Season of S.A.D.ness

The cottage is dark. The skies are heavy and the passing cars outside my window make a swishing noise on the dampened roads. January seems a long month. It always does.

 

The windows are small; they let in limited light. But their panes are edged in white and through them the cherry trees are stretching their twiggy limbs towards the light grey sky, so pale is almost parchment, and longing for the day when festoons of pale pink blossom will sprout there in the merry month of May, leaving the austerity of winter behind. The hills behind them are comfortingly green. The poinsettia on our windowsill glows a heart-warming shade of red, reminiscent of the Christmas that is now past. Ornamental boats, pebbles from the sea shore and a small, stark white lighthouse with a seagull perched on top seem out of place now but at least they augur warmer, happier times to come in this scenic coastal spot on the west of Wales. The seafront is damp and drab now but on summer days it will be transformed once again, as the yellow sun glints on the dancing waves and life-sized boats bob up and down in the water.

 

On dark days like these we need candles. We have saved our strings of tiny bulbs from the Christmas decorations, draped them round the hearth and the old mahogany bookcase to light our way through this gloomy season. Why put them away in the box when they can still brighten up the winter months? The soft, white tablecloth is adorned with cheery red candles, matching the hopeful vase of small, red tulips which have cheated their way into an early life with the help of hothouse warmth and the latest technology. Red is a good colour for this time of year, not just for Christmas. The bear's festive hat and scarf on this novelty pen donated so kindly by my grandchildren, nods in agreement as I write. Red keeps us warm. Red makes us bright like robins. Somehow we will make it through these dark days to summer.

A proper Christmas blessing!

 

My angel lurches drunkenly. We have placed her near the top, as befits angels, and she perches uncertainly at an angle, overshadowing the star and the miniature wooden stable placed strategically beneath it. Maybe the star is shining in the east; I'm not sure of the geography here. I think actually it may be to the west as it seems to point towards the  coast. Never mind. In any case, the angel is bending near the earth. She seems to have mislaid her golden harp, but her anti-war slogans seem as much needed as ever.

 

I have invented a new Christmas blessing. The Jews, it seems, have a blessing for every eventuality and despite not being Jewish myself, despite this being the season of Christmas, not Hanukkah, the festival has its ancient origins in Judaism and there should therefore be a proper blessing for it. 'May all your branches rise upward' seems this year to be a suitable one. Scouring the shops and garden centres for a tree in mid-December, we were disappointed to find nothing that matched the romantic dream. Trudging around in the rain - nothing deep, crisp or even in sight - we discovered Christmas had been modernised once again. The fragrant Norway Spruce was nowhere to be seen. Coming downstairs in the morning to be greeted by the heady and nostalgic aroma of pine resin was a non-negotiable part of the recipe for that perfect Christmas we all seek, so regretfully we got back in the car and moved on, hoping that maybe the next makeshift sign on a piece of old board would point the way to the right sort of 'Xmas trees'. Finally we went full circle and ended as we had begun in a small florist's shop whose trees we had already rejected. They were small, misshapen and spindly, but cheap. If we couldn't have what we wanted, and clearly we could not, we were at least going to score on price. Even the woman in the shop warned us:

 

"They're rubbish Christmas trees" she said. "But an old man who grows them himself brings them in every year and I haven't the heart to tell him. Everyone wants the perfect tree nowadays, but you can have this one for a tenner if you want."

 

A tenner sounded good and anyway, we didn't believe her. No-one really means that the stuff they're selling is rubbish. Do they?

 

It was. There is nothing more depressing than a drooping fir tree, hence the blessing. Once decorated, ours stood in the corner and wept. We selected our lightest, most delicate baubels and tried to push them as far as we could up the branches, but nothing could disguise the droopiness, as our poor little tree hung its head in shame. 'May all your branches rise upward!'

 

I wonder why I think of angels as 'she'. Biblical angels come with names like Gabriel and Michael, never Barbara or Jane. Maybe the Christmas angel has become tangled in my subconscious with that imposter, the pagan Christmas fairy who dares to adorn many trees. All through my childhood she was an annual visitor to the topmost branch of our tree, decked out in a frothy white dress and a tinsel headdress and waving a tiny magic wand in case Santa failed to do the business. To be honest, in those days her magic seemed to have more success than the ministrations of our more authentic and Biblical angel. Certainly, the magic of the tree was lacking this year, but then perhaps we treated our angel badly, without proper respect. Everyone knows that angels are not 'she', do not wear frocks and, because of their awesome nature, do their best to calm our nerves by always announcing their arrival with those immortal words: 'Fear not!'

 

One further point - just to clear up any misunderstanding and pave the way for a better Christmas next year - my angel, despite appearances, is not drunk.

The Harlech Hedgehog

It's hard to concentrate sometimes. In the face of unadulterated, egocentric prattling at top volume, I am defeated. The old lady who sat opposite the prattler was at her mercy. But so were we all. The old lady said very little. There was no space. The big voice droned on. It was penetrating and abrasive and I found myself shrinking in my seat, unconsciously trying to make myself smaller to escape the unwelcome battering of the ears. In fact, it reached further than my ears; it threatened to permeate my very soul. Does she have children, I wondered? How have they been affected?

 

Publicly, and at top volume, she ran herself down. Her hair was flat; it had no curl, no BODY. This last word she pronounced boldly, to its full sensuous effect. No BODY. When sprayed with lacquer and brushed out, she continued, it looked better, but she looked like a spiked hedgehog. Her mother was beautiful: "prettier than I am!" she confessed, a tone of slight surprise, mingled with jealousy, betrayed in her voice. Like a little girl in her party frock, she waited to be admired, waited for one amongst us to rush to the rescue, denying this terrible admission. But no-one obliged.

 

The conversation ranged over a variety of fascinating subjects, all, it seemed, designed to show her in the best light, better than name-dropping. It was an odd counterpart to her self-abusive comments. We started with the lawnmower. "I'm just going home today" she began (I started to get excited), "if I have time" (my heart sank), "to set up my robot." My ears pricked up at this, despite myself, and I settled down to listen. Too bad that all conversation with my husband was impossible; shame that even private reveries were constantly interrupted. This was riveting stuff. It was true, it emerged - or at least it seemed to be. She really did own a robot lawnmower which she was keen to put together and set on its way, doing what robot lawnmowers do.

 

Her initial, self-deprecating manner changed. She was playing to her audience and we were all, I am sure, now obediently playing the game. The monologue moved on, past the lawn, to the inside of her, no doubt, sizeable and prestigious home. She spoke of robot vacuum cleaners, of one in particular that had been no good and therefore passed on to the daughter (well, of course!). She spoke of "the boys", who failed even to flinch as the robot came right up to them. Octavius and Tiberias appeared, it seemed, to be her canine friends, but no less a part of the family. She mentioned mobile phones the size of credit cards and was evidently familiar with all kinds of up-to-the-minute technology. I wondered what the old lady was making of all this.

 

My attention wandered as I noticed her, with her back to me, fidgeting a little in her seat. She was trapped, her walking sticks placed at a distance from her, and perched precariously on one side of a wooden bench of the kind that pub gardens favour. We were sat out in a cobbled courtyard outside the cafe, basking in the early spring sunshine that was reflected gloriously from the whitewashed cottage walls. But the old lady was clearly uncomfortable and I mentally practised leaping from my seat to catch her as I saw her topple backwards in my imagination, splitting her head open on the stone pavement, as could so easily happen if she nodded off.

 

Perhaps this was just the eventuality that her kind friend was guarding against, keeping up her continual stream of scintillating, well no, not conversation, maybe monologue. When my full concentration returned we were talking about webbing and upholstery. We ranged on through the full gambit of furniture restoration. She had an intriguing style. We passed back and forth with dizzying rapidity. One moment she was displaying her many and varied creative talents and the next it was like listening to a chapter of accidents worthy of Paddington bear with a paintbrush. Having completed her masterpiece of restoration, somehow the afore-mentioned canine friends were let into the workshop and wrecked havoc. She should have known, she berated herself. But the paw print, dead centre of her artwork, that she discovered next morning, was as finely executed and as perfectly placed as if she had done it herself.

 

The lunchtime concert was over. The soloist helped the old lady to her feet, disentangled her from the bench and fetched her walking sticks, so she could totter across the cobbles, leaning on her companion's arm. They were off to entertain elsewhere, ready for a quick look in the next door design outlet, with its array of upper class fabrics and pure wool, tartan throws, before going home to robots and doggies. I felt a little ambivalent about their departure. Peace and quiet was wonderfully restored, but alas, the show was over.

 

Harlech, Wales

 

 

Nothing new under the sun

All that week it had been raining, never stopping, never drawing breath, the heavens pouring down their torrents, more water than you could imagine. The earth was full of water. The fields were sodden and the drains were overflowing. The sky too was dark, pregnant, threatening, ready to drench us still further in its never ending flood. I sat beside the Rhine, watching the endless flow of water, down, flowing down from the mountains of Switzerland in the heart of Europe, through the flatlands of Germany, through the Netherlands and emerging at last into the waters of the wide grey ocean. There was more water than you can imagine.

In central Europe thousands of homeless, shifting refugees are flooding through the barriers, leaving the wide open arms of the blue-skied Mediterranean for the grey, watery desert of the north. Germany is their preferred destination. 'Mother Merkel' has bidden them all welcome, although the rank and file of the nation seem a little less keen. There will be riots. The air is thick with the menace of growing discontent. Britain is trying to close its doors, keen to do the right thing for its own people and walled in, separated by the deep, grey-green Channel, fenced in by tunnel defences: presenting a coldly indifferent front. The Netherlands, ever practical, are devising new ways of accommodating the hordes, without detriment to their own priorities of social housing, but the mood is turning ugly in the city halls and meeting places of the nation. There are storms over Europe, more of a flood than we can deal with.

Where will they sleep? Where will they hide when the cruel forces of nature are unleashed on innocent men, women and children? On the Hungarian border thoughtful border guards are giving them a practice run - with water cannons and tear gas. They will soon learn the ropes, soon understand what it is to be European. Their Syrian homeland is hostile, evicting them forcibly from their homes, their livelihoods and their families, but their new home is unpredictable, capricious and not always what it seems. Nations are complex entities, with complicated histories; how will they behave? What is their agenda beneath the conflicting attitudes, the posturing, the threats and the desire to appear humanitarian? The pawns on Europe's chess board are at the mercy of its leaders, as kings, queens and bishops battle it out and their victims are caught, helpless, in the cross-fire.

Christmas is coming. We are once again on the relentless treadmill that will carry us nearer, still nearer to the spirit of Christmas and to the season of greed. Will there be room this year? History has a habit of repeating itself. The first Christmas is forgotten by many now but the story lives on. Still in our memory, clinging on by its fingernails, the holocaust whispers its uncomfortable, disquieting remembrances into our almost deaf ears. No room at the inn? No room on our island for fleeing Jews in the thirties, a displaced people, running for their lives. Boatloads of refugees denied access by the authorities of many nations, a shameful neglect of suffering people. And now this. What will we do now? History repeats itself. Is there room now?

 

Art for Art's Sake

The concentration is palpable. As I enter the room and tiptoe in it's like entering an examination hall. The desks are laid out side by side around the edge of the long, narrow room, backs to the window. No chance of distraction then. There is a hushed atmosphere, an almost holy reverence, and I make my way hurriedly to a quiet corner, anxious to avoid making a disturbance.

Gradually my ears attune themselves to what is going on. It's quiet, but by no means silent. A gentle buzz of soft murmuring fills the air, but the most discernible sound is the rhythmic dipping of brushes in water, tapping them gently on the rim of the container before applying small dabs of paint to the paper stretched across the boards. The class is learning to apply paint in layers, building up the image before them. The subject is a small child, on a beach, carrying a bucket and spade, and the mood is traditional, reminding me of a page torn from a child's colouring book. It's a classic seaside scene, blue and yellow with splashes of red for the bucket. It's a 1950's kind of scene. The more skilful of the artists are managing to convey the summer sunshine, with just the right choice of yellow and the shadows on the ground suggesting the direction in which the light is falling and the heat of the summer sun.

My gaze wanders. Easily distracted, I remember how as a child I always chose the window seat wherever possible. Finding lessons easy, I was able to multi-task successfully and my main focus of attention was usually out of doors, watching the netball game in the playground or soaring with the seagulls and wishing I could be free like them. Today my attention is caught by the wide expanses of sand and the line of white foam breaking across the mouth of the estuary before the Dovey empties out into the waters of Cardigan Bay. All that is lacking today is the child with bucket and spade. It's a school day and the children are imprisoned, like me, behind classroom windows and will have to wait until the weekend to get more hands-on experience of the great outdoors.

But it is an odd experience, this mirroring of art and life. Through the yacht club window I am viewing the mirror image of the multiple images on the artists' drawing boards. Fancy expressionism or abstract art are not encouraged in this class. Everything is carefully monitored; even the precise colour shades are prescribed by the tutor to achieve the greatest synchronisation between the image and its various reproductions. Photo-realism is more the recipe dished up by today's art tutor and it is strange to see how uniform are the representations of such a bunch of diverse artists. Creativity, it seems, points the way to a multiplicity of vision but realism seems to necessitate a certain kind of uniformity and a limited vision. The further one travels down the road of expressive creativity the more the paths diverge into a wide spectrum of infinite variety.

Maybe this underlies in part my impression of having walked into an examination room. Here the goals are clear; the challenge is well-defined and the results will be judged against a pre-ordained checklist of techniques and achievements. Originality, flair, expressionism or abstraction are harder to assess and are apt to side-step achievement targets and fall outside the boxes. As usual, the air outside the classroom seems a little easier to breathe. It always has for me.

The Art of Self Knowledge

I read it in a magazine somewhere: "No-one lives up to his ideal." Such an obvious thought, but how true! As I pondered this simple home truth, it hit me right between the eyes. However much you achieve, there is always more in your dream than in the hard facts. Live up to your ideal? No-one does... so why do I expect to? No-one lives up to her ideal either. Not even a woman! Women are pretty smart these days, pretty liberated, pretty powerful sometimes, but even so...

Ideals have rocketed these days. "Come on, you're a woman - don't let the side down!" It's a bit of a pressure at times. These days we're encouraged to dream, to aspire, to reach for the sky, to have it all. Nothing's changed really. All that has happened is that our ideals have gone sky high. "You can be anything - anything you wanna be." That's the theory. Then there's the catch... "if you want it enough." Well, I'm not sure I agree with the bold, somewhat arrogant assertion in the first place, but even if I did, do I want it that badly?

 I have a dream. Of course I do. In my dream I'm a writer, making enough money to get my stuff published: a neat little row of matching volumes side by side on my bookshelf, all with my name on, of course; and a modest little income and sales figures to match. My blog has a readership of thousands and 392 people regularly follow it. I only want enough to bolster my self-image and make it all worth the effort. That's all I need, isn't it?

 I bake too, of course - who doesn't these days? In my farmhouse kitchen (the social hub of the house) I turn out pies and pastries, rustic-looking loaves of granary bread, mouth-watering date flapjacks, gingerbreads and brownies, neatly packaged and carefully labelled and, of course, sold - like hot cakes. The house is daily filled with the tantalising aroma of freshly baked bread and the order book is full.

 There's a garden in my dream. It is stocked with fragrant sweet peas, delphiniums and roses. Honeysuckle and clematis climb the old apple tree and the herbs cluster around the garden door. No substitute for a profusion of fresh herbs. It is a country garden, a cottage garden. This has been part of the dream for years now. I am happy and content in my garden. I till the earth, hoe the weeds meticulously, harvest the vegetables, pick the golden apples from the tree and settle down contentedly beneath it to pen my thoughts and meditate in the sunshine.

My house is calm and uncluttered. The style is minimalist (I wish!), but still warm and inviting - a real home. I don't actually do housework; I have too many dreams and aspirations for that. But it is taken care of and I glow with pride at my string of achievements, both personal and delegated, effortlessly accomplished.

Do I reach my goal? Well, not always, not often, well, never, in fact. "No-one lives up to his ideal." Let that be a comfort. Don't take it personally when perfection escapes you just a tiny bit; no need to shed tears. We are all the same. Be happy. Life is short.

Meandering Along

I'm not really a great one for discipline. I'm not a great fan of meticulous detail. I'm good at starting things and not very good at finishing them. I can play the piano but my sight-reading lets me down. The treble clef is fine; the bass clef starts OK but once the notes fall off the bottom of the stave and there are too many little lines added to their stems I get lost.  I love to express colour on the page but never really applied myself to drawing. "Could do better" found its way onto too many of my school reports. I don't know why. I guess I discovered motivation a little late in life.
 

I am trying to reform. It may be too late now to alter the habits of a lifetime but I try. When the motivation is there it makes all the difference. I have a small keyboard in the living room of our tiny cottage. It tucks in against the wall at the foot of the stairs and threatens to trip me up when I go downstairs to the bathroom in the middle of the night. But I am determined; I will make good. No longer am I guilty of neglecting my practice times as in my youth. I am trying painstakingly to master my sight-reading. Over the years I have come to love jazz; it has an endearing propensity to disobey the rules, although perhaps it is merely that it is directed by an unseen sense of order that I am unfamiliar with. Do I play jazz? No. Jazz is another world for me. My ear is classically trained and I do not understand the rhythms and melody lines of jazz, although I love them. I cannot predict it so I am forced to rely solely on my sight-reading ability. Now I have a book of elementary jazz pieces and I am stumbling through it, but it's tricksy. I am on a steep learning curve. Nevertheless, I am trying to re-educate myself.

As I said, I am not a lover of discipline. Straight, practical lines of thought, the most efficient way to progress from A to B, are not for me. I love to meander. Sitting here on this beautiful April afternoon, on the terrace of the Plas Tan y Bwlch, I am entranced by the wide, exaggerated meanders of the river below me in the Vale of Maentwrog. The view is enhanced by a magnificent spread of crimson Himalayan tree rhododendrons, somewhat curtailed by recent damage, but nevertheless spectacular. Sheep are grazing in the water meadows, the first swallows are pursuing their bat-like flight in the blue heavens and a hawk is mewing persistently overhead. Only the constant stream of traffic on the main road below disturbs the sense of tranquillity and idleness, but it is thankfully hidden from sight behind the terrace parapet. The scene before me is arresting but it is the river's course which touches a chord deep within and with which I feel a deep empathy.

The river, like me, has been subject to discipline in its time. The information leaflet tells me that William Oakeley, whose family owned the Plas and most of the landscape stretched out before me, was responsible in Victorian times for taming this errant river, curbing its indolent spread across the agricultural land of its flood plains and building small embankments on either side to wall it in. The embankments are still in place today. Oakeley, it seems, was an innovative and ambitious landowner. Not content with his early achievements, he is also credited with changing the river Dwyryd's course and creating, as a result, these attractive and deliberate curves as the river ambles across the Vale at a gentle pace. Perhaps all discipline is not so odious after all, but still I feel myself strangely drawn to the unrushed and lackadaisical meanderings of this pretty river; we are two of a kind.

  

Plas Tan y Bwlch, Maentwrog, N. Wales

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.