Meant to be

On Tuesday morning, I was supposed to be meeting my old friend Angela for a catch-up.  We tend to do this during the course of a country walk rather than over coffee.

Then the guys who were replacing our double-glazing  announced they’d be starting Monday.

But that was alright.

I simply asked Carenza who is living at home at the moment if she’d cover for me.  Of course she said yes.

So I would still get to see Angela on Tuesday morning.

Then Carenza landed a temporary job “Sorry Mum”.

But that was alright.

The guys would surely be trustworthy enough to leave just for a couple of hours.

So I would still get to see Angela on Tuesday morning.

Then I got a horrible cold.

But that was alright.

I was seeing Angela outdoors so I wouldn’t pass it on, and we weren’t going to walk far anyway.

So I would still get to see Angela on Tuesday morning.

Finally Tuesday morning arrived – my cold was at the running-like-a-tap stage and the double glazing about a third done.  But what actually woke me up was Nigel, right in my face, yelling “Our drain is overflowing!”

He then commuted off, leaving me to ring somebody with the word “rod” in their company name.

I gave in.  It was no longer alright.  I did think of inviting Angela round but realised that a runny nose, overflowing drains and set of gusty holes where our windows once were might test even a well-established friendship.

I wasn’t going to meet Angela on Tuesday after all. 

So my question is this:

Angela and I both believe in a loving Deity watching over us.  Were we being protected from some awful fate?  If we had actually managed to go for a walk yesterday, what would really have happened? 

Might we have been run over by an escaped bison?

Might we have sunken in quicksand beside our modest local river?

Might we have stumbled on a gang of ruthless criminals mid-heist?

The answer remains a mystery. 

However, we’re planning to try again tomorrow.

Just saying.

Bennington Lordship

I hadn’t got together with my friends for about a month this time and was looking forward to a walk with them on Friday.  We planned to hunt for March hares madly boxing in the nearby fields. It is these daft escapades that gladden my heart.

That and the chat.

From Tuesday, I began to watch the weather. “Friday: Heavy rain”.

On Wednesday, I looked again. “Friday: Heavy rain”.

These things sometimes change at the last minute, but on Thursday: “Friday: Heavy rain”

“Heavy rain” I WhatsApped pannickily. “Maybe London?”

The others hedged.

“Will it be raining all day?”

“Clearing by two.” 

Two was late for us – we were usually getting ready to go home by then.

“Maybe the new Design Museum?”

Radio silence.

Then Carol suggested,

“This afternoon – Bennington Lordship.”

We drove.

Within the space of an acre or two Spring was sitting waiting for us. A mass of snowdrops were giving way to banks of crocuses.  Daphne Odorata filled the air with heady scent.  Dogwoods were sending up flames of pure colour. 

And we had a chat and a laugh. 
And some more chat.

No hares of course, but then, they don’t like the rain either. 

Maybe next time.

Thinking inside the Box

Pascoe has always been somebody who thought outside the box.

Except on this occasion. Where his solution lies inside the box.

What’s in the box?

A cricket farm.

In other parts of the world, crickets have been bred for centuries as a reliable and low-carbon-footprint form of protein.

Looking into the future and seeing that the human race can’t go on as it is without exhausting its planet, Pascoe has bought some of these crickets.

Have you eaten any yet?

No – they’re not ready.

How can you tell when they’re ready?

They start chirping.

Ahhh!.....Where are you keeping them?

In a box in the sitting room where it’s warm.

What do your housemates think about this?

Well two of them are Chinese and in Chinese culture it’s good luck to have a cricket in the house.

But is it good luck to have hundreds of crickets in the house?  And then, is it good luck to eat them?

AND FINALLY, THE KILLER QUESTION:-

Have you given them names?

BUT BY NOW, PASCOE HAS TIRED OF QUESTIONS.

Well, I heard a couple of the crickets talking and I think one of them was called Ralph, but now I can’t tell exactly which one that was.  I hate to say it, but they all look just the same to me.

I WAS ABOUT TO BLOG THIS WHEN PASCOE ISSUED ME WITH AN UPDATE:

Ralph (I'm 80% sure it is Ralph) has just entered her final instar and turns out to be a lady cricket... 

Too mature by half

Now that the twins have reached the grand old age of 22, life is less fun for me.  It is far harder to get a rise out of them, for example, see this Whatsapp conversation between myself and Perran concerning his next dance performance.

16/02/2017, 21:32 - clarehobba: Looking forward to your dance show.  Have booked Saturday matinee.  That leaves us free to come to the after-show party with you.

16/02/2017, 21:42 - clarehobba: Looking forward to that after-show  party.  What shall I wear ?

16/02/2017, 21:44 - clarehobba: Nigel looking forward to dancing at after party.  Am ironing his white jeans.

16/02/2017, 22:57 - clarehobba: What will you wear, Perran? Perhaps we could match.

Finally, in the wee small hours, a response.

17/02/2017, 01:30 - Peb: Only mesh garments allowed at the afterparty

17/02/2017, 01:30 - Peb: Any non-mesh garments will be burnt

On the bright side, that very possibly constitutes an invitation.

A Touch of the Poldarks

Carenza came with me to visit her grandparents in Cornwall.  In the car she asked if we could go for a walk on the cliffs. 

Of course I said “Yes”.

Over the next few days, she helped me to research my novel set in Newlyn.  She took notes in the archive and photos in the streets.

She helped me to shop and cook for my parents.

She listened to their reminiscences with attention, even when they had a somewhat familiar feel to them.

Over the whole time, the weather had been hostile.  Sleet on the journey down, icy rain as we plodded the streets of Newlyn, and an East wind like a bone-handled knife.

“Are you sure you want to go up on the cliffs? Could be blowy.”

This was British understatement for “Himalayan” or “Baffin Island”.

But she still wanted to go.

So we went.

There was a baby seal on the beach.

Hundreds of gannets  were diving like spectacular skewers onto a shoal of fish beneath the cliffs.

On the cliff path, a bold pair of stonechats hopped just ahead of us, and a raven cruised past.

As we returned, the sun came out and a skylark sang high above.

Back at the car, rock pipits hopped round our ankles as we drank hot chocolate.

So it was worth it really.

But it was still a bloody cold wind.

Let them eat hedgehogs

One of the things I most value about having children is that they create new worlds for me to explore.  Would I ever have learned to love contemporary dance if it hadn’t been for Perran?  Kept up-to-date with developments in Synthetic Biology if not for Pascoe?  Learnt about new perspectives on feminism if not from Carenza?

And more to the point, would I ever have attempted to make a hedgehog cake, if it hadn’t been for the twins’ birthday this weekend?

In Bruges

Before Christmas, Pascoe was working in London and would often appear at weekends, so we tried to be around then.    

Now he is back in Edinburgh. 

Now there are January hotel and rail ticket offers.

We went to Bruges.

But we found Belgium to be a disconcerting country of blurred distinctions.

Which bit of the road is for cars or is it all pedestrianized?

Is it Christmas or Valentine’s Day or neither?

Surely perfume is not for tasting.

And in Hieronymus Bosch’s  Last Judgement it was even hard to tell which people were being punished and which people were having fun.

New Adventures

Adventure at the Tate Modern.

I thought the post-kids era would be all mini-breaks and getaways.  For some of my friends, it appears to be. 

However (and I can’t promise to stick to this) we have cut right down on flying – often the cheapest and quickest way to go anywhere -  as it has disastrous implications for global warming. 

“See the world and destroy it at the same time.”

But I still feel like I’ve got some adventures in me!

So I’ve been thinking what an adventure looks like if I can’t fly to get there.

And I find myself humming a cheesy old song,

“I’ve been to Paradise, but I’ve never been to me…”

So this year I shall be going to me.

Following a dodgy back, I’m going to work hard to get my fitness back to finish walking the Ridgeway with my pals. 

I shall also learn new skills  (maybe Tai Chi?), return to old loves (painting, birdwatching).

And I shall also be going to other people. 

It’s hard to be involved in community if you are away a lot.  Being around more will mean we can see more of our friends and neighbours.  Generally, just making yourself more available to other people tends to involve you in things you never expected

….watch this space.

Snow Day

Snowy walk with Nigel, Jenny, Terry & Boris

For my first three years as a school-teacher, there have been no snow days round here. 

As a mother of school children I particularly loved snow days – climbing back into a warm bed with a steaming cup of tea, watching the goose feathers drifting down outside the window. The whole world came to a standstill – a blessed break in the daily grind.

But now I’m self-employed.  Any snow days will have to be caught up on later, perhaps when I had planned something more interesting!  So I have purchased snow shoes, ski poles and a board marker which operates at sub-zero temperatures.

Last week, however, snow threatened and it was a day when I had no teaching – the perfect snow day. 

But when I peeped out hopefully at first light, there was no snow, so no lie in.  Later, disappointingly, it rained. Finally as the day closed, the temperature dropped and at last, snow fell.

However, it was a meagre amount – not the bringing-life-to-a-standstill downpour I had hoped for.

BUT according to Govia Thameslink it WAS just that.

Nigel was stranded on his commuter train, WhatsApping me sadder and sadder updates and so was Chip with whom I was supposed to be having a meeting that evening.

Call me callous, but their loss was my gain.  When Chip got to her house, she was too tired to struggle out again for a meeting.  When Nigel came home, he didn’t feel like going out for beer with the guys, decided on a night in and lit the stove. 

So finally, I may not have got my snow day, but I did get a snow evening.

New Year unleashed

Usually we are visiting Northumbrian grandparents at New Year, but this year we had returned in time. 

This meant that our children were at last able to escape into the wilds of youthful New Year’s Eve parties.

Pascoe left us on Friday returning to Edinburgh for a  New Year with fellow grad students from around the globe.  They had decided on a meat fondue and apparently ostrich and water buffalo were on offer.  They may have eschewed the humble haggis, but still all trooped out to see the Edinburgh fireworks.

Carenza and Perran both headed in to parties in London with me fretting openly about the risk posed by terrorists and questioning them in detail about their movements. 

I am truly grateful to our brilliant police, who were apparently out in numbers, that nothing went wrong in our country.

And in retrospect, perhaps I should have been more worried about the risk posed by alcohol.  But I think that everybody has now managed successfully to reconstruct their evening and fill in the gaps.

As for us, we were at last able to do something which our children had expressly forbidden before.  We have a DVD of the amazing Spencer Tunick Art Event where hundreds of naked people walked round the Quayside area of Newcastle and Gateshead and formed patterns with their bodies.

When our friends came round for New Year, we set the DVD to play with a notice saying “Can you spot Clare and Nigel?”

But however attentively you watch the DVD, you will not see us.  Because we were not there.

Planes, trains and automobiles

Last Sunday evening, hundreds of candles glimmered as our church held its annual service of nine lessons and carols. 

The readings recreate the wonder of the Christmas Story and everybody joins in to belt out the much-loved carols.

Folks wear Christmas jumpers and Bill gives it some wellie on the organ.

It is one of the landmarks of our Christmas.

Putting up Christmas lights, Cornish style.

We are trying not to be dictatorial parents, but we had spotted the fact that all the offspring might possibly be back for the carol service, and we were allowing a little flame of hope to kindle…

Pascoe was joining us from London, Carenza was coming back from Will’s and Perran was getting a lift from Bristol.

During the day, we got updates from each of them and it began to remind me of a cheesy American film, about people getting home for Thanksgiving/Christmas.

In the end, Pascoe was with us in good time, Carenza slipped into the seat we had saved at the very last moment.  But Perran was still en route – his lift wasn’t ready to set off until quite late.  Plus there was something about a DJ forcing him and his friends to go out clubbing until 6 that morning.    Didn’t quite follow that story.  Don’t think I was meant to.

However, even though we didn’t quite all get to the Carols, everybody was home for dinner, which was brilliant.  Enough to keep me going until we are all reunited once more for Christmas itself.

Some Hope

I guess I don’t give my heart to Christmas completely. 

As we put up the decorations, I think about how long it will take me to fetch them down again on January 6^th and moderate my swags accordingly. 

When I buy gifts for the children, they aren’t luxuries.   I try to get useful things that I probably should have bought them anyway.  In our house, Christmas has become the Festival of New Pants.

I buy my Brussels sprouts (and indeed everything else) from Morrisons, not Waitrose – the Christmas meal will be pleasant, but would leave Mary Berry with that puzzled disappointed look we have come to know.

Perhaps I hold back because I’m afraid the festival will let me down. 

Don’t get me wrong, each year Christmas sends me into a complete tailspin of organisational frenzy, but it is partly because we have so many significant family birthdays in December.  And trips to grandparents in Cornwall and Northumberland to arrange.  Not to mention the complications of a Christmas dinner which must cater for a meat eater and a vegan, and every ideological regime in between.

However, I have reached the “no longer care” plateau quite early this year and am even pursuing other exciting projects such as replacing our double-glazing.

And yet part of me is waiting for Christmas to tiptoe up behind me and surprise me with a joyful hug, as it does most years.

Cornish Christmas

There was a hold up.  So when I finally set off for Cornwall, it wasn’t when I’d planned, and when I travelled, the M4 was completely blocked so I had to turn round and go back towards London and set out again on the M3 (should I have put a sat nav on my Christmas list?)

It didn’t feel like a good start.

But although things hadn’t gone to plan, it was certainly educational.

I discovered what happens when Jennie gets tinsellitis.

I learnt that Fiona and Izzie would rather take a country walk in the pouring rain than go Christmas shopping.

And that Mark felt the woods were safer than Marks and Spencer at this time of year.

And I found that Mum and Dad could be Lord and Lady of the Manor, if only granted the chance by the NT.

So really, it was all worthwhile.

Lazarus Gave me a Dead Leg

“Tonight Will and I are going to see Lazarus, the David Bowie musical” announced Carenza. 

“I wish I could go.” I was feeling sorry for myself as my plans for the weekend (visiting elderly parents) had fallen through. 

“You can.  We’ve got a third ticket.”

Wow.  Am cool and trendy.

Thought long and hard about what one wears to a David Bowie musical.  Realised how cold it was and put on an OAP jumper instead.

When I got there, even the venue was edgy – a big marquee by Kings Cross.  Will bought us each a prosecco and spotted an actor from Game of Thrones at the bar.

“Was he very short?” I asked.

“Not that one,” said Will.

The seating was clever too – the chairs were raised high to allow leg room for the lanky.  Unfortunately I am not lanky and was able to swing my legs like a prematurely-aged six year old on an outing with her parents.  Except that, (meanly, I thought) Will and Carenza wouldn’t let me sit between them.

The music was great, and the performances stunning. However, to praise Lazarus further would be disingenuous.  The plot was so confusing that I wasn’t even sure whether I should feel sad or happy at the end.  There was the odd moment of lucidity when one character explained the plot to another, but apart from that….

I wasn’t even able to fidget restlessly in my seat as my feet weren’t on the ground.  Two hours without an interval seemed quite long.

Then bizarrely on the way home on a dark city street, I kicked something soft.  It landed with a thud. I made the mistake of looking to see what I’d kicked.  It was the most enormous frog I have ever seen.  What was it doing on these mean streets on a November night? 

In spite of my boot, it was still alive, although injured.  It stared at me with an unblinking beady eye.  What to do?  Should I finish it off?  But what with?  And what if it wasn’t fatally injured? 

A coward, I left it, probably prey to an urban fox.  But the look it had given me stayed with me.  Didn’t this remind me of some fairy tale?  What if I had just been cursed by a magic frog?

The next day I woke up with a pain in my outer left thigh.  A week later, I had developed deep vein thrombosis.  Not in reality, just in my mind.  It was when I reached down and felt that my skin was numb that I panicked.  (I think it had been numb all along, but I’d been feeling through corduroy trousers which is a similar sensation.)

I googled the symptoms of DVT. 

Never google symptoms. 

Reassuringly I didn’t have the common symptoms.  Then I read the caveat which said, “Only half of those who have DVT experience any symptoms.”

There was nobody home so I drove myself to minor injuries. 

“We can’t help you – DVT isn’t a minor injury.”

I looked miserable.  They suggested I ring 111 and tell them I was already at a hospital and the 111 people might then ring the hospital I was already at and arrange for me to see a doctor there.

I rang the 111 people.  They wanted me to examine my leg over the phone.  I explained that I was in a public waiting room and couldn’t take my trousers off.

“Go to the loo.”

I crouched in the overheated loo with my trousers round my ankles, attempting not to make contact with the much-used toilet seat while they asked me questions, often ones that conjured unwelcome images, such as,

“Are you bleeding a lot?”

At the end of all that, they were pretty sure it wasn’t a DVT but I ought to see my GP.  When I finally got out of the loo, I had that swimmy feeling which means you are about to faint.  I sat in the waiting room with my head between my knees for a while.

But nobody was home and nobody was going to come to rescue me.  I would just have to pull myself together and get home somehow. 

And that was when I remembered the curse of the frog.

In the end, I had to hope that the poor frog had limped to safety, because my own fate was not as dreadful as it could have been – I didn’t have DVT.  Instead, the uncomfortable seat at Lazarus had pinched/bruised a nerve and it should feel better after some weeks.

So although seeing the David Bowie musical made me feel young, cool and trendy, I am not sure it was worth it as I now have a limp and am possibly living under a frog curse.

The Socially Inappropriate Sign Store

Jackie being importuned by an elf.

Last weekend, we went to a large craft fair with Nick and Jackie.

Support local makers – not the economy of China.

We saw everything from a crocheted toilet roll cover (washable) to exquisite silver jewellery.

But our favourite was the Socially Inappropriate Sign Stall (our choice of name, not theirs).

I’ve mentioned these  homely signs before in my blog – they say things like “Live, laugh, love”, or “My Kitchen, My Rules”, and are charming and humorous the FIRST time you see them.

At the craft show, there was a stall jam-packed with these sweet little sayings.  I was about to pass by, but a large sign caught me eye. 

“I love you even more than CHEESE.”

Who would ever hang that up on their wall?

And there were more. 
Gently I back-pedalled.

The stall was run by a couple. 

                He could cut wood into little rectangles and hearts.

                She could do cutesie handwriting.

Unfortunately, neither of them could produce a bon mot.

No wonder there was so much stock on display – nobody would ever buy these.

After perusal, my favourite was the stalkerish:

“I may not be the most important person in your life, but when you hear my name, I hope you smile and say ‘That’s my friend.’”

But Nick, who had also paid the stall close attention, had spotted an even better one:

“Sometimes I laugh so much that the tears run down my legs.”

Perhaps I should suggest to the stall-holders that they go crochet some toilet roll covers instead.

Proper Job

There was a point where Nigel and I very nearly relocated our family back to my homeland of Cornwall, but in the end fears for job prospects (both ours and our children’s) stopped us.

However, last Sunday night, I had a revelation.  The perfect job had been there waiting for me all along, but I had been too blind to see.

We were watching Poldark when an angry mob burst onto the scene and threatened to lynch Warleggan.  As they shook their fists and roared defiantly in a West Country manner, I rose slightly in my chair.

“I want to do that.  At last, my vocation!”

I should have been an extra - ‘Angry mob, number 14'.

It should have been me! With a kerchief wrapped round my head, brandishing a pitchfork in one hand and a pasty in the other, shouting “Aaaaarh.”

It looked like an occupation which would not only be rewarding from the first day, but would also offer career progression.  Eventually I could hope to become “Angry Mob, number 1” – the one that gets to shout “That’s right, Cap’n Poldark – You tell un!”

And then possibilities for international travel.  I could one day graduate to be one of the mob of angry villagers that besieges the Vampire’s Castle in Transylvania.

Perhaps it’s not too late for me after all.  Where do I find the application form?

Something cheery to take your mind off the fact that our whole world is crumbling...

Too miserable to blog about the US fiasco.
This almost cheered me up.  Almost.
John Lewis Christmas ad 2016

Can you hack a hike?

I should have been thrilled at the thought of a bracing Autumn weekend in the Peak District with the Thompsons.  However, my foot has been hurting – a symptom of advanced Middle-Age.

It’s meant we haven’t done any proper walking for a long time.  Such a long time that I had forgotten the importance of sturdy boots and not wearing denim jeans.   

When we set off on Saturday, the air was as full of moisture as it could be without actually committing to raining.  Our route was through fields of deep, saturated grass studded with sheep poo and garnished with country pancakes. 

My old boots not only leaked, but didn’t have much grip left. 

In my mind’s eye was a vivid picture of me skidding and landing on my bum in animal dung. 

I whinged quite a lot.  Nigel and David and Carolyn lured me onwards with a flask of tea and encouraging words.  They pretended that it could be any of us who slipped over in the poo.  I knew for a certainty that it would be me. 

But we were soon mounting a ridge.  We didn’t know which ridge, but some hikers coming the other way told us confidently where we were.  They had louder, posher voices than ours so we believed them.  Until we met them 15 minutes later shamefacedly retracing their steps.

By now, my jeans had wicked wetness up to my knees. 

Then there was a choice to make – I could continue with my low-level whining as we made our way round the base of splendid, craggy Comb hill, or we could choose to ascend it  and I could ramp up to high-level complaining.  We chose the latter course.   

Thanks to Nigel, David and Carolyn, I made it to the top, even with my dodgy equipment and poorly foot.  And I didn’t even slip over in the poo.

I’m surprised they managed to put up with all my beefing.  Perhaps they too have a middle-aged affliction – deafness.  And what looks like a warm and supportive friendship is, in fact, an inability to hear my protests.

Yep.  That must be it.

Phooey to Halloween – Celebrate Autumn

The US-dictated Halloween colours are limited to black and orange.  But this Autumn season is so much richer than that - if you look at the trees, your eyes will be ravished by yellow, maroon, green, tan and ochre.

Halloween is about spooks, but Autumn celebrates not only the closing in of night, but also the satisfaction of a wild harvest, the lighting of fires and candles, kicking through golden leaves, watching blackbirds eating berries. 

Our kitchen has been steamy with apples being peeled and cooked for wine and crumbles.  Soon there will be the sloes for gin.   Hanging in the outhouse are bayleaves, hydrangeas and larch cones ready to make the Christmas pot pourri.

But it's late October which offers my favourite Autumn experience.  We go to a local wood and plan our walk so that the last place we come to is the grove where the chestnuts grow.  If it’s a good year, we know we’ll pick so many that we don’t want to carry them far.  If you touch the prickly cases, you get spines in your fingers, so we have developed a technique for opening the little green urchins between our boots.  There is such pleasure in picking out the plump, gleaming chestnuts. 

Focused on the ground, one becomes dazed and disoriented and we have been known to head off in entirely the wrong direction, losing the path.

And this year, we have a great harvest of chestnuts to roast bake and boil.

A welcome change from Halloween pumpkins.

Earning a Crust

Pascoe is at home this Autumn

All my life I have had friends a few years older than me.  It’s been great – they already knew how to get a job, plan a wedding, and that one must on no account turn down pain relief during the birth process.

Up until now, having older friends has been nothing but an advantage: the only chasm between us was that it was a different set of Top-of-the-Pops hits which made them dewy eyed with nostalgia.

However, the difference has now become significant – their children are through university, their family inheritances have been passed on. They are passing gracefully into semi-retirement.

And as the clocks change and bleak November draws in, they will be winging their way to exotic destinations such as the Philippines or Myanmar while I soldier on at school, trying to dodge the winter flu epidemics, getting home in the dark.

But wait, I am thoroughly enjoying my portfolio of jobs, teaching some of the nicest people you could hope to meet.  I wouldn’t change it for the world.

And I shall go on saying that until I see all those beautiful holiday snaps……….

South for the Winter

Pascoe has come South, just for three months – he got a placement with The Government Office for Science – GO-Science.  Naively, I thought he might return to the parental home and commute into Westminster on the crowded train.

I went to enormous pains to make his bedroom welcoming – dammit, I even put the ironing board away.

But did he show any gratitude?

GO-Science offered to pay rent on a modest room in London and he seized the opportunity.  Well, what twenty-four year old wouldn’t want to live in the humming heart of London for a time at least?

So you would think that maybe I’d forgiven him. 

But no – I had resorted to sending him passive aggressive texts:

“Hope your new accommodation is lovely and spacious.”

“Hope you’re managing to cook delicious meals in the tiny shared kitchen.”

But then at the weekend, he appeared at our house, as he had said he would.

Standing next to him in church I felt both ridiculously short and stupidly proud.

And all was forgiven.

Blowing down the wrong end of a kazoo

Pascoe, Nigel and Nick with kazoos

Lying around on my kitchen surface has been a pink kazoo. 

Seems wrong to chuck it out, especially after all it has taught me.

At the Greenbelt Festival, Sunday morning communion was run by twenty children and the Archbishop of Canterbury.  Thrown into the mix were several thousand kazoos to help out with the hymns.

Confidently I put the narrow end to my mouth and tooted.  Nigel shook his head at me. 

I ignored him.  After raising three children and presiding at many kids’ parties and school events I was confident that my kazoo technique was superior to his. 

Nigel had the broad end in his mouth – Loser.

Then Jennie nudged me and pointed at the hymn sheet.  There, in black and white were instructions for the use of a kazoo. 

It said to hum down the broad end.  My reaction was that the leaflet writer had it all wrong. But I was surrounded by thousands of people, all blowing down the broad end.

Was I a lone voice of sanity; was everybody else right, or were they merely acting as mindless sheep?

And more hauntingly –

How many other areas are there in my life where I am heedlessly blowing down the wrong end of the kazoo?

WhatsApp ruined my day

I have just had a MEGA birdwatching experience.

Like all the best sightings, I was completely not expecting it.  Like so many of the things that I hold special today, it has its roots in my childhood.  I remember in Truro Museum, I would often return to  a tall stuffed bird with its glassy eye on a level with mine.  It had a weirdly shaped beak which used to fascinate me.

I was walking along the Truro River with my parents.

We had spotted the teal, shelduck, curlew, redshank, godwit plus mallard and dabchick.

In the estuary, the tide was just up and the water was bubbling with grey mullet enjoying a feeding frenzy. 

It had been a good walk and we were returning to the car when a large white bird took off over the water. 

“Egret” said Dad.

“Too big,” I replied and indeed there was an egret close by – it was smaller.

I had a gut feeling: “Spoonbill!”.

As it came closer and finally flew right over our heads, every doubt was banished.

Thrilled, I WhatsApp the family:

“Guess what flew over my head today?”

Answers:

“A helicopter?”

“A highland cow?”

“A Moomin?”

“Carenza?”

I tire of their flippancy:

“A spoonbill.  AN ACTUAL SPOONBILL”

Then there is some old chat from Carenza and Nigel about what they are having for dinner.

“I said, A SPOONBILL.”

Perran: “Is that a kind of tractor?”

Nigel: “Are you sure it wasn’t a heron? To the untrained eye they can be easily confused.”

Carenza: “We know that bird watching is challenging for you.

I’m sure you’ll learn soon though.”

Pascoe: “I think it was probably a heron holding a very small frying pan in its beak.”

I give in:

“Yep. That does seem to be the most plausible explanation.” *Sighs*

You again

It seems like only last week that I was driving Perran to Bristol and bidding him a sentimental goodbye.

Wait a minute, it was only last week.

But tomorrow I’ll be seeing him again.

He has left all his lecture notes carefully stashed away for the Summer on top of his wardrobe.

He texted to ask would I mind posting them.

If there is one thing I hate (and, just for the record, there is more than one thing I hate), it is finding a cardboard box that hasn’t been crushed by a retailer, wrapping it up, taping it, addressing it, glueing stamps to it and loitering at the post office where the person in front of me always has something bulky/complicated which contravenes post office protocols.

I hate parcels and all their kind.  Nowadays, I even hate receiving them because private delivery firms seem to hire employees with black belts in “knock and run”.

Luckily I’ll be driving to Cornwall to see my parents tomorrow and will therefore transport the gear to Perran in Bristol.

A cock-up like this hasn’t happened since Carenza’s Great Bedroll Omission of 2014 so I guess I should be grateful.  And it’ll give me a chance to see how Perran and his mates have made a home of their little student house. 

I like to picture my offspring missing the comforts of home but not completely overcome by squalor. 

And I guess I can take him a jar of my newly made chilli chutney – I certainly wouldn’t have sent that in a parcel!

Equinox

I drove Perran back to university today.  On the long journey back alone I heard poems on Radio 4 to mark the Autumn Equinox.

I had plenty of time to think. 

It struck me that our family has reached an Equinox too. 

Grandparents are all ageing, Nigel and I still have maybe a decade of working life ahead.

And the children, although they may often find themselves at home with us are launching on adult life.

For a while Nigel and I are still the fulcrum of our family.

I’ve always enjoyed the Autumn – the briskness in the air, the fiery colours of the leaves, the cosiness of the evening fire.

So can I convince myself that Autumn is as wonderful as Summer?

Heels

Part of the qualifications for getting a degree should surely be the power to pass on information.

Luckily for me Carenza has gained this skill.

For, on Saturday, it was her graduation, the type of event where one wears a hat and high heels (or at least the Mums do, though not most of the Dads).

In the end, there were very few hats although Will did mention he’d seen some unusual “fascinators”.  I explained to him that these were mortar boards.

Shoes, however, were de rigeur and there was a fair sprinkling of vertiginous heels.

And this is where the bit about passing on information comes in.

Once robed up, the graduands of St Hugh’s process around a mile to the Sheldonian Theatre where the ceremony takes place.

They process accompanied by friends and family.

In their heels.

It seemed that not all the proud Mums had been expecting this and by the time we reached the Sheldonian, not all the tears were tears of sentiment.

Ironically, within the Sheldonian, the junior proctors who were conducting the ceremony were dashing young women in shiny black high heels and sashayed up and down the aisle as if it were a catwalk.  Presumably neither of them had had to walk quite such a long way to the ceremony.

My flat sandals were dowdy by comparison, but at least when it was time to walk back to lovely the reception at St Hugh’s, I was ready!

Wind-up

On Monday, received an email from the Blood donation service:

“Dear Clare,

This is a reminder that you have an appointment to give blood again on 15 September 2016.”

On Tuesday I received a text saying,

“Your appointment to donate is in 2 days. If you can’t make it please tell us now so we can offer it to another donor.  Thank you.”

On Thursday, another text.

“Hi.  To help keep you well please remember to drink plenty of water before you come to give blood today. We look forward to seeing you later, Many thanks!”

So, with my bladder creaking like a well-filled hot water bottle, I drove up to the designated church hall.  Last time there had been a problem with parking, so I was not surprised when I saw a woman in day-glo directing traffic.

I wound down my window.

“Sorry,” she said, “It’s been cancelled.  There’s building work going on elsewhere in the church and it’s making the hall too dusty.  Perhaps you’d be kind enough to book another appointment.”

After the long suspenseful build-up I actually felt disappointed.

However, I now had an hour to myself that I hadn’t thought I would get.

I could do anything, go anywhere.

Only thing was, it would have to be somewhere with a loo.

On Fire

Eversheds were throwing a launch at the Museum of London for the amazing Fire! Fire! exhibition which they have sponsored.

Nigel was invited and asked if he could bring me as a guest.

The stories about the Great Fire of London have always captivated me.

Did Charles II really organise the fire in order to demolish the crowded city?

Was it really fewer than ten people who died?

Thing is, Perran and Carenza are home.  They have been a shortage item in my life for such a long time, it’s hard to pass up on spending time with them.

Just at the moment, a night in can be tremendous fun.

“They’ve got a great range of original documents at the exhibition,” said Nigel, “And crockery and metalwork that got burnt in the actual fire three hundred and fifty years ago.”

So I went.  The reception was generous with drink, canapés and good company.

The exhibition was intriguing – it told the story of the Great Fire clearly and colourfully.

And when we finally got home, we discovered that the children still were not back from their various social engagements.

All in all, a good decision then.