February Round-Up

This month has passed in a flurry of things, not least of which was the return of the Kid from Sunderland. Sad as he is that the relationship has broken down, he's also overwhelmingly relieved to be back down here and away from what had become (as far as I can tell and I'll never be able to tell all because there are things you don't tell your mother) a pretty toxic situation. 

So, for now, he is regrouping his energies, taking his Nan's dogs for long walks, eating better than he has in a year and studying while he waits to be able to start his new job. 

Tiny Wee Mabel spent most of the storm actually UNDER the duvet. 

She has ideas above her station. 

I had a fancy-pants night out at the theatre last week, to see The Play What I Wrote at Malvern. It was very funny but, oh dear, I’m guessing no one under the age of 40 would even know who Morecombe and Wise were, let alone get half the jokes. It did make me feel very old, even while I was laughing. And it was just lovely to be out with a friend, grabbing an early dinner and generally behaving like I was a Person of Culture. 

Last Wednesday I was in Gloucester for an exhibition and a client meeting. Which was a success. I could hear my bank balance shouting hooray all the way over there. 

College is has been interesting with bits about soil testing and taking all forms of cuttings: leaf, root, hard wood, soft wood. I think a lot of my dissatisfaction with it last year was down to my own physical limitations. At my own plot, I can take my time over digging and the heavy stuff. At college, you have an hour to double dig, so you have to crack on regardless. Of course, I could have told them but, frankly, didn't want to. 

Guerilla Girls nailing it once again. 

Speaking of physicality, I had my long-awaited MRI scan on my foot in January and then the consultant appointment yesterday. At which, as soon as I sat down, he pulled up the images and all but yelled "fucking hell, you have the foot of an 80 year old!" He didn't swear, obviously, but you can bet I did. Having that sort of thing said without any preamble is most definitely NOT a Good Thing and there was a certain amount of shock. 

Next up will be a course of steroid injections and, when I reach the limit of how many you're allowed, an op to fuse the bones. It is what it is and there is, apparently (I asked), nothing I can do to make it better now. I think this will take some processing. 

Trees spotted from a train. Are they dancing or gossiping maliciously

about the new sapling in the next field, who does she think she is, giving

that oak the glad eye? Ooh, I know, doesn't know her place. 

In other news, I've been sowing seeds in my lunch breaks, which is an entirely civilised way of having a lunch hour, and storing them in our dinky new greenhouse. Or I was until the storms of last week nearly lifted the greenhouse off it's feet to see how it would fly. It felt a bit like that moment in the Wizard of Oz where Dorothy is clinging desperately to the house as it's whirled away. Luckily, N emerged from his office in time to hear my shout, so came to the rescue. We wrestled the cover into the shed and left the frame to fend for itself, which it did.

Unfortunately, the wind also rattled the shelves with such ferocity that the seed trays fell off. Result: a big yup of compost and mixed seeds on the floor. God only knows what will end up being planted and where.

Brand new, newly new rhubarb leaf. A sight to gladden

this jaded heart. 

And that's the full extent of our storm damage; we really have escaped lightly. Up at the allotment this morning, all that was changed was the water butt - now lying on it's side - and a branch from the elderly elder was down. It was a mighty relief. 

As was the sight of a brand new, crinkly rhubarb leaf in all it's glorious pink-green colour combination. There were green buds appearing on things, new raspberry and wineberry shoots, birdsong to gladden the heart and a little bit of sunshine to cheer everything on. All's not lost. 

Before the coffee gets cold

 It's been a while since I did a book post. Specifically, apart from a Christmas book special, I haven't really written a dedicated book post since October, when I rather grandly announced my intention to stop recording what I read. 

Not keeping a record has been quite freeing in many ways but this book, which I finished on Monday, resonated in ways that no book has for some time. So it gets a post of its own. 

Before the Coffee Gets Cold: Tales from the Cafe by Toshikazu Kawaguchi. 

The premise of the book is the most beautiful simplicity. You visit the cafe, sit in a particular chair, order a coffee and travel back or forward in time. And yet, it is also the most beautiful complication. 

This is no deep lengthy delve into magical realism. In fact, it is so sparely written, I'm not sure the word 'magical' could be successfully applied to it. If it were, the word might shuffle off, embarrassed at being in so obviously the wrong place. 

Each character is described in so sparse a way, it's as if he's drawn them. Calm, serious Kazu. Mischievous Miki. Exasperated, worried Nagare. With as few brushstrokes as it takes to form a Japanese character, he has them there, on the page, waiting for you to read on and make them move. 

Welcome to the cafe. Wait for the woman to leave the chair. Order a coffee and have the rules explained. Take a sip and travel back. Do not leave the seat. Do not let the coffee get cold. Who is it that you really want to talk to? What would you say?

I suppose this book resonated because of the time of year. The anniversary of Dad's death is coming up in a couple of weeks. It has been a year and it has been a lifetime and it has been yesterday. 

It was this piece that made me pause in my reading: 

"'But if you try to find happiness after this, then this child will have put those seventy days towards making you happy. In that case, its life has meaning. You are the one who is able to create meaning for why that child was granted life. Therefore you absolutely must try to be happy. The one person who would want that for you the most is that child.'"

Beautifully simple and complicated. 

When a person dies suddenly, you are left with questions that burn your mind in the middle of the night. There are so many questions I have for him, about his childhood, his family, his youth, marriage and old age. But, I think, if sat in that cafe, with a coffee cooling on the table between us, I would simply tell him how proud I was of him. That he had meaning. That, when grief uncurled enough to let me breathe, I would be happy.

January at the Allotment

Mostly this morning, I am extremely tired thanks to the winds that blew a hoolie round the house all night and made me fret for the safety of our newly-constructed mini-greenhouse (fret not, it was still standing when I dared open the curtains this morning). So I've given myself permission to spend the morning messing about with seeds before I crack back onto work this afternoon.  

Yesterday, I grabbed a lovely couple of hours at the allotment. There was more digging of the long bed to be done but I'm pleased to report I'm now on the last third of it. The resident robin bobbed about nearby, on the look out for any worms, so when I sadly chopped one in half (and I was genuinely sad about it), I threw him the pieces and he darted off with his takeaway lunch. 

Which reminds me, my Mum recently told my niece about the legend that robins are the spirit of departed loved ones, come back to check on you. Pause. "I don't think Grandad is a robin," niece said thoughtfully. "I think he's a pigeon." 

Which has made us all laugh for weeks, every time we see a pigeon. 

It was good to be up there, with only a scattering of other people around, tending their own plots. The "You want a weed killer on that" man was there, hands in pockets, shuffling about his plot and stopping everyone who walked past to say "Werrrllll, I haven't seen so-and-so for aaaages. He's prah'bly quit." You may imagine that he is a bundle of joy wrapped in a holey jumper with a bad, slightly Hitler-ish moustache to bristle at things. 

Also up there were the Descriptive Couple. They like to allotment loudly, telling each other what they're doing. "So, I'm putting in the broad beans while you weed around the onions, right?" "Yes! And then I'll prune the raspberries while you turn the compost." "This is all great fun, look I've found a millipede!" When they got their plot, they smeared mud on their cheeks and danced around, hugging each other. They are adorable but not peaceful. 

And there was me, digging, sitting with a coffee, pruning, sitting with a coffee, picking up the blown over fruit cage, sitting with a coffee. I'm probably known as She Who Sits, but my brain is always busy. 

It was certainly good to be up there and feeling more positive about the place than I had been back at the start of January. Then, it had all felt overwhelming and depressing. Now, I was reminded that I've done this before and I can do this again. That, although the squirrels have dug up my spring bulbs (*shakes fist in general direction of squirrels*), the rosemary is shyly flaunting it's perfect little blue flowers. 

The raspberry canes had buds on them and the rhubarb had new shoots and everything, despite the cold wind whipping at my ears, felt ready to get going again. 

Back at home, thawing out with a hot chocolate (a particularly nice one, worth breaking my no-sugar vow, from the Harth chocolate company), I watched with increasing amusement as N put up the greenhouse. I thought the moment where he appeared consumed by the plastic covering, flailing his arms from underneath, as though covered by fog, was funny enough, but he then manged to put it over the frame with himself inside and the door still zipped up. Nearly spat out my chocolate as he mimed being stuck and then picked up the whole thing, turning around in circles. 

Funny man. 

This year, I've made myself a planting calendar of all the (70+. Yikes. Now I know where my money went last year) seeds I have and when to plant them. Oh yes, shit just got real as I am determined - once more with italics, determined - to make more use of the plot this year. No longer will I wake in August and realise I am 4 months late getting pumpkin seeds started. No longer will our windowsills be crammed with leggy seedlings, desperate for repotting. No more will I glower resentfully at those plot holders who appear to have it all planted out and ready to go. 

Oh no, this is my real new years resolution. I shall be the allotment holder all others envy. My potatoes will be plentiful, my berries bountiful and my squash splendiferous. People will congratulate me on the progress and ask for advice. I shall smile quietly and gently steer their gaze from that giant yup of dead wood at the end of the plot. 

Fake it till you make it. 

All Aboard

I had to be in the lovely little town of Ledbury this morning for a work thing. As I'm trying to keep our car use minimal, I set out via train, which is no hardship. Sit back in the warm, no worrying about turns, road works or mad other drivers, just let someone else trundle you through the countryside. 

And what a countryside it is. That stretch along the rugged spine of the Malverns all the way to Ledbury never fails to please. It is a quietly dramatic journey, as the hills rise up beside the tracks, looking dark and inhospitable, with abandoned quarries, dark woods, hill forts and tree-less top. At the same time, you can see into the back gardens of houses nearby, catching the briefest glimpse of someone hanging washing out with more hope than expectation, or a person spooning breakfast into their mechanically working mouth, sleep still hanging over them like a fog. 

Is there anything more guaranteed to raise a smile and feeling of contentment than the side of a tree-lined stream, meandering through a meadow, completely undisturbed by housing or roads? No. And you can only see them from the train. It's like being let into a big lovely secret. 

There is also that exciting moment when the train whooshes under the hills and into a long tunnel. I never fail to be awed by the feat of engineering that this kind of endeavour is. It's not merely a case of blasting through the hill: the resulting space has to be chiselled smooth, propped up, tracks laid, the safety of the whole darned thing has to be guaranteed every single day. 

But I am going to stop there because I am not, and never will be, an engineering nerd. Nor do I collect train numbers. I am content to remain impressed as I whizz along. I do not need to know the minutiae of how it was achieved. 

Even on a dark gloomy day, like today, train journeys are incredibly soothing. I'd got coffee, crochet and a book to occupy me, but mostly I stared out of the window and let my thoughts drift by with the view. I should do this every week. 

Ledbury itself is as picturesque as it ever was. I used to come here a lot in a former life (and a former marriage) as we had friends living here. There are some cracking shops selling things that are placed Just So, where I walked carefully, holding my breath so I didn't know anything over, or pollute it with my me-ness. The restaurant where I first ate a crab linguine (unfortunately the same night I developed tonsillitis and was seriously ill the next day), is still there, as is the wonderful Maps and Books shop. Fewer maps than there used to be, but still a great book selection. That place has been there so long, it's practically an institution. 

There are some seriously quaint buildings too, all along the Homend (the main street) and into the winding, cobbled Church Street, including the place I was going to visit. Crooked frames, sloping roofs, big timbers and low wooden doorways you have to duck to get through. If someone was going to design a model village, this would be the kind of place they imagined. 

I absolutely and completely want to live in this house, behind the big trees. 

I shall creep out o' night my dearies, and scare pub stragglers by cackling 

from behind the wall. Hey, we all need a retirement plan. 

That said, it must be deathly dull here for teenagers. No amount of poetry festival (Elizabeth Barratt Browning lived nearby with her weird father) or fictional links (John Masefield likewise, although without the father issue) or tasteful deli is going to make up for the fact there is, as is often the problem with small towns, Nothing To Do. 

A fact borne in on me when I saw a pop up sign for an holistic spa where the picture of a smiling, relaxed, utterly middle-class person had had a speech bubble added by marker pen and the words "What A Dump" drawn on. 

Which made me laugh. I remember all too well that weighty, bone-deep boredom of being 15 in a place where there was nothing to do and you were welcome nowhere. I almost wanted to add "don't worry, you'll be out of here soon". 

But I didn't because I'd already graffitied a copy of the Metro on the train (see below). Instead, I broke my No-Shopping-January by venturing into a couple of charity shops and coming out again with 2 books and 3 tops. Charity shop shopping doesn't really count as shopping, does it? It's really more of a donation. My good deed for the day. 

Later today, I shall be going to look at ART at the evening preview of a new exhibition at the local art gallery. Yes, I am going to be that kind of fancy. I asked the friend I'm meeting how long we'd be there and was informed that it would be for "as long as you want to consume free wine for." As I'm in No-Booze-January, I fully expect to be back home after 5 minutes. 

Have a super weekend, whatever it finds you doing. I'm planning to write, visit friends for a scrabble night, allotment and eat delicious things what are good for me. With the occasional thing that is not because, you know, life. 

"Stay tuned for our article next week on how young mothers are 

irresponsible, morally suspect and only in it for a council house!"

I'm eye rolling so hard, I may have dislocated a retina. 

Of Waste Puritans and Freezer Gods

In this household, 'waste' is a dirty word. Neither of us approve of it and try to reduce wherever we can. Vegetables looking a bit ropey? Soup! Leftover pasta or rice? Bake! Remnants of a roast? Pies! Mysterious jars of things that have been open too long? 

Oh. Okay. Some things have to be thrown. Please do not use that 3-year-old open jar of chutney in anything. 

In general, I'm quite good at remembering to freeze things at the time of discovering there is too much. Partly because we are Waste Puritans, doomed to poke through fridges and hold things up in an accusatory way, intoning our chant "Did you mean this to be a complete waste of money?" We scourge ourselves with the last wrinkled spring onion from the vegetable drawer and you bet we get invited to all the parties. 

Also partly because I then have meals 'in the bank' for those days where I cannot face another session at the kitchen counter. Usually on a Monday and Thursday when I'm late back in from Pilates/college, and I'm cold with all my senses urging a bath, not an hour cooking. 

And so it was, last Friday, I found myself with a mass of veg, a mostly picked over chicken carcass and, lo!, a wodge of homemade pastry in the freezer. I duly defrosted this and set to.

Leeks, mushrooms, celery, garlic and courgette were chopped into tiny pieces and cooked gently for a long while in a ladleful of stock with thyme thrown in for good measure. I picked over the very last of the chicken and shredded the pieces, throwing them in to seethe and simmer with the veg. It smelled amazing. 

I rolled out the pastry and laid it carefully in the quiche dish, muttering under my breath and patching as I went because if there is one thing gluten-free pastry does not have, it's structural integrity. It will break and tear and you will be forced to patch it regardless of your best efforts at delicacy. 

Let the mix cool slightly while you blind bake the pastry case for however long at whatever temperature. In my case, that was for the duration of time it took me to win that day's Wordle and walk to the postbox, and at 150 fan oven. 

Carefully tip the mix into the pastry case, avoiding the bit where it's shrunk away from the dish. Smooth over and then bake for another 30 mins. Serve with salad or extra vegetables of choice and roast potatoes because the world is always better for roast potatoes. Eat. 

At the eating point, I became aware of something I am not particularly good at. Labelling items in the freezer. 

Yes, friends. That was sweet pastry I had lovingly defrosted and used, all the while patting myself on the back with the Parsimonious Parsnip of Smugness. Specifically the sweet pastry I had used to make mince pies last year but neglected to label as I put the leftover in the freezer. 

Reader, I ate it regardless. And didn't mention it to N, who also ate it regardless. It was not bad, just ODD and I certainly wouldn't do it again (unless the Freezer Gods dictate that I shall) but it was edible. Which was the main thing and allowed me to continue to wear the habit woven from stale breadcrusts handed out to all us Waste Puritans. 

I find the trick is to not tell anyone about the pastry until it's all been eaten. So I might tell N later today. After his lunch. 

It's All In The Name

The problem with writing something so very personal and revealing in a blog - like the previous post (and thank you all for the kindess) - is where on earth do you go from there? I'm not up for building a blog based on rants or politics (ugh) or anger in general. My general demeanour is quite cheery and positive, especially in the mornings, which I've been informed is irritating for those who find mornings a trial, and I'd always rather find a bright side. If it contains a dose of silliness, then so much the better. 

We're usually encouraged to take life very seriously. All that admin! Being on hold for an hour, forced to listen to corporate music! Behold a new state of affairs that you can influence in No Way but need to be very angry about! Lo, a new instance of man's inhumanity!

But life is inherently ridiculous, human life in particular. 

For example, during a Zoom meeting this week, Tiny Wee Mabel came and shouted very loudly that she was hungry/bored/tired, before hopping on the bed behind me (I work in the spare bedroom, aka The Retreat). For a moment, I breathed a sigh of relief as she looked settled to sleep. Then, as I attempted to sound professional while explaining mentoring and grant programmes, she stuck her back leg up in the air and proceed to...well...groom herself. Right there, in that spot. In full view of the meeting. 

I am here to tell you that it's impossible to sound professional while your cat is cleaning her arse behind you and your new colleagues are falling aout laughing.

In another example (2 in one week! My cup runneth over), on Thursday, I found time to walk down to the library to return some very overdue library books. I took my new route, down what I've named Urine Alley, past the back of the uni buildings and along the railway arches. On the way back, I spotted a street sign in the alley that I hadn't noticed before: Cheshire Cheese Entry. 

Really? 

It was completely in isolation. There was no Lancashire Cheese Close, Edam Avenue or StiltonTerrace nearby. There was never a dairy here (I checked because I'm that kind of nerd). For no good reason, someone somewhere decided that this narrow passageway, barely wide enough for one person and frequented (judging by the smell) by the Open Weeing Society (there is no such society, I checked that too), was worthy of the grand title of Cheddar Cheese Lane. 

Town planners let loose on road names is one of my favourite ridiculous things. A cluster of Romantic poets despite being miles away from any poetic location. A commemoration of sea battles despite being firmly inland. Trees! Trees are a favoured street naming device, especially on new estates where once woods or orchards stood. Do they not see irony?

I sometimes wonder what sort of conversations go on in their offices. 

Town Planner 1: it's no good, sir. We've run out of poets, trees, flowers, royal residences and local landmarks for the new road names. 

Town Planner 2: I see, Jenkins [they are my characters and if I want them to sound like they've come out of the 1950s, I will]. This is no good at all.

TP1: I know, sir. The crew are terribly worried. 

TP2: well, just throw some battle names out there, Trafalgar and so on, that'll sort it. Or generals, Wellington, y'know. 

TP1: Can't do that, sir. Residents are raising questions about colonialism. 

TP2: blasted snowflakes! Can't a man name a road after a known xenophobe anymore?

TP1: It seems not, sir. Not without scathing articles in the Guardian

TP2: Damn their eyes! Then it's no good, we'll have to use the Emergency Plan. Gather the team's lunches.

TP1: what?

TP2: you heard me, Jenkins! Emergency Plan! Lunches! Hop to it. 

TP1: Well sir, we have sandwiches - ham, tuna mayonnaise, egg and cress, cheshire cheese - and a tub of couscous. Can I just say that I don't understand the reason...

TP2: Of course you don't! Never had to use the Emergency Plan in your time, Jenkins. This is an historic day. Those unnamed streets will now be: Cheshire Cheese Entry, Ham Alley, Mayo Close and Cress Terrace. But forget the couscous, we don't want people thinking we've gone completely barmy. 

At least there was no cat in this imagined town planning office. God only knows what the street would have been called if there had been. 

What’s your ridiculous thing this week? 

Where Were You?

There was a thing going round Instagram last week, asking people what they were doing on 20th May 2020. For those readers not in the UK, that's because it turns out members of the government, including our badly-made-puppet-sack prime minister (no, I will not write his name) were holding parties behind the closed gates of Downing Street, having a fine old time, letting off some steam and making the odd comment about work so it could be passed off, if questioned later, as a "work meeting". 

With wine. And nibbles. 

And there I find myself briefly in step with the party goers (bet you never thought I'd say that!) as I too was having wine at work meetings. The difference being that my work meetings were being held weekly, via ZOOM, so I was alone in a makeshift office, after putting in a full day's work, sinking a bottle of wine whilst inwardly banging my head against the desk as various people asked if I could "put more content online".

Me. With my limited skills, no tech support and isolation as the rest of the team are furloughed? Yeah, sure. 

I don't have an Instagram picture for 20th May, but I do have one for 3 days later where my insomnia has reappeared (always a bellweather for my state of mind) and I'm reading for research purposes, trying to work at FOUR FUCKING A.M. IN THE MORNING. 

I can remember, clearly, cycling into the office so I could oversee a project that would have collapsed and an intern that would have been penniless if I hadn't let him in to work because the furlough scheme was too restrictive for him to receive it. The deserted streets that were eerie and freeing at the same time. 

It felt like the weight of the building rested on my shoulders. It's future depended on my ability to pull everything out of the bag. The ceaseless grant applications, the project management, the reporting, the now-weekly board meetings, the panic over no income, the relentless-endless emails, an hysterically-unreasonable artist. Needing to keep the volunteers updated and happy and not feeling isolated or worried about the museum. Needing to keep my colleagues at home in their gardens happy and not worried or isolated or feeling like their jobs were in jeopardy. 

Not seeing my parents. Not seeing my son. Not leaving the house. Not going to gigs or galleries or just the pub for a game of pool and a pint.

I can remember, clearly, cycling into work and wishing there was oncoming traffic for me to steer in front of because then I would never have to deal with this shit again. By 20th May these thoughts were so persistent as to frighten me. I stayed away from train tracks. By the end of May, I'd confessed them to 2 people - N and an exceptionally good friend - and started the process of getting help. 

Do you know what my "help" consisted of? 6 weeks of being talked at by a chatty Irish therapist who, at the end of it, pronounced me cured because I could crack a joke. 6 weeks prescription of a mild antidepressant that was stopped after that with no warning or message from the doctor. 2 weeks signed off from work with my boss and the artist both contacting me on the 11th day to arrange a meeting. 

So no, I don't remember what I was doing on the 20th May 2020. I just remember losing my mind so hard, I wasn't sure I'd ever find it again. It is still a work in process.

I have sat and looked at this post for a long time. Truth be told, I don't know how to finish it or whether to post it. I am not the only one who will have felt their own minds unravel during 2020, so many people did and so many unravelled to a place where they couldn't put themselves back together again. So that is why I'm angry. I am angry on behalf of everyone who did what they were told, only to find that the people telling them what to do felt so completely above the rules themselves. 

The people trying to get some air and space and freedom from their tiny homes who were moved on and made to feel like criminals. The people robbed of time they can never have again. The people weeping behind a bathroom door because they were homeschooling and trying to work and cooking endless fucking meals with no relief in sight. The people who lost jobs and the people who kept jobs that were suddenly 100 times harder. 

I am angry that my Dad lost his last year under lockdowns, without freedom and time with the grandkids. I'm angry that my son worked through all this in a sector and with people that those members of the government at those parties thought were expendable. I'm angry so many of us broke and are still breaking under the weight of it all.

Anger is, of course, an entirely self-defeating emotion. You don't win battles with anger, and you never change anyone's mind with that white-hot energy blinding you. I needed to put it down somewhere. Here is somewhere. Here will do.