Day 103
I once lived in the most wonderful house for an 11 year old imaginable. It was in the country, miles from anywhere and two fields walk from the road, on a working farm.
The house itself was Victorian and had once been a little grand. Divided into two sections, the main body of the house had bay windows and a white filigree of lace-like wrought iron around the porch. The door looked out over roses and a sweeping lawn surrounded by red brick walls, and beyond them, open fields, waist-high with grass to run and hide in.
The entrance hall had a door at the other end which came out onto a mounting block from which to mount your horse and head off into the wide world. The ceilings were high and the stairs long, with a shiny wooden banister I was too scared to slide down. The landing was galleried, with endless balustrades that though I had to dust between them, I still thought beautiful.
To the right of the front door was the dining room, which we used as a play room. It was light and airy, with a beautiful fireplace and white painted cupboards on either side. This was where I made paper dolls with my sister, or played ping-pong with my brother.
To the left was the enormous sitting room, so huge we only had a scrap of carpet in the middle near the fireplace, and all the furniture was grouped around that. When we first moved in and it was empty, my sister and I would put Peer Gynt on the record player and whirl and dance around like fairy demons for hours on end. I have never had a such a sense of pure, bodily freedom since.
To the back, behind the dining room, was the winter parlour. This was a small, cosily dark room, with wood panelling, window seats and shutters. This was where we spent the colder months rather than trying to heat the big room. I loved it. I remember granny-square crocheted blankets hanging over wing backed armchairs close round the fire, a writing desk in the corner, peacefulness, quiet, and snuggling up with a book in the window seat.
Next to that, behind the sitting room, was the equally enormous kitchen, with scarily vast hooks hanging from the ceiling, a massive wooden table and an aga at the far side. I can tell you it only took us seconds to leap from our beds on cold mornings, grab our school clothes, and reach that aga in order to keep warm as we dressed.
Upstairs were four bedrooms, a loo, and a bathroom. The biggest bedroom was directly over the sitting room and therefore the same size. This was the room my sister and I shared. We had a pale blue wardrobe I remember, and a square of blue carpet between our two beds, which for once did not have to be bunkbeds, there was so much space.
So far, so normal, but now we see the magical part of the house. At the far end of the long, dark corridor, was a door with stained glass windows. I recall being very frightened the first time I saw it and not wanting to go down there, but when I did - a whole new world for play opened up.
Beyond the door were the servants quarters. Two smaller bedrooms that remained unoccupied, and were therefore more playrooms for us. And they had their own staircase that led down to the scullery and the back entrance of the kitchen. I simply cannot describe how much fun children who like to play hide and seek type stalking games, can have in a house with two staircases. It was Heaven.
Down in the scullery there was a bread oven and and boiling vessel for the laundry. Between the stairs and the kitchen was the vast pantry. It had cool marble shelving and fly preventing mesh on the windows. There was also another door to the back, obviously so that all the groceries could go straight into the servants section of the house. We never used it, there were already three other doors.
But wait - back up a minute - halfway down the stairs was another door, set back a little, and at an angle. This opened into a huge, vaulted, barn-like storage space. This became our badminton court. It was amazing. The corners were filled with bird-poo as all the swallows built their nests in the eaves. Sometimes the fledgelings would fall out, and I would rescue them, feed them, and look after them until they were old enough to fly. I would start them on their way by putting them on the bottom rung of a ladder then tipping them gently off, working up step by step.
In the middle of the barn floor was a trapdoor. Can you believe it? Honestly, this house had everything! This opened to some stairs that led down into an almost underground storage space. This was where my dad had his work bench, kept all his tools, and the logs and coal for the fires and aga were stored. It was red-brick and cobwebby, with a wonderfully gloomy light filtering through the small window. This led back into the scullery, so you see, there were so many different routes through this house, it was bliss.
The servants side of the house was backed by the walled vegetable garden. Here we also kept rabbits and bantams, all in a big run together built onto the side of the wall. All this would have been enough to keep us happily amused forever but there was more!
As I said, it was a working farm, so there was also an old, Thomas Hardy style hay barn adjacent to the house. Here my brother and I would build forts out of the bales on opposing sides of the barn - the trick was to try and sneak into the other's camp without being seen. This necessitated much subterfuge, building of ramparts and tunnels, and silent persistence. I remember the light that filtered through the dirty window, setting the bales aglow like fire and illuminating the dust motes that flurried constantly like magic fairy dust.
There was also the cow shed where you could stroke the animals as they fed, their breath foamy and pungent, their noses dribbling, and their tongues raspy on your hand. Of course, there was also the silage barn, open on two sides, the mountain of grass covered in blue plastic held down with old tyres. It was warm and slightly squishy to sit on, with a muted but definate smell of rich decay and throat-catching sourness.
The track that led to the house from the road went first through a sheep field, and then through an apple orchard. The spring was marked by three things. First would be the lambing that took place in one of the cowsheds. On a cold morning, the farmer would grab my brother and I on route to school, and hand us a baby lamb each to carry down to the field "as we were going that way", the mother sheep trotting fractiously behind us. A new born lamb is a wondrous thing to hold when you are 11 years old. Nothing ever feels as warm, fresh, fluffy or soft again.
Secondly, the hedgerows around the orchard would fill with daffodils, blazing banks of yellow against the emergent emerald green. Then came the final sign of spring, the apple blossom in the orchard. Blizzards of petals blowing around our ears on that walk to school, and the smell! Oh, nothing like it.
Beyond the fields at the back of the house was a small wood, not large enough to get lost in, but big enough for explorations, adventures and foxes. The fields had grass so tall my sister would disappear from sight.
I don't know how long we got to live there before the owner said his son was getting married and needed the house to live in - maybe only eighteen months. I know it wasn't long enough but somehow it also felt like an eternity. Pure happiness is like that - it is timeless, it has no boundaries or limits.
The hay barn and apple orchard were destroyed before we left. The house may not even still be standing. The farm will certainly have undergone some changes if it is there at all. None of this matters though, because in my head and heart it is still there, perfect in every detail, the most wonderful house in the whole, wide world.
Sunday 27 December 2009
Thursday 24 December 2009
So say we all
Day 100
It is six of the clock on Christmas Eve, and I bid everyone the very best Season's Greetings, ( although I will be seeing three of my five followers tomorrow, and so can tell them in person).
I have just wrapped the very last present and laid it under the tree. My neighbour has called and left homemade jams and apple jelly, all decorated with sparkly silver bows (thank you, thank you), and the last card has been hung on the last empty peg.
I can't say that 'nothing is stirring, not even a mouse,' because the gannet guinea pigs are going at their Xmas parsley hell for leather, and Steve is happily ensconced on the sofa with a glass of wine and a Haynes manual. I can say, however, that I am starting to feel that familiar tingle of excitement that Christmas always brings me.
It used to be the suspense of opening presents as a child, but now it is a delight in the traditional side of it all that sizzles in my blood. The smell of cinnamon and cloves, the twinkling lights and gaudy decorations, the idiocy of paper hats and crackers, and terrible jokes that no-one finds funny. The over-feeding and the under-exercising, the sense of people letting themselves off the hook for a day.
My gift to myself this year is pride. "What!" you say, "but that's one of the deadly sins!". Yeah, yeah, I know, but not the way I do it. I have lots of reasons to feel proud this year so I'm just going to, that's all.
It is six of the clock on Christmas Eve, and I bid everyone the very best Season's Greetings, ( although I will be seeing three of my five followers tomorrow, and so can tell them in person).
I have just wrapped the very last present and laid it under the tree. My neighbour has called and left homemade jams and apple jelly, all decorated with sparkly silver bows (thank you, thank you), and the last card has been hung on the last empty peg.
I can't say that 'nothing is stirring, not even a mouse,' because the gannet guinea pigs are going at their Xmas parsley hell for leather, and Steve is happily ensconced on the sofa with a glass of wine and a Haynes manual. I can say, however, that I am starting to feel that familiar tingle of excitement that Christmas always brings me.
It used to be the suspense of opening presents as a child, but now it is a delight in the traditional side of it all that sizzles in my blood. The smell of cinnamon and cloves, the twinkling lights and gaudy decorations, the idiocy of paper hats and crackers, and terrible jokes that no-one finds funny. The over-feeding and the under-exercising, the sense of people letting themselves off the hook for a day.
My gift to myself this year is pride. "What!" you say, "but that's one of the deadly sins!". Yeah, yeah, I know, but not the way I do it. I have lots of reasons to feel proud this year so I'm just going to, that's all.
- Steve has applied for nearly four hundred jobs and has only his second interview just after Xmas. I am so proud of how he has handled this, when it has sometimes been really difficult for him. Time and again he has pulled himself back up to a positive stance, looked on the bright side, and refused to cave in.
- Joe has got out of the YMCA where he was living, into a flat of his own. He has found part-time work that he loves and is doing what he can to find something more full-time. He is taking the first steps to get himself sorted and on the right track. Keep going, son, I love you to bits.
- Sam has worked like a little Trojan, handling college, homework, shop work, and housework, all with barely enough sleep and no time to socialise or see his girlfriend. Despite this he has shown grace, patience, discipline (never his strong suit, so double brownie points for that), and staggering generosity. What a love.
- I finished my book. I have received plenty of rejections from agents, but have stayed focused and positive and ready to target publishers with the same spirit next year. Putting oneself on the line is always the hard part and I am proud of myself for being willing to do so.
- I have the best friends ever. I know none of them would want me to send Xmas cards if I felt it was an expense too far, and will not bat an eyelid to recieve nothing from me. They hold me in their hearts and offer any help they can give. I know they would do this at any time of the year, but it feels even more special at Xmas when they have so many other calls on their time, energy, and finances.
- (And Lyds has just popped a pressie in my lap - I'm so blessed this year.)
These are good things, good things, and I am happy with pride because it is like a sort of gratitude that includes my part in it. As I write this, someone is letting off fireworks just up the hill. I can see them from my window and they mirror how I am in my body tonight. I am fireworks and tinsel, troika rides, snowball fights, a two-year old's anticipation and a lover's kiss beneath the mistletoe, both breathless and pure.
Let the bells ring out, the town cryers call, the families gather and the friends unite. It is the Christian Christmas, the pagan Yule tide, the jewish Hannukah, a time of solstice and renewal, a festival of light and rejoicing - above all a season of peace and goodwill to all men. So say we all.
Sunday 20 December 2009
28
Day 96
Twenty-eight years ago this very minute, I was in the car circling Shepherd's Bush roundabout on the way to the hospital, and I had my very first contraction. I mentioned this in passing to my flatmate at the wheel and he damned nearly crashed the car. So my son Joe's life was almost over before it had even begun.
Yes, it is Joe's birthday, my first born, the child who taught me how to be a mother first, a grown-up second, and a child all over again, bless him. No longer my baby, he is tall and stringy like his father but dark-haired and hazel-eyed like me, and someone who is often described as 'walking to the beat of his own drum' like I don't know who.
It sinks in now, if I let it - I have been a mother for twenty-eight years! There was a time when that prospect was so daunting, when I had no clue if what I was doing was right or wrong, if I was up to the task at all. How would I manage when he was a teenager if I couldn't even get him to ride on a bus as a toddler? (Same way as it turned out - grab him by the braces and ignore all the screaming).
Joe used to draw cats. And robots. And sometimes cats in capes flying over the heads of robots. He weighed so little I could pick him up with one hand until he was six. He had huge eyes in a tiny little Oliver Twist face. When he hit the age when boys and girls went their separate ways in the school playground, girls still invited him over to play. "I don't care if I get teased, " one little moppet once said, "he's kind and I like him". Good for you, Laura.
He always had the most alarming imagination. When the teachers played clap-around-the-circle games at school, Joe was the most inventive at being the one in the middle, doing something for every one else to copy. New every time, the teachers said, unlike anybody else.
His favourite Christmas presents were cardboard boxes, sellotape, string, and old yogurt pots. He went through a phase of traumatising our cats by making cat traps that were terrifyingly effective. Once, when he was seven and a friend of mine came to visit with his new baby daughter, Joe requested a box "to make a surprise present for the little baby". Try and imagine, if you will, the look on my friend's face, when Joe proudly produced a well constructed and working model of a guillotine - baby sized!
In more recent years, that imagination has been put to good use filming weird videos with his friend Andy, whose passion as a film-maker is phenomenal. You can catch Joe on You-tube doing 'The Mighty Wow'. Don't ask, just go and look, because really, there is no explanation that I can think of that comes close to explaining either of them.
He's coming round this evening. I'm going to make him a cake. And give him a telly for his new flat.
And remember that I made him, but he made me, too.
Happy birthday, Joe, Love from Mum. xxx
Twenty-eight years ago this very minute, I was in the car circling Shepherd's Bush roundabout on the way to the hospital, and I had my very first contraction. I mentioned this in passing to my flatmate at the wheel and he damned nearly crashed the car. So my son Joe's life was almost over before it had even begun.
Yes, it is Joe's birthday, my first born, the child who taught me how to be a mother first, a grown-up second, and a child all over again, bless him. No longer my baby, he is tall and stringy like his father but dark-haired and hazel-eyed like me, and someone who is often described as 'walking to the beat of his own drum' like I don't know who.
It sinks in now, if I let it - I have been a mother for twenty-eight years! There was a time when that prospect was so daunting, when I had no clue if what I was doing was right or wrong, if I was up to the task at all. How would I manage when he was a teenager if I couldn't even get him to ride on a bus as a toddler? (Same way as it turned out - grab him by the braces and ignore all the screaming).
Joe used to draw cats. And robots. And sometimes cats in capes flying over the heads of robots. He weighed so little I could pick him up with one hand until he was six. He had huge eyes in a tiny little Oliver Twist face. When he hit the age when boys and girls went their separate ways in the school playground, girls still invited him over to play. "I don't care if I get teased, " one little moppet once said, "he's kind and I like him". Good for you, Laura.
He always had the most alarming imagination. When the teachers played clap-around-the-circle games at school, Joe was the most inventive at being the one in the middle, doing something for every one else to copy. New every time, the teachers said, unlike anybody else.
His favourite Christmas presents were cardboard boxes, sellotape, string, and old yogurt pots. He went through a phase of traumatising our cats by making cat traps that were terrifyingly effective. Once, when he was seven and a friend of mine came to visit with his new baby daughter, Joe requested a box "to make a surprise present for the little baby". Try and imagine, if you will, the look on my friend's face, when Joe proudly produced a well constructed and working model of a guillotine - baby sized!
In more recent years, that imagination has been put to good use filming weird videos with his friend Andy, whose passion as a film-maker is phenomenal. You can catch Joe on You-tube doing 'The Mighty Wow'. Don't ask, just go and look, because really, there is no explanation that I can think of that comes close to explaining either of them.
He's coming round this evening. I'm going to make him a cake. And give him a telly for his new flat.
And remember that I made him, but he made me, too.
Happy birthday, Joe, Love from Mum. xxx
Thursday 17 December 2009
Finding my 'food story'
Day 93
It is now three months since I started blogging so it is time to take stock. Have just reviewed my first day blog, and while some things have changed, it is not as many as I had hoped, though probably more than I expected.
For one thing, I can now find more energy, focus and determination than I managed then, despite my illness. I did finish my book, I did send it off to lots of agents and - even if they have now all sent back rejections - it is only the first step. After Christmas I will start targeting publishers, and there are many, many more of them than agents, so that will keep me busy for a while.
As to my health, that isn't much better, but then I haven't been giving it much priority. I was expecting Steve to be back at work by now and I saw that as a time when I could focus just on myself more. There would be less distraction and more space to take things at my own pace, set my own agenda.
I am concerned that I may have been using that as an excuse to over-indulge in foods that disagree with me and hinder my healing. I keep telling myself I will do better at that once he is at work, but wonder if I'm just prolonging the condition by failing to knuckle down and do what is necessary.
I'm lucky in that my favourite foods are reasonably good for my body - I am not a chocoholic - but tiredness plays a big part in defining the meal choices that I make at the moment, and they are often less than good.
Unfortunately, changing those habits does feel like hard work - a punishment, almost - and I need to work through those issues as well, or I suspect my success will be limited. When I look back into my past, I see that my 'food story' is complicated and not very healthy.
As a child, I was emotionally abandoned by my mother very early on. With hindsight, it is probable that she had post-natal depression after my sister was born which developed into the same depressive and mood altering illness that I, in my turn, was struck down by. I was only four at the time, so all I knew was that I got shouted at constantly, and could do absolutely nothing right in her eyes from then on until her death, when I was 23.
My father stopped protecting me from her when I hit teenage, and even took her side against me, though he knew she lied. Worn down by her mood swings and vicious temper, he stopped standing up to her, probably suffering from depression himself.
As a family, we were constantly broke as well, which added extra pressure, and ensured that any scrap of something that was comforting was in short supply. A special treat was a Mars bar split between five, each of us hoping for the extra chocolaty piece from the end.
I used to steal food. I would find where biscuits or cashew nuts were hidden, (note, hidden, not available), and pinch as many as I thought I could get away with. This was the seventies, by the way, not some post war, ration book existence!
So now I find self denial really hard to do. When I have been on strict diets to help my body heal itself, I have felt emotionally distressed and often deeply sad. I think I still identify with that little girl looking for comfort any way she can, and denying myself a glass of wine or even a piece of toast and butter, takes me back to that time at an unconscious, cellular level.
I suspect I am accusing myself of taking up the mantel dropped by my mother, and continuing to treat that little girl badly by denying her what she wants and should be allowed to have. In order to resolve my health issues, I need to deal with these emotional ties - that bind food with love, and make it about comfort and safety, rather than nourishment and health.
This is not so straightforward.
No wonder I have been waiting for Steve to go back to work before tackling it!
And for Christmas to be over, obviously.
It is now three months since I started blogging so it is time to take stock. Have just reviewed my first day blog, and while some things have changed, it is not as many as I had hoped, though probably more than I expected.
For one thing, I can now find more energy, focus and determination than I managed then, despite my illness. I did finish my book, I did send it off to lots of agents and - even if they have now all sent back rejections - it is only the first step. After Christmas I will start targeting publishers, and there are many, many more of them than agents, so that will keep me busy for a while.
As to my health, that isn't much better, but then I haven't been giving it much priority. I was expecting Steve to be back at work by now and I saw that as a time when I could focus just on myself more. There would be less distraction and more space to take things at my own pace, set my own agenda.
I am concerned that I may have been using that as an excuse to over-indulge in foods that disagree with me and hinder my healing. I keep telling myself I will do better at that once he is at work, but wonder if I'm just prolonging the condition by failing to knuckle down and do what is necessary.
I'm lucky in that my favourite foods are reasonably good for my body - I am not a chocoholic - but tiredness plays a big part in defining the meal choices that I make at the moment, and they are often less than good.
Unfortunately, changing those habits does feel like hard work - a punishment, almost - and I need to work through those issues as well, or I suspect my success will be limited. When I look back into my past, I see that my 'food story' is complicated and not very healthy.
As a child, I was emotionally abandoned by my mother very early on. With hindsight, it is probable that she had post-natal depression after my sister was born which developed into the same depressive and mood altering illness that I, in my turn, was struck down by. I was only four at the time, so all I knew was that I got shouted at constantly, and could do absolutely nothing right in her eyes from then on until her death, when I was 23.
My father stopped protecting me from her when I hit teenage, and even took her side against me, though he knew she lied. Worn down by her mood swings and vicious temper, he stopped standing up to her, probably suffering from depression himself.
As a family, we were constantly broke as well, which added extra pressure, and ensured that any scrap of something that was comforting was in short supply. A special treat was a Mars bar split between five, each of us hoping for the extra chocolaty piece from the end.
I used to steal food. I would find where biscuits or cashew nuts were hidden, (note, hidden, not available), and pinch as many as I thought I could get away with. This was the seventies, by the way, not some post war, ration book existence!
So now I find self denial really hard to do. When I have been on strict diets to help my body heal itself, I have felt emotionally distressed and often deeply sad. I think I still identify with that little girl looking for comfort any way she can, and denying myself a glass of wine or even a piece of toast and butter, takes me back to that time at an unconscious, cellular level.
I suspect I am accusing myself of taking up the mantel dropped by my mother, and continuing to treat that little girl badly by denying her what she wants and should be allowed to have. In order to resolve my health issues, I need to deal with these emotional ties - that bind food with love, and make it about comfort and safety, rather than nourishment and health.
This is not so straightforward.
No wonder I have been waiting for Steve to go back to work before tackling it!
And for Christmas to be over, obviously.
Tuesday 15 December 2009
Bad sleep, boiled kids, and The Great Potato
Day 91
Steve forgot to order my Progesterone cream in time to beat the Christmas post, and so I ran out yesterday. This is not the tragedy that it would have been a few years ago, when the absence of it would have resulted in me pacing the floor, shaking and sweating as if with the DT's, crying, anxious, and unable to do anything except count the seconds away. No - those days are long gone, thankfully, and my recovery from this rather bonkers illness is well under way.
I still need it to help me sleep now that I am menopausal though. This has pushed me back a bit - hormones even further out of whack than usual - so I find supplementing my progesterone is the only thing that knocks me out and keeps me that way, (five trips to the loo notwithstanding). Last night, I dozed a little, then was wide awake from 2.00 until about 5.30, so am all over the place today. This may explain the odd, last, dream memory I had upon waking, and my subsequent thoughts.
In it, I remember seeing someone in a huge, loose-knit, stripey jumper trying to climb over a wall, but being prevented by several other people from whom he was obviously trying to escape, hanging onto his jumper. Couldn't recall the rest of the dream so that made no sense, but then the words of the second commandment popped into my head out of nowhere - "Thou shalt have no other God but me", and that did make it weird.
(Not as weird, however, as going online and checking the number of the commandment only to discover there is actually a version in Exodus which states "Thou shalt not boil a kid in it's mother's milk"! Well, you wouldn't anyway, would you.)
It got me thinking - always a bad thing when my sleep is haywire - that if this were a written law, then it could be picked to pieces in court quite easily. For a start, it implies there are other Gods available, and that a choice - if not necessarily 'right', according to them - is possible.
Now that is the Old Testament for you - all God's wrath, and testing, and punishment, and other stuff that would make you consider different options if more than one God was around, so perhaps laying down a commandment about it was the only way that made sense to them at the time. You get to the New Testament and things have quietened down a bit. Here one is told that all good deeds done in another's name go directly to this God anyway - all roads leading up the same mountain, so to speak. Phew.
Then of course, big J announces that no-one gets to 'the Father' but by him. What's that all about? If there are no other Gods then it doesn't matter which name you pray to, surely? And isn't the desire for world domination the one distinguishing characteristic of all super villains? Not good advertising! And frankly, not very good for peace and love, which the J man was supposed to be all about.
Sadly, the truth of the matter could be in the fact that the Bible was written long after Jesus died, and was therefore the tabloid newspaper of its day. No actual interview, as such, just lots of half remembered quotes and other peoples opinions. Folk tend to remember only the things that had impact on them, and it's quite easy to take things out of context.
So here's what I think. That every living atom in this universe and the next, and all the spaces in between, has at heart an energy that is beautiful, and extraordinary, and divine, and perfect, and you can call it any name you like. It doesn't need worshipping because it has no ego, and it can't ever stop existing, it can only change it's form. It is simply life, and I call it God because that works for me, but I could just as easily call it Frank or the great potato, it would make no difference.
This Christmas, when I hear people celebrating with carols the birth of Jesus, and singing praise him, hallelujah, I will let the words pass me by and focus on the spirit of it all. The joy, the wish for peace, the neighbourliness, and the practice of giving and appreciating, these are all good things. From Wenceslas to Santa, generosity and love have been hallmarks of Christmas, whichever name you give your God, however you worship, and whatever your beliefs.
Real peace on Earth can only come about with acceptance of others, including their beliefs. If we can see it as all part of the same thing, then it gets a little easier, I think.
Steve forgot to order my Progesterone cream in time to beat the Christmas post, and so I ran out yesterday. This is not the tragedy that it would have been a few years ago, when the absence of it would have resulted in me pacing the floor, shaking and sweating as if with the DT's, crying, anxious, and unable to do anything except count the seconds away. No - those days are long gone, thankfully, and my recovery from this rather bonkers illness is well under way.
I still need it to help me sleep now that I am menopausal though. This has pushed me back a bit - hormones even further out of whack than usual - so I find supplementing my progesterone is the only thing that knocks me out and keeps me that way, (five trips to the loo notwithstanding). Last night, I dozed a little, then was wide awake from 2.00 until about 5.30, so am all over the place today. This may explain the odd, last, dream memory I had upon waking, and my subsequent thoughts.
In it, I remember seeing someone in a huge, loose-knit, stripey jumper trying to climb over a wall, but being prevented by several other people from whom he was obviously trying to escape, hanging onto his jumper. Couldn't recall the rest of the dream so that made no sense, but then the words of the second commandment popped into my head out of nowhere - "Thou shalt have no other God but me", and that did make it weird.
(Not as weird, however, as going online and checking the number of the commandment only to discover there is actually a version in Exodus which states "Thou shalt not boil a kid in it's mother's milk"! Well, you wouldn't anyway, would you.)
It got me thinking - always a bad thing when my sleep is haywire - that if this were a written law, then it could be picked to pieces in court quite easily. For a start, it implies there are other Gods available, and that a choice - if not necessarily 'right', according to them - is possible.
Now that is the Old Testament for you - all God's wrath, and testing, and punishment, and other stuff that would make you consider different options if more than one God was around, so perhaps laying down a commandment about it was the only way that made sense to them at the time. You get to the New Testament and things have quietened down a bit. Here one is told that all good deeds done in another's name go directly to this God anyway - all roads leading up the same mountain, so to speak. Phew.
Then of course, big J announces that no-one gets to 'the Father' but by him. What's that all about? If there are no other Gods then it doesn't matter which name you pray to, surely? And isn't the desire for world domination the one distinguishing characteristic of all super villains? Not good advertising! And frankly, not very good for peace and love, which the J man was supposed to be all about.
Sadly, the truth of the matter could be in the fact that the Bible was written long after Jesus died, and was therefore the tabloid newspaper of its day. No actual interview, as such, just lots of half remembered quotes and other peoples opinions. Folk tend to remember only the things that had impact on them, and it's quite easy to take things out of context.
So here's what I think. That every living atom in this universe and the next, and all the spaces in between, has at heart an energy that is beautiful, and extraordinary, and divine, and perfect, and you can call it any name you like. It doesn't need worshipping because it has no ego, and it can't ever stop existing, it can only change it's form. It is simply life, and I call it God because that works for me, but I could just as easily call it Frank or the great potato, it would make no difference.
This Christmas, when I hear people celebrating with carols the birth of Jesus, and singing praise him, hallelujah, I will let the words pass me by and focus on the spirit of it all. The joy, the wish for peace, the neighbourliness, and the practice of giving and appreciating, these are all good things. From Wenceslas to Santa, generosity and love have been hallmarks of Christmas, whichever name you give your God, however you worship, and whatever your beliefs.
Real peace on Earth can only come about with acceptance of others, including their beliefs. If we can see it as all part of the same thing, then it gets a little easier, I think.
Saturday 12 December 2009
Why Handmade is the new Harrods
Day 88
Spent the afternoon out yesterday with my friends from college, Carole and Diane, and had a lovely time. Aren't good friends just the best gift in the world? Went round 'Unpopular Culture' - the Grayson Perry curated art exhibition (fabulous), then onto 'Hansel und Gretel', a little Swiss shop with a cafe in it's basement, for coffee and strudel. Talked A LOT! You'd think I hadn't spoken to anyone for weeks!
Mind you, being quiet is something I've never been very good at. At school, I was always sent to the back of the class so my chatter wouldn't drive the teachers mad. Even at college last year my tutor told me how quiet it would be once me and my mate Sarah (just as bad) had left. "You'll miss me" I said. "Yes I know I will, but it will still be quiet" he replied. Thanks Dave.
Steve is at his phsycho-babbler course today and the house is a tip, so have a lot to do. Bought the last few bits and bobs to finish my homemade Xmas presents with yesterday, and intend to do that this weekend as well.
Have been watching 'Kirstie's Homemade Christmas' on the telly, hoping for good ideas. Bit of a waste of time. She seems a nice woman, and I really love her simple enthusiasm for everything festive, but money saving she ain't. Has she any clue at all what coping with Christmas means for most of us?
The most ridiculous thing she showed us as an 'economy,' was going to a glass blowers and blowing your own tree baubles! On what planet is that cheaper than a pack of six from Asda, gussied up with a bit of extra glitter and a bow you saved off the only bunch of flowers you ever got sent? Honestly, rich people, I don't know!
Cheap is gathering pine cones from the woods, then buying a 50p bag of birdseed and making your own bird feeders - bit of cellophane, bit of ribbon, bish bosh, job's a good 'un. Or picking up those empty wine boxes free from the supermarket, and then painting them to look like chimney stacks to stick all the pressies in and save on wrapping. (This is only cheaper if you have all the paint already like I do, obviously).
Still, I did like her hand embroidered table napkins - very festive - even if she did cheat and get other people to do them for her, (oh, the time pressures of being on the telly!). And she has made it look as if homemade is cool and chic, which is good news for me as that's all my family are getting, so thank you for that, Kirsty.
Still, time's moving on, and in these days of shallow daylight, the sun is almost over the yardarm already and I am not even dressed yet. Better get on. Cheerio.
Spent the afternoon out yesterday with my friends from college, Carole and Diane, and had a lovely time. Aren't good friends just the best gift in the world? Went round 'Unpopular Culture' - the Grayson Perry curated art exhibition (fabulous), then onto 'Hansel und Gretel', a little Swiss shop with a cafe in it's basement, for coffee and strudel. Talked A LOT! You'd think I hadn't spoken to anyone for weeks!
Mind you, being quiet is something I've never been very good at. At school, I was always sent to the back of the class so my chatter wouldn't drive the teachers mad. Even at college last year my tutor told me how quiet it would be once me and my mate Sarah (just as bad) had left. "You'll miss me" I said. "Yes I know I will, but it will still be quiet" he replied. Thanks Dave.
Steve is at his phsycho-babbler course today and the house is a tip, so have a lot to do. Bought the last few bits and bobs to finish my homemade Xmas presents with yesterday, and intend to do that this weekend as well.
Have been watching 'Kirstie's Homemade Christmas' on the telly, hoping for good ideas. Bit of a waste of time. She seems a nice woman, and I really love her simple enthusiasm for everything festive, but money saving she ain't. Has she any clue at all what coping with Christmas means for most of us?
The most ridiculous thing she showed us as an 'economy,' was going to a glass blowers and blowing your own tree baubles! On what planet is that cheaper than a pack of six from Asda, gussied up with a bit of extra glitter and a bow you saved off the only bunch of flowers you ever got sent? Honestly, rich people, I don't know!
Cheap is gathering pine cones from the woods, then buying a 50p bag of birdseed and making your own bird feeders - bit of cellophane, bit of ribbon, bish bosh, job's a good 'un. Or picking up those empty wine boxes free from the supermarket, and then painting them to look like chimney stacks to stick all the pressies in and save on wrapping. (This is only cheaper if you have all the paint already like I do, obviously).
Still, I did like her hand embroidered table napkins - very festive - even if she did cheat and get other people to do them for her, (oh, the time pressures of being on the telly!). And she has made it look as if homemade is cool and chic, which is good news for me as that's all my family are getting, so thank you for that, Kirsty.
Still, time's moving on, and in these days of shallow daylight, the sun is almost over the yardarm already and I am not even dressed yet. Better get on. Cheerio.
Wednesday 9 December 2009
"Oh look - Jesus is out of his pond"
Day 85
As a reaction to having no money this Christmas I am going completely over the top with my house decorations. Sadly, I don't mean in the 'lights over everything, council-estate' sort-of-way, (which I think is rather wonderful, but couldn't cope with), but more in the 'lets see how many surfaces of my house can be made to look festive' sort-of-way.
Pride of place is given to my plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. Let me just say that again - a plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. That is wrong on so many levels, which is probably why it appeals to me so much. Well - HE has a very special place, as you will see.
Last year, Steve and the cat were riveted by a TV programme called Bill Oddie's Wild Side, which naturally featured a lot of birds. Often the filming took place in Bill's own garden which is to the RHS what Nightmare Before Christmas is to Schindler's List. The place is crammed full of garden ornaments covering every level of taste imaginable, and some far below. It looks like it was designed by Alice in Wonderland on an acid trip in Bavaria. Fabulous place, honestly, beyond words wonderful, and kitsch as all Hell.
One piece of filming followed the antics of a fox that snuck in there at night and moved things around. The apogee of this vignette for me was Bill Oddie exclaiming "Oh look, Jesus is out of his pond!", and popping him back in his 'rightful place' (?) in the middle of a tiny puddle, surrounded by outsize frogs and turtles etc.
Why this was the perfect spot for him (or why he was there in the first place) was never made clear. There was some sense of baptismal possibility, I suppose, but the garden gnome looking on did rather render this unlikely.
I found this was the image that stayed with me, however, long after the series was over. I'm sure the cat still dreams of flocks of starlings that resemble a whale, but I still see Jesus in his pond, and that, weirdly, has become the right place for him in my mind.
I don't have a pond though. So the nearest thing to that is the toilet cistern on which he now proudly stands, blessing every bit of water that flows therefrom. This pleases me no end. The true spirit of Christmas is alive and well and living in my downstairs loo.
Am going to the woods at the end of the road (when I have the energy), to pick ivy to drape over all the pictures. Why this has become the fashion I have no idea, but it makes more sense seasonally than tinsel does.
Instead of being all chic and themed or colour co-ordinated like I usually am, I have put all my decorations out. For instance, the tree baubles that clash are stacked in bowls or hung in front of pictures, and plastic snowflakes are hanging from the beams. Today the ceiling streamers are going up in the bedrooms so that no room is left un-christmassed. (I know that isn't a word, but it should be).
To my delight, I found I had three tiny Xmas stockings, just big enough to put a carrot in each. These have been hung on the guinea pig cage and are arousing much curiosity. I have become so happily occupied with all this decorating, that if an orange hangs around long enough it will find itself stuck full of cloves and tied up with ribbon, before it can scream for help from the man from Del Monte.
As a reaction to having no money this Christmas I am going completely over the top with my house decorations. Sadly, I don't mean in the 'lights over everything, council-estate' sort-of-way, (which I think is rather wonderful, but couldn't cope with), but more in the 'lets see how many surfaces of my house can be made to look festive' sort-of-way.
Pride of place is given to my plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. Let me just say that again - a plastic silver glitter Jesus money box. That is wrong on so many levels, which is probably why it appeals to me so much. Well - HE has a very special place, as you will see.
Last year, Steve and the cat were riveted by a TV programme called Bill Oddie's Wild Side, which naturally featured a lot of birds. Often the filming took place in Bill's own garden which is to the RHS what Nightmare Before Christmas is to Schindler's List. The place is crammed full of garden ornaments covering every level of taste imaginable, and some far below. It looks like it was designed by Alice in Wonderland on an acid trip in Bavaria. Fabulous place, honestly, beyond words wonderful, and kitsch as all Hell.
One piece of filming followed the antics of a fox that snuck in there at night and moved things around. The apogee of this vignette for me was Bill Oddie exclaiming "Oh look, Jesus is out of his pond!", and popping him back in his 'rightful place' (?) in the middle of a tiny puddle, surrounded by outsize frogs and turtles etc.
Why this was the perfect spot for him (or why he was there in the first place) was never made clear. There was some sense of baptismal possibility, I suppose, but the garden gnome looking on did rather render this unlikely.
I found this was the image that stayed with me, however, long after the series was over. I'm sure the cat still dreams of flocks of starlings that resemble a whale, but I still see Jesus in his pond, and that, weirdly, has become the right place for him in my mind.
I don't have a pond though. So the nearest thing to that is the toilet cistern on which he now proudly stands, blessing every bit of water that flows therefrom. This pleases me no end. The true spirit of Christmas is alive and well and living in my downstairs loo.
Am going to the woods at the end of the road (when I have the energy), to pick ivy to drape over all the pictures. Why this has become the fashion I have no idea, but it makes more sense seasonally than tinsel does.
Instead of being all chic and themed or colour co-ordinated like I usually am, I have put all my decorations out. For instance, the tree baubles that clash are stacked in bowls or hung in front of pictures, and plastic snowflakes are hanging from the beams. Today the ceiling streamers are going up in the bedrooms so that no room is left un-christmassed. (I know that isn't a word, but it should be).
To my delight, I found I had three tiny Xmas stockings, just big enough to put a carrot in each. These have been hung on the guinea pig cage and are arousing much curiosity. I have become so happily occupied with all this decorating, that if an orange hangs around long enough it will find itself stuck full of cloves and tied up with ribbon, before it can scream for help from the man from Del Monte.
The 'Bah Humbug' hat is hanging over the cat's litter tray, naturally - there's no place for that in my Xmas!
Monday 7 December 2009
Decking my halls
Day 83
Have just woken up and am in a bit of a state. In my dreams I had lost or accidently killed some puppies that were in my care, which was upsetting enough, but then I was in a shop trying on necklaces and the small child I had in the buggy with me ran off, and I had to dash out frantically into the road and search to find him. When I got back to the shop, stricken with guilt, my handbag had been stolen or lost, but the shop girls thought they had it so I went through the lost property until I found something similar. I opened the bag so see if it was mine but it wasn't ,yet the shop girls kept trying to convince me it was, even though the driving licence photo inside looked nothing like me. Then I looked at my watch and realised it was two o'clock and my dad - who has been dead now for over twenty years and whom I miss very much - was due at my house at one, so I was too late to see him. I woke up sweating and anxious, with a dry mouth, a thumping head and aching all over.
Such is life when you have hormone problems - as Progesterone is partly responsible for monitoring blood sugar levels (along with insulin), a low progesterone count equals a low blood sugar reading in my brain. This sets off an adrenaline burst ( to get the liver to convert stored glucose and get it out into the blood ), which affects my emotions if I am awake, or my dreams if I am asleep. I put on a Progesterone cream when I go to bed but it doesn't last all night, and now that I am in the menopause, the whole thing has ratcheted up a notch. What jolly fun.
Still, been through a year of the 'change' already and this whole ridiculous business will be stopping one day soon. Roll on that day, I say - I must be the only woman in England who thinks getting old enough to have finished with the menopause is a damn good thing.
Couldn't get near the computer to blog over the weekend, as Steve was hogging it to rewrite his CV for a new job possibility. We're both very hopeful about this one as it ticks pretty much all the boxes for us. Fingers crossed that he gets called for an interview, OK?
Frankly, I really want him to get a job soon as he is clearly starting to lose his marbles. On Saturday he called me "Honey Pooh Bear"! I mean, what the Hell? We DO NOT do stupid, infantile, baby names for each other - yuk, not a chance, no, but then - to add insult to injury - I asked him to put deoderant on the shopping list, and he produced a bottle of LYNX! I can't wear Lynx - I'm a girl.......with taste........and standards. What does he think he is doing?
Well now, I've had two cups of hot water and lemon and got all that off my chest ,so I am starting to feel much more human again, (bit like transforming into a werewolf, only in reverse). Today is a new day, in a new week, in My New Life and I want to make the most of it.
So - have nearly finished my part in making all the Christmas presents, and have had a rootle around the garage to see what else we can sell on Ebay. Found a few pieces of vintage china, which is a start. Will also begin putting up the Xmas decorations and making the house into a warm and inviting place for the family to be in. When you're broke you need a bit of extra looking after.
Am regretting putting my foot down last year and demanding a real Xmas tree so we could throw the ratty old one we found in the attic away. We won't be spending Xmas at home this year anyway, but at my brother's house, which I am very excited about - there will be fifteen of us and it's going to be a lot of fun. However, that leaves us wilth only the tiny tree in a pot in the garden (that was our kitchen tree last year), but as Sam laughingly said, it's not like we'll have lots of presents to put under it anyway.
My family are SO fantastic. The fact that we can only afford handmade gifts is something they are all happily embracing, to the point where I am having to push them to do any kind of Xmas list at all. "Don't worry, I don't need anything", they say. "Well tough, you'd better come up with something cos I'm not giving you nothing!" I reply.
Sam even gave us 75% of his Saturday job wages to help with the bills last week. What a kid, I'm so proud of him. I really feel the true spirit of Xmas is something living ,and real, and tangible in the house this year. We are all looking after each other and helping each other out. Nobody is thinking about what they will get, only what they can gift. It is precious and beautiful, peaceful and calm. No frantic shopping or overspending. What a blessing - we are lucky people indeed.
Have just woken up and am in a bit of a state. In my dreams I had lost or accidently killed some puppies that were in my care, which was upsetting enough, but then I was in a shop trying on necklaces and the small child I had in the buggy with me ran off, and I had to dash out frantically into the road and search to find him. When I got back to the shop, stricken with guilt, my handbag had been stolen or lost, but the shop girls thought they had it so I went through the lost property until I found something similar. I opened the bag so see if it was mine but it wasn't ,yet the shop girls kept trying to convince me it was, even though the driving licence photo inside looked nothing like me. Then I looked at my watch and realised it was two o'clock and my dad - who has been dead now for over twenty years and whom I miss very much - was due at my house at one, so I was too late to see him. I woke up sweating and anxious, with a dry mouth, a thumping head and aching all over.
Such is life when you have hormone problems - as Progesterone is partly responsible for monitoring blood sugar levels (along with insulin), a low progesterone count equals a low blood sugar reading in my brain. This sets off an adrenaline burst ( to get the liver to convert stored glucose and get it out into the blood ), which affects my emotions if I am awake, or my dreams if I am asleep. I put on a Progesterone cream when I go to bed but it doesn't last all night, and now that I am in the menopause, the whole thing has ratcheted up a notch. What jolly fun.
Still, been through a year of the 'change' already and this whole ridiculous business will be stopping one day soon. Roll on that day, I say - I must be the only woman in England who thinks getting old enough to have finished with the menopause is a damn good thing.
Couldn't get near the computer to blog over the weekend, as Steve was hogging it to rewrite his CV for a new job possibility. We're both very hopeful about this one as it ticks pretty much all the boxes for us. Fingers crossed that he gets called for an interview, OK?
Frankly, I really want him to get a job soon as he is clearly starting to lose his marbles. On Saturday he called me "Honey Pooh Bear"! I mean, what the Hell? We DO NOT do stupid, infantile, baby names for each other - yuk, not a chance, no, but then - to add insult to injury - I asked him to put deoderant on the shopping list, and he produced a bottle of LYNX! I can't wear Lynx - I'm a girl.......with taste........and standards. What does he think he is doing?
Well now, I've had two cups of hot water and lemon and got all that off my chest ,so I am starting to feel much more human again, (bit like transforming into a werewolf, only in reverse). Today is a new day, in a new week, in My New Life and I want to make the most of it.
So - have nearly finished my part in making all the Christmas presents, and have had a rootle around the garage to see what else we can sell on Ebay. Found a few pieces of vintage china, which is a start. Will also begin putting up the Xmas decorations and making the house into a warm and inviting place for the family to be in. When you're broke you need a bit of extra looking after.
Am regretting putting my foot down last year and demanding a real Xmas tree so we could throw the ratty old one we found in the attic away. We won't be spending Xmas at home this year anyway, but at my brother's house, which I am very excited about - there will be fifteen of us and it's going to be a lot of fun. However, that leaves us wilth only the tiny tree in a pot in the garden (that was our kitchen tree last year), but as Sam laughingly said, it's not like we'll have lots of presents to put under it anyway.
My family are SO fantastic. The fact that we can only afford handmade gifts is something they are all happily embracing, to the point where I am having to push them to do any kind of Xmas list at all. "Don't worry, I don't need anything", they say. "Well tough, you'd better come up with something cos I'm not giving you nothing!" I reply.
Sam even gave us 75% of his Saturday job wages to help with the bills last week. What a kid, I'm so proud of him. I really feel the true spirit of Xmas is something living ,and real, and tangible in the house this year. We are all looking after each other and helping each other out. Nobody is thinking about what they will get, only what they can gift. It is precious and beautiful, peaceful and calm. No frantic shopping or overspending. What a blessing - we are lucky people indeed.
Thursday 3 December 2009
Up and running and on a roll!
Day 79
Well today I got right back on the horse, so to speak. Undeterred by the rejection letters for my manuscript, I went through the list of agents in my 'Author's and Artist's Year Book' again and - putting aside anybody in Dublin or Edinburgh or other out-of-the-way places - I made a new list.
I have emailed introductory letters to two agents who don't accept unsolicited manuscripts, and posted a request to another. I also found another three agents to send my book to, and updated and revised my covering letter. Way to go, me.
We have just got back from the post office where I pissed off the usual queue of people behind me, especially as I had this sweet little trainee serving me instead of Mrs Grumpy, so it took even longer than last time. She couldn't seem to quite grasp the concept of being asked for stamps to stick onto self addressed envelopes, that were then put inside other envelopes to be sent off. Bless.
Now it is sit and wait time again, and I feel so much better than yesterday because I am doing something pro-active.
I did my Runes last night to help focus me for today. They pretty much all said that not a lot would be happening right now, but that it was all good. Persevere, they kept repeating, and carry on regardless. If you get exhausted from all the obstructions in your path, see the humour, stay centred and deal with any issues that come up. Fair enough. That's what I was going to do anyway, but it's nice to be told.
Also, posted two birthday and two Christmas presents while we were out. Am doing very well on the 'we have no money but I'm celebrating Xmas anyway' front. So far I have made or bought sixteen Xmas presents and four birthday presents and cards, for under fifty quid. Yeehar me!
I am the genius of crap presents. I'm sure all my relatives are thinking "oh God, what will she make us this year? The only thing we haven't had so far are knitted poodle loo roll covers - Help!" Can I just say that I would love a poodle loo roll cover, as I am a very kitsch person (but only if the wool was pink and glittery and that nasty nylon stuff), but sadly, my relatives are not - they have taste.
My most favourite present to receive would be one of those Hawaiian hula dancing dolls, who swing their hips so their grass skirts wobble. Or a whacking gr't cactus. Superfab! Mind you, I also secretly crave the silver glitter plastic Virgin Mary that I saw in Paperchase - she would go so well with the turquoise glitter Jesus that I got there last year.(sigh!)
Have instructed the guys to put up 'what I want for Xmas' lists, favouring very cheap or free things that could be made. On my own list I have put getting inside my oven cleaned, a job I detest and put off even more than the ironing, which - as you know - is the benchmark for these things. Will it happen? - doubt it.
We're also going to avoid sending any Xmas cards this year, but that's OK because we can pretend it's an eco, save-the-planet sort of thing. You see, if you try, there really is a positive way to see everything!
Well today I got right back on the horse, so to speak. Undeterred by the rejection letters for my manuscript, I went through the list of agents in my 'Author's and Artist's Year Book' again and - putting aside anybody in Dublin or Edinburgh or other out-of-the-way places - I made a new list.
I have emailed introductory letters to two agents who don't accept unsolicited manuscripts, and posted a request to another. I also found another three agents to send my book to, and updated and revised my covering letter. Way to go, me.
We have just got back from the post office where I pissed off the usual queue of people behind me, especially as I had this sweet little trainee serving me instead of Mrs Grumpy, so it took even longer than last time. She couldn't seem to quite grasp the concept of being asked for stamps to stick onto self addressed envelopes, that were then put inside other envelopes to be sent off. Bless.
Now it is sit and wait time again, and I feel so much better than yesterday because I am doing something pro-active.
I did my Runes last night to help focus me for today. They pretty much all said that not a lot would be happening right now, but that it was all good. Persevere, they kept repeating, and carry on regardless. If you get exhausted from all the obstructions in your path, see the humour, stay centred and deal with any issues that come up. Fair enough. That's what I was going to do anyway, but it's nice to be told.
Also, posted two birthday and two Christmas presents while we were out. Am doing very well on the 'we have no money but I'm celebrating Xmas anyway' front. So far I have made or bought sixteen Xmas presents and four birthday presents and cards, for under fifty quid. Yeehar me!
I am the genius of crap presents. I'm sure all my relatives are thinking "oh God, what will she make us this year? The only thing we haven't had so far are knitted poodle loo roll covers - Help!" Can I just say that I would love a poodle loo roll cover, as I am a very kitsch person (but only if the wool was pink and glittery and that nasty nylon stuff), but sadly, my relatives are not - they have taste.
My most favourite present to receive would be one of those Hawaiian hula dancing dolls, who swing their hips so their grass skirts wobble. Or a whacking gr't cactus. Superfab! Mind you, I also secretly crave the silver glitter plastic Virgin Mary that I saw in Paperchase - she would go so well with the turquoise glitter Jesus that I got there last year.(sigh!)
Have instructed the guys to put up 'what I want for Xmas' lists, favouring very cheap or free things that could be made. On my own list I have put getting inside my oven cleaned, a job I detest and put off even more than the ironing, which - as you know - is the benchmark for these things. Will it happen? - doubt it.
We're also going to avoid sending any Xmas cards this year, but that's OK because we can pretend it's an eco, save-the-planet sort of thing. You see, if you try, there really is a positive way to see everything!
Wednesday 2 December 2009
Disinclined to take 'No' for an answer
Day 78
The first wave of manuscripts I sent out have nearly all been returned now - only one is outstanding. It is however, my first pick agent that I haven't heard from but I don't know if that's good or bad news. Tomorrow I will send out the next batch, to the next lot of agents, and when I have tried all the agents, then I will start in on all the publishers. Only when I have tried absolutely everybody in the publishing world will I take 'No' for an answer, at least on this book - I do have others that I want to try my luck with in the pipeline.
Is this the acme of foolishness, as Gorgeous Clooney enquires in 'O brother, where art thou'? Is my ego just dictating that I pursue something to the bitter end regardless of it's merit? How the hell would I know? I think my book is beautiful, and that it would sell fabulously, and that every kid under five would end up with it on their bookshelf, but it's possible that I'm a little bit biased.
Many, many writers before me have been in this position, and I would like to say right now, well done the lot of you, for sticking it out cos this bit isn't very pleasant. I feel for you all, I really do, but if you all had the guts to persevere, than so have I. Not nice, all this rejection stuff though, is it....
You see, I have had such a day of self-doubt. Understandable really. Keep getting told no, and my insomnia is in full throttle at the moment, so my energy is drained to it's lowest reserve. When I am in this kind of situation, however, there is always one thing that I do - carry on regardless with whatever decision I made, when I was in a better, clearer, more rational state of mind than this one, even if it is bloody hard work.
Tonight I have had a glass of wine and in a moment we will splurge the housekeeping budget on some fish and chips. I shall allow myself a day of feeling negative without giving myself a hard time for it. So many famous writers have been where I am now, unsure if their efforts would ever bear fruit, if their work was good enough - I am in inestimably good company.
And "tomorrow", as one of that company once said, "is another day".
So in the morning, a new list of agents, a new set of envelopes, a trip to the post office, and several hours emailing. The idea for this book came to me ten years ago, so sometimes it feels as if I have been working on it forever. Well that's rubbish. I have just begun. If others can do it then so can I, and if I can do it, then so can you.
Fingers crossed, everybody, fingers crossed.
The first wave of manuscripts I sent out have nearly all been returned now - only one is outstanding. It is however, my first pick agent that I haven't heard from but I don't know if that's good or bad news. Tomorrow I will send out the next batch, to the next lot of agents, and when I have tried all the agents, then I will start in on all the publishers. Only when I have tried absolutely everybody in the publishing world will I take 'No' for an answer, at least on this book - I do have others that I want to try my luck with in the pipeline.
Is this the acme of foolishness, as Gorgeous Clooney enquires in 'O brother, where art thou'? Is my ego just dictating that I pursue something to the bitter end regardless of it's merit? How the hell would I know? I think my book is beautiful, and that it would sell fabulously, and that every kid under five would end up with it on their bookshelf, but it's possible that I'm a little bit biased.
Many, many writers before me have been in this position, and I would like to say right now, well done the lot of you, for sticking it out cos this bit isn't very pleasant. I feel for you all, I really do, but if you all had the guts to persevere, than so have I. Not nice, all this rejection stuff though, is it....
You see, I have had such a day of self-doubt. Understandable really. Keep getting told no, and my insomnia is in full throttle at the moment, so my energy is drained to it's lowest reserve. When I am in this kind of situation, however, there is always one thing that I do - carry on regardless with whatever decision I made, when I was in a better, clearer, more rational state of mind than this one, even if it is bloody hard work.
Tonight I have had a glass of wine and in a moment we will splurge the housekeeping budget on some fish and chips. I shall allow myself a day of feeling negative without giving myself a hard time for it. So many famous writers have been where I am now, unsure if their efforts would ever bear fruit, if their work was good enough - I am in inestimably good company.
And "tomorrow", as one of that company once said, "is another day".
So in the morning, a new list of agents, a new set of envelopes, a trip to the post office, and several hours emailing. The idea for this book came to me ten years ago, so sometimes it feels as if I have been working on it forever. Well that's rubbish. I have just begun. If others can do it then so can I, and if I can do it, then so can you.
Fingers crossed, everybody, fingers crossed.
Monday 30 November 2009
From here to there and back again
Day 76
Another new day after another old, sleep deprived night. Took nightnurse and everything but still couldn't sleep. I dunno. My New Life isn't taking off with quite the speed, vigour and enthusiasm that I had hoped. Still feel wrecked all the time, and have little energy to do anything but just push through. What do I have to shift to make some change occur here?
Steve has been contacted about a contract job that is within walking distance of our house. The pay is on the limp side, to say the least, but with no travelling costs it evens out a bit. Am very excited - I have a good feeling about this one. Hope he gets an interview. Hope he gets the job. Hope he's happy in it if he does. Lots of hope, basically.
Am trying to decide between gardening and ironing, as a way to wear myself out a bit so that I sleep better. I like gardening, especially pruning which suits my artistic eye and OCD tendencies, but it is wet and cold, and I don't cope well with the cold when I am tired. Ironing is warm and dry and I can do it in front of the telly, but it is IRONING! Urrrrrgh! Hurts my feet terribly and gives me backache as well as turning my brain into cauliflower. What to choose?
Suddenly, I am prompted to stop.
I think I have to move away from al these verbs if I want to promote advancement into My New Life. I spend my time doing, doing, doing. This is a bit of a novelty in itself, and therefore is pulling my focus. After all these years of incapacity with the Chronic Fatigue, it is encouraging to be able to push through and achieve things, to cross them off my endless lists, to be able to do something just because I said I would.
I know deep down in the bright and wise places within me, that it is not about what I do, but how I do it, what state of mind I inhabit, and what goal I am aiming for, that counts. If my life is to change it starts from the inside. So I will pause awhile here.
What to choose?
I hear the answer from a clearer place.
"It does not matter. Get dressed and tell your body it is beautiful, affirm who you are, and be grateful for all that you have and all that is being called forth for you. Breathe gently and deeply. Inhale the fresh new seconds of this gift of a day. Find an empty space of pure, crystal clear silence within and ask for direction. Pull love into your being so that whatever you do becomes a meditation. Give thanks, be happy, do as your heart decides."
And so a line from a favourite poem - ' I will arise and go now'.
Another new day after another old, sleep deprived night. Took nightnurse and everything but still couldn't sleep. I dunno. My New Life isn't taking off with quite the speed, vigour and enthusiasm that I had hoped. Still feel wrecked all the time, and have little energy to do anything but just push through. What do I have to shift to make some change occur here?
Steve has been contacted about a contract job that is within walking distance of our house. The pay is on the limp side, to say the least, but with no travelling costs it evens out a bit. Am very excited - I have a good feeling about this one. Hope he gets an interview. Hope he gets the job. Hope he's happy in it if he does. Lots of hope, basically.
Am trying to decide between gardening and ironing, as a way to wear myself out a bit so that I sleep better. I like gardening, especially pruning which suits my artistic eye and OCD tendencies, but it is wet and cold, and I don't cope well with the cold when I am tired. Ironing is warm and dry and I can do it in front of the telly, but it is IRONING! Urrrrrgh! Hurts my feet terribly and gives me backache as well as turning my brain into cauliflower. What to choose?
Suddenly, I am prompted to stop.
I think I have to move away from al these verbs if I want to promote advancement into My New Life. I spend my time doing, doing, doing. This is a bit of a novelty in itself, and therefore is pulling my focus. After all these years of incapacity with the Chronic Fatigue, it is encouraging to be able to push through and achieve things, to cross them off my endless lists, to be able to do something just because I said I would.
I know deep down in the bright and wise places within me, that it is not about what I do, but how I do it, what state of mind I inhabit, and what goal I am aiming for, that counts. If my life is to change it starts from the inside. So I will pause awhile here.
What to choose?
I hear the answer from a clearer place.
"It does not matter. Get dressed and tell your body it is beautiful, affirm who you are, and be grateful for all that you have and all that is being called forth for you. Breathe gently and deeply. Inhale the fresh new seconds of this gift of a day. Find an empty space of pure, crystal clear silence within and ask for direction. Pull love into your being so that whatever you do becomes a meditation. Give thanks, be happy, do as your heart decides."
And so a line from a favourite poem - ' I will arise and go now'.
Friday 27 November 2009
It's all too much today
Day 73
I can't write today - I find I can't do anything today. I am wracked with an all-encompassing sense of inability and inertia. The more I push against it, the more invasive it seems to become.
I had a very bad night, with nightmares so real and scary that I almost woke Steve to go to the loo with me, and I am not an easily frightenend person. Steve says he woke in the night too and got very worried because he thought I wasn't breathing, so perhaps I was holding my breath in my sleep from plain terror.
The upshot is that I have no energy, no aptitude, and no enthusiasm for anything today. I hate days like this. I feel useless and lazy and just plain wrong. My feet are killing me. I have no energy to feed myself well and am eating over-sugared rubbish, which doesn't help. How many baths can one usefully have in one day if one is not a Golgafringen?
In My New Life I wanted to do away with days like these. Perhaps I have strayed too far off track - I am not spending any time with visualisation or meditation at the moment, having been caught up in practicalities. Maybe feeling like this is my wake-up call.
I think, to some extent, I saw things beginning when Steve went back to work and I was left to sort out my days alone. That's what I had mentally prepared myself for - having to do it unaided. I have been putting things on hold, I now realise.
Another resolution then - to take a more holistic approach, to focus on the spiritual and mental as well as the physical and practical. It is not just what I do, but how I do it, what space I am coming from, and what vision I am creating, that will start to determine My New Life.
But I have to say, I could really do with a good night's sleep.
And it seems I can write, it just happens to be rubbish!
I can't write today - I find I can't do anything today. I am wracked with an all-encompassing sense of inability and inertia. The more I push against it, the more invasive it seems to become.
I had a very bad night, with nightmares so real and scary that I almost woke Steve to go to the loo with me, and I am not an easily frightenend person. Steve says he woke in the night too and got very worried because he thought I wasn't breathing, so perhaps I was holding my breath in my sleep from plain terror.
The upshot is that I have no energy, no aptitude, and no enthusiasm for anything today. I hate days like this. I feel useless and lazy and just plain wrong. My feet are killing me. I have no energy to feed myself well and am eating over-sugared rubbish, which doesn't help. How many baths can one usefully have in one day if one is not a Golgafringen?
In My New Life I wanted to do away with days like these. Perhaps I have strayed too far off track - I am not spending any time with visualisation or meditation at the moment, having been caught up in practicalities. Maybe feeling like this is my wake-up call.
I think, to some extent, I saw things beginning when Steve went back to work and I was left to sort out my days alone. That's what I had mentally prepared myself for - having to do it unaided. I have been putting things on hold, I now realise.
Another resolution then - to take a more holistic approach, to focus on the spiritual and mental as well as the physical and practical. It is not just what I do, but how I do it, what space I am coming from, and what vision I am creating, that will start to determine My New Life.
But I have to say, I could really do with a good night's sleep.
And it seems I can write, it just happens to be rubbish!
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Being a Domestic God-help-us
Day 71
Having spent a couple of days where everything I made was rubbish and the more I tried to fix it the worse it got, I have now spent a day doing the same with my cooking. There are obviously some weeks when I should not attempt anything more complicated than de-fluffing my navel.
Allow me to elucidate. My book group is meeting tonight and it's my turn to host it. Being in an impecunious space right now, it made sense to use up what was already in the house rather than go out and buy nibbles and goodies. A while back Steve got a yen to try making biscuits and bought lots of stuff for it, much of which is still there. Aha! I thought - I'll make cookies for my group, how hard can it be?
The answer, apparently is, harder than I thought. I'm sure some people are blessed with a deft and delicate touch when it comes to all things of a pastry or confectionery nature, but I am clearly not one of them. My first batch of biscuits (choc chip and walnut, yum yum) spread all over the place, burning at the edges while still liquid in the middle, looking like steam-rollered jellyfish with a bad bottle tan.
My second batch (lemon Shrewsbury biscuits) were even worse - insipid and oddly shaped, far too sweet, and somehow divorced from any lemon flavour. Decided on icing as a way to perk them up a bit. The book we are discussing was Hilary Mantel's 'Beyond black', which is all about a clairvoyant, and I thought I could call them Ectoplasm cookies. The icing sugar Steve bought looked white until you mixed it up whereupon it turned a nasty, phlegm-like colour, because it was unrefined icing sugar (did I look at the box? No, I did not).
But you know how when you're really tired, and things have been going steadily wrong to the point where your brain has frozen, and you just go and do something stupid anyway? Well, I carried on and iced a few, I have no idea why. Steve came in and looked at them and asked why I'd got Sam to gob on all of my biscuits. I bravely suggested that they tasted good despite appearances, but Sam shook his head sadly after trying one. Oh well.
I made a Victoria sponge. You can't go wrong with a Victoria sponge, I thought. It looked ok to me but I have just gone to take it out of it's tin and it seems to have covered itself in sweat. Cake sweat! Where did that come from! I know it was properly cooled when I put it away, so I can only conclude that the damp layer is a sort of spongy expression of despair, brought on by the pressure of my expectations of it after the disastrous cookies.
Diversionary tactics are now called for. The room must be atmospheric, fitting the mood of the book, and setting the scene properly. Have printed out several Ouija boards to use as placemats, and will scatter the table with Rune stones and crystals. Had a rummage and found a skull on Sam's bedroom floor (naturally), and have pinned a 'ghostly' leering face inside my tumble dryer, peeping out. This represents Morris, the clairvoyant's repellent spirit guide. Also stuffed a pink rubber glove and fashioned it into a rude gesture to complete the 'Morris' effect.
Who's going to notice snotty biscuits now, ha ha?
Having spent a couple of days where everything I made was rubbish and the more I tried to fix it the worse it got, I have now spent a day doing the same with my cooking. There are obviously some weeks when I should not attempt anything more complicated than de-fluffing my navel.
Allow me to elucidate. My book group is meeting tonight and it's my turn to host it. Being in an impecunious space right now, it made sense to use up what was already in the house rather than go out and buy nibbles and goodies. A while back Steve got a yen to try making biscuits and bought lots of stuff for it, much of which is still there. Aha! I thought - I'll make cookies for my group, how hard can it be?
The answer, apparently is, harder than I thought. I'm sure some people are blessed with a deft and delicate touch when it comes to all things of a pastry or confectionery nature, but I am clearly not one of them. My first batch of biscuits (choc chip and walnut, yum yum) spread all over the place, burning at the edges while still liquid in the middle, looking like steam-rollered jellyfish with a bad bottle tan.
My second batch (lemon Shrewsbury biscuits) were even worse - insipid and oddly shaped, far too sweet, and somehow divorced from any lemon flavour. Decided on icing as a way to perk them up a bit. The book we are discussing was Hilary Mantel's 'Beyond black', which is all about a clairvoyant, and I thought I could call them Ectoplasm cookies. The icing sugar Steve bought looked white until you mixed it up whereupon it turned a nasty, phlegm-like colour, because it was unrefined icing sugar (did I look at the box? No, I did not).
But you know how when you're really tired, and things have been going steadily wrong to the point where your brain has frozen, and you just go and do something stupid anyway? Well, I carried on and iced a few, I have no idea why. Steve came in and looked at them and asked why I'd got Sam to gob on all of my biscuits. I bravely suggested that they tasted good despite appearances, but Sam shook his head sadly after trying one. Oh well.
I made a Victoria sponge. You can't go wrong with a Victoria sponge, I thought. It looked ok to me but I have just gone to take it out of it's tin and it seems to have covered itself in sweat. Cake sweat! Where did that come from! I know it was properly cooled when I put it away, so I can only conclude that the damp layer is a sort of spongy expression of despair, brought on by the pressure of my expectations of it after the disastrous cookies.
Diversionary tactics are now called for. The room must be atmospheric, fitting the mood of the book, and setting the scene properly. Have printed out several Ouija boards to use as placemats, and will scatter the table with Rune stones and crystals. Had a rummage and found a skull on Sam's bedroom floor (naturally), and have pinned a 'ghostly' leering face inside my tumble dryer, peeping out. This represents Morris, the clairvoyant's repellent spirit guide. Also stuffed a pink rubber glove and fashioned it into a rude gesture to complete the 'Morris' effect.
Who's going to notice snotty biscuits now, ha ha?
Monday 23 November 2009
"It's time to get political" said the teacup
Day 69
"It's time to get political", said the teacup - this is the last thing I remember from my dream last night. There was also a large, sequined, Disney-style dragon thing, that was actually Eeyore, or possible a real donkey, but ever so nice and not gloomy at all. Then along came the teacup and saucer, which I remember thinking about yesterday as I wanted my friend Rebbecca to put a candle in it, (but I don't recall thinking about a donkey), but anyway the teacup was there, complaining about being too silly, and suggesting 'improvements', and I think there was a theme park or a village fete or something. So is it any wonder that I wake up disorientated and foggy and out of sorts?
Had a bad night anyway. Couldn't sleep because my skin was crawling with irritability and my emotions were boomeranging around hormonally, and I kept wanting to cry and scream and scratch all my skin off. This happens sometimes. Steve talked kind nonsense to me until I was exhausted enough to fall asleep. Even then, I kept waking up and struggling to sleep again, until too early this morning when I was disturbed by the alarm on his phone and I promptly snapped at him - although I'm hopeful that displaying such ingratitude was actually part of my weird dream, I rather suspect it wasn't.
(Not going to ask, don't want to know, feel too embarrassed. Especially as when I did get up, he gave me a hug and brought me a poached egg on toast.)
Yesterday was fairly unproductive. Totally failed to get on with making the Christmas pressies because everything I did turned out wrong, and when I tried to fix things I made them even worse. I showed one of the results to Steve, who usually says "oh isn't that nice" about everything so he's not a very impartial critic, but even he said "oh dear", and admitted it wasn't up to standard. Will start all over again today. Fingers crossed.
I remember a time when, if I got something horribly wrong, I would be assailed by thoughts of uselessness and inadequacy. I would beat myself up, concluding that "I couldn't get anything right", and even if I couldn't hear those thoughts clearly, I would still feel terribly down, discouraged, flat, and disenchanted.
Well, enough of that! I know my parents didn't think much of my capabilities, but I don't have to perpetrate what they started. These days I allow myself the freedom to make mistakes, have good days and bad days, pick myself up when I fall down and try again, only differently, with more effort, allowing my creativity freer rein, or taking better care. I no longer use failure as an excuse to doubt myself, but as a means of self-improvement. I choose to learn from the mistakes in order to do things better, and as this is hard to do if one is heavy with self-doubt and disappointment, then sod that for a game of conkers.
So, a clean slate, a fresh outlook, a new day - let us see what they can bring. I may only be making silly hand-made Christmas presents, but if all my heart and soul and care and thoughtfulness goes into the creating of them, then I am truly giving a gift, aren't I?
"It's time to get political", said the teacup - this is the last thing I remember from my dream last night. There was also a large, sequined, Disney-style dragon thing, that was actually Eeyore, or possible a real donkey, but ever so nice and not gloomy at all. Then along came the teacup and saucer, which I remember thinking about yesterday as I wanted my friend Rebbecca to put a candle in it, (but I don't recall thinking about a donkey), but anyway the teacup was there, complaining about being too silly, and suggesting 'improvements', and I think there was a theme park or a village fete or something. So is it any wonder that I wake up disorientated and foggy and out of sorts?
Had a bad night anyway. Couldn't sleep because my skin was crawling with irritability and my emotions were boomeranging around hormonally, and I kept wanting to cry and scream and scratch all my skin off. This happens sometimes. Steve talked kind nonsense to me until I was exhausted enough to fall asleep. Even then, I kept waking up and struggling to sleep again, until too early this morning when I was disturbed by the alarm on his phone and I promptly snapped at him - although I'm hopeful that displaying such ingratitude was actually part of my weird dream, I rather suspect it wasn't.
(Not going to ask, don't want to know, feel too embarrassed. Especially as when I did get up, he gave me a hug and brought me a poached egg on toast.)
Yesterday was fairly unproductive. Totally failed to get on with making the Christmas pressies because everything I did turned out wrong, and when I tried to fix things I made them even worse. I showed one of the results to Steve, who usually says "oh isn't that nice" about everything so he's not a very impartial critic, but even he said "oh dear", and admitted it wasn't up to standard. Will start all over again today. Fingers crossed.
I remember a time when, if I got something horribly wrong, I would be assailed by thoughts of uselessness and inadequacy. I would beat myself up, concluding that "I couldn't get anything right", and even if I couldn't hear those thoughts clearly, I would still feel terribly down, discouraged, flat, and disenchanted.
Well, enough of that! I know my parents didn't think much of my capabilities, but I don't have to perpetrate what they started. These days I allow myself the freedom to make mistakes, have good days and bad days, pick myself up when I fall down and try again, only differently, with more effort, allowing my creativity freer rein, or taking better care. I no longer use failure as an excuse to doubt myself, but as a means of self-improvement. I choose to learn from the mistakes in order to do things better, and as this is hard to do if one is heavy with self-doubt and disappointment, then sod that for a game of conkers.
So, a clean slate, a fresh outlook, a new day - let us see what they can bring. I may only be making silly hand-made Christmas presents, but if all my heart and soul and care and thoughtfulness goes into the creating of them, then I am truly giving a gift, aren't I?
Sunday 22 November 2009
Waiting for a "Yes"
Day 68
My rejection letters are starting to turn up now - I have three already. Although I am impressed by the kindness and thoughtfulness of the wording, they still say NO. I tell myself they could sometimes be saying "not at this time", and all the things I've read are quite clear on the point that a 'no' from one person is not a reflection of your work. Or even a 'no' from lots of people, apparently.
All the experts say "don't give up, believe in what you have done, persevere," etc., but what if your book actually is crap? What if you, as an author, are the equivalent of those unfortunate hopefuls on X Factor with voices like nails down a blackboard, and all the star quality of a soggy lettuce, and no-one will tell you? How do you find out?
When I watch the auditions of shows like that I am, of course, entertained, but I also feel very sympathetic towards the young people concerned. I think they been sold a pack of lies by the media. They firmly believe that if they "really, really want this" then that is what will make it happen. They do not seem to consider that talent plays any part in this at all.
The stars themselves only perpetuate this illusion. No-one since Mohammed Ali has been able to get away with blatant bragging and showing off, without committing career suicide. Nobody nowadays concludes publicly, that their success is due to them being just a hell of a lot better at this than anybody else, oh no. The most they will concede is that they have worked very hard, or were very lucky! I ask you.
This doesn't really help anyone, least of all those poor chumps under the illusion that because they go down a storm on Karaoke night (and we all know why), that that makes them God's gift to the music industry. Nor do they seem to understand that happiness is not guaranteed by appearing in Heat magazine - it does not mean your life is wonderful, fulfilling, worthwhile, utilizing your unique talents, and leaving you proud and without regrets 'when you face the final curtain'.
I feel for them, I really do.
However, by writing and illustrating this book I believe I am using my unique talents - this just may not be the format that works, I don't yet know. I will do what is suggested - I will persevere, keeping my vision clear and my hope abundant. If I get rejections from ALL the agents, I will try others, and if that does not work I will contact every publisher I can.
If all this fails to bring about the result I desire, I will find another avenue through which to express my creativity and uniqueness. I do not believe I deserve this because "I really, really want it", but only if my work is good enough. And if that proves not to be the case then, Hell's bell's but I'll work until it is.
My rejection letters are starting to turn up now - I have three already. Although I am impressed by the kindness and thoughtfulness of the wording, they still say NO. I tell myself they could sometimes be saying "not at this time", and all the things I've read are quite clear on the point that a 'no' from one person is not a reflection of your work. Or even a 'no' from lots of people, apparently.
All the experts say "don't give up, believe in what you have done, persevere," etc., but what if your book actually is crap? What if you, as an author, are the equivalent of those unfortunate hopefuls on X Factor with voices like nails down a blackboard, and all the star quality of a soggy lettuce, and no-one will tell you? How do you find out?
When I watch the auditions of shows like that I am, of course, entertained, but I also feel very sympathetic towards the young people concerned. I think they been sold a pack of lies by the media. They firmly believe that if they "really, really want this" then that is what will make it happen. They do not seem to consider that talent plays any part in this at all.
The stars themselves only perpetuate this illusion. No-one since Mohammed Ali has been able to get away with blatant bragging and showing off, without committing career suicide. Nobody nowadays concludes publicly, that their success is due to them being just a hell of a lot better at this than anybody else, oh no. The most they will concede is that they have worked very hard, or were very lucky! I ask you.
This doesn't really help anyone, least of all those poor chumps under the illusion that because they go down a storm on Karaoke night (and we all know why), that that makes them God's gift to the music industry. Nor do they seem to understand that happiness is not guaranteed by appearing in Heat magazine - it does not mean your life is wonderful, fulfilling, worthwhile, utilizing your unique talents, and leaving you proud and without regrets 'when you face the final curtain'.
I feel for them, I really do.
However, by writing and illustrating this book I believe I am using my unique talents - this just may not be the format that works, I don't yet know. I will do what is suggested - I will persevere, keeping my vision clear and my hope abundant. If I get rejections from ALL the agents, I will try others, and if that does not work I will contact every publisher I can.
If all this fails to bring about the result I desire, I will find another avenue through which to express my creativity and uniqueness. I do not believe I deserve this because "I really, really want it", but only if my work is good enough. And if that proves not to be the case then, Hell's bell's but I'll work until it is.
Saturday 21 November 2009
The legacy of a life well lived
Day 67
I went to my old friend's funeral yesterday. I visualised him standing at the front of the church, smiling at us all the way he used to. I spoke to him quietly in my mind. "Thank you, Eric, for choosing me to be one of those, whose path you crossed in this lifetime. Thank you for sharing who you were. I know what a true gentleman is now, partly because of you. I am grateful indeed, that of all the people in this world, I was one of those included in your life, if even for a brief time. God speed, and say 'hello' to my sister, where you are going."
His newest grandchild was also in the church - a tiny girl named Rose Erica, after her grandad. She wore bright Christmas red, and she glowed amongst the sea of black like a heartbeat, a ruby, a promise, a prayer. The pure life-force streamed from her like an affirmation of everything good and true and precious. She pulled our attention. She would suddenly shriek with delight at a sunbeam or a funny face. Her place in the cycle of life made Eric's passing a natural peace - a life is over, but another life is also beginning, and so it goes on, just as it should.
We stayed overnight with some wonderful, true friends, and came home today, tired, a little emotional, enriched and saddened, having been spoilt and entertained, and leaving their gin and tonic bottles a little (a lot) emptier. I worry about all my friends, about their difficulties, their trials and misfortunes. I wonder if I do enough, if I give back sufficiently for all they do for me. I know without one shred of doubt that I would not have coped with my own troubles, without the generosity of their support in the past.
I hope I say the right things. I hope I cheer them up at the right times, and lend an ear when it's needed. I hope I step up with practical help often enough. I hope also that they know how grateful I am, and how much they mean to me. It is the one area of my life where I feel rich beyond description, no matter what else is happening, or how little we sometimes have. I know I cannot solve their problems, or choose the right path for them, nor am I responsible for them. Sorrow is part of every life, and that also, is how it should be, but I'm here, guys, I'm here - call me if you need me.
I gravitated naturally towards Steve that night, reinforcing a connection to the life we have here and now. I held his arm around me as we drifted to sleep, letting the air between our skin communicate for us, "it is ok, there is nothing to be afraid of, the past is gone, the future will be what we make it, and this moment - this moment, is where we are now, and nothing else matters".
Death inspires that affirmation as much as it brings the grief. Perhaps the energy released from a life returning to source, seeks to renew and remind those left behind as it passes along. Maybe that is the final blessing a departing soul can bestow, the 'Amazing Grace' that we sang of.
A last gift from Eric.
I like to think so.
I went to my old friend's funeral yesterday. I visualised him standing at the front of the church, smiling at us all the way he used to. I spoke to him quietly in my mind. "Thank you, Eric, for choosing me to be one of those, whose path you crossed in this lifetime. Thank you for sharing who you were. I know what a true gentleman is now, partly because of you. I am grateful indeed, that of all the people in this world, I was one of those included in your life, if even for a brief time. God speed, and say 'hello' to my sister, where you are going."
His newest grandchild was also in the church - a tiny girl named Rose Erica, after her grandad. She wore bright Christmas red, and she glowed amongst the sea of black like a heartbeat, a ruby, a promise, a prayer. The pure life-force streamed from her like an affirmation of everything good and true and precious. She pulled our attention. She would suddenly shriek with delight at a sunbeam or a funny face. Her place in the cycle of life made Eric's passing a natural peace - a life is over, but another life is also beginning, and so it goes on, just as it should.
We stayed overnight with some wonderful, true friends, and came home today, tired, a little emotional, enriched and saddened, having been spoilt and entertained, and leaving their gin and tonic bottles a little (a lot) emptier. I worry about all my friends, about their difficulties, their trials and misfortunes. I wonder if I do enough, if I give back sufficiently for all they do for me. I know without one shred of doubt that I would not have coped with my own troubles, without the generosity of their support in the past.
I hope I say the right things. I hope I cheer them up at the right times, and lend an ear when it's needed. I hope I step up with practical help often enough. I hope also that they know how grateful I am, and how much they mean to me. It is the one area of my life where I feel rich beyond description, no matter what else is happening, or how little we sometimes have. I know I cannot solve their problems, or choose the right path for them, nor am I responsible for them. Sorrow is part of every life, and that also, is how it should be, but I'm here, guys, I'm here - call me if you need me.
I gravitated naturally towards Steve that night, reinforcing a connection to the life we have here and now. I held his arm around me as we drifted to sleep, letting the air between our skin communicate for us, "it is ok, there is nothing to be afraid of, the past is gone, the future will be what we make it, and this moment - this moment, is where we are now, and nothing else matters".
Death inspires that affirmation as much as it brings the grief. Perhaps the energy released from a life returning to source, seeks to renew and remind those left behind as it passes along. Maybe that is the final blessing a departing soul can bestow, the 'Amazing Grace' that we sang of.
A last gift from Eric.
I like to think so.
Thursday 19 November 2009
Bad news, sad news.
Day 65
I set my family a small challenge the other day. I noticed that the loo roll needed changing, but yet again, somebody had just left the new one propped on the old, empty, cardboard tube. I declined to change it and waited to see how long it would be before someone else did. I have to tell you, we were well into the third loo roll before it got changed, and I found the empty tubes propped on the cistern - they never made it as far as the bin. So my conclusion is that my fellas still believe in the toilet-roll Fairy. Aaah, bless 'em.
Have had my second rejection letter, out of the seven I initially sent off. Again, it was unfailingly polite and quite kind. They were at great pains to point out that they received over 300 manuscripts per week and could only take on two or three. Although I dislike the suspense of waiting, their replies leave me with no sense of rejection at all, which is pretty good. The power of words, eh.
Have shelved working on book number two for this week, while I concentrate on getting the Christmas stuff done. Also, my brain was going round in the same old circles trying to work out the format, and when you get stuck in that loop it's always good to give yourself a break. Will get back to it on Monday, when hopefully the fog will have cleared.
Some years ago, I was involved a couple of wonderful support groups, full of people who had done the same self-develpment course as me. We upheld each other's vision in life and took a firm line against self-sabotaging behaviours and thought patterns. Sadly, one of those old, dear friends has passed away and we're going to his funeral tomorrow.
I personally believe very strongly in reincarnation, but I am aware it is just a belief, and that not everybody thinks that way. I find it comforting, and logical, and it seems to make more sense to me than any of the alternatives. My beloved sister therefore, is someone I shall meet again, but is currently a bit further away than Kenya, or Antigua, or Botswana, or any of the other places she used to live. And out of cell phone reach.
My friend Ruth, the widow of our lovely Eric who passed, probably doesn't share these beliefs, so I will endeavour to be tactful tomorrow. She is a strong and extraordinary woman who has helped me many times in the past. We taught a 'Self-Esteem Course' together, which was a privilege and a treat. She has by far the biggest heart.
I know from past experience that the day before the funeral is extremely difficult, so Ruth, I send my love, my energy, and my thoughts to you, out over the ether, and hope your pain is not too great. I will see you tomorrow, my sweet lady.
And Eric, I will see you when I see you. God speed, my darling, you were wonderful to know.
I set my family a small challenge the other day. I noticed that the loo roll needed changing, but yet again, somebody had just left the new one propped on the old, empty, cardboard tube. I declined to change it and waited to see how long it would be before someone else did. I have to tell you, we were well into the third loo roll before it got changed, and I found the empty tubes propped on the cistern - they never made it as far as the bin. So my conclusion is that my fellas still believe in the toilet-roll Fairy. Aaah, bless 'em.
Have had my second rejection letter, out of the seven I initially sent off. Again, it was unfailingly polite and quite kind. They were at great pains to point out that they received over 300 manuscripts per week and could only take on two or three. Although I dislike the suspense of waiting, their replies leave me with no sense of rejection at all, which is pretty good. The power of words, eh.
Have shelved working on book number two for this week, while I concentrate on getting the Christmas stuff done. Also, my brain was going round in the same old circles trying to work out the format, and when you get stuck in that loop it's always good to give yourself a break. Will get back to it on Monday, when hopefully the fog will have cleared.
Some years ago, I was involved a couple of wonderful support groups, full of people who had done the same self-develpment course as me. We upheld each other's vision in life and took a firm line against self-sabotaging behaviours and thought patterns. Sadly, one of those old, dear friends has passed away and we're going to his funeral tomorrow.
I personally believe very strongly in reincarnation, but I am aware it is just a belief, and that not everybody thinks that way. I find it comforting, and logical, and it seems to make more sense to me than any of the alternatives. My beloved sister therefore, is someone I shall meet again, but is currently a bit further away than Kenya, or Antigua, or Botswana, or any of the other places she used to live. And out of cell phone reach.
My friend Ruth, the widow of our lovely Eric who passed, probably doesn't share these beliefs, so I will endeavour to be tactful tomorrow. She is a strong and extraordinary woman who has helped me many times in the past. We taught a 'Self-Esteem Course' together, which was a privilege and a treat. She has by far the biggest heart.
I know from past experience that the day before the funeral is extremely difficult, so Ruth, I send my love, my energy, and my thoughts to you, out over the ether, and hope your pain is not too great. I will see you tomorrow, my sweet lady.
And Eric, I will see you when I see you. God speed, my darling, you were wonderful to know.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Creativity Overdrive
Day 63
Been ridiculously busy for a few days and have now got a stomach bug, but very pleased to report that this is not stopping me. Went out yesterday and bought stuff to make the Xmas pressies with, and have completed the first one. Spent £36! Steve panicked at my wanton extravagance.That this covers - at the very least - four birthdays, seven Xmas pressies, two birthday cards, a sympathy card, and some stamps, is clearly by the by.
Over the years, my sewing and painting skills have been stretched to the limit as funds have been rather an issue. In the past people have received hand-painted silk cushions, personalised paintings, collages, note cards made from our best photos, handbags, tote bags, aprons, napkins, place mats, kimono dressing gowns, toilet bags with lace trimmed flannels, covered books and boxes, delicate beaded Xmas tree decorations, handmade jewellery, hats, scarves and scrunchies, to name but a few. I have had to think mighty hard, and scour the Internet this year, to come up with stuff I haven't already done.
Thirty year old nephews with well paying jobs and yuppie lifestyles are the hardest to make for, obviously, so I'm going to set Steve and Sam the task of learning how to make peanut brittle, chocolate fudge and peppermint creams. Food is never refused, is it. Well, not until January. We all go on a diet in January anyway, so that's ok.
I love making presents for people, even more than I like buying them. The giving of gifts is one of the great joys in life. Coming up with something new may have been a bit of a challenge, but it is exercising my creativity and expanding my skill set. Can't ask for more, can you. I once read that in the Scandinavian countries, it is traditional to take a handmade Xmas tree decoration as a gift to anybody you visit during the Xmas period. How lovely is that!
I like to think that there is still plenty of so-called Christmas spirit around at this time of year, that it has not all been subsumed beneath a frantic veil of dogged consumerism, greed, panic and over-consumption. I know there are still traditions that are honoured, acts that are generous and charitable, and times of peace that are bestowed, even if it is just saying how much you've always wanted a hand-crocheted purple ipod cover with pom-poms, to your Aunty Irene.
The finest Christmas tradition I remember from my childhood, was the one where my brother, my sister and I pretended to be asleep until after Dad had laid the stockings on the end of our beds and reached the bottom stair, whereupon we leapt out of bed and excitedly tore everything open. This was swiftly followed by that other tradition of Dad racing back up and barking at us all to go back to sleep, or else.
Another was searching the house in the weeks leading up to the great day, until we found where the presents were hidden. The trick was to make the hole in the wrapping you peeped through look small enough to be done by a mouse. Mice get very active at Christmas, it's a well known fact, and I've never been any good at all with suspense. If I buy presents too early I get so excited I give them to people in advance, and then have to go out and buy more.
What I really like for Christmas is contentment. A log fire, a film I haven't seen for years on the telly, no exercise thank you (not with my bad feet), plenty of good food, nice drink and a few treats, family around me, silly games to play, the cat purring and the kids happily occupied, a bit of a nap, a lot of laughs, and a working dishwasher. A small pile of presents that represents the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love of my family towards me is nice too, but it is definitely just a bonus. The real treat is having everybody together, feeding them well, and seeing them happy.
On that note, having got myself well in the mood, I shall go and make the next lot of gifts. See ya.
Been ridiculously busy for a few days and have now got a stomach bug, but very pleased to report that this is not stopping me. Went out yesterday and bought stuff to make the Xmas pressies with, and have completed the first one. Spent £36! Steve panicked at my wanton extravagance.That this covers - at the very least - four birthdays, seven Xmas pressies, two birthday cards, a sympathy card, and some stamps, is clearly by the by.
Over the years, my sewing and painting skills have been stretched to the limit as funds have been rather an issue. In the past people have received hand-painted silk cushions, personalised paintings, collages, note cards made from our best photos, handbags, tote bags, aprons, napkins, place mats, kimono dressing gowns, toilet bags with lace trimmed flannels, covered books and boxes, delicate beaded Xmas tree decorations, handmade jewellery, hats, scarves and scrunchies, to name but a few. I have had to think mighty hard, and scour the Internet this year, to come up with stuff I haven't already done.
Thirty year old nephews with well paying jobs and yuppie lifestyles are the hardest to make for, obviously, so I'm going to set Steve and Sam the task of learning how to make peanut brittle, chocolate fudge and peppermint creams. Food is never refused, is it. Well, not until January. We all go on a diet in January anyway, so that's ok.
I love making presents for people, even more than I like buying them. The giving of gifts is one of the great joys in life. Coming up with something new may have been a bit of a challenge, but it is exercising my creativity and expanding my skill set. Can't ask for more, can you. I once read that in the Scandinavian countries, it is traditional to take a handmade Xmas tree decoration as a gift to anybody you visit during the Xmas period. How lovely is that!
I like to think that there is still plenty of so-called Christmas spirit around at this time of year, that it has not all been subsumed beneath a frantic veil of dogged consumerism, greed, panic and over-consumption. I know there are still traditions that are honoured, acts that are generous and charitable, and times of peace that are bestowed, even if it is just saying how much you've always wanted a hand-crocheted purple ipod cover with pom-poms, to your Aunty Irene.
The finest Christmas tradition I remember from my childhood, was the one where my brother, my sister and I pretended to be asleep until after Dad had laid the stockings on the end of our beds and reached the bottom stair, whereupon we leapt out of bed and excitedly tore everything open. This was swiftly followed by that other tradition of Dad racing back up and barking at us all to go back to sleep, or else.
Another was searching the house in the weeks leading up to the great day, until we found where the presents were hidden. The trick was to make the hole in the wrapping you peeped through look small enough to be done by a mouse. Mice get very active at Christmas, it's a well known fact, and I've never been any good at all with suspense. If I buy presents too early I get so excited I give them to people in advance, and then have to go out and buy more.
What I really like for Christmas is contentment. A log fire, a film I haven't seen for years on the telly, no exercise thank you (not with my bad feet), plenty of good food, nice drink and a few treats, family around me, silly games to play, the cat purring and the kids happily occupied, a bit of a nap, a lot of laughs, and a working dishwasher. A small pile of presents that represents the kindness, thoughtfulness, and love of my family towards me is nice too, but it is definitely just a bonus. The real treat is having everybody together, feeding them well, and seeing them happy.
On that note, having got myself well in the mood, I shall go and make the next lot of gifts. See ya.
Saturday 14 November 2009
Counting down
Day 60
I lay awake last night until four in the morning. I am lucky enough, that when the insomnia hits, I can be unstressed about it. There is nothing I have to do today, so I can catch up on sleep if I need to. I have no young children to be up and about for at six thirty in the morning, no job that I must be alert for at nine. I can take today as my body dictates.
So I listened to the wind whipping itself into a primeval frenzy, the rain constant and ferocious. This morning my beautiful Japanese Maple tree, so recently turned the colour of burning embers, is semi-nude, the garden littered like shame.
Last night, wary of the impending storm, we had packed away the garden chairs and taken down the wall plates, so the visiting wind did not hurl and smash them. Today, the tree trunks are black with soaking damp, the beds churned into chaos, and the whole garden has a Jurassic feel. The Old Magic stirs.
It seems to have blown my mind clear. Yesterday, I woke with a thumping head that hung like a reprimand over me all day. I finally gave in and took painkillers (which may be why I could not sleep, they don't much agree with me), but I still lay exhausted most of the time. I tried to work on my next book, but the concentration needed eluded me. I tried to rest, but tears overwhelmed me. I wanted to blog, but my brain blanked out. Another day older, that is all.
Today, I feel me again, and I am in that sacred place - an empty house. I shall put aside my book until Monday, and concentrate on starting the great Christmas present make schedule. We have less money than it takes to get through the month (on the dole thanks to the recession), and so everything must be less than cheap, it must be practically free.
My family are wonderful - they won't mind this at all. I personally, prefer homemade presents, and though I don't know if they go that far, I know they appreciate them. For my birthday this year, My brother and his wife filled a picture frame with old photos of me that I didn't know existed. I love that they made that effort for me. It is special.
For me, Christmas should have that feel. It is a time of thankfulness, of reminding ourselves what is important, of telling those we love how much we care. I don't subscribe to the 'Christmas shopping is hell' point of view. If you aren't enjoying it, don't do it. Being able to go into a shop and choose something particular for a special person in your life, is a privilege and a treat.
When I was a kid, there was never any money. A pair of hand-me-down shoes was, frankly, a big deal. I saw my brother and sister go without so much that they wanted, and often needed. One big dream I had was that one day, when I was older, I would be able to get them everything they wanted, desired, or deserved.
Well, next year maybe. In the meantime, this year, everybody is going to get my love, energy, creativity, and hard work instead. Really, what more could anyone want?
I lay awake last night until four in the morning. I am lucky enough, that when the insomnia hits, I can be unstressed about it. There is nothing I have to do today, so I can catch up on sleep if I need to. I have no young children to be up and about for at six thirty in the morning, no job that I must be alert for at nine. I can take today as my body dictates.
So I listened to the wind whipping itself into a primeval frenzy, the rain constant and ferocious. This morning my beautiful Japanese Maple tree, so recently turned the colour of burning embers, is semi-nude, the garden littered like shame.
Last night, wary of the impending storm, we had packed away the garden chairs and taken down the wall plates, so the visiting wind did not hurl and smash them. Today, the tree trunks are black with soaking damp, the beds churned into chaos, and the whole garden has a Jurassic feel. The Old Magic stirs.
It seems to have blown my mind clear. Yesterday, I woke with a thumping head that hung like a reprimand over me all day. I finally gave in and took painkillers (which may be why I could not sleep, they don't much agree with me), but I still lay exhausted most of the time. I tried to work on my next book, but the concentration needed eluded me. I tried to rest, but tears overwhelmed me. I wanted to blog, but my brain blanked out. Another day older, that is all.
Today, I feel me again, and I am in that sacred place - an empty house. I shall put aside my book until Monday, and concentrate on starting the great Christmas present make schedule. We have less money than it takes to get through the month (on the dole thanks to the recession), and so everything must be less than cheap, it must be practically free.
My family are wonderful - they won't mind this at all. I personally, prefer homemade presents, and though I don't know if they go that far, I know they appreciate them. For my birthday this year, My brother and his wife filled a picture frame with old photos of me that I didn't know existed. I love that they made that effort for me. It is special.
For me, Christmas should have that feel. It is a time of thankfulness, of reminding ourselves what is important, of telling those we love how much we care. I don't subscribe to the 'Christmas shopping is hell' point of view. If you aren't enjoying it, don't do it. Being able to go into a shop and choose something particular for a special person in your life, is a privilege and a treat.
When I was a kid, there was never any money. A pair of hand-me-down shoes was, frankly, a big deal. I saw my brother and sister go without so much that they wanted, and often needed. One big dream I had was that one day, when I was older, I would be able to get them everything they wanted, desired, or deserved.
Well, next year maybe. In the meantime, this year, everybody is going to get my love, energy, creativity, and hard work instead. Really, what more could anyone want?
Thursday 12 November 2009
What big ambitions you have, Grand mama
Day 58
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
I have received the first official rejection of my manuscript, and although I was expecting it, I didn't think they'd get to me quite so soon. They were very nice though - wording it as not able to get enthusiastic enough about it - but definitely "a bit previous", as my old Gran used to say.
Do grans still say things like that? Are there any left that wear lumpy cardigans and have helmet-hard perms? Whatever happened to the grans that speak in old saws and proverbs - "see a pin and pick it up", or "n'er cast a clout til May is out" - (that's a coat, by the way, and I still don't).
My Gran was small and round and cuddly, just the way they're supposed to be. When she smiled she twinkled like a pixie. She smelt of Wintergreen, Eau de Cologne, Vicks Vapour Rub and cabbage water (the latter for her main preoccupation, bowel movement), and I absolutely adored her.
She wore so many layers of clothing that dressing her was a military operation. I remember thinking that if she had another heart attack, then the nurses would be in an exhausted heap on the floor by the time someone got the paddles out and yelled "clear"! To which the answer would probably be "no, not quite, we've still got two vests and a petticoat to go".
I don't quite know what she was arming herself against by all these layers, because it clearly wasn't just the cold (which was already barricaded away by the top five). She once went to church and came home distraught, having realised that she'd gone without her knickers on. How would she even know? And what made her think that the God whom she believed was omnipresent, hadn't already seen her in the bath? She had on her long johns but that, she declared, didn't count.
For the time that my Gran lived with us, we had a terrible cat. Although naming pets in our household was a serious and long thought out business - I put less time into naming my children - this cat had never been sociable enough to merit a proper name. He was just the cat, or sometimes fat cat, and he was a viscious brute of an animal that hated the whole world, and people in particular.
I remember once a local farmer coming to our house to speak to my Dad. "Arthur, can I shoot your cat please, only he's been worrying my dogs again?". My Mum screamed a horrified "No!", and my Dad took the poor guy off and showed him his bees (this is not a euphemism, OK?). Anyway, this dreadful animal also adored my Gran (I think it may have been the heady cocktail of smells - pure cat Heaven).
Every afternoon she took a nap and the cat took this as a signal that it was time to show his fealty and love. We always knew when she woke up because of the piercing scream followed by the utterance, "That bloody cat!". This, in turn, was our signal to go in and remove the two headless, bleeding rabbits, or similar offering, from her lap, and appease her with a cup of tea "and a slice", (that's bread and butter, apparently - why do they always talk in code?).
Nowadays, grans look better than they did when they were ten years younger. They can afford better clothes, good haircuts with slick highlights, and pamper packages at the local spa. They start new businesses 'now that the children are gone', and get loans from Dragon's Den to take them global. They do Pilates and run marathons and go back-packing in Nepal or Peru. My Gran wouldn't fit all her undergarments in one backpack, let alone her pills and crochet.
When we read youngsters stories that feature kindly, little old ladies in shawls, with white hair and gappy teeth, I wonder who they think we're talking about, because it certainly doesn't bear any resemblance to their Nanna. That whirlwind of creativity and energy wouldn't ever be someone you could confuse with a wolf with big teeth and ears.
So, I have decided - if I want to get fit and lose weight, and become dynamic and sucessful, then one of my kids is going to have to get sprogging and make me a new-age, 21st century Gran. It's the only way.
P.S. Welcome Matt (geddit?)
Wednesday 11 November 2009
All change
Day 57
There is no such thing as a perfect room, at least, none that I have inhabited - they can always be tweaked or improved somehow. One of my most familial habits is to change rooms around, happily searching for that elusive, perfect set-up.
My mum did it, my sister did it, and I have always done it. The children adjusted admirably to coming home from school and finding everything in a different place. They would get a bit annoyed if I did it to their rooms without permission though, so I learnt, just as quickly, to leave well alone there.
We moved house a lot, so our furniture never quite fitted the new rooms it had to furnish, necessitating the shifting, sorting, re-jigging and altering, in order to make it work. My husband knows that his socks only have a temporary permanence in their present drawer, that any week I could decide that another cupboard fits better in the room. Thankfully, he is OK with this.
I spent yesterday moving all the furniture in our sitting room around. We have a long, thin, dark room in a beautiful house, but, come the autumn when the heating is switched on, the sofa (which blocks the radiator all summer) has to be reassigned elsewhere. In this room, there aren't too many options where, and because it is dark, all the plants have to find new places as well.
Today, the shifting I did yesterday, will invoke more knock-on work today. I have already swapped my husband over to the other side of the bed, bookcases now need moving, more plants reallocating (trouble is, they keep getting bigger and I'm more than running out of space), and bedside tables reshuffling.
When it is all done, it will seem for a while to be the perfect set-up. I will enjoy it and feel proud of my endeavours, and keep it tidy and sparkling for a time. It will feel like a new house, and I do so love a new house.
They say that the brain only sees a small percentage of what the eye actually registers, that it uses it's own library of images to fill in the blanks. I find that after a while, I stop seeing my house as it is, it all becomes wallpaper, rather stale, a bit too much under the radar. If I change it all around, rearrange my teapot collection, the family photos, the tea-lights, cushions and pictures, then I really see them again.
I hate waste and I dislike padding. I believe in William Morris's philosophy of having nothing in my house that I do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. I add on, however, anything that has great sentimental value, ie. the anatomically impossible clay cat that your kid made at school.
Anything in my wardrobe that I have not worn in a year gets sent to charity or handed onto friends, and books I have read get recirculated through the same channels. If you move house a lot, big, heavy, boxes of books you will never read again are the first things to go, believe me.
So I dislike the idea of the things that I do have and love, being constantly passed over by my jaded eye. It does me good to refresh them by moving them to a new place, where for a while they will be seen and appreciated. I live in a beautiful house, as I said, and this is my way of putting value on that.
P.S. Hi Janine, my lovely girl, thanks for being there.
There is no such thing as a perfect room, at least, none that I have inhabited - they can always be tweaked or improved somehow. One of my most familial habits is to change rooms around, happily searching for that elusive, perfect set-up.
My mum did it, my sister did it, and I have always done it. The children adjusted admirably to coming home from school and finding everything in a different place. They would get a bit annoyed if I did it to their rooms without permission though, so I learnt, just as quickly, to leave well alone there.
We moved house a lot, so our furniture never quite fitted the new rooms it had to furnish, necessitating the shifting, sorting, re-jigging and altering, in order to make it work. My husband knows that his socks only have a temporary permanence in their present drawer, that any week I could decide that another cupboard fits better in the room. Thankfully, he is OK with this.
I spent yesterday moving all the furniture in our sitting room around. We have a long, thin, dark room in a beautiful house, but, come the autumn when the heating is switched on, the sofa (which blocks the radiator all summer) has to be reassigned elsewhere. In this room, there aren't too many options where, and because it is dark, all the plants have to find new places as well.
Today, the shifting I did yesterday, will invoke more knock-on work today. I have already swapped my husband over to the other side of the bed, bookcases now need moving, more plants reallocating (trouble is, they keep getting bigger and I'm more than running out of space), and bedside tables reshuffling.
When it is all done, it will seem for a while to be the perfect set-up. I will enjoy it and feel proud of my endeavours, and keep it tidy and sparkling for a time. It will feel like a new house, and I do so love a new house.
They say that the brain only sees a small percentage of what the eye actually registers, that it uses it's own library of images to fill in the blanks. I find that after a while, I stop seeing my house as it is, it all becomes wallpaper, rather stale, a bit too much under the radar. If I change it all around, rearrange my teapot collection, the family photos, the tea-lights, cushions and pictures, then I really see them again.
I hate waste and I dislike padding. I believe in William Morris's philosophy of having nothing in my house that I do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. I add on, however, anything that has great sentimental value, ie. the anatomically impossible clay cat that your kid made at school.
Anything in my wardrobe that I have not worn in a year gets sent to charity or handed onto friends, and books I have read get recirculated through the same channels. If you move house a lot, big, heavy, boxes of books you will never read again are the first things to go, believe me.
So I dislike the idea of the things that I do have and love, being constantly passed over by my jaded eye. It does me good to refresh them by moving them to a new place, where for a while they will be seen and appreciated. I live in a beautiful house, as I said, and this is my way of putting value on that.
P.S. Hi Janine, my lovely girl, thanks for being there.
Monday 9 November 2009
A time to remember
Day 55
Yesterday was Rememberance Sunday, something that gets very overshadowed by that other 'remember, remember' on the fifth. When I was a child, the last great war was still very much in people's memories.
My parents had been brought up through evacuation and rationing, make-do-and-mend and grow-your-own. It informed much of who they were as individuals, and therefore, much of what they were like as parents. They would buy a Mars bar on very rare occasions and it was split five ways, each of us hoping for the extra-chocolatey end-piece, and savouring it slowly.
String was hoarded, christmas presents carefully unwrapped and the paper folded neatly for next year, jam jars were scraped until it felt like you were eating the glass, and socks were darned when they ran to holes. Does anybody know how to darn any more? Do sewing kits still contain those wonderfully tactile, brown, wooden mushrooms? A pity if they don't.
Every autumn, the dropped apples were de-bruised and stewed, while the hedgerows were religiously cleared of rose-hips and blackberries. Jumble sales supplied our clothes, very few things were wasted, leftovers were made into other meals, and each winter we relied heavily on hot water bottles and warm brushed-cotton sheets, as the bedrooms were invariably unheated.
My Uncle lost a leg flying fighter planes in the Air Force. He was treated not as disabled, but as a hero. Films were still made celebrating the courage of 'the Few'. As a child I had no idea who they were, but I knew one spoke of them in terms of distinct reverence. I know a little better as an adult and I am truly grateful - whatever my pacifist beliefs on the subject of war are - to all those who fought for me, and the generations that will come after me.
I think it's good to remember a time when - for all those years - selflessness and sacrifice were a part of every day life. When people knew how lucky they were to be alive. When having the latest handbag (at the cost of a small family car) "because you're worth it" would have been recognised as the nonsense that it truly is.
I'm glad that I can live a more comforable life now. That I hoard postmans red elastic bands because I can, not because I must. That apart from one day a year I can forget - they made my life safe enough to take it for granted. So today I shan't, and I say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Yesterday was Rememberance Sunday, something that gets very overshadowed by that other 'remember, remember' on the fifth. When I was a child, the last great war was still very much in people's memories.
My parents had been brought up through evacuation and rationing, make-do-and-mend and grow-your-own. It informed much of who they were as individuals, and therefore, much of what they were like as parents. They would buy a Mars bar on very rare occasions and it was split five ways, each of us hoping for the extra-chocolatey end-piece, and savouring it slowly.
String was hoarded, christmas presents carefully unwrapped and the paper folded neatly for next year, jam jars were scraped until it felt like you were eating the glass, and socks were darned when they ran to holes. Does anybody know how to darn any more? Do sewing kits still contain those wonderfully tactile, brown, wooden mushrooms? A pity if they don't.
Every autumn, the dropped apples were de-bruised and stewed, while the hedgerows were religiously cleared of rose-hips and blackberries. Jumble sales supplied our clothes, very few things were wasted, leftovers were made into other meals, and each winter we relied heavily on hot water bottles and warm brushed-cotton sheets, as the bedrooms were invariably unheated.
My Uncle lost a leg flying fighter planes in the Air Force. He was treated not as disabled, but as a hero. Films were still made celebrating the courage of 'the Few'. As a child I had no idea who they were, but I knew one spoke of them in terms of distinct reverence. I know a little better as an adult and I am truly grateful - whatever my pacifist beliefs on the subject of war are - to all those who fought for me, and the generations that will come after me.
I think it's good to remember a time when - for all those years - selflessness and sacrifice were a part of every day life. When people knew how lucky they were to be alive. When having the latest handbag (at the cost of a small family car) "because you're worth it" would have been recognised as the nonsense that it truly is.
I'm glad that I can live a more comforable life now. That I hoard postmans red elastic bands because I can, not because I must. That apart from one day a year I can forget - they made my life safe enough to take it for granted. So today I shan't, and I say thank you, thank you, thank you.
Saturday 7 November 2009
Finding my place, at last
Day 53
All done, finished, on it's way, hope for the best. Have just emailed the last of the agents with the manuscript for 'I am Red', and there's nothing more I can do now but wait.
That's seven agents in total which doesn't sound like a lot, I know, but they are all in London (which is only 1 1/2 hours away) and they accept submissions of children's books. There were two more on my list, but one turned out to be in Cumbria, and the other isn't taking on anybody at the moment. Needless to say, J. K. Rowling's agent is chock full, big surprise.
The next job is to clear out my work cupboard (which has been geared towards college for the last two years), and turn it into an ordered space for all the paperwork about my book. I can, at this juncture, feel happily confident that there will be paperwork about my book (that doesn't just consist of rejection letters), because I have no evidence to the contrary yet.
This is a FAB space to be in.
This feels like it did when I was ten years old and just knew I was going to be a popstar, or when I was fourteen and discovered I was clearly destined to marry Donny Osmond. (Moving swiftly on....)
There came a time, however, when I wasn't sure what I was useful for. I used to joke that I was born in the wrong century - I could sing and paint and sew and entertain people - and I sometimes felt as if I was missing a tuffet upon which to sit, saying "La" and "Lawks a mercy", whilst looking terribly good in a bonnet. My qualities of being good at raising children and being nice and rather arty seemed more fitted for a Jane Austen novel than London in the 1980's.
At the time, Madonna was photographing herself naked or in bondage gear, and Mrs T was Prime Minister. Yuppies were up and housewife was a dirty word, (thank you Nigella for rebranding that as Domestic Goddess, by the way). I'd missed the tie-dye and macrame craft-fest of the sixties, and I felt out of my league and out of place.
Roll forward to the present day, and suddenly I am congruent with the times. Being a children's author is too cool for school (although saying that, probably isn't). Finding one's own path and treading it with determination, creativity and self-belief, undaunted and unapologetic, seems to be what it's all about.
Maybe this is my decade, who knows? Just as with my book, I must wait and see.
All done, finished, on it's way, hope for the best. Have just emailed the last of the agents with the manuscript for 'I am Red', and there's nothing more I can do now but wait.
That's seven agents in total which doesn't sound like a lot, I know, but they are all in London (which is only 1 1/2 hours away) and they accept submissions of children's books. There were two more on my list, but one turned out to be in Cumbria, and the other isn't taking on anybody at the moment. Needless to say, J. K. Rowling's agent is chock full, big surprise.
The next job is to clear out my work cupboard (which has been geared towards college for the last two years), and turn it into an ordered space for all the paperwork about my book. I can, at this juncture, feel happily confident that there will be paperwork about my book (that doesn't just consist of rejection letters), because I have no evidence to the contrary yet.
This is a FAB space to be in.
This feels like it did when I was ten years old and just knew I was going to be a popstar, or when I was fourteen and discovered I was clearly destined to marry Donny Osmond. (Moving swiftly on....)
There came a time, however, when I wasn't sure what I was useful for. I used to joke that I was born in the wrong century - I could sing and paint and sew and entertain people - and I sometimes felt as if I was missing a tuffet upon which to sit, saying "La" and "Lawks a mercy", whilst looking terribly good in a bonnet. My qualities of being good at raising children and being nice and rather arty seemed more fitted for a Jane Austen novel than London in the 1980's.
At the time, Madonna was photographing herself naked or in bondage gear, and Mrs T was Prime Minister. Yuppies were up and housewife was a dirty word, (thank you Nigella for rebranding that as Domestic Goddess, by the way). I'd missed the tie-dye and macrame craft-fest of the sixties, and I felt out of my league and out of place.
Roll forward to the present day, and suddenly I am congruent with the times. Being a children's author is too cool for school (although saying that, probably isn't). Finding one's own path and treading it with determination, creativity and self-belief, undaunted and unapologetic, seems to be what it's all about.
Maybe this is my decade, who knows? Just as with my book, I must wait and see.
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