our hair, the sounds of the seagulls in blue skies above us and not a worry in our silly heads! It’s a throwback to our school days – end of term, no more homework, no more responsibilities, no more need to be sensible and dutiful, punctual and regimented. No, we can throw the rule book out of the window and relax. Put away our school uniform and be ourselves. For a glorious six weeks’ freedom there are no teachers to demand that our latest science experiments are neatly written up, together with accurately labelled diagrams; no parents to utter those fateful words as we sneak out the door, doled up, made up and raring to go: “Have you done your homework?”; no exams to revise for; no need to go to bed early to be up in time for school. It’s summer! It’s going to be fun!

Summertime! The stuff songs were made of. George Gershwin made summertime famous and poignant. Mungo Jerry, the Beach Boys, John Travolta and Olivia Newton John all made summer a thing to be craved for. That summer magic! Summer days – and oh, those summer ni-ights! The music belonged to an era when life was maybe less serious, job queues and pension funds less pressing and youth was something to be enjoyed – at full tilt.

But that was a long time ago. It’s years since I sat behind a school desk. Years since Mungo Jerry made my heart skip a beat with that carefree summertime rhythm. But I still feel the same. This summer has been so frustrating, so elusive. One day on and then five more back in winter. Never knowing what to wear – is it a day for thick tights and shoes or a day for bare legs and sandals. Maybe I’ll wear my jeans yet again, just to be on the safe side. When can I get out my flimsy sundresses I’ve been saving since last year? And when it finally gets warm it rains!

This year of all years we need some summer. Recession, drought, floods, banking crises (again), paralysis in the housing market, eurozone issues, redundancies, benefit cuts, protests and riots, governments in crisis… We’re feeling the pinch. At least give us some sunshine! Is my mood tied to the weather? Am I a slave to the sunshine? Am I winter-phobic? Well, yes, if I’m honest I am.

It’s not too late – still two months to go before the dream fades. Come on summer – get on with it!

Sick as a Parrot

Nowadays I only have to hear that phrase: ‘sick as a parrot’ and it takes me straight back to one of the most fun-filled family holidays I can remember. I suppose it was that way because for us, at that time, foreign travel was new. It was a wonderful novelty. It must have been in the good old 1980’s. The first time in Majorca, that glorious, sun-drenched island (well, some of the time!), we woke early in the morning after a late night arrival at our new hotel. We drew back the curtains and looked out of the window at the scene beneath us. It seemed like a film set in some exotic location – maybe a James Bond movie - and we pinched ourselves to make sure it was really true and not some fantastic dream. White fairy lights still blazed out over a huge empty swimming pool surrounded by neat rows of sunbeds. The cool, pristine walls of the hotel gleamed and there were flowers on the balconies. It was very early and no-one in the hotel was stirring. The lights were still on. The pool was a very deep blue and the sun was coming up. In the distance were the mountains. It was just how we had dreamed, but not dared to imagine. The Villa Concha – our own island paradise! Could this amount of luxury really be meant for us?

The second time we stayed in an apartment block closer to the centre of town and not far from the stylish waterfront with its mix of bars, restaurants, marina and palm-fringed beaches. Just opposite was a typical tourist bar, tweaking the Mediterranean cuisine that we were still getting used to into subtle tourist shapes and offering chips, burgers, salads and the most amazing gateaux, light, fluffy and full of chocolate, cream and strawberries. As a family we were hooked. The restaurant owner, Pepé, was keen to please, of course, sparkling with fun and humour and oh, so sweet to our small daughter. She drank it all in, the excitement, the laughter, the other families, our special table to which we were ushered as if we were honoured guests and, best of all, the parrot! Pepé’s parrot was his trademark, on a perch just outside the door. We went back year after year and business was good. Same menu, same décor, same merry banter and (probably) same parrot!

We were new to travel, new to sunshine and sand Mediterranean style, new to garlic and olives and new to large bottles of very drinkable wine. Each evening we ordered a bottle of Pepé’s wine to stand on our table during the meal. Each evening we drew a little closer to the bottom of the bottle at the end of the night. As we ate we retold our day – the hours on the beach, the car we had hired to drive through the mountains, the fish we had caught in the little green fishing net, the state of our sunburnt bodies… We ate, we drank and, most of all, we laughed! The holiday brought out the best in us. We relaxed, laid back, enjoyed each other’s company and enjoyed our small daughter.

Holidays are funny. For a while normal life is abandoned, routines are relaxed, normal rules don’t apply. We let our hair down. We stayed up late. It was a holiday full of laughter. At some point during the meal, every night, it seemed, our daughter would turn to her much-loved daddy, and say: “Say it again, daddy! You know, the one about the parrot…” and he would bring out the same old joke again – clowning about and saying “as sick as a parrot” in that silly, Freddie Davies voice and we would fall about laughing. The more often he said it, the funnier it became and we rolled about helplessly, enjoying hours of harmless, family fun. London-based Freddie, children’s comedian, with a famous line in jokes about budgies, never knew how he inspired us. Night after night we collapsed over the table, giggling, with diners at neighbouring tables looking on. Funny how funny things can get when you say them often enough. Little girls can be very silly and giggly. We often find their humour hard to understand. Imagine our daughter’s delight then when, with the help of a day of sunshine and relaxation, followed by an unaccustomed bottle of wine, mum and dad joined in. At the end of the meal we would stagger back to our apartment, studiously avoiding the edges of the swimming pool, and giggle all the way back home. To this day any mention of parrots can raise a silly smile.

Today I really do feel sick as a parrot. A week long fever and a hacking cough have taken their toll and I’m fed up with it! I’ve missed work, my social life is destroyed, communication has dissolved into endless coughing fits and I’m feeling very bored. However, even today I can’t help grinning at the thought of that parrot.

Finding joy

At a recent gathering of the writers circle I belong to we were set the task of spontaneously writing down the things we find joy in. The results were revealing, giving us space and time to think about the things that make us really happy - a heart-warming task worth trying, especially on a rainy day like today!

I find joy in the early morning city streets, in the sunlit pavements, in the quirky shops in quiet backstreets, the cafes where sleepy passers-by sip cappucinos and plan their day. I find joy in the tall, white gracious embassy buildings, hiding their secrets, the untold stories of a thousand expats, each with their own histories, living in this bustling, surprising city.

I find joy in companionship. I find joy in the exchange of gossip, of individual lives lived in such a variety of ways. So many expressions of life.

I find joy in the sharing of our creativity. So many angles and perspectives. So many ways of saying the same thing. We experience life and death, sickness and health, friendship and alienation, joy and grief and our history, in so many ways, is the same - and yet differently expressed. I find joy in that.

I find joy in my garden. That is no secret. This year I have found joy in an abundance of blossom. It is a good year for blossom - I find joy in that. I find joy sitting in my garden, on the little terrace outside my back door, with the sun overhead, pouring its warmth and blessings on my little garden. I find joy in frothy, white hydrangea blossoms, yellow roses, perfectly formed, tall, slender foxgloves opening up their patterned trumpet flowers to soft, velvety bees. I find joy in that.

Joy can be a mindset - or not. I must work a little to find joy. There can be hindrances, sickness, griefs and irritations of all kinds so I must find my joy. I must choose to make time for it.

                                 Delft Blues

                                 Under the shade of a tall, willowy poplar

                                 I lay down to rest.

                                 The water drifted lazily by me

                                 And I slept.

                                 The rustle of the leaves and the rippling of water

                                 Mingled with my dreams.

                                 The blackbird sang in the tops of the trees,

                                 Drew my attention.

                                 ‘Rest here awhile in peace’ whispered the poplar,

                                 It seemed to me.

                                 ‘Slow down, slow down’ bubbled the stream,

                                 ‘No need to rush.’

                                 The blackbird called from the tops of the trees:

                                 ‘Make time to be joyful!’

                                 And under the shade of the willowy poplar

                                 I smiled and was at peace. 

Multi-tasking again!

I am sitting beside the Deben estuary. At last summer has arrived and the sun beats down. It is almost too hot, but it would be churlish to say so. The tide is low and the little ribbon of water meanders gently between the mudflats, sparkling in the warm sunshine. Everything in this peaceful, sunwashed landscape is blue-brown, except for the soft green meadows that flank the river on one side and the marshland beneath the dyke on the other. Vision predominates. It is a powerful image and a view I am fond of.

But I have five senses. What of the rest? I lean back against the wooden bench and shut my eyes. A soft, cool breeze is blowing, wafting past me the scents of clover and cow parsley, the salty tang of the sea and the pungent smells of seaweed and mud, exposed by the receding tide. There are the sounds of silence: that special kind of silence that is composed of the absence of unwelcome noise – traffic noise, loud, intrusive conversations, mobile phones, dogs yapping… An aura of calm rests upon the place and I am at peace. As I listen to the ‘silence’, I am arrested by a plethora of sounds: peaceful sounds. An oyster-catcher flies overhead. I hear his soft, but piercing, ‘peep-peep’ in the distance. A lark is soaring, high above me, singing for joy – or so it seems. It is a beautiful, beautiful morning, so I can understand why. There is aeroplane noise in the far distance and somewhere, far across the estuary, a dog barks. There are footsteps along the dyke behind me and snatches of quiet, leisurely conversation. But nothing to disturb the peace.

The breeze caresses my skin. It is pleasantly cooling, perfectly matched with the comforting warmth of the hot sun. Now I am the ideal temperature and when I return home at the end of the day I know that I shall be pleasantly aware of a healthy glow, a sense of well-being and a soft tan to my skin. The weather is kind to me and I appreciate its gentle touch. I lick my lips and enjoy the salty tang. But I am thirsty. I pick up my water bottle and let the cool, refreshing liquid trickle slowly down my parched throat. It feels good.

Sight, sound, touch, taste and smell. Even on my day off, I am doing it again – multi-tasking!

The Home Visit

We visited a lonely teacher in her house the other day. Well, not her house; she was the poor unfortunate tenant and the landlord was selling her house… well, not her house, his, but it was her problem.

It was a modest kind of house. Not your dream home. A newbuild, but already falling down. Even the entrance way had been partly demolished – a kind of brick, ornamental archway connecting it with next door. Obviously someone preferred to be disconnected and had partly taken it down, leaving the remaining bricks protruding from the front wall. Inside it was dark and cramped and the floorboards creaked ominously. The over-large furniture didn’t fit. The sofa would have looked nice in a generously proportioned country mansion. Upstairs, the tour was soon finished, leaving you wondering where the real bedrooms were and why the broom closet was so big.

“Is it a nice place to live?” we asked. “How are the neighbours?” “It’s quiet” she said, after some thought. “There are squirrels… and a badger comes sometimes… even a deer.” “Bit too quiet, then?” we inquired perceptively. “I guess so,” she said. “And the neighbours?” “Very quiet” she said. “Single woman, elderly couple…” “We met an elderly couple over the road” we ventured. “They didn’t seem very welcoming.” “Oh, them” she said. “Someone I know at work lives next door. They accused her of fly-tipping rubbish in their bin.”

“Is this the state of community living in our villages?” we wondered, feeling a bit depressed. It seemed such a nice little village – a bit of a rabbit warren, it was true, where the new homes had been constructed, all higgledy-piggledy, in a hollow. The shop assistant in the village store had told us where to find it; in fact the whole shop had joined in, with helpful directions and advice. “Just keep on down” they said. “Down and down and you’ll find it.” We left the shop, a bit doubtful. The directions didn’t seem much to go on – no street names, no landmarks, no right or left turns, but sure enough, after following the dubious advice we reached the end – down and down and down… past the library, past the children’s playground, past the little green areas, down and down and there it was, the address we had been looking for, just like they said.

It was the end of the line. A sleepy little hollow. Obviously no-one passed by. There was nowhere to go, except a teacher’s lonely let, visited only by wildlife. But she was sorry to be going, evicted, moved on, against her will, from the squirrels and the deer and the badger and big tall dark trees that surrounded her house, preventing anything from growing in the garden. But it was home. Quiet and peaceful. Home alone… there’s no place like home.