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.