Journey into Technicolor

Ten weeks after my foot surgery, it was my birthday, and Nigel and I made a trip to meet Perran and Carenza at the Turner Prize Exhibition at the Tate Britain.

Life on crutches has been limiting, but on the journey, I felt like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, when the world changes to Technicolor.

In the tunnels of the London underground, I spotted a young woman carrying in front of her a homemade birthday cake topped with glistening white icing and silver balls.  She obviously lacked suitable tupperware as the cake was uncovered. Her face was shining, and I wanted very much to see the end of her journey when her friend received the cake, hopefully unharmed.

But the press of people carried her on.

Then on the platform were two young men.  One was showing the other a gift that he had wrapped for their friend.  Inside the parcel was a large piece of art.  I couldn’t see the picture, of course.  However, I could admire the way he had carefully cut and folded several different sheets of colourful paper to make an ingenious pattern.

When we met Perran and Carenza, I told them about these Birthday-themed sightings.

And after the Turner prize exhibition, there was one more.  I thought I had left it too late and missed Anthea Hamilton’s mischievous Squash, creating havoc in the main hallway.  

But there it was, a performer dressed as a gourd, loitering and lounging among the older Tate exhibits. 

Carenza said that when she saw the Squash before, it had been much more lively.  We wondered whether it was perhaps a hung-over Squash today. 

Maybe it had had a birthday too.

Passive aggressive bluebells

I am still on crutches, but this weekend managed to clump as far as a lovely bluebell wood within the new forest of Heartwood.

Increased numbers of visitors have meant that the magical narrow tracks which once wound through the hornbeams are now flattened muddy runways. 

The Woodland Trust has clearly decided that gentle nudging is the way to prevent further damage.  Lining the path was a series of wooden posts.  On each was a rhyme:

“Help us beat the bluebell blues,

a problem caused by boots and shoes.

Keep to the path, enjoy the view

and let the new green leaves push through.”

or

“As leaves unfurl and buds hang free,

they hint at beauty we’ll soon see;

but if dogs or walkers go off track,

we may never get that beauty back.”

Having seen young families running amok in the woods, I’m not convinced they will be sensitive enough to respond to this.

I have emailed the Woodland Trust to suggest they stop shilly-shallying and protect the bluebells with electrified barbed wire.

I think the rhymes on the posts could also do with being just a tad more direct:

“When you’re in the woods,

spare the bluebells’ life;

Or we’ll cut your ears off

with a rusty knife.”

(There was a second verse about posting the severed ears to their mother, but I couldn’t make it scan.)

However, in spite of all this, it was lovely to be out again, back in the woods, and I took special care not to whack the bluebell bulbs with my crutches.

photo by Rosie

The ice cream scoop of victory

Back in early August when I was feeling blue following my foot surgery, Philippa, Kathryn and Anne came round to share a takeaway. Anne kindly brought ice cream…. and her own ice cream scoop.

Proudly she demonstrated its ergonomic design. She showed us how it thrust through ice cream like a snow plough through…well, snow. No other scoop worked as efficiently.

After they had all left the scoop was still here.

"Probably she’ll pop back for it."

But she didn't.

"Perhaps you could take it round to her, Nigel "

But Nigel was busy covering my household tasks as well as his own. 

Over the following weeks the ice cream scoop shifted from one part of the kitchen to another until finally its role became clear. 

It was to be SYMBOLIC.

When I could walk well enough to take the scoop back to Anne's I would be a good way down the road to recovery.

At last, on Sunday the moment had arrived. I tucked the scoop in my coat pocket and clumped off on my crutches. Anne was certainly going to be overjoyed to see her long lost scoop again.

At the door she was glad to see me and invited me in politely.

Although it was hardly the exuberant reunion of scoop and owner that I had been anticipating.

“Aren't you pleased to get it back?”

“To be honest, Clare, I thought I must have accidentally thrown it in the bin.  So I went out and bought a new one.”

So we are both winners – I am beginning to walk again, and Anne is now the owner of a double-scoop household.

Not for Weddings

Having decided to get doves (see last post), Nigel became proactive. He ordered a dovecote. We were surprised at how expensive dovecotes are, and how large.

When ours arrived we peered inside to see if there were en suite bathrooms with power showers and anti-mist electric mirrors.

Nigel and a helpful neighbour got it pinned to the wall.

Now all we had to do was source the doves. 

We had to be quick as doves need to be cooped up for six weeks in order to bond with their new home.  We had six weeks right now, following my foot surgery, but as soon as I was better, we would need to go away for the weekend visiting our parents once more.

But even with Google at our fingertips we were drawing a blank.

A site called “Preloved” was offering doves.  I was not sure I want “preloved” doves. It sounded a little weird.

But we joined the site anyway, only to find them gone.

Another breeder insisted on answering our queries only in single word answers and after a while, we gave up the struggle. Yes.

Time was going on.

Finally Nigel found a supplier who said, “Not sold for release at weddings” – the hallmark of quality.

Only snag was they were in Great Yarmouth, nearly three hours from us.

We asked the questions we were supposed to:

“Are they bonded pairs?”

“Sorry, no – too young.”

“Well, have you been able to sex them then?”

“Very difficult with doves.”

“And have you wormed them?”

“Don't usually bother I'm afraid.”

Hmm.

But time was ticking away.

“We’ll take them!”

And that was how we came to drive all the way to Great Yarmouth with a large cardboard box, and bring it back again full of snowy white doves.

Feathered Ambition

Doves have been special to us ever since our courtship. When we moved to our current house we were delighted to see that there were doves nesting under the solar panels opposite. (See previous blog.)

However the owners of the solar panels were less impressed and blocked the birds’ access with wire netting. Still convinced that it was their home, the doves returned for a while but soon it became rarer to see them. 

I missed them.

Then I overheard a conversation in an upmarket junk shop in Cornwall. A woman browsing amongst the stuffed owls and Formica table tops was telling her companion how she had been given three pairs of doves as a wedding gift and now had a whole flock.

My ears flapped. My mouth gaped. I looked down to see I was gripping an antique prosthetic leg.

Hastily I put it down and left to ring Nigel. "We could get our own doves!"

Nigel did some research. 

There was an obstacle. In order to feel that our garden was their home, the birds would need to be cooped up here for 6 weeks. 

"But when would we be at home all the time for six whole weeks?"

When I've had surgery on my foot. That's when.

So we are seizing the day and getting some doves. At last I will not be the only one being "cooped up" at our house.

A foot like a root vegetable

A red letter day was looming on the calendar. I was due to get x-rayed to see if my foot operation had been a success.

Fiona texted, "You know, don't you, that your foot will come out looking like a root vegetable. Take fake tan and a razor with you."

So not just any root vegetable then: a hairy root vegetable.

Perran said "Dead skin. There'll be lots of dead skin."

I peeked at my leg just inside my cast. It did look a tad...scaly.

All was about to be revealed. I hoped it would not be so bad that Nigel (accompanying me) could never again regard me as an attractive woman.

Perhaps there is the basis for a reality TV show? 

Forgotten celebrities desperate to revive failing careers could have their legs broken (perhaps by Timmy Mallett with a golden mallet), get put in plaster, and get judged on the quantity and quality of leg-hair and dead skin they managed to produce over six weeks. 

There would certainly be a “big reveal”. Not sure how they'd fill in the other six weeks of the series though.

Perhaps they could follow the celebrities as they discover that having a broken leg doesn't entitle you to park in a disabled space.  Or as they wait for ages outside the disabled loo because it doubles as a baby change facility.

But all this speculation was just a sideshow. Due back to work on Monday, I really needed the op to have worked.

At the hospital I tried to read the face of the radiologist. She was giving nothing away.

Finally the consultant greeted me, beaming. 

The bones had knitted.

Time to move on to a plastic boot and crutches.

“Thank you thank you thank you,” I said.

“We're not home and dry yet,” he said.

But at least the plastic boot covered up my hairy, scaly leg.

Get Well card from Liz

Wheelchair Lessons

I have had five weeks now of being non-weight-bearing.  That means not setting my foot to the ground, allowing bones to knit after surgery.  Around the house, I’ve been on a knee-scooter and zimmer frame.  Outside, in a wheelchair.  

I haven’t taken any chances.

Dawn said “I think every teenager should have to spend a spell in a wheelchair as part of their education.”

It has certainly been interesting.  I don’t know quite how to react when cheery strangers look at my plaster cast and ask “What have you been doing to yourself?” 

It reminds me of those times in pregnancy when somebody says “Can I put my hand on your bump?”  I’m all ready to resent these intrusions. 

But actually, these are usually the same people who make sure I am okay.  The majority don’t intrude, but neither do they check to see if there’s a wheelchair just behind them as they let the door swing in my face.

On a personal level, I have had to juggle patience, ingenuity and risk in a whole new way.  Stuck every day in the house, small housekeeping issues catch my eye.  Can I be patient and wait until Nigel has a moment to deal with them, or can I find a safe(-ish) way to reach/clean/lift it myself?  

I have discovered that I am a one-legged acrobat and a champion nag, but not terribly patient…. Definitely an education!

A Cure for Cabin Fever

I’m currently spending the long summer holiday with a foot in plaster.  I mustn’t put any weight on it.

Nigel has wheeled me out on several occasions and pushed me around manfully.

However, I had given up on the idea of a girls’ outing and a giggle.  And I was getting cabin fever.

But then Jennie had an idea.

She researched attractions and accessibility and recruited two other heroes – Ann and Gill.

We were going to Kew Gardens.

I am hefty and my borrowed wheelchair primitive, so I packed a novel, ready for the moment when they could push me no more.  Frankly, I was expecting to be parked.

However, we had a glorious day, trundling past a grove of giant sequoias, a shady border of toad lilies, a pond floating delicate waterlilies.

My friends helped me to get close enough to smell the roses, to stroke the pom-pom centres of echinacea. Above, we could hear the kazoo squawks of parakeets, and in between that feast for my senses, I enjoyed the chat.

Even in the face of uphill gradient and difficult camber, the ladies refused to park me until right at the very end, when the waterlily house was just too challenging. 

Naturally I spent the journey home complaining that I hadn’t had time to finish my novel.

A couple of palm trees that Ann found unaccountably amusing.

Like a dachshund on wheels

Three weeks ago, I had surgery on my foot.  Three joints were fused so that eventually I shall be able to walk with less pain. 

I am not allowed to put my foot to the ground for six weeks and I have just passed the midpoint of that period.

I have hired a little scooter called a stride-on which is good for whizzing round the house.  
Outdoors I’m in a wheelchair.

It means that my life has been less full of incident than usual.  The main source of excitement is the odd occasion when I reverse my scooter too fast and whack my foot on something.

I have to keep citing the research that says swearing is a good tool for reducing the severity of pain experienced.

Perran has helped by finding Youtube videos of amputee dogs who have had wheels attached to them.  Apparently that is what I look like on my scooter.

Ha, ha, ha.

I have been torn between engaging my mind to devise clever strategies for achieving everyday activities, and simply saying, “Nah! Can’t do that.  Somebody else will have to pick it up/put it away/carry it upstairs.”

I’ve also used the time to force myself to do some of the World’s Dullest Sedentary Tasks:

Tidying my hard drive,

Reorganising my paper filing system,

Investigating my various bits of cloud storage.

I desperately hope that my foot heals according to plan or there’s a very real danger I might have to tackle the chest of drawers containing all our old photos and negatives.

House Party

“Me and Perran and Zac and Ella are going to dress up as ABBA,” announced Carenza, “For our house party. The theme’s going to be Pop.”

“Oh, that sounds fun,” I say, “When’s that going to be?”

“So we’re having a look at cheap platform boots.”

A week later and Perran is musing on the party.

“We could decorate the house as if it was under-water – I know this brilliant way of attaching streamers to umbrellas to make them look like jelly fish.”

“Great idea.  So when is this aquatic-themed Abba party going to be then?”

“Maybe not, though.  Better just to stick to the idea of Pop.”

Nigel says, “Perran and Carenza are really looking forward to this house party they’re having, aren’t they?”

“Yes, although I’m not sure when it is.  Do you know?”

It turns out that although both of us have asked, neither of us knows.

They are clearly worried that we will turn up and embarrass them.

The very idea. 

After all, it’s more than a decade ago since we traumatised them by leaving the house for an Eighties Party with Nigel dressed as “Frankie goes to Bricket Wood”.

Harumph.

I Whatsapp them: “Am ordering my white satin cat-suit and want to make sure it arrives on time.  When did you say your party was again?”

No reply.

“Your father’s Gary Glitter chest wig has arrived.  Could you please tell us the date of your party so we know if we need to extend the hire period.”

No reply.

Eventually, we wine them and dine them and the date just slips out.

On the evening of the party, I Whatsapp again:

“We should be with you by 6.25.  Hope that’s not too early, but we want to allow plenty of time for pre-loading.”

Then in the morning:

“We knocked for ever such a long time, but nobody let us in.  Perhaps the music was too loud?”

I turn to Nigel: “Oh well.  I’m not convinced a white satin cat suit would have looked good on me anyway.”

Love Island

"I can't believe you watch Love island" said Ann. And she's not the first. I guess because I'm a Latin teacher people think I'm high brow. 

And up to a point I am. 

Carenza who also watches Love Island says "It's vacuous and pointless but strangely fascinating "

But I think it's more than that. I think it has a timeless, epic quality.

Imagine "A Midsummer Night's Dream", but with an infinity pool.

ON ITV2, love is confusing and deluding and rewarding but so has it always been through the millennia.

And for me as a Classics teacher, the bronzed and fabulous beings on my screen recall the Greek gods. Never more than when they are duplicitous and steal a kiss behind their partner's back.

But the main way in which they differ is in their morality. 

The love islanders display a clear idea of good behaviour and morality. Mainly it is around being open about who you are pursuing and clearing the air if you tread on somebody's toes. 

The Greek gods indulged in prolonged deceit ( the affair of Ares and Aphrodite, even though she was married to Hephaestos). They had no interest in whether a woman consented or not ( out of many, many examples, Zeus and Europa, Apollo and Daphne). And women  would seek revenge on one another like Athena on Medusa, when it was all clearly the man's fault ( Poseidons). 

Nothing I have seen on this year's Love Island has touched this level of immorality.

Jack and Dani particularly, are the undisputed King and Queen (Zeus & Hera ) of the island, but none of the other bikini- clad beauties has turned Jack's head and the gracious Dani has no need to turn vengeful unlike poor Hera.

So which is a better example for our times? Love Island or Classics? 
I say Love Island.

....Like a newt needs a bicycle

I love my bike now.
I have pimped it with fake sunflowers and a large yellow Van Gogh bike bell. My kids bought me a bike helmet a bit like the cool gold one Mary Beard wears, but bronze.
The only bit I don't like is when I arrive back at my bike having bought a large bunch of lilies or a dozen eggs and think "Now how am I going to get THIS home?"
And that's exactly what happened last week when I ended up pedalling across town with two young newts in my bike basket.
Having lunch by Carole's pond, she confided that she had almost too many newts. Apparently they were annoying the frogs.
"How? Blowing tiny amphibian raspberries? Calling them slimy names?"
"No Clare. Eating the frogspawn."
Not put off by their uncouth behaviour, I mentioned that our brand new garden pond lacked newts.
Together we squatted down and set about pond-dabbing like six-year-olds.  At first we gathered only a bunch of slime.  But then two baby newts for me to take home.
Then I remembered I was on my bike.
I would like to report that the newts sat up  straight, peering alertly through the bars of the bike basket and enjoying the wind in their crests.
However Carole kindly provided a yoghurt tub to give them a safe journey home.
They  seemed none the worse for it as they swam off into our pond. However I think it's likely that the only cycle they'll be interested in in future is the newt life cycle.

New Frock

It’s one of my rules – if there’s an event coming up, don’t go out shopping for The Frock.

The Frock is something you never find when you’re actually looking.

But unfortunately, I sometimes have giddy moments and break my own rules.

I had a few occasions to go to this summer and I thought maybe a new dress…

.

I prowled the internet.  Hopefully it’s the closest I’ll come to internet dating.  Many handsome frocks, but none of them looked like The Frock. 

Plus, I was pretty sure that when I tried them on, they wouldn’t look as thin and gorgeous as they did in their profile pictures.

A quick sweep of Monsoon (accomplished at a moment when Nigel was texting me ‘Where are you?’) had left me with a fleeting impression of a lace dress in flaming orange and hot pink.  It was the kind of dress that already seemed to have a red rose gripped between its teeth.

I didn’t have time to try it on.

On holiday, Carenza encouraged me to buy it. 

It looked good on.

And that should have been the happy ending.

But then I needed a jacket – it had to match either the hot pink or the orange – I found one in orange.

Then a clutch bag.  Hot pink!

Then shoes – something neutral.  But no, the ones that fitted best were rose gold.

I became afraid to look in the mirror – scared that peering back at me, I would see Grayson Perry.

I wore it all to Hannah & Joel’s wedding.  It certainly ensured that nobody could miss me -  the brightly-coloured woman three rows back who was trying to stifle a coughing fit during the vows.

But after all, at least when the dancing started, it made me feel young.

Military Might and Orchids

We thought we should learn more aboutWWII The twins still have nightmares from an earlier visit to La Vallee Museum, based in a German Underground Hospital excavated by slave labour. So instead we cycled the German Occupation Museum and then to Pleinmont Observation Tower.

The man who admitted us to Pleinmont Observation Tower was the same person who had taken our money only hours earlier at the German Occupation Museum so I imagine WWII heritage is preserved by a small and dedicated band of people.  Locally this man was a star having produced the introduction to the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie film which was out this year.  However, he did admit that it was only the Channel Islands version of the film which had his introduction.   

The tower itself had the purpose of monitoring plane and ship movements out to sea, although thrown up in a matter of months by the Germans and with an emphasis on being secure, even against gas attack, it was still an elegant example of brutalist architecture.  However, whether this souvenir of the Nazi occupation will ever be admired more than it is hated is hard to imagine.

In complete contrast to all this history of ruthless military aggression, there was something else I very much wanted to see.  Googling, Pascoe and I had discovered by chance that 1)There was a spectacular wild Guernsey orchid.  2) It was in bloom now, 3) There were some fields near the coast where it thrived.

It sounded like a potential wild goose chase to Nigel but I was determined, and we pedalled to the right area.

I eventually spotted the exotic purple flowers over a hedge and slammed my brakes on to much swearing behind me.  

The loveliness of these lush, flower-tapestry water meadows  was beyond me to describe.  Suffice it to say that there were four types of orchid including the loose-flowered Guernsey orchid, and also delicate ragged robin, yellow bartsia and yellow flag irises.  It is not promoted to tourists so, apart from one other equally astounded couple, we had the meadows to ourselves. Maybe Heaven will be a bit like that.

We ended the day by playing Frisbee on the beach then had a glass of Prosecco while the sun sank behind a rocky island.

At sunset, the tide had dropped enough to allow us to clamber across to the island, just in time to see the sea flush rose.

PHOTOS BY CARENZA

Dolphins and Sea shells

We cycled to St Peter Port and caught the ferry to Herm.  Many people are drawn to Herm because it is the picture postcard ideal of an island.  Above the white sand beaches, brightly coloured flowers and tall New Zealand flax make it look tropical.  But I had another goal in mind. 

On the ferry trip over, more gleeful dolphins accompanied us, although Perran and Carenza and Will, sitting inside the boat, missed them.  Once on Herm, there was little consultation as to what we should do.  I set off marching purposefully and the others fell in line behind me. We were heading to the north east of the island, to Shell Bay where there was rumoured to be an extraordinary and compulsive array of shells.  

When we got there, we did indeed find everything from massive common "otters" through to the tiniest cowries.  Plus many shells which I had not seen before. Ever since childhood, I have had a weird compulsion to collect shells, without any thought of how to make use of them.  They seem to me exquisitely beautiful and I derive visual pleasure from picking them out, then enjoy sorting and categorising them.  

I have a tradition with Carenza that the first one of us to find a cowry on holiday gives it as a gift to the other.  Today, our hands were overflowing with them.

Too soon, it was time for the last ferry and home.  On the way back, Perran and Carenza who had previously missed the dolphins sat on the top deck in order to be sure of not missing them.  Naturally, there were no dolphins this time.

Chapel & Chips - Family Holiday, Guernsey

Cycled to the charming Little Chapel, hand mosaicked in multi-coloured china and tile by a monk about 100 years ago.  Nigel remembered visiting here on a childhood holiday.  We came again when our own children were tiny and I remembered accidentally leaving my copy of Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth here.  I had a quick look round but it seemed to have vanished during the intervening eighteen years. 

The ceramic decoration was mesmerising - themes and patterns would emerge over certain sections, but would then meld into the general melee of varied fragments.  There was a pattern of ormer shells on the vaulting above the Virgin Mary.  And what I didn’t expect, the Chapel took the visitor on a journey through to a further two tiny chapels at lower levels.  

Nearby were Guernsey clockmakers, inventive and imaginative yet tacky at the same time – segments of each clockface split, unfurled and twirled in time to Swan Lake or The Waltz of the Flowers, accompanied by motifs of tutu-ed ballet dancers or tulips, and regrettably studded with Swarovski.

Then north west on our bikes again, along lanes lined with a braid of red campion and wild sorrel.

We visited the tiny ancient chapel of St Apolline, the patron saint of toothache (following a  gruesome martyrdom which I'll leave to your imagination), and appreciated the exquisite mediaeval wall-painting of the Last Supper.

Then back in time for the Fleetwood Mac Tribute balcony concert at Cobo Bay Hotel.  Thousands of people thronged the coast road and beach to chill out  to the music, but I had something else on my mind: there was a chippie very close to the concert.

So last time we went on holiday en famille, I had brought with us salt, white pepper, malt vinegar and ketchup, all in anticipation of fish and chips.  However, Nigel had discovered that the chips that time were fried in beef dripping, thus putting them off-limits to four family members.  I had sadly taken home my condiments unused. 

This time however, Nigel solved the problem by not asking what their chips were fried in and I colluded by not questioning him.  Instead, I opened the fragrant paper parcel he had purchased, pulled the Sarsons malt vinegar from my ruck sack and drenched the delicious fish and chips.  They were so good that I barely remembered to feel guilty.  And as if fish and chips were not enough to make the Halleluiah Chorus play spontaneously in my head, we were eating them perched on a sea wall, my favourite spot for making any food taste twice as good.  Plus, the Fleetwood Mac Tribute was playing in the background.

After the chips, we lolled on the beach like seals, happy in our own blubber and decided we would wait on the beach for the sunset, even in spite of the fact that some local twenty-somethings came and began to hurl a rugby ball around far too close to us. 

One dropped the ball:  “You’re so gay!”  “I may be gay, but at least my dick’s bigger than yours.”  An object lesson in witty banter to be treasured by each one of us.