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!