Not a horder

Why when I'm not a horder do I end up with so much stuff?

The fact is, it's not things that I can't let go of it's the cloud of memories that float, anchored to them with strands of finest gossamer.

And sometimes it's even worse than memories. Sometimes it's a whole life-stage.

That was how Pascoe and I came to be standing looking sad in the loft on either side of a cardboard box. The contents of the box were plain white crockery and a secondhand wok so our sorrow seemed disproportionate.

Except...
This was stuff Pascoe had found at University, abandoned beside the bins on the day when overseas students flew home.  It had seen him and his brother and sister, and even some of their friends, through university and a little beyond. 

However, now they were all earning and developing their own taste there was no longer a use for this well-worn, utilitarian equipment.

We would take it out of the loft and give it away.

No wonder we were sad. Pascoe and his brother and sister were no longer riotous students but responsible adults.

End of an era.

"Come on," I said finally, "We'll take it to Oxfam. Perhaps another fresher will buy it and it'll go off to have fun at a new university.

...But of course, it will never have as much fun as it did with you, Pascoe."

Facing up to the Plague

Mary and I had arranged to meet up in Ashwell, about half way between our two homes.  We ambled around the charming Hertfordshire village with its half-timbering and pargetting.

We discussed our own work-life balance and the news of our two parallel families.

But we could not avoid talking about the flooding and fires caused by climate change and the threat of the corona virus.  

And sadly, we could not laugh either of them off.

We drifted, as we knew we would, into the church where, in the bell tower at the west end is some extraordinary graffiti. 

Each time we visit, we like to check and make sure that after hundreds of years, it is still there.

High on the wall, is the very old, deeply incised writing.

Pestile (n) cia
M.C.T.(er)x penta
miseranda ferox violenta
(discessit pestis) superset plebs pessima testis in fine qevent(us) (erat) valid(us)
(...h)oc anno maurus in orbe tonat MCCCLXI

A board underneath tells us that it says:

There was a plague
1350
a pitiable, fierce violent plague departed;

a wretched populace survives to witness and in the end
a mighty wind, Maurus, thunders in this year in the world, 1361

The inhabitants of Ashwell must have suffered great losses and lived through times that seemed to them hellish.

“Well,” said Mary, “A plague and a great storm!  It just goes to show there’s nothing new under the sun.”

http://www.stmarysashwell.org.uk/church/graffiti/decode.htm

Why they decided not to shoot Friends in Truro

I always longed for untameable corkscrew ringlets. But my hair is just sort of medium-curly.

However, I have noticed that I'm definitely curlier in Cornwall.

The humidity and frequent mizzle are a delight for mosses and fungi.
And for my hair.

But this brings me to my main point.

This was the main reason why they decided not to shoot the hit comedy show Friends in Cornwall after all.

It is likely that the first attempt to film the series Friends took place in Truro (the glittering metropolis).

Every day the glamorous set would be ready – a flat in an ex-warehouse overlooking the Truro River.  Phoebe, Joey etc would be standing around bantering about the tourist traffic on the A30. Ross would be waiting for Rachel to arrive with an armful of scones for a proper cream tea (jam first). 

But where would Rachel be?

At length somebody would go to find her and she would finally arrive. She would be crying but it would be hard to see the tears as her head would be surrounded by a cloud of magnificent curls.

“My hair,” she would sob, “It just won’t stay straight.”

So it is purely down to Jennifer Aniston’s unreasonable attitude to curly hair that the whole show had to be moved to New York.

A sad loss.

Just think how much better Friends would have been if Central Perk had served pasties.

Clod-hopper

In summer 2018 I had an operation to fuse joints in my arthritic left foot. Eleven months later the consultant told me it was now probably as much better as it was going to get.

Frankly I was disappointed. My foot was still delicate. However, this winter I have truly got much better, enjoying brisk six mile walks again.

It makes the whole of me feel much better as walking is essential to me.

Walking is my mindfulness exercise. I never isolate myself with headphones. I am aware of wreathes of mist and rays of sunshine. I hear the staccato chirping of goldcrests and long-tailed tits and smell wood smoke from somebody's fire.

Walking also provides creative headspace for my writing. I often puzzle over plot quandaries or spool through the rhythm and order of words I have chosen.

But one of the best things about getting my feet back is being able to go hiking with Carol, Caroline and Diane. I always used to grumble about the clods of clay that adhere to my boots crossing the fields in winter, but this year it felt pretty good to have the muddiest boots in the world.

Gnomes threatened by high winds

Nigel’s family is a bit posher than mine and it doesn't usually matter.

But recently a divide has opened up between us.

It is over a little thing. To be precise, two little things.

We’ve been in our current post-kids home for four years now.  The garden has matured nicely. 

However, when I looked around, it seemed clear something was missing.

“I want gnomes!”

“Gnomes are awful.  You can’t have them.”

“Not even in an ironic, Post-Modern way?”

“Maybe just one…”

“But he would be lonely.  There have to be at least two!”

At this point, our memories of the conversation diverge.  Nigel seems to think he said “Over my dead body,” but I somehow heard it as “That would be fine.”

Carenza very kindly gave me two little cylindrical parcels for Christmas.  My gnomes.

I asked Nigel where I might place them in the garden.  His suggestions always seemed to include the word “behind” – “behind the rockery”, “behind the pittosporum”

That didn’t seem sensible to me.  Nobody would be able to see them.  Instead, I found a nice open spot in our front garden where they could greet any passing neighbours.

Only problem is, there’s no shelter from the wind and last time we had a gale, it knocked one of them over.

At least, I guess it was the wind…

Better to light a single candle

In October, I wrote that I had been out protesting/demonstrating and that it made me feel empowered in the face of a scary world.

Things have since got even scarier. 

But: “It is better to light a single candle than to curse the darkness.”

So in the days running up to the election, in between working hours, I leafleted a couple of streets on behalf of the People’s Vote Campaign (suggesting tactical voting) and another four streets on behalf of the Lib Dems.  I also helped to collect dozens of letters aimed at stopping the expansion of our local airport (if it happens, it will greatly increase carbon emissions) and also sewed logos on a few tee shirts for Extinction Rebellion.

It was better to be doing something than sitting and fretting.  Or at least it would have been, if I hadn’t run myself into the ground and succumbed to a heavy cold.

And now, the national election has gone against everything I’d prayed for. 

As Annabel said “Woe, woe, and three times woe”.

But on the bright side, in St Albans we got a brilliant new Lib Dem MP, Daisy Cooper.

And concerning the National Tragedy, all the campaigning work I put in means I now have a copper- bottomed excuse to ‘curse the darkness’ or grumble.

But being a positive person, I’ll probably do something more constructive instead…

…like tunneling all the way to the Continent and leading the rest of my life there.

The one good thing about an eight hour drive

I visit my parents in Cornwall as often as I can.  I seem to be good at choosing a time to drive down, but bad at picking a moment to come back. 

My last two homeward journeys have been interrupted by crashes on the M5.  (I haven’t investigated to discover the nature of the accidents – I don’t want to know.)

Each time, Google maps has routed me across country to the A303.

I have travelled through thatched hamlets on narrow tracks that appeared to have been adopted only recently by the council.  I have followed a caravan which was perilously scraping the hedges on both sides.  And then I have ground to a halt detained by a new traffic jam created by all the other drivers who have been following Google’s whimsical advice.

I have often felt that Google is toying with me.  Perhaps even that my cross-country struggles are being observed by some super-villain at the heart of an IT hub, cackling “Mwah-hah-hah!”

But if there is one thing that has made the massive detours worthwhile, it is the moment on the A303 when, from around a hillock appears the magnificent, square-shouldered grey monument of Stonehenge.  It lifts my heart with its ancient presence, and the engineering achievement it represents makes me proud to be British.

Which is just as well, because if Brexit goes through, we’ll be right back to the Stone Age.

Missing you

So the twins moved out. 

Some, although very definitely not ALL of their gear has gone with them.

Just like a beach during one of those especially low tides at Easter, parts of their bedrooms were exposed that hadn’t seen the light of day in months.

It stimulated in me a primitive urge to clean.  One that I am normally able to overcome. 

But perhaps cleaning would make me feel better.

Faced with the carpet under their beds, the hoover gave an asthmatic wheeze and demanded to be emptied.

It also became obvious that many of the shampoos/skin scrubs and cleansing products which STILL jostled for position on the bathroom shelf never were going to be used again, and could now be recycled.

But just as I had my sleeves rolled up and a black bag gaping, I heard a key in the door.

Perran was home.

“What are you doing here?”

“I’ve got a couple of days’ holiday and we haven’t got wi-fi connected yet.”

I think our central heating may have been an added attraction.

Although obviously I have been telling everybody that it was just that he missed me so much!

However, it’s the weekend and he’s gone again now, and I’m on my way upstairs once more to attack the ‘dust bunnies’ under his bed.

Actually, I’ve just had a good look at them – make that ‘dust rhinos’.

Whatever Happened to Nigel and Clare?

When the children left for University it was the end of twenty-one years of family life. 

We would be brave and stand back while they found their wings.

We expected to be sad, and for a time we were.

But soon we found compensations.

Just to go out on a Saturday and enjoy lunch and a walk with Gill and Graham, Nick and Jackie or Jenny and Terry.  

Without having to make a picnic for my whole voracious family.

We could even afford a pub lunch when it was just two of us.

And then the twins graduated and returned home.

We know it’s temporary, so we are enjoying their company while we have it.

But this Saturday, as we tried to lure them on a day out, Christmas party aftermath overlapped with urgent shopping and they declined blearily.

I was tempted to stay home.

Nigel said “We should still go.”

So we drove to Grafham Water where I proved myself a hopeless nerd by getting overexcited by goldeneye and goosander ducks. The words “Just look at that!” may have been over-used.

Then we explored the twinkly market town of Huntingdon, drifted into a few shops, appreciated a Mediaeval church and bridge. 

As we drove home, I said to Nigel, “That was a good day.”

Meanwhile, the twins had begun to text us. 

Looked like we’d see them tomorrow.

As if we cared!

No More Empty Nest

Recently we redesigned our back garden. 

We made sure there were holes in the base of the new fence for hedgehogs. 

We put in a pond to attract newts and frogs. 

We hung up birdfeeders to encourage finches and tits.

And now we are rewarded by seeing the little creatures in our garden.

Meanwhile, in the house, we have at last mended the hole in the bath (long story).  We have also installed electric blankets.  We have packed the fridge full of wholesome food, especially hummus, lots of hummus.

So what kind of wildlife have we managed to attract to our house? 

The answer is Twins. 

Perran and Carenza have both begun their working lives in the London area. 

For the time being, they are living with us.  

I put out fresh food each night and mostly they return.

But when their post-university bank accounts have recovered, they plan to move out and rent a flat.

I feel sorry for them that housing is so expensive right now, but quite glad they are stuck with us for a bit.

Just hope we don’t have to cut holes in the fence for them though.
They would be enormous.