Car Share

Our little Ford Fiesta did umpteen years of school and supermarket runs . All three children learnt to drive in it . There were still claw marks on the sides of the passenger seat where I had hung on in terror during sorties onto the dual carriageway. Scrapes on the wing showed where one of the kids found the garden wall before the steering wheel.  Dents along one side show where Perran used to rest his bike while preparing for his paper round.  Until one morning I got up very early and discovered him doing it.

The Fiesta had even once taken me and three fully grown children on a camping trip all the way to Cornwall. The boot was so full I had to remove the cherry tomatoes from their punnet and insert them individually amongst the other luggage. 

Now however Nigel commutes by train. I drive the daddy car as it is more fuel efficient. The Fiesta has faded gradually, moss growing on it, its various mechanical failures totting up.

Why did we go on taxing and MOTing it?  Because we thought one of the children might want it. However since they live in Edinburgh and London a car can be more of a liability than an asset and none of them is interested. 

Couldn't we buy a paddock and put it out to grass? I ask Nigel.
No.

I am out on the day that the scrap merchant takes it away.*

Sometimes I look at the space on the drive and sigh.  I feel somehow I let the Fiesta down. If we'd sold it on sooner it might still be alive now.
Did I just say alive?

But then good news.
Some friends from church are taking the opportunity to work in Australia for a year. Their car needs a foster home.  Nigel is mystified as I volunteer our drive enthusiastically.

When the car arrives it looks as if not merely three children but possibly the Waltons or Von Trapps had learnt to drive in it. That's great. 

I pat its bonnet each time I pass by to the carriage. It fits right in. 

*Nigel tells me it was an end of life vehicle dismantler

Our Very Own Horror Story

You know it’s a horror story when somebody is murdered brutally in the prime of life.

You know it’s a really hard-core horror story when the murderer eats the corpse afterwards.

Or were they even dead before the killer began to devour them?  We’re not sure.

And what if it happens twice in the same location?

If this was The Bridge it would take me ten hours to tell this story, but since Saga Noren turned down the case I’ll have to see what I can do in 300 words.

The first incident took place two weeks ago.  I was weeding the pot plants under the bird-feeder.  Nigel and Perran were sitting on the other side of the garden.

“Look Clare.  That little robin’s watching you.”

Then suddenly, almost next to my head, a whoosh and a squawk.  Nigel and Perran both chorused “Sh*t!”.

Out of nowhere, a sparrowhawk had swooped on the robin, thus using the bird-feeder in a manner we never intended.  Although, as Nigel pointed out afterwards, it had at least fed a bird.

The second incident occurred at the front of the house.  An entirely charming pair of pink-beige collared doves had built a nest in the cotoneaster, forcing their way in amongst the thick growth with twigs in their delicate beaks.

I enjoyed their soft cooing and I kept watch as they laid their eggs and began to sit on them.

It was Nigel who saw the black and white cat running away and found the wrecked nest.  I haven’t been able to make myself look.

And this time, no wildlife benefited.

The real horror story is that studies have shown that on average each cat kills thirty-two wild birds and mammals each year. 

So when your beloved moggy passes on, please consider not replacing it.  Wildlife is under enough pressure.

How do we lure our children home ?

Perran and Carenza moved off to rent a house with friends Zac and Ella three months ago now. 

It was the same week that we buried Nigel’s father and we could almost hear the grinding sound of the generations rolling slowly over.

The twins are less than twenty miles from us, but it’s in London. 

We are unlikely to drive there because, as we discovered on moving day, the traffic wardens are super-alert.  Like polar bears who can smell a seal from half a mile away, even when it’s beneath a meter of ice. Not that the polar bears issue seals with tickets – their paws are too big to work the machine.  But I digress.

The public transport links are good.  But why would they want to come out to St Albans?  What for?  Their part of London is full of exciting things to do and favourite friends to do them with. 

Nigel and I have discovered that if we present ourselves in London after work with tickets for a play or exhibition and a table booked for dinner, the twins show up looking smart and make entertaining company. 

But I am after a more sustainable relationship.  

I am developing ways in which to lure them home to us.  We have nice garden to sit in, whereas the twins’ nearest open ground is a prison exercise yard (that’s how come they could afford to rent in that area).  We have a warm wood-burning  stove and decent home-cooking.  Surely that will be enough….

As long as they don’t expect us to be polite to them or make intelligent conversation all will be well.

Where's the Catch?

Last week was Sustainability Week in St Albans. 

Our church ran an Upcycling and Repair Fair. 

I wanted to contribute, but what should I do?

I’ve spent a lifetime putting together charity shop outfits, but Jo was running a stall doing that.

I’ve always altered and mended clothes, but Geraldine was doing that.

In the end, I offered to repair broken junk jewellery.  “Costume jewellery,” corrected Jo.

I packed my pliers, my findings and my reels of cord and wire.

I thought I’d have time to kill, so I brought along my own project.

I needn’t have bothered.  A steady stream of women appeared clutching tiny boxes and plastic bags.

They contained chains whose catches had broken, necklaces which had snapped, spilling beads, earrings which had lost their wires.

I had stipulated “No gold or silver”, so none of these items was worth much in money terms.  Instead, people had kept them for sentimental reasons:

“This was my mother’s.”

“My grandmother gave this to me.”

“I always thought this made me look pretty.”

So repairing them was unexpectedly rewarding. 

Most women could not wait, but put on their mended jewellery straight away with a smile.

And the best was one lady whom I helped to re-string her grandmother’s green and yellow beads.  When they were complete, she put them on, and stood up.  Everything she was wearing was green and yellow to match. 

Before she had even set out that morning, she had anticipated the moment she would get her beloved necklace back and had dressed accordingly.

Now if that wasn't worthwhile, what is?