Day Off!

He was unmistakable really. He was sitting in one of those red leather easy chairs, slumped over a little table. We'd gone into Cadwalader's for a cup of tea after a long walk along the seafront and there he was. The cafe was full to bursting even though the seafront had been quite deserted. "That's where they've all got to then" I said to my husband. "No wonder there was no-one on the beach - they're all in here..."

The cafe staff were rushed off their feet. We sat down hurriedly at the last free table, squashed into a corner next to the shelf where people were helping themselves to plastic spoons and little packets of sugar. Young families were seated at the tables, whilst their small children fussed and fidgeted or ran about, getting under the waitresses' feet. The old gentleman sat in the corner by himself, next to a table of four, all working their way through mugs of hot chocolate, topped with frothy cream, and slices of sickly looking cheesecake. The old man shut his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

He didn't look very well really. He was neat enough, white hair cut evenly round his bald patch, but a bit untidy round the ears, his greyish-white beard neatly trimmed, but definitely looking a bit peaky. I wondered if he was recovering from some kind of cancer treatment or something. He looked whacked. In front of him on the table was a half consumed glass of orange juice... my thoughts wandered to the possibility of a de-tox.

 

Then I rumbled him! A de-tox! Yes, that was it - too many glasses of mulled wine in this festive season. December would be a busy month for him, getting the last of the preparations done. In fact, he'd probably been flat out for months. It was only November 30th today and he was probably just taking a breather before the final push. A little holiday by the seaside... no wonder he had his eyes shut. He was trying to chill out for a bit. No doubt he was trying to escape from all the children that were now rampaging up and down the aisles, waiting for their parents to finish their coffee and cake and come and do something more interesting.

He was wearing grey too - incognito, I guessed - and a change from all that brash red stuff. A nice grey, ribbed sweater helped him to pass unnoticed. As we finished our tea I saw the waiter bend over him and say something, before hurrying off. In a moment or two he was back with a glass of water. Poor man, I expect he wanted to take some tablets for his headache. We got up to go and on the way out I noticed a little pile of beautifully wrapped gifts, in shiny gold and silver paper, stacked up under the Christmas tree near the door. I hadn't noticed that on the way in. Ah! he'd been getting a bit ahead with his deliveries. Good idea! Christmas gets earlier and earlier these days.

Missing you... missing me

I remember him well. Of course I do. How could I ever forget him? When I think of Peter, I remember his family - and ours - together, having fun. I remember afternoons in his garden, playing with the children, watching them take turns on the swing, watching his girls push our daughter round the lawn in a pram, taking them to the park on bikes and tricycles, listening to his jokes and silliness. I remember their three year old daughter, Katy, helping herself to more ice-cream out of the freezer and her father abandoning his customary genial approach to fatherhood and daring her, in his most severe voice, to continue in her naughtiness. Of course she responded to the dare, as children do, by following through and being appropriately punished! But Peter was a master of silliness at its best - a loveable clown - but maybe also at its worst! Peter was special and no-one can replace him.

 

When I remember Cherry I think of her laugh, a light, silvery laugh that carried with it a sense of lightheartedness and such joy. I remember the folk music; I think of the fuschias that she loved and collected in her conservatory; I remember the jewellery she made; I remember her wedding. Growing older and iller, her jewellery making was one of the things that still inspired her to creativity and enabled her to indulge her favourite pastime of giving and making people happy. These were my friends and I shall never see them again. They are both gone and it is still a shock to think that those happy times are over. A part of me is gone too.

 

When people die you miss them. It's true. Everyone knows that. There are l0l reasons why you miss them. Sometimes you see people who remind you of someone you've lost and it starts all over again: the memories, the things you did together, the way they looked, the way they dressed... But I made a strange discovery the other day. When people that you love die a part of you dies too! I didn't know that.

'There are many rooms and many Bernards.' I read that the other day and it made me think. I'm reading The Waves* at the moment, by Virginia Woolf, in which she explores, in a mixture of lyrical prose poetry and musings, the inner thoughts and imagination of six childhood friends as they grow up. The characters come together and separate, merge together, flow into one another and regard each other closely, imagining each other's thoughts and desires. They miss each other when they are no longer there. Bernard is a writer whose whole life is composed of 'making phrases', phrases for every situation, phrases that as a writer he may need to use later. With his stock of phrases, he makes stories - the whole of life is a series of stories - and what he needs more than anything else is someone to listen. So Bernard is a people person. He craves human contact, but for each situation, each room full of people, for each listener, there is another Bernard. When Percival dies, Bernard loses that part of himself that used to relate to his friend. When Percival dies Bernard mourns Percival, but he also mourns the passing of a part of himself.

 

I have just a handful of friends and family who have passed away and left one of those gaping holes. I'm not old enough yet to have that many. But thinking of the times you shared together you remember former days and a former you. That 'you' will never come again. Not quite. Because we're never quite the same person again; the person who made you feel that way and act that way is no longer there. So thank you, friends and family, for making me what I am and for inspiring a tiny part of me that can never be the same again without you!

 

* The Waves, Virginia Woolf. Pub. Vintage, 2004

That Elusive Chemistry...

People are funny. With some you connect; with some you don't. A couple we know from the art club came over recently for a meal. I still have the warm glow they left behind. Funny, friendly, witty and full of interesting chit chat, we made contact with each other to our mutual satisfaction, I think. When I meet them now we've 'gone up a gear'. The friendship is warmer, more vibrant due to the time we spent together over casserole and blackberry and apple crumble. The atmosphere changed, softened somehow, as we sipped white wine and sat comfortably around the dining table together.

 

Last night was different. There was plenty of talk. Not many gaps. No awkward silences. The food was good and we enjoyed a bottle of warm, rich, red wine together around the same table. She talked about herself. She told us stories of her marriage, his death, her home and garden. We swapped tales, although the ball seemed to be more often in her court than ours. I came downstairs this morning to find the room in darkness. Outside it was gloomy, windy and raining again. I set the table for breakfast, thinking of last night's encounter. In the kitchen I discovered the only real remnant of the meeting of minds and hearts - a pile of washing up, thankfully all done and neatly piled up on the drainer. (No space for a dishwasher!)

 

I've been reading lately - or rather re-reading - Martin Buber, Austrian Jewish philosopher/poet - yes, really! His sole written contribution to philosophy (I and Thou) reads like poetry and has fascinated me ever since the days of my 'mature' studenthood back in the '90s. Buber writes about meeting and what he terms 'mis-meeting' (translation from the German). He defines human relationships around two axes - I/Thou and I/It - the first being a direct heart-to-heart/spirit-to-spirit contact where two individuals approach one another on a mutual ground of equality and appreciate one another for who they really are, the second being a necessary but less satisfying form of contact for more functional  purposes. In an I/Thou approach to another being, we form a bond which enables us to interact meaningfully and warmly in a mutual response to one another. In an I/It approach I make contact for reasons of use, information, entertainment or other forms of gratification. I/It is often focussed on the past or future. I/Thou happens in the present. To put my own slant on it, not Buber's, I/It is about me; I/Thou is about us.

 

So as we stumble through life and relationships we find both meetings and mis-meetings, it seems. The same relationship, however good or bad, can lurch from one to the other and back again at any time. That is life. Our own bumbling efforts at relating to people are as hit and miss and often as culpably inadequate as those of others, so how can we complain? However, that warm afterglow of a true meeting of hearts and lives is intoxicating and once experienced is something that spurs one on to search for more such moments. 'All real life is meeting' said Buber and I think he may have been right.

Feminine Wiles?

Recently I made a discovery which shocked me and made me wonder where we are going in our journey to achieve some very worthy aims. Does the end always justify the means? Does history teach us nothing? Do we need, as women, to ignore integrity, our sense of fairness and our democratic principles in order to develop our potential? Is this really what we want?

Please don't get me wrong. I am all in favour of women developing their potential. Of course I am. I enjoy seeing women bringing their own impressive and highly individual brand of creative energy, lateral thinking and feminine genius to a range of tasks that have  previously been a strictly male only preserve. I love seeing women freed from their traditional roles - if that is what they choose - to explore new settings and compete side by side with their male counterparts in a variety of exciting ventures.

 

You are sensing a 'but'. Right! Sadly, that is true.

 

The discovery I referred to is possibly something that other less naïve and squeamish members of 21st century society are already aware of and maybe are comfortable with. I don't know. However, I learned recently that in order to 'redress the balance' and correct the inequality in the relative numbers of male and female Members of Parliament, we are currently 'fixing' the short lists for electing MPs so that an all-female short list can now guarantee the desired female candidates in a number of selected constituencies. I confess I was shocked. Maybe I am over-sensitive, but can someone with a better grasp of history please tell me what is the difference between the current situation and the widely practised atrocity of 'rotten borough' election methods in bygone centuries in this country?

Apart from the fact that (hopefully) under the current system no money changes hands, I find it difficult to see what is the difference between fixing the shortlisting  of candidates (and then the subsequent vote) by squires and other members of the class hierarchy and the current practice of fixing shortlists in favour of female candidates. Please enlighten me if I am showing signs of paranoia or an excessive predilection for an outworn concept of democracy. In the bad old days squires and their lackeys toured drinking houses and hovels to impress on their employees and tenants that voting for the 'wrong candidate' would result in deprivation, eviction and unemployment. Sometimes a bribe of 'cakes and ale' would be offered to further tempt men (for no women had the vote anyway) to use their precious vote according to their employer's wishes. Moving to the present time, where we have evolved into a much fairer and more even-handed bunch, much as I love the idea of men and women having equal access to the opportunity of procuring seats in parliament, I would much prefer to see an equal contest conducted on a wholly democratic basis. Do any other women agree with me?

It seems to me that in a 'contest' where the entire adult population has been enfranchised, it is unnecessary to give any further advantage to any section of our society (even women!) than the one they already possess, i.e. one adult, one vote. If there are any other built-in inequalities in our system, surely we should be looking at the regulations governing who is able to shortlist candidates and what are the criteria by which prospective candidates are screened. Of course we want a fairer system and we want access to the very best government our country can procure, but can it really become fairer by means of a method that involves short list fixing?

Quart into a Pint Pot

It's always as well to pay your mortgage off by the time you retire! Of course, sometimes life happens to you and it doesn't work out that way... That's when you have to employ a lot of creative thought to try to beat the system and survive.
 

The early part of the 2lst century saw the beginnings of the 'squeeze'. An economic depression affected most of us and we became adept at finding ways round things, ducking and diving and planning for the future in ways that the wartime generation our parents belonged to would have felt quite at home with.

 

Living and working in the Netherlands had accustomed us to a certain way of life that expats come to expect. We lived in a cushioned little bubble on the whole - English speaking of course - and enjoyed the best of the rich cultural experience that was offered us in a multi-cultural and diverse environment. We lived well and we worked hard. We had a moderately sized house in the midst of a pretty Dutch city. The recession was a daily reality even there but we managed to limit ourselves to fairly minor economies and hoped that things would improve. Of course we had a mortgage. We had moved around too much and bought and sold houses too many times to have built up any capital or paid off our debts in nice steady chunks as our parents would have done. A long spell working in the voluntary sector for what seemed at the time like justifiable altruistic reasons also had an impact on our financial situation long term.

 

However, retirement was looming and ill health made it unwise to delay our move back to our homeland any longer. It was not the best of times to be planning a big international move but life doesn't always go quite the way you would ideally want it to. It took us a while to sell our home. We tried a fresh coat of paint, we decluttered and modernised and tried to be patient and eventually we struck lucky. However, what you can buy with the help of a mortgage is somewhat different to what you can manage next time round without one! Without a job no-one in their right mind was going to loan us money again - and with the economic crisis fresh in everyone's minds, no-one was keen to repeat the mistakes that caused it by offering a mortgage to bad risk clients like ourselves with only a pension to live on.

 

We talked it over. We planned; we schemed; we researched on the internet; we watched endless episodes of Escape to the Country and Homes under the Hammer to gain clues on how to achieve our dream cottage in the country with the minimum financial outlay. Our goals were modest, just like everyone else's - the big family kitchen, rural surroundings, a guest bedroom or two, a substantial garden with an impressive vegetable plot and a view to die for. Not much really...  Add to that yearnings above our station for a writer's summerhouse in the garden and an artist's studio where all the mess could remain undisturbed and the easel and paintbrushes would be ready to roll at a moment's notice, and we were in over our heads. Not a hope!

 

Two or three years later, all the planning stage now seems like a dream. The Big Move turned out to be the Big Squeeze and left us reeling, feeling a little like we had been squeezed unceremoniously into a small tube of toothpaste from which we would never escape. Our new home was in rural surroundings: one of the remotest parts of the UK, with a high unemployment rate and a challenging lack of facilities. However, the views are spectacular and the country setting was everything we had dreamed of. Our kitchen is modest and far from modern, but it has been adequate to the task. Homemade pies and quiches, crusty loaves, cakes and muffins fill the freezer, even if there is no space for the dishwasher and baking day necessitates a degree in logistics to cope with the task in the cramped surroundings available. The guest bedroom is there if you look hard enough. It contains a wardrobe (which is always totally filled with the overspill from our own wardrobes and never has any room for our guests' needs). It contains a sofa bed, with just enough space to extend it if absolutely necessary. It also contains a fine artist's studio (easel squashed in the corner by the window, with a shelf for paints on the wall next to it) and a writer's space (antique pine desk squashed in next to the easel) with a glorious view out of our back window to the hummocky green mountain behind our house for those moments of inspiration.

 

Behind our row of cottages you will find the garden. Each tiny cottage has a corresponding tiny garden, not necessarily in the logical order. The deeds for our cottage are lodged with the solicitor and contain a carefully drawn map, outlining the quirky details of our estate. We own a small cottage with a tiny extension, a share in our communal driveway, a tiny garden, enclosed by green stained fences, with a matching green shed, a concreted parking space, a grassed over area we like to think of as the lawn, flower beds and space for an impressive array of flower pots and containers for a small vegetable plot, if you don't park the car too far back. We also, in common with all our neighbours, own a minute square of land (now accessible via a right of way through one of the neighbour's gardens) on which we once boasted a small outside loo! We also own a useful washing line which cuts diagonally across the garden from the shed to the fence, where washing can be successfully hung, with careful attention to the respective length of the garments, avoiding (hopefully) the courgette plants, back of the car and the garden table and chairs where we like to eat lunch on sunny days. We have become experts at multi-functional living and the art of downsizing. Can you fit a quart into a pint pot? Well, I think the answer would have to be yes.

 

And do we enjoy our escape to the country? Again, the answer would have to be in the affirmative. Despite the squeeze we are proud of our little home and garden, proud to be living in these beautiful surroundings, proud to be part of a caring community where the neighbours have welcomed us into their delightfully antiquated but sociable and mutually supportive society. It's been a bit of a challenge, downsizing, and continues to be so, but there are times when trying to fit a quart into a pint pot can be rewarding and my cup 'runneth over', as the good book says. After all, it's not all bad when you have too much rather than too little.

 

 

The Oscar Show

Oscar is enjoying himself. 17 months old and he is trying out his very first bucket and spade. The sand is not really quite wet enough to make proper sandcastles but Oscar doesn't know any better. This dry, powdery, warm stuff is just right for him. Just right to dig your toes in. He waits patiently whilst his mother conscientiously daubs his face with sun cream and gently rubs it in. It makes him a bit sticky and the sand sticks to it but he doesn't worry. He totters down to the edge of the waves with his attendant parents and waits again while they hold him between them, fitting on a special, less absorbent swimming nappy and dressing him in a pair of smart shorts, so his trousers don't get wet and he doesn't sink like a stone under the extra weight of sea water in his nappy. The wonders of modern technology!

At last he is able to play. I watch from my comfy beach chair and absorb, not sea water, but the delights of the sand, the hovering sea gulls, the gently bobbing boats and cool blue expanse of sparkling sea in front of me. A girl of about eight or nine years old in a red swimming costume is making a very accomplished attempt at swimming up and down in the waves, whilst her mother sits in a pretty sundress watching her and calling her to stay close by. Oscar and his mummy and daddy form a triple silhouette against the bright sunlight, interacting together in traditional family beach postures along the edge of the ocean. Everyone is having fun.

Every now and then Oscar turns back to see if we are watching him. I wait till he is facing back up the beach towards me and wave. Grandad waves too. Oscar goes on playing. Later his mother tells us 'Oscar loved it when you waved at him. He kept smiling and smiling.' We enjoyed the Oscar show. We are catching up on all his developments these past few months when we have been living far apart. But Oscar enjoyed it too! Right now Oscar is at the centre of his world and that's a wonderful place to be. It won't last forever. Oscar will discover there are other people in the world, who demand attention, help and treats. Maybe a sibling will bring change in that department! But for now Oscar is thoroughly enjoying the Oscar show. 'Look at me' he says, although we don't hear the words. 'Look at me!'

Dust your Way to Heaven*

There is a myth amongst women (formerly known as 'housewives'), which is discussed with passion at places of work, coffee mornings, tea parties and even, shame though it is to admit it, at meetings of the Women's Institute, namely that dusting is an activity which is to be despised, shunned, scorned and avoided at all costs. It is to be placed at the bottom of the list of any self-respecting woman these days, delegated to cleaning staff, husbands (who, after all, fail to redeem themselves in any other way in this modern age), or, if at all possible, to children (although it is somewhat difficult in this 21st century culture of ours to do the latter without incurring the wrath of such busy-bodying organisations as the Children's Rights Campaign or the Children's Helpline). Such has become the reputation of this dignified, invigorating, health-giving and worthy occupation in the early years of the current century.

 

Ladies, what are you thinking of? To what depths have you sunk that you fail to understand the merits and, indeed, the delights of this much to be desired activity? Do you not understand how most fortunate you are, how much honour has been heaped upon your lovely heads, how blessed and favoured you are that you should have been allocated this outstanding opportunity for self aggrandisement, for useful accomplishment, for promotion to a high pedestal of acclaim by all around you, by simply regularly, diligently and dutifully accomplishing this most routine of tasks. Do not think by uttering the word 'routine' I am in any way denigrating this most exacting of exercises. To dust diligently, to dust regularly, to dust rigorously and to dust with no thought for one's own pleasure, comfort or satisfaction is to engage in one of those highly prized moral exercises that is offered to very few of us in this current age. Routine dusting should be considered the pinnacle of your achievements.  In no way should you ever consider parting with this valuable prize, delegating to another member of your family (however deeply you may care for them or however certain you may be of their unquestioned ability to carry out the task to the highest of standards). No, Ladies. This task is tailor made for you, created for you alone, since the beginnings of time and the origin of our species. This task is one in which you alone may shine, may exhibit all the tender care, attention to detail, application, constancy, perseverance and true grit with which your honoured sex has been endowed.

 

Consider with me for just one moment, if you please, the health-giving benefits of this sport - for sport it can be called due to the opportunities it offers for twisting and turning, climbing (please be sure to use an approved form of stepladder for this task), bending and bowing. The proper use of duster, polish and elbow grease will ensure that the heart rate is increased, the muscles are correctly and most efficiently exercised, the lungs are encouraged to take good, deep breaths and the back is strengthened. Do not forget to weigh up the benefits too of the effects of all this exercise on the proper functioning of the bowels (if I may presume to mention this delicate matter in female company) and the strengthening of the pelvic floor muscles, all good practice for later life.

 

Think too of the moral benefits to be attained by this all too often despised activity. Think of that glow of pride and happiness that can be engendered at the end of a sacrificial day of dusting, when you could have been sunbathing on the lawn, eating ice creams on the prom, playing the piano or enjoying the company of your friends. How proud you can be of your superior choice of employment, your worthy practice of self-denial and the cleanliness (which is, after all, next to godliness itself) which your dwelling place enjoys. Think how proud you will be when your husband returns from his place of work, your children enter the door, to view, spellbound, the gleaming parquet floor in the hallway, the spotless work surfaces in your kitchen, the totally dust-free environment in their bedrooms. As it says in the Good Book, your children will rise up and call you blessed.

 

Do not miss out on this opportunity of a lifetime to create a healthy environment for your home and family. Do not waste time on what seem to be more enjoyable pursuits. No, Ladies. Look no further for the career of a lifetime, the dream to surpass all dreams and dust your way to heaven!

 

*An exercise devised for the writers circle to which I belong. Try it out - just think of the thing you most loathe, that bores you to tears and, in the persona of a marketing agent, sell it to others as the best thing since sliced bread!

Ode to Julia Cameron

Three pages a day. Such good advice. I'm a writer. I'm supposed to be able to write anywhere, anytime: empty my head, pour it out word by word, line by line, thought by precious thought, onto the blank page in front of me. Search the corners, shine the searchlight: there must be something lurking in the corners, hidden in my subconscious mind ready for this therapeutic, warming-up exercise. I wait silently, stealthily, hoping to creep up on it and surprise it. Maybe if I look the other way, whistle a little disarming tune and look nonchalant, I can trap my unsuspecting thoughts, tempt them out into the open.

 

There's no doubt about it; I am an intelligent woman. I must be thinking something of value, something I can grasp hold of and ease gently out of its hiding place into the outside world. Someone would love to read about it, of that I am sure. If only I could just penetrate the darkness and extract that precious nugget of wisdom. Three pages is not much, after all. With years of creative writing behind me and a degree in English Literature, I have something to contribute. My powers of observation are honed and standing to attention; my senses are primed - sight, sound, taste, touch and smell - ready to record the wonders of the natural world around me.

 

I sit, pondering, surrounded by luscious green grass, a closely mown cricket pitch with an old-fashioned roller standing in readiness nearby. The tall poplar trees are sighing in the breeze. The old church clock tells me that it is ten to two on this fine spring afternoon and the stream behind my seat is rushing along, murmuring busily. And what am I thinking? ("You have a good brain, Julia. Why don't you use it?" as my father used to say.) All I am thinking, all I can muster, is to observe amidst all of this that these young women passing at this moment by my bench, disturbing my peace and tranquillity, are using only one small yellow ball to exercise simultaneously four yapping, troublesome dogs. It's a breeze! One small ball, one lazy underarm throw and four dogs - two large and athletic, two small and irritatingly yappy - are tearing uncontrollably around the recreation field, competing with each other, barking and snarling, in their attempts to capture the prize and thus spending all their copious energy in exercising themselves and going home exhausted. Job done! Round and round they go; round and round go my thoughts and after all is said and done, this is the one small nugget of truth that this intelligent, creative mind can achieve.

 

But wait a moment... wait just one moment! Let us count up and see. Yes, it is true: my fellow writer and inspirer was justified, correct in her attempts to spur me on. I am approaching the finishing line! My trail of words, phrases and thoughts are laid out behind me, line by line, page by page of this scruffy exercise book which I am steadily filling up. My thoughts have triumphed. My writer's training has stood me in good stead. I have run the race, I have fought the good fight and the prize is laid up before me: one, no, two, no, three pages, to the very last line!

Stop, Stay, Listen!

"Stop, Stay, Listen!" A command rings out! This is no hesitant, polite suggestion. It signals a cry of the heart and, to my mind, operates as the complete opposite of that other call to action: "Ready, Steady, Go!" where the athletes line up, flexing their muscles, willing themselves to compete, to achieve their very best and to win. "Stop, Stay, Listen" is a very different mindset and setting aside time for this writing exercise with fellow writers is an interesting task.

 

It goes against the grain. These days the call to action is a call to accept challenges, to get stuck in, to manage, achieve, multi-task, move on, speed into the future, compete and overcome obstacles in our way. 2012's Paralympics were the peak of our achievements in this mode and it is a mode that is worthy of acclaim and admiration.

 

"Stop, Stay, Listen," however, suggests an entirely different way of being, more in tune with that other, alternative lifestyle of mindfulness, living in the moment and enjoying the present for what it is without worrying overmuch about the future and all its complications and consequences. To stop in our tracks in the midst of our business and reflect, regroup, find time for ourselves and for our companions, friends and relatives is a precious thing. But it is a difficult thing, possibly as taxing on the energy, the mental processes and the need for persistent endeavour as its opposite.  Stopping is something which is unsolicited, thrust upon us at a most inconvenient moment, through illness, bereavement or some other major upheaval in our lives. Cancer survivors frequently speak of being arrested, brought up short, forced to reassess and adjust their value systems, attitudes to family and friends and worldview. Stopping is an abrupt form of therapy.

 

To stay is a new way of being for me. All my life I have been on the move. New homes, new jobs, new locations, new friends... Now, with the onset of retirement and the slowing down process of ageing (well, yes, a little!), I have to face a new challenge - that of staying rather than moving on. The 'me' I am now may stay a little longer than the former 'me's; there may be a little less shape-shifting going on. The home I now live in may well be my home for a little longer than I have been used to. I may have to get used to spring cleaning it now and then rather than simply abandoning it and moving house!

 

Listen! The most difficult challenge of all. Growing, as I said earlier (in an unguarded, self-confessional moment), a little older, I am beginning to develop that common phenomenon, shared by many of my peer group, of complaining that the television is indistinct, that young people mumble, that no-one makes quite enough effort any more to enunciate clearly so that I can understand. On the other hand, I am convinced that those around me, especially my husband, who share a similar experience, never listen! It's not that they are becoming hard of hearing, it is simply that they do not concentrate, are not interested, let their attention wander and therefore fail to pay attention to the treasures that pour from my lips. Listen, I say to him! Just stop and listen!

 

Joking aside, the art of listening is a very valuable commodity. It is an art few of us have. The art of a good conversation is a wonderful skill, to be treasured on the rare occasions that is encountered. It is at best a meeting of equals. I speak; you listen. There is a pause for reflection. Then you speak; I listen. Wonderfully simple! But how often does that happen? Most conversations are muddled, stilted, an aggressive competition or a disjointed babble. Why? We have lost the art of listening. One of the things I love best in rural Wales is listening - to the silence! Climb up one of the steep, wildflower-lined, country lanes that lead out of our village up onto the surrounding hills and stop... stay... listen. What will you hear? Mostly nothing! Nothing at all. Not a car, not a lorry, not an angry voice or a crying child. Just silence, punctuated occasionally by the call of a lamb for its mother or the mewing of a buzzard soaring far above you. Listen to the silence. It is the best music of all and healing for the soul.

An Unanswered Question

"So, how do you think of yourself?" she hit me with. "Here we go" I thought. I pondered the question for a while. "Do I have to answer that one?" I said. "Well, have a go" she said, a touch impatiently. The interview had dragged on a bit, mainly because every time I answered a question she couldn't resist chipping in with her own experiences and slant on the subject. We had some experiences in common, it was true, she a Dutch woman living in Wales, and I a Brit, recently returned from a prolonged stay in her home country. However, I thought I had done pretty well so far, attempting to answer all her intrusive questions, but I thought for a bit longer, then took the plunge.

 

"Well, I think of myself on more than one level, I guess. Inside my head I still think of myself as the thirty year old I used to be, bright, alert, intelligent and full of energy. That's who I am. But then, on the outside, there's the person I've become - older, iller, slower, less energy, but I know I'm the person on the inside really and I get frustrated when other people view me as that sick, slow, not very bright person they sometimes see now." Her eyes glazed over and she paused in the middle of trying to write my answer down in her notes. ("Got my own back now" I thought uncharitably.) "I'm not sure I know what you mean" she said. It seemed perfectly clear to me; I live with it every day. "Well, at university, as a mature student, when I did my degree" I said hesitantly, not liking to mention it, "I got a first. I'm not like that now, of course, because I get confused and I can't concentrate and I forget things..." She still didn't understand and seemed a bit threatened by my mention of my 'first'. "I just don't feel like I ought to be like this" I said "and it's hard to adjust... When I compare myself with other people my age..."

 

She cut me off. I had obviously transgressed. "Oh no," she said "you mustn't compare yourself with anyone else. We're all different." I sighed. Of course we're all different, but I knew something was wrong. I knew who I was and how to think of myself - shy, reserved, a bit awkward, a bit insecure, but bright, alert, quick thinking, creative, resourceful - at least, until these last couple of years when memory loss and depleted energy banks had dogged me, edging in on me like the ever creeping tide, slow but relentless. Anyway, it took quite a bit of intelligence and resourcefulness to deal with this new phase of life that had been thrust upon me. How should I think of myself? I'd always been bright, near the top of the class, able to achieve without any substantial effort. Now things were different. Now I had 'learning difficulties' and every new task that presented itself required effort. Now I was lagging behind, not really '21st century', living in a time warp because I couldn't keep up.

 

"Don't compare yourself with anyone" she insisted. "You seem overly worried about how others see you - you're too old for that." "Thanks" I thought "you be me!" I looked at her, seated at the table, pen in hand, trying to assess me, define me, label me. I looked again. She seemed sure of herself, but somewhat challenged by the demands of her job. Her hair was spiky, dyed, modern; her dress was short and she sat, defiantly, legs a little apart, aggressively her own person. She appeared to have more confidence than me, more sure of her own abilities but maybe a bit jealous of my early retirement which had actually thrust us into financial and a host of related problems, but probably seemed like a good idea to someone still struggling with the increasing demands of change in a stressful and tiring job. Would I swap? Probably not. After all, as she said, we're all different; she was herself and so was I, whichever of my two disparate selves I turned out to be.

 

I had learned something. The me inside was still the same - stubborn, clinging to its own identity and doggedly persisting in its pursuit of the experiences and values that made life worth the effort, irrespective of the challenges that it threw up on the way. I could still do with some help, but maybe this wasn't the place to find it.

Bison Repair Kit

We drove past them the other day: a whole herd of brown, oddly shaped animals, with that distinctive curve where regular cattle don't have one. They were grazing happily in the enclosure and seemed blissfully unaware of the large sign in the driveway next to them indicating that the Bison Grill was situated right next door. An ominous sign if you are a fully grown, healthy bison. It seemed a bit bizarre, here in the midst of the Welsh countryside, amidst rolling, green, Welsh hills and next to the main road. They looked healthy enough, which made me wonder about the need for the Bison Repair Kit which I found in the shed shortly after we had moved to Wales. A number of things turned up in our removal boxes which surprised me a little. They must have been buried in the depths of our previous shed at our last address and we had had no need for them recently. Certainly, I couldn't think of any particular reason why we should have needed to repair bison in the recent past. We have experimented with owning rabbits, guinea pigs, Russian hamsters (which sadly couldn't be repaired after they quickly fell ill), cats and a dog. But no bison.

 

The kit was housed in a small tin and contained nothing which looked at all useful for bison. On asking my longsuffering husband, I eventually discovered that the kit was once used to repair, not bison, but bikes! Silly me, I should have known that.

 

I have a way with words. I love new words and odd configurations of words and we have some wonderfully interesting discussions over breakfast sometimes about words and phrases we have just discovered or suddenly started to look at in a new, inquisitive way. I came across a list on his desk one morning a long time ago, early in our married life. It was about Bill. But I couldn't recall either of us knowing anyone called Bill. Anyway, from the list I discovered that Bill needed to be watered, garaged and serviced! I should have known, really, that this simply entailed putting a few cheques in envelopes, but for some reason I was in a quirky mood that day and misread the information on the list in a new way, which my new husband found quite charming and original. I wonder how he deals with this charming trait now, after 38 years of marriage...

 

 

Foggy Brain Disease - Welcome to My World

Most of the dates I learned at school have gone by now, sunk beyond trace in the murky depths of my consciousness, together with all the other pieces of information for which my brain apparently had no use. Unlike my brother-in-law's brain, which records all facts, regardless of their usefulness, and still has the ability to search, categorise and reproduce them, mine is a little less inclusive.

 

Some dates, I discovered, are less definite than others. There are some dates about which even the scholars are unwilling to be specific and for these there is a curious little custom which has been developed for the purpose: the use of 'circa'. Circa is the Latin word (and therefore highly prized by scholars) for 'around' or 'approximately'. It can be denoted in short form: c., prefixed to dates of which one is unsure. So an event which happened somewhere between 1921 and 1923 might be recorded in history books as having occurred c.1922 - i.e. 1922 or thereabouts. Welcome to my world - the world of uncertainty!

 

These days I am a little unsure of most things. Suffering, as I undoubtedly do, from memory issues and pending an assessment by my local Memory Clinic which will inform me what kind of memory issue it is deemed to be, I inhabit a c.world - a world of approximation, where the facts are uncertain. Maybe it will turn out to be early onset dementia (that dreaded condition); maybe it will prove to be yet another symptom of the ME label which has been affixed to me in these last years. We shall see. Treatment may be necessary; adjustment will undoubtedly be required.

 

Much of the population, these days, is familiar with the e.world: a world of virtual reality. We are used to e.books, emails and e.newsletters. Only a select few of us (many in advanced years) inhabit the c.world of approximate reality. It is an annoying world, frustratingly limiting and socially debilitating. It has an amusing side, fortunately, but only when mixing in the kind of company where 'senior moments' are commonplace and understood. Of course, if, like me, you suffer from this kind of memory issue a little early in life, it can be somewhat less humorous when you find that your brain functions seem sometimes to be on a par with those of an 80 year old. Anyway, enough negativity for now...

 

My entry to the c.world has been gradual, only gaining a little more speed in recent months and years. Faced with the difficulties of 'downsizing' and 'de-cluttering' recently, I have joked about the desirability of reaching that point in one's mature development when memory fails and it is possible to reserve space on the shelf at home for only one book, one CD and one DVD. At that point in time I would need no more because it would be perfectly acceptable to work through each to the end and return immediately to the beginning and start again, without noticing the repetition. Black humour indeed!

 

However, now it is becoming increasingly possible to identify the seeds of such behaviour in myself, it has become more of a likelihood and less of a joke. I am perfectly capable nowadays of reading a novel through to the end without registering either the author or the title. I can watch a 'whodunnit' on the television without, at the end, knowing either who 'dunnit' or what they are supposed to have done. Somewhere in the middle I always seem to lose the plot. I am perfectly capable of reading (and understanding) the facts and figures contained in an information book but retaining almost none of it. I am well-practised at forming well-founded opinions, based on well-researched facts and figures, but reaching the end of the book, article, newspaper article or TV programme in which I found them with a grasp of only my opinions and not a single fact that brought me to these conclusions.

 

It is this kind of behaviour nowadays that begins to make life somewhat limited. The social implications for this kind of memory loss and resulting uncertainty (my c.world) are extensive. I have begun to notice a loss of confidence in social interaction with friends and colleagues. I can no longer be certain of anything! Whilst living in the Netherlands our central heating was regularly serviced by Meneer Rodin, whilst the book I am currently reading on Modernist Art describes the work of famous French sculptor, Rodenburgh ... or is that the other way round? I watched a fascinating documentary last night about a trip to Chile (or was that Peru?), starring the rather good-looking travel writer who did that series about train rides last year... well, it might have been a couple of nights ago... well maybe it was someone else who did the train rides... well, anyway he was rather nice to look at... Do you wonder why I participate less in group conversation these days? Ask me to back up my opinions on anything and I am reduced to a blubbering wreck, unable to be certain of anything and feeling totally foolish. I may well be right in what I believe, but have no way of proving it. Alternatively, I may have mistaken Rodin for Rodenburgh and be making a complete idiot of myself.

 

I am working hard on my sense of humour. No-one wants to listen to the grouses and grumbles of a chronically sick person. But I have my work cut out; this condition is hard to keep up with. It is continually running on ahead of me. Just as I think I have caught up and adjusted my store of jokes and black humour to suit, it takes another turn and I am forced to readjust my repertoire. Be patient with me, please! I'll get there in the end... if I can remember where I'm going.

 

 

Reciprocity: The Joy of Dialogue

Monologues are all very well. Done skilfully, an accomplished actor can keep his/her audience entranced for many minutes or even hours. Done badly...well.. enough said. A blog is a kind of monologue, I suppose, but open to the possibility of 'comment' or even 'chat'. At best it is a dialogue.

 

My aim, I confess, when writing my blog, is not for monologue. We all need human interaction in our lives and, whilst I get my share on a daily basis, with neighbourly chats, exchanges of merry banter over the supermarket checkout, cups of tea with family and friends and the growing number of clubs and societies with which I am affiliated, I can always use a little more sparkling repartee from the casual onlooker or blog reader.

 

Dialogue is a wonderful thing and I am always delighted when readers let me know that a) they have read my ramblings and b) even better, they have an opinion to express, a point of information to pass on or a complaint. For such things are the stuff of life to a writer - even the complaints!

 

For this reason, I would like to offer up a vote of thanks to my friend who writes: "White cherry blossom is on Murello cherry trees – we have one in the front garden which is going mad this year with blossom." Not a complaint but a point of information. So now we know! This is why the loveliest tree - the cherry - subject of my most recent blog appears decked out in white blossom in Houseman's poem, whereas my experience of cherry trees is mainly pink. Thank you, Rosemary. Maybe she will read this, maybe her interest in my blog will have waned by now. This is the precarious nature of blogging. But we have experienced dialogue, reciprocity and a mutual exchange of information and interest and I am satisfied.

 

Life, it seems to me, is at best about reciprocity. It sparks, inspires, annoys, infuriates, satisfies, delights and provokes laughter, tears and sometimes apathy. But it gets under your skin; it proves to me that I am alive - and that you are too! So keep it coming, please. I am happy to use my services (when inspiration strikes) to gladden, delight, inspire and annoy. Please feel free to do the same!

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

I believe very strongly in the principle of carpe diem or seize the day! My daughter and grandson have just been to visit and we had a great time. Not much domestic got done in those ten days. Oscar was having too much fun, playing on his first ever roundabout, putting Mr. Zebedee back to bed in his jack-in-a-box and letting the sand slip between his fingers on his first ever beach. Now the ironing is threatening to escape from the cupboard where I keep it imprisoned; there is a thick layer of dust over everything which is shown up right now by the glorious sunshine that keeps streaming in through the windows; the freezer is quite empty; I have writing to do; there are vegetables to plant out in the garden and ...

 

However! That glorious sunshine keeps on streaming in and spring has arrived! The local caravan parks are full of people ready for the Easter weekend that is approaching fast and the birds are singing in the treetops. A few lines of a much-loved poem keep turning over and over in my mind and I'm lost! Who cares about the housework? Who cares about the vegetables?

 

'Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide'.

 

That got me thinking. All the cherry trees round here are pink, not white! Is this another variety? A.E. Houseman* seemed quite sure his were white, but he lived in Shropshire - perhaps that's different.

 

'And since to look at things in bloom

Fifty springs are little room,

About the woodlands I will go

To see the cherry hung with snow.'

 

There he goes again - ours are hung with 'cherry pink', not snow. And Houseman seems to think he has fifty springs left to go out and see them; I'm not too sure I have that many left, so all the more reason to go.

 

All in all, I seemed to have plenty of excuse to leave the housework behind today and saunter out up a country lane in search of the cherry trees, which is just what I did this morning, not that I found a white cherry tree anywhere, but plenty of other compensations! Imagine a country lane, with neat green hedges, covered in fresh, new, bright spring growth, lambs bleating beside their mothers in the fields, chaffinches and robins singing in the trees and all along the hedgerows a procession of yellow celandine, pale yellow primroses, white, starry stitchwort, golden dandelions and a scattering of bluebells and red campion - too early really, but there nevertheless! Bliss! So, yet again, I'm leaving this achievement-orientated world behind in favour of the natural world which somehow calls to me time and time again and tempts me outside to revel in it. It's now the cherry tree is hung with bloom - next week won't do. Carpe Diem!

 

 

*A.E. Houseman, A Shropshire Lad

 

Anoraks and Slacks

We're natty dressers round here. We follow all the fashions and most of us, like the younger generation with their black leggings and fur trimmed little bootees, look pretty much the same. We have our uniform. The precise style has variations, however, which have a little to do with age differences. The forties - sixties age group tend to favour blue denim jeans or cords in a variety of autumnal shades. The older members of society go for looser fitting, more shapeless models - at best in tweedy fabrics, at worst in muddy coloured crimplene. The sweatshirt is a popular item in our collection of serviceable, wind-proof, rain-proof attire. In winter this is topped by a padded jacket or anorak. Smarter versions are available, including waxed jackets or quilted coats, mud-splashed but obviously once very expensive. The common denominator is the fashion accessory woolly hat, worn pulled down over the ears.

 

Then there's the issue of footwear. High heels, or pretty, strappy sandals are not really ideally adapted for spongy footpaths, ankle-deep puddles or muddy lanes, so gradually these highly desirable fashion items are relegated to the back of the wardrobe - weddings and funerals only. Instead, the only sensible thing to wear - and we do - has to be a pair of sturdy, battered walking boots or a pair of wellies, complete with their own layers of caked-on mud. It's not worth cleaning them; they'll only get dirty again.

 

In summer there are variations on a theme. On good days the sweatshirt may be abandoned, slung loosely around the waist (just in case the sky clouds over, as it often does). But on bad days, and along the windswept coast, the fresh breezes make a sweatshirt the ideal wear, even in summer. And footwear? Well, trainers are the only practical alternative for those lumpy, rutted footpaths. Even on a shopping trip, in Tywyn or maybe Aberystwyth, I may well be tempted to a stroll on the pebbly prom or the glistening, wet sands, so it's best to be prepared. On rare occasions, in really hot weather, trainers may be recklessly replaced with a pair of flip-flops. As I said, we're natty dressers.

 

As I write, I glance out of our front window and a sight meets my eyes, which confirms all that I have been telling you. Coming up the path, a small dog straining on the lead in front of her (or is it him? it's hard to tell), is a muffled up person exiting from our local caravan park. It is dressed in the normal, dark-coloured, baggy trousers, topped by a navy anorak and a navy woollen hat. The hat is the crowning glory: woollen, tied under the chin and pulled down over the ears, like everyone else's, this one is topped by two enormous round ears, making its wearer look like something closely resembling the dormouse at Alice's tea party. Perfect!

 

So, are we what we seem? Are we all country bumpkins underneath this rather uninspiring attire? Not a bit of it! Intellectual and artistic pursuits abound everywhere you look. Local libraries flourish; they will reserve anything you want from an extensive collection of public and academic libraries across the whole of Wales and we make full use of them. Local bookshops not only sell us the latest popular titles, but organise book signing events, writers' courses and promotions for new authors. Writers' groups and book clubs gather in many towns and villages and many communities still preserve - and use - their Reading Rooms and Literary Institutes.

 

Art societies are equally popular and more and more people seem to retire to this beautiful area, keen to develop their artistic talents: painting in oils and watercolours, sketching, pottery, textiles and other handicrafts. Visit any of the galleries, arts and crafts fairs or weekly markets of handmade produce and you will find exquisite art works, creative crafts of all kinds and home-baked items of a high standard. Art societies hold exhibitions each year where the artists are able to display and sell their work and commercial galleries and craft workshops delight locals and tourists alike.

 

There is more! Theatre groups abound and community groups of all kinds arrange outings for their members to plays, films, musicals and art galleries further afield. We may not have all the facilities for cultural entertainment close at hand but there is no lack of lively interest. Have you heard a Welsh choir sing? This deep-rooted cultural tradition still survives, amazing us by the rich harmonies achieved by male and female voiced choirs alike, performing in concerts and eisteddfods across the nation. No, we're not country bumpkins, despite the anorak and slacks appearance. Under the surface lurks a wealth of cultural and creative excellence. Just scratch the surface and remove the woolly hat!

 

 

The Green-eyed Monster

He's writing again! In his fine, black, spidery hand he's being creative, sticking cut-out reproductions of his paintings in his little black book, annotating, documenting, illustrating... 'a year in the life of...'.

 

Journaling. It's all the rage and his journal is no mere diary but a through-the-year record of his artistic adventures and creative experiments. Jealous? Me? Well, yes, as it happens. That little green-eyed monster is in full fling, stirred up by my own repressed creative talents and a severe case of writer's block. It was a great idea of his and, so far, brilliantly executed, each page filled with the latest creative idea, exquisitely expressed in pen and wash, oils or watercolour. When paint is exhausted, photography takes over. I watch, frustrated, as he deftly fits together imaginatively visualised and realised collages of stunning photos, casually tossed off over the last couple of years with his new digital camera.

 

"I shall need to buy another of these books soon" he says, adding insult to injury. I would be proud to own just one of his autobiographical art diaries, bursting with all the evidence of his newfound passion. Not that I begrudge him his good fortune. It's just that my own ventures into journaling always founder - too sporadic, too wordy and frankly uninspired. However, I have had my turn with new impassioned ventures: my first foray into autobiographical self-publishing (Stories of our Childhood), my frenzied attempts to write and publish poetry in a much-coveted poetry collection, my first commission as a weekly column writer for an international expatriate on-line journal and my enthusiastic first attempts at blogging. Blogger.com: the road to world fame and acclaim (not!). No, I have had my turn, enjoyed my obsessions, felt the warm encouragement or urgent prompting of my muse. But right at this moment the spark is gone and I am left bereft, bemused and cut adrift from that pulsating life flow, that huge wave that ploughed relentlessly up the beach, carrying me, its willing prisoner, triumphant, on its crest. My wave has receded now, leaving me in the shallows, plagued by jealousy and regret, until another wave comes in and my muse takes pity on me.

 

So go to it, friend! Enjoy it while it lasts. Plunder your treasure trove for all it's worth. And I will wait, silently, in the shadows, wrestling with my little green monster until fortune, my muse and that great big wave come again and sweep me off my feet.

Right as Rain

Right now in Britain what on earth can be right about rain? I understand that if you live in a drought-stricken nation rain is just the ticket (what does that mean, by the way?), wholly desirable and a God-send when it turns up. However, here in Britain, right now, that's just not the case, is it?

 

Right as rain: the phrase popped out of my mouth the other day and set me thinking, pondering on its meaning and origins. (I'm like that with words.)

 

Right as rain! I looked it up in 'Brewers'. There were a number of entries about rain. Some were more relevant than others.

 

'It never rains but it pours.' True! Very true! An 18th century proverb, apparently. Very shrewd these 18th century guys - and gals.

 

'To put something by for a rainy day.' Well, the day has come! Time for a spending spree!

 

'To rain cats and dogs.' A seafarer might have used the expression 'The cat has a gale of wind in her tail' when a cat is unusually frisky, so Brewer's tells us. The dog, Brewer says, is a signal of wind, like the wolf, which were both attendants of Odin, the storm god. 'So the cat may be a symbol of down-pouring rain and the dog of the strong gusts of wind accompanying a rainstorm.' I thought Brewer said the cat was something to do with wind, not rain... oh, well, never mind. Anyway, we've had plenty of both lately.

 

'Rain check.' This has something to do with a ticket that was given in the USA, entitling one to see another baseball game when the one you had a ticket for was cancelled because of rain. OK. They could be issuing a lot of those these days. But certainly no-one needs to check if it's raining.

 

OK, Brewer's, thanks for the explanations.

 

But 'right as rain'? How can this be? How can rain be 'right' - or 'wrong'? Well, I can see a whole lot more reason for it being wrong right now, especially in Somerset, Berkshire and a few other places. With sodden ground, flooded streets and homes, overflowing gutters and wrecked sea defences, what on earth do we need more rain for? And how can it possibly be 'right'? The only guess I can make is that rain might be described as 'upright', i.e. coming straight down. In the Netherlands rain comes in 'rods', not bedraggled moggies. Again a picture of rain coming down forcefully in straight lines. Although, actually, recently the rain in Wales has been more diagonal or horizontal than vertical. The neighbour opposite has a tall, thin conifer in his front garden which, after being battered by the winds, has finally been left as a long-lasting testimonial of the direction in which both wind and rain came these last few days and weeks. 

 

So the mystery remains. Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable has let me down for once. Can anybody help?

The Right Attitude to Rain

My title is nicked! I admit it without shame. It belongs to a book by Alexander McCall Smith that I hoped would provide me with a little wisdom. I was attracted by its title which turned out to have no discernible connection with the storyline or debate held within its pages. Maybe I missed something. I am fascinated by weather of all shapes and sizes. My blogs are full of it. Apologies to those who do not share my obsession. However, it is a part of my English heritage that I cannot shake. I am sitting today with a view out of my window over the Welsh hills. The hills are beautiful: not craggy, but escaping domesticity by their sharp outline and steep inclines. But they are not the primary object in view today. Today I am seeing, with some regret, the rain. It pours incessantly down, tainting everything around me with a greyish tinge and a misty quality. The earth is already saturated and the footpaths are caked in mud. It is a Romantic artist's dream but it just isn't doing it for me today. I am reaching the end of my tether with its drabness, wetness and depressing permanence.

 

I am a newcomer to Wales and well aware that Wales can be wet. Of course it's wet. We are slap bang in the course of the warm, wet Westerlies! Blessed with a hot, dry (short) summer, we were lulled into a false sense of security at first, but we knew in our hearts that this was beginners' luck and that the rain would surely come. And come it has. We can comfort ourselves that in this freak winter the whole country is sharing our misfortune this year and some with far worse consequences than ours. However, we know that this steady influx of dampness is normal here and it is no good being surprised, indignant or unprepared.

 

With this thought in mind, I picked Alexander's volume off the shelf with some eagerness, but found only the ongoing deliberations of its protagonist concerning the pros and cons of embarking on an affair with a much younger man. Not much about rain. Isabel Dalhousie can be relied upon to debate the rights and wrongs of moral philosophy in her life and everyone else's with as much diligence and enthusiasm as Mr. Cameron, although with less dogmatic certainty, but sadly she offered me no wisdom on the right attitude to rain. I am therefore forced, as I gaze out on an over-abundance of the stuff, to concoct my own cocktail of home-grown remedies. Having gone to the trouble, I might as well try them out on you.

 

Positive thinking is all the rage nowadays and very beneficial it can be. So perhaps it would help to dwell, if I can, on the positive aspects of rain. Let us begin by rearranging our vocabulary on the subject. Dull, depressing and grey will be scrubbed from the list immediately. No, rain is clear, cool and refreshing. It does not drip annoyingly down, and it does not flood. Rain pours, engulfs, forms white torrents, fills things that were empty, replenishes things that were in need, lubricates and loosens and, best of all, it goes with the flow... (It is harder to think of these things in a positive light when it is a chilly winter's day - better in the hot days of summer when dry and weary matter and people are in need of refreshment. Oh for those balmy days of summer...)

 

To continue, water must be thought of as a positive benefit... (This is a little tricky right now, with thoughts of unnaturally high tides, rising river levels, flooded homes and damaged promenades rise to the surface. However, the case is far from hopeless.) Just think of the concept of 'flow' alone. Where would we writers be without it? Gushing, pouring, flowing and over-abundance are transformed into heavenly visions when considered beside the ideas of thirst, drought, parched river beds, Water Aid or even writer's block! So, the right attitude to rain! I have done my best. I have tried to channel my thoughts, my vocabulary and my attitudes to the best of my ability. I have tried not to give in to the common mistakes of always complaining that there is too much or too little of something. I have tried to maintain a balanced viewpoint.

 

Are you convinced yet?

Life, Stand Still Here!

So, why do we do it? We wrestle with paint, clay or poetry to create that perfect design, that shape, that collage of textures and colours, or that perfect orchestration of words and phrases - why? What is it that drives us to agonise, to cudgel our poor overworked brains, to polish, to draft and redraft until we have achieved something as close as we can manage to the vision that lies before us, taunting us and drawing us on to create. We are artists, all of us, in our different ways. We create. It is in our nature. But why?

 

In her novel, To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf grappled with this question of what it is that drives us to take disparate objects, colours, shapes or even people and bring them together into order, to create a thing of beauty. For Woolf, it is the bringing together of words that drives her. Mrs Ramsay, modelled on the author's mother, brings people together in the novel in a series of unforgettable moments and strives to create harmony out of the chaos of everyday life.

For Lily Briscoe moments must be made permanent on canvas. Paint is Lily's medium with which she transforms the fluidity of life to the fixity and permanence of art. Deeply aware of the struggles of her sex to count for something in the world that is more than the inevitability of romance, marriage, child-bearing and domesticity, Lily's work is her art. It is her reason for being. She knows that her efforts to master artistic form 'roused one to perpetual combat, challenged one to a fight in which one was bound to be worsted'. Nevertheless, she persisted. 'Why then did she do it?' she asked herself.

Walking along the wooded shores of one of our local estuaries, fascinated by the wintry outline of the trees, the colours, the misty quality of the hills and the loneliness of the landscape, I ask myself a similar question. Why do I feel this continual urge to write what I see around me? What am I trying to achieve? What am I trying to prove to myself? What is it that drives me? The more one looks, with the eyes of an artist, at the world around us, the more one sees out there. Every day brings new discoveries to the artist. The trees are no longer just 'brown and green'. The lacy patterns of their outlines in winter are no longer dull and depressing, but infinitely varied, as they stretch up their branches against the subtle colours of a winter's sunset.

Painter, sculptor, wordsmith alike, we are all the same in our painstaking search for that elusive design which will make life stand still. Life moves too fast. Each moment, for the artist, brings fresh cornucopias of impressions, fresh bounty, a superfluity of beautiful moments to record. We are desperate to fix them on canvas, paper, stone, or whatever medium we choose, lest they escape. "Slow down!" we cry. "Life, stand still here!" But the infinite escapes us once more, finite mortals that we are, and we are forced to try again.

 

January Lament

January! How quickly the new year turns! The blink of an eye and everything is changed, at least in the subtle moodiness of our subjectivity, if not in cold, objective terms. The gloom descends, with festivities put away for another year, and all the talk of tides and floods, unnatural weather and miserable predictions of six months of ice and snow. Six months of Arctic conditions - surely not! But the mere thought of it is enough to dampen our spirits, darken our thoughts and allow into the corners of our consciousness just a hint of belief. What if they're right?

And for us literary types, steeped in the doom and gloom of the past, how easy it is to fall into step with the poets of yesterday and share all their miserable misgivings about the year that lies ahead. Maybe in our middle years, in the midst of a dark wood, we have lost our way. Maybe a waste land of ice and snow, as well as moral degeneration, lies out there ahead of us with the falling towers, crumbling cities. Maybe...

So happy New Year, one and all! Join me in a moment's mournful meditation before we make ourselves a cheery cup of tea and get on with putting the Christmas decorations back in the box...

 

Eliot's Lament

 

January! At a stroke

December's magic falls away.

Sweet-smelling hay,

Warm swaddling bands

And a choir of glittering angels

Give way to bleak midwinter.

 

Thirty-one days of leanness,

Marked out one by one,

The New Year's calendar

Empty, unused, on the wall

Where Christmas stockings hung,

Bright with hope and longing,

Memory and desire.

 

January! Harbinger of ice and snow.

No longer Christmas.

No more the bright Advent candles

Illumine our way,

Our festive days.

No! Sprung from the Virgin's womb,

A hard and bitter winter

One dark day at a time.

 

A birth and yet a death:

Gold, frankincense and myrrh,

Coming late to the party,

Borne by tall, dark strangers,

Sweep us onward, unknowing,

Toward Easter's passion

And the dark night of the soul.

 

Thrust headlong

Into an uncertain future,

We stumble in the darkness

Pause on the threshold,

Yearning, struggling, onwards

For those first green shoots of spring.

 

Yet, April may yet be the cruellest month.