Eggs without panic

I had given up on finding some eggs to buy. 

But as a vegetarian, they do mean a lot to me.

Since I was passing, I decided to get a couple of items in a Tesco’s Local.

I nearly didn't go in as last time I had received poor service:-

A dopey teenage boy had been serving. I had handed over my single purchase – a swede. He stared at it in puzzlement.  I suspected he did not know what a swede was. 

“It hasn’t got a barcode.  Can you go and get one with a barcode.”

I trudged back to the far end and returned with another swede, but then gave him a look over my glasses and pointedly used the self-service till.

Today, as I went to pay for my tub of low-fat spread, there he was again.  My heart sank.

Just as I reached the front of the queue, another assistant called to him,

“What are all these eggs doing behind the till?”

“When people have been trying to buy too many, I’ve been taking them off them, like you said.”

“Yes, but you’re then supposed to re-shelve them.  People have been asking for eggs!”

Now was my chance.

“In that case, can I have some eggs please?”

“You can have up to three packs.”

“No thanks.  Just one.”

A unexpected bounty!

Just goes to show that dopiness is a two-edged sword.

Are haircuts still allowed?

Wheeling my bike along the local shopping street I saw my friend Rob and we snatched a catch-up.

We attempted to observe a ‘social distance’.  This worked between the two of us, but because we were spread out across the pavement other pedestrians simply piled into us.

In between “Excuse me”s and “Sorry”s I announced,

“I’m just going to get my hair cut.”

“Is that still allowed?!?”

“I hope so. I made an appointment two months ago, and I’ve received a confirmation.”

“Well, if they turn out to be shut, don’t worry there’s another one just round the corner.”

This was an intriguing insight into a male view of hairdressers – rather like buses, if you miss one just catch the next one.

Mosaic Hair Studio was open.  But my lovely hairdresser slipped in the door just at the same moment I did, looking hassled.

During the course of my cut, she explained that she had not been panic buying so her cupboard was now pretty much bare.  She’d been at the supermarket trying to get some food. Any food.

She had tried yesterday evening too.  And last night.

“What am I supposed to do? Sit at home and eat newspaper?”

As she finished her saga, she took the last snip and ran her hands through my hair to pull it into shape.

“You know, after all that, I think that’s the best cut you’ve ever given me!”

“Maybe I cut better when I’m slightly stressed.”

So I’m glad my haircut was still allowed.

And I hope she got some groceries!

Bringing out the best and the worst

People have been ringing each other and asking, “Are you okay?”

We have been setting up local mutual support circles for errands and shopping.

WhatsApp, Facebook and Instagram are being employed to boost morale and find the funny side - Many a chat group is devoting itself to the mystery of why everybody thinks they need SO much loo paper.

Some of us have been prompted to acquire new skills and use technologies such as video conferencing for the first time.

In lieu of a social life, we’re getting round to domestic projects that have been on hold for too long – in my case, potting my succulents (plants) and finally making Carenza a skirt out of the dress she wore as a bridesmaid when she was nine.

So maybe this crisis is making me a better human being.

But if anybody touches my dried pasta, I shall club them to death with my super-sized bottle of hand sanitiser.

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.

How unromantic can Valentine's Day be?

Nigel and I spent Valentines respectively in Northumberland and Cornwall, visiting our parents.

We WhatsApped.

Not terribly romantic.

However, paradoxically, sometimes it’s when an occasion is meant to be most romantic that it falls short.

On holiday last year, we found what we thought was a lovely restaurant until…

 “Nigel, there are no prices on my menu – does that mean it’s going to be fearsomely expensive?”

 “That’s funny.  There ARE prices in mine.”

Nigel figured out the reason first.

“We’ve been given His & Hers menus.”

“No! How horribly sexist!”

Did we leave?

We were weary and hungry, so no we did not.  We sat firmly on our principles.

We watched as other couples drifted in and the women were handed a menu from one pile, the men from another.

Until two men, clearly also a couple, entered the garden. 

We watched intently to see what happened.

The waiter automatically picked up the His & Hers menus then did a double-take at the couple in front of him.

Pause.

Stare at menus in hands.

Gawp again at couple in front of him. 

Finally, put down the Hers menu and pick up a second His menu.

Romance wasn’t dead at this restaurant – just half a century behind the times.

Photo by Jesse Goll on Unsplash

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.

Child Substitutes

Last weekend, Nick and Jackie were listening to Nigel talking about our doves and how he had built an extension to the dovecote for them.  I explained how we had got them through an outbreak of coccidiosis (a fatal bird disease). Then Nigel showed how we hand-feed them.   

“Ah,” said Jackie, “Child substitutes.”

I’ve been considering this.

Jackie is wrong because:

a I cannot tell the doves apart, whereas I can tell my children apart (even though I constantly mix their names up).

b I do not expect my children to sleep outside.

c I do not exchange news and anecdotes with the doves.

d And finally, the doves are often at home and seem pleased to see us.

However, it was Perran and Carenza’s birthday on Wednesday – we were both at work and so were they (for such is adult life) so we post-poned a get-together until the weekend.

It did occur to me that if I were to bake a birthday cake and take it out to the doves there would be no suspicious queries as to whether it was fully vegan or health worries about the sugar and fat content.

  They would be simply delighted and gobble it up.

I still don’t think they are a child substitute, for me at least, but they do offer certain definite advantages…

Joined up writing

I was with friends at an outdoor café.

Sunshine meant a busy day and as I queued with Carol, a young waitress came out and wrote on the chalk board,

'No more soup.  Sorry for the inconveniance.'

She stood back, and surveyed her handiwork: 'That’s not right is it?'

'It’s an 'e',' offered a helpful bystander.

She rewrote it

'…inconveneance' her hand trailed off- she knew it still wasn’t right.

Other people in the queue began to voice their opinions. She started again, but in the face of contradictory advice, she soon froze, unable to proceed.

By this time the queue had advanced and I was right next to her. If a teacher has one super-power, then it is to write things clearly on boards.

'Would you like me to…?'

Gratefully she handed me the chalk.  I used my best teacher hand-writing to complete the notice and, resisting the urge to bow, passed on happily to order my food at the hatch.

'Well done,' said Carol, 'Inconvenience is a tricky one.'

I didn’t need soup to warm me, I had the smug glow of the accurate speller. 

But when we joined the others with our sandwiches, Diane nudged me to look back at the board. 

The young woman was painstakingly rewriting my inscription in an adult hand with loops and flourishes. 

'Alright – so I can spell – I just can’t do joined up writing.'

A very inconvenient piggy-bank

Coming back from work, I could see Nigel’s coat in the hall.  But no Nigel.

“Helloooo!”

“Gnnnn….”

The strange noise led me through to the kitchen.

On its side was the washing machine.  Wedged between it and the wall was Nigel.  Dirty suds stained the floor and he was up to his elbows in the device, like James Herriot delivering a problem calf.

I had nonchalantly put the sheets to wash before I went to work, but he had come home to find it all gone wrong.

With gritted teeth, and a pair of pliers, he was tugging at something caught in the pipe.  Again and again there was a clunk as he lost his grip on the object.

Eventually he wrestled out 71p’s worth of change. 

Unfortunately the machine was still making a weird sound afterwards so I now need to get it fixed.

The whole thing reminded me of a childhood gift that a relation once gave me.  It was a ceramic piggy bank where the only way to access my savings was to break the pig.

(And by the way, who on earth would do that to a child?!?)

All in all, I’m not sure 71p was worth taking the machine apart for. 

But at least I’m not emotionally attached to it in the way I was to poor Porky.

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…

Saved by the School Bell

Three years ago, Christmas finished but Carenza was still living with us and not in proper work yet.

Two years ago, Christmas finished and both Perran and Carenza were living with us.

One year ago, Pascoe was home.  “We could have an adventure, Mum,” he said, and we did – a short trip to meltingly beautiful Lisbon.

This year, however, after what was for me an unsatisfactory Christmas (flu) all the children left to go back to their own flats and working lives.  Nigel returned to work too.

Still feeling rather sorry for myself, I found myself with several days before teaching started and a to-do list which, though long, contained no task that I found in any way tempting.

Instead I sat around wondering what my whole life had been about, whether the good times were all over.  Whether all that was left was decline and inevitable decay.

Luckily, work started again this week.

I now know what life is about – it is about printing out registers, marking stray exercise books, making sure the info on my PowerPoints is correct and that everything is uploaded to my USB stick.

I feel much more myself again.

So that’s alright then.

Phantom Christmas

I have heard of the concept of a phantom pregnancy, where, perhaps because she longs for a baby, a woman develops the symptoms of pregnancy, yet there is no baby to be born.

This year, I had a phantom Christmas.  I made all the preparations – cards, gifts, food, sleeping arrangements.  Even though I try not to over-complicate, there’s still more than enough to do.

Pascoe, Perran and Carenza had all arrived home, much to our delight.

Then on the morning of Christmas Eve, I woke to find I could not get out of bed – I was gripped by a fever and aches and pains. Even my eyes hurt too much to read my novel.

On Christmas morning itself,  I got up for just long enough to see Pascoe, Perran and Carenza open their gifts.  I tried to be glad for everybody else’s sake that the sun was shining for the annual Christmas walk.  I got the makings of dinner out of the fridge and, led by Carenza, the rest of the family cooked and ate them.

By Boxing Day Nigel had the flu too. 

Gradually, over the next couple of days, we began to feel more ourselves again and had some good moments with our lovely children.  However, by Sunday lunch time, they were all gone, back to work, or celebrations with friends. 

Now there is bedding to wash and leftovers to use up, evidence that the festival took place, but I kind of have this weird feeling that I’m short by one Christmas.

Perhaps I’m due two next year!

When you thought you knew somebody and then….

I’m in pre-Christmas headless chicken/blue-bottom fly mode.

Rushing round shopping, wrapping, posting.

But something this week made me come to a complete stand still.

It was a totally unexpected find, and it is taking me a while to process.

Whether it is good or bad I have not yet decided.

Let me explain---

I was just putting away some gloves when I opened Nigel’s hat/glove/scarf drawer in the hall cupboard.

There, carefully arranged in Marie Kondo style were all Nigel’s scarves.

“Nigel, did you do this?”

“Errr, yes.”

“And is it working well for you?”

“Yep.”

And there I left it.  But in my depths, I am troubled that after thirty-five years of marriage, he can still surprise me.

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.

Lost Babies

All year round, I take photos of lost things.

I’m not sure why – perhaps it is because of the stories they suggest.

Sometimes the lost things are lying on the ground, sometimes perched on a fence for the owner to spot.

The commonest item is hats, the second commonest, gloves.  So no surprises there.

At the Greenbelt festival, I found a whole get-together of lost items

And recently a lost moustache made me smile.

Another memorable find was some abandoned underpants, just outside a public toilet which had been permanently closed and chained up.  Fill in the story for yourself.

But the most amazing things this Autumn were two lost babies, both in the same week.

Anthony Gormley’s sculpture of his own baby was left in the courtyard of the RA, making passers by marvel at its statement of vulnerability.

And on a school carpet, somebody’s tiny plastic baby doll, sadly not intentionally abandoned, I suspect.  I hope it found a new and loving owner.

What will I find next year?

Lots of hats and gloves, no doubt, but also, maybe something else to make me marvel.