A Found Thing

I had a bit of a blogging break recently as I rushed to get some work finished up before we went away. There was work that I'd not managed to do because the heatwave knocked me for six and other work that was fast approaching a deadline and more work that had been put aside because I'd got carried away helping a client set up an exhibition. 

Actually, the latter made me realise that, whilst the freelance life suits me, I do miss the energy and buzz of being in a museum, working towards a common goal, rather than sat solo in my little office, tapping silently away. It's nice to have a taste of it every now and then. So now, once a week, I catch the train into Gloucester and work and chatter and plan and help out. It's a lot of fun and very good for my soul. 

Last week we made an escape up to Northumberland, that beautiful county full of moors, hills, woodlands and beaches. Ruined castles staring moodily out to sea. Viking lore. Big brooding skies that stretch over wide empty sands. Hills turning slowly purple as the heather flowers. Yeavering Bell. Lindisfarne. The Laidly Worm of Spindlestone Heugh. Grace Darling and the heaving North Sea. Corned beef pasties. Craster kippers. I'll blog more about it next time. 

The week has helped to reset my head and revive my energy. Grief is a strange, shifting thing that, this year, has made me mostly sad (as opposed to last year's incandescent anger) and feeling as though joy might have been locked up forever. I could find enjoyment in the moment of things, but that pure joy, with its giddy laughter and keen eye for nonsense, had gone. 

Or rather, not gone but hiding. Time away, some spent with good friends, and the absolute determination that I would not go through life joyless, found it for me again. I'm very grateful. 

And also grateful for the shift from August to September that occurred while we were away. There has been much-welcome rain. Dew on the ground. Stripy spiders creating complex and beautiful webs right across the very path you need to walk down. Socks are required once more and I had to, brace yourselves, Put A Cardigan On last night. When Mabel comes in at night, she is no longer dusty from lying under bushes, but speckled with water from damp grasses. The smell of the air is different and I can feel my lungs opening up to it. 

The Kid looked after both house and cats extremely well. So well that neither cat bothered to get up when we got back. Actually, that's their standard behaviour. The house was clean (we had given him 4 hours warning of our return) - even the bins had been emptied - and I think he'd seen it as a bit of a holiday for himself too. It is hard: at 24 you don't want to go on holiday with your Mum and her partner necessarily, but you can't always afford to go by yourself. Have decided to put the offer in of a break regardless and see what he says. 

A stay away always makes me think back to my stint in hospitality, over 25 years ago now. How I took pleasure in making sure guests had everything they needed so that the first thing they could do was kick off their shoes, make a cup of tea and just sit for a while in a chair that held them like a hug. I wanted them to say "oh it is good to be here." 

What does not make people say that is making them track down the nearest supermarket for milk the minute they arrive, or expecting them wrestle with a coffee machine/kettle that needs a NASA degree to operate and then sit on a sofa that fair rattles the bones. Luckily, we were only there for a couple of nights before moving on to our Friends in the North.

I think self-catering providers should be made to stay in their own properties for a month before letting paying guests in. Trust me, once I rule the world, that will become law. 

N starts uni on Monday and is keeping a very careful lid on how nerve-wracking he's finding the notion of returning to education. Rationally, we both know he'll be absolutely fine. Irrationally, I'm fighting the urge to make him a packed lunch and iron him a clean handkerchief. 

Later today, I shall take myself off to the allotment to see what it's been up to during my absence. Hopefully there will be more damsons on the wild trees for me to scrump on the way back. I'm going to make a hearty risotto full of mushrooms and garlic. I'm going to put on fresh bedding that carries the smell of autumn with it. I'm going to soak for a long time in the bath and remove the summer peach polish from my toenails. I'm going to book tickets for See How They Run. 

But first, I'm going to savour being back in my little office, tapping solo at my laptop, In Our Time teaching me new things at a low volume, gently closing the window against the sound of the aggressive needless lawn-cutting going on outside. It's good to be back.  

Bimble in the City

At the beginning of November, in what I'm hoping is the last big excusion of the year*, we headed to London (twice in one year!). N had work and I was going for an explore. We were meeting up for the leaving do of one of his colleagues later in the day. 

The weather was perfect: cool, sunny and with that lovely tingle in the air that autumn brings. With strict instructions on how to cross the road (I once was nearly run over in London and only saved by N's quick reflexes...and better road sense), we parted ways on the tube and I headed to St Pancras Old Church. 

Old as in, it is the OLDEST site of worship in London. Tucked away behind the British Library, down past the Francis Crick Institute (where I muttered some rude words on behalf of Rosalind Franklin), and in a clean quiet spot of London, it's rather lovely. 

The church itself is mostly Victorian. Inside it's all whitewashed and sterile with some cracking iconography. Gilt images of saints that flicker in the light of the dozens of candles that people set out. 

I'd been reading about this place and Hardy's Tree and a particular grave, but before I put myself to the task of finding them, there were some substantial monuments to admire...

You've got to hand it to the Victorians, they give good monument. Not for them the discreet little plaque on a bench. At least, not for those that can afford something more splendid. And whilst it might not be practical, it does at least announce "THIS is how much I loved this person. THIS is how much I miss them. THIS is how much money I have to tell you all about them."

Mostly, of course, it's about status and showing off. Our man Morris, back in Kelmscott, kept his and his wife's affectingly simple but then, he doesn't strike me as an ostentatious man, more one that keeps his grief close and private. 

Hardy's tree is fenced off nowadays, so this is as close as I could get to it, which is annoying but I’d mostly come to see a different grave. 

This is the grave of Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin. She of  A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, the key feminist text (not that I've read it but, you know, one day I will. That and the Second Sex). Her youngest daughter, Mary (she of Frankenstein) would meet Shelley, who her father disapproved of (and rightly, in my opinion) there. Scurrilous rumour would have it she lost her virginity to him there. I'm not sure what to believe but a "sublime and rapturous moment" is rare in first-time stories, so I'm not totally on board. 

Mind you, it is exactly the sort of thing Shelley would do. *insert eye roll*

Anyway, back to our girl, Mary W G. I'm pleased to say that after a rackety start which saw her tearing around an unstable Europe after a bloke who was the definition of Not Worth It, she found a like mind, a supporter and a short-lived happiness (she died shortly after M S's birth) with William Godwin. 

I love that Godwin was considered an anarchist, but not where his daughter was concerned. He was furious about her liaison with Shelley and came across all Conservative Papa. I suspect he'd met chancers like Shelley before and had the measure of him. 

Today, people leave offerings on her tombstone. There was a motley but touching collection of small pebbles, shells and flowers on the top. Yes, I did add my own small pebble. Yes, I do always have a small pebble in my pocket. 

Then it was back through London via the British Library and Regents Park, to meet up with N to party the night away, up until the point all that walking caught up with my arthritis and I stopped, like a horse refusing a jump. 

I do need to get better at managing it and, in hindsight, clocking up 30,000 steps in one day is not a better way. Part of it is my refusal to let it stop me doing anything (until it most emphatically does) and part of it is sheer bloody mindedness. Actually, all of it is sheer bloody mindedness. 

But there, that was my last trip to London for a good long while. Now is the time to make soup laden with giner and turmeric, to crochet blankets under more blankets, to drink coffee from a flask at the allotment and watch the winter sun come up. 

Keep well everyone.

*I mean, it's absolutely aces to see everyone again and see things and go places but I'm quite tired now and my allotment needs me.

The Continuing Tale of Small Adventures

Decided to make the most of today's bout of insomnia (take that brain! Won't let me sleep? Fine, you can do some work instead) and post about my recent trip to London to see the Paula Rego exhibition at the Tate. 

I don’t spend much time in the capital, so I tend to go with a friend to make sure I don't get lost/run over/corrupted to the dark side while I'm down there. This friend used to work a lot there, so she headed from the station with confidence, me scurrying behind like a country mouse, albeit one with a huge rucksack (flask and train snacks, space for buying of many books and things) and red trainers. 

 

By the simple act of turning right out of Paddington, she opened up a whole new world for me. One of parks and sculpture, where the air felt clean, the traffic noise dropped and London revealed itself to be rather spiffy indeed. 

Everything sparkled in the sunshine. Even the barista in the park sparkled with good will to humankind, especially those that are ladies of a certain age in need of strong coffee and plentiful napkins to mop the damp seats with. 

 Refreshed, we set a pace through Kensington Gardens (which I hadn't known was there!), past Wellington's house - No. 1 London, which is a pretty cool address to have, even for an old warhorse - through Marble Arch, past the astonishing memorial, along the outside of Buck. Palace (lots of spiky topped walls and signs warning oiks to Stay Away), and along to Vauxhall Bridge for lunch. 

I ate a plate of gnocci in a gorgonzola sauce and it was Good. Admired the backs of the MI's 5 and 6 - they don't exactly try to blend in, do they? Then hotfooted it to the Tate. 

 

The first thing to strike you as you enter the Rego exhibition is just the sheer scale of her work. They are huge. Vast canvases that command your attention. So often her work is seen through social media, which democratises art, but also, I thought in this context, diminishes it. How can you possibly feel the raw energy and power of work like this through a tiny phone screen?

Anyway, I will shut up for a minute, so you can see for yourselves (yes, I'm aware of the irony)...

Each canvas was as large as a man, and contained all the power in the world. I loved how the Tate were showing a whle life retrospective, so you really got an idea of how her work had progressed throughout the decades. 

I also really appreciated that she and her regular model really collaborated on the works together. So often models are ciphers or, perhaps worse, muses. Silent and passive things. Not this time and the combination of minds creates something strange and other.  

Her drawings are delicate things, beautifully executed, that then transform into these storms on canvas. You're left with the impression of a woman who learned to become uncompromising, who was politically engaged from an early age, and who will have no truck with mealy-mouthed "niceness". 

I'd quite like to sit at her feet and listen to her talk.

And now I’m going to sign off. The Kid returns to Sunderland today and I’m already a little wibbly about it. Come on Collett, stiff upper lip, straight back. You got this. 

Till next time. 

ps N says the last Rego portrait is my spirit painting. I’m good with that. 

How is it October?

I distinctly remember, as a child, moaning about how dreadfully long the days could be, a long drawn out whine of “I’m booooored”, especially if it was raining and the prospect of nothing but playing Monopoly with my sister was on the cards.

I still can’t play Monopoly without smelling Sunday lunch cooking in the background.

Of course, now as a grown assed adult, with my own house to maintain and lunches to make, I completely understand the bitter laugh that invariably came from an adult in the room. 

 

Days are simply not long enough any more. And it’s not all down to my Instagram habit. 

Anyway, here we are in my favourite month, despite it feeling that the start of September was only a blink away. Mornings are nippy, blankets are out and I have made 3 soups in the past 2 weeks.

Thank god I no long have to pretend that I’m perfectly happy with salad, thank you very much, could you pass the coleslaw and cheese, and the dressing and the other thing to smother it in. It is much easier to eat healthily in Autumn and Winter, I find. Soup needs no dressing and ice cream casts no spell when it’s cold outside. 

If I could, I’d live in perpetual October with brief forays into June and July for birthdays. 

But enough fantasising about squash, ginger, coriander and lime soup with garlic flatbread to dip, back to the matter in hand: my disappearing September. 

Most of it went in work and the start of college (my return to education following a 27 year break), but we also had a trip to Surrey for a friend’s wedding. I have only been to Surrey once and can confirm that it’s roads are as badly surfaced now as they were 15 years ago. 

 

 

But we had a splendid time at the wedding which was nice. Even nicer (sorry Charlotte), was the church in Chaldon that a friend of mine had suggested we visit in the morning to see the Doom painting (second photo). 

I'm sure you'll agree that as wall paintings go, that one is just...wow. I mean. Seriously. Can you imagine being an illiterate 14th Century peasant with no scientific knowledge, and that's the image that confronts you the minute you walk into church, and when you leave? 

 

Enough to frighten the beezus out of anyone. 

It was also home to one of the most unintentionally hilarious monuments I've ever seen (not shown). Along the lines of "she survived a shipwreck on the way to somewhere foreign, sailed out there again, suffered disease and the birth of eight children far from home, bore with fortitude all the inconveniences of life there, died on the way back home". Well honestly, wouldn't you? "That's it, I told you I'd had enough. You men and your bloody ships."

We visited Brighton while we were down there. Umm, sorry Brighton, but I think you've probably seen better days than a humid Monday out of season and post-pandemic. Nice graffiti in places though, although I did think they could have opened their museum. Boo.

There were some excellent trees and equally excellent views from the balcony of our AirB&B. There was delicious pizza, fish and chips, and a wedding buffet that transcended the once standard pork pie and cold chicken legs. There were friends, laughter and, almost uniquely for an AB&B, a very comfortable bed.They got a good review for that alone. 

Certainly not for the fact there were only 2 tea bags and 1 toilet roll in the property.

There was a big old moon, sea gulls in their rightful place (i.e. by the sea and not attacking moorhen chicks along the canal back home). There was rest and relaxation and a not entirely hideous return journey along the M25 - it was no picnic, but I expected worse.  You can't help thinking of Crowley and his M25 shenanigans in Good Omens when you think of the M25. 

No demons were summoned during the course of our journey. I think.

This week, the Kid is home from Sunderland for his own slice of rest and relaxation. Working as a carer for adults with complex (and sometimes undiagnosed) mental disabilities and needs during the pandemic has been an exercise in fortitude, grit and sheer determination to see they suffer as little as possible despite the shit show going on outside the doors. 

I've never been prouder and have made all his favourite meals this week. He all but cried at the sausage and bean casserole that was a childhood staple when he was growing up. Yes, I am sending him back with masses of filled tupperware and, hopefully, a renewed vigour for the challenges ahead. He'll need it. 

Back to work next week but hopefully I'll find time to catch up with my trip to London before then. 

If not, rest assured I shall be composing never-to-be-written blog posts while I dig manure into my plot. Kudos to all those taking part in Blogtober. I am enjoying reading your posts. More power to your typing fingers.

When this is all over

I'm finding that life at the moment is made immeasurably better by thinking about what I'll do when things get back to normal.  Nothing too big, nothing silly, just something positive to look forward to. What are you planning to do when life returns to normal? Or our own personal versions of normal!

I'm planning...

A big long walk in the countryside

A trip to Ikea to buy lampshades. We've owned this house for nearly a year, we need some damn lampshades. No, I don't want to order online, I want to browse and eat meatballs.

Painting "my" room. I need paint. Paint is not being delivered. This will have to wait till we're all out and about again

A visit to a garden centre AND a farm shop. Truly, these are wild and crazy plans

Planning our holiday next year: Paris to Bordeaux where a friend of ours lives. Can.Not.Wait

Those are my feet, as I contemplated possible wall colours. 

Tray of seedlings on top of the wardrobe... 

Good things this week? Both Ed O'Brien and Laura Marling have released albums of thoughtfulness and grace. The Hive online bookshop has both supplied me with books I'd like to read and donated a percentage to the local(ish) independent bookshop of my choice. I managed to score some rhubarb for a crumble and some asparagus for a pasta with goats cheese. The boyfriend had a fit of unaccustomed energy and defrosted the freezer. I now have a hose long enough to water the entire allotment without the need for trudging to the tap and back with a medium sized watering can. There are seedlings everywhere.