Monthly Archives: April 2017

The Catwalk

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Chris arose from his seat at the breakfast table and went over to the fridge for butter.  When he returned I hit him with it:

“Do you know who who reminded me of just then?”

“No,” Chris paused and braced himself as if something awful was coming. (I can’t imagine why husbands always expect the worst…)

“Well, you looked just like Jess the cat,” I said.

“How do you mean?” Chris still thought there was an insult coming.

“Don’t you remember how Jess sort of rolled his shoulders forward like a big tough guy and swaggered his haunches to show off?”, I answered, getting up and doing a bit of shoulder-rolling and swaggering myself. (In fact I reminded myself more of John Wayne than Jess our long departed cat.)

Chris laughed and we had a few moments of silence while we each enjoyed our own private reverie about Jess. We didn’t need to speak because we’ve reminisced so many times on the characterful antics of our half-feral cat. Jess didn’t like flea repellent. As soon as he ever heard the crack of the glass capsule breaking he would go into reverse and nearly walk up the wall back feet first. But he was clever enough to understand that he had to keep very still when we had to remove tics using a lit cigarette and a pair of tweezers (those were days when I used to smoke – now I’m like Mother Teresa, not to be confused with Teresa May our Prime Minister!). Poor Jess, he died from poisoning (a neighbour had set a trap for rats in his garden).

No doubt the image of Jess’s face flicked through Chris’s mind, too – and the burial, which was something of a black comedy. You see Jess was rather a big cat, and it seemed all the more so in death – and we have a vertical garden with little topsoil and lots of sandstone; hence we decided to bury him up on Haldon Moor only a few miles from home. Along with the black sack containing the heavy body, we carried a pickaxe and spade with us into the woods… but, unfortunately, below the scant three inches of topsoil was flint – sparks flew every time Chris’s spade made contact. We couldn’t bring ourselves to take the “stiff” home with us so the only other answer was to build a pyre above ground and place logs and stones on it to prevent foxes from getting at it. It was quite a romantic send-off, if a bit furtive. Armed with our pick and spade we felt like criminals coming  out of the woods, especially when we met a cyclist who looked at us suspiciously. “Just buried the cat,” Chris said. “A likely story,” the cyclist may have thought… We made our getaway before he had a chance to call the police.

Back in the kitchen it was clear that Chris had not felt insulted.

“I hope you didn’t mind me saying that you reminded me of Jess the cat,” I smiled.

“Not at all,” he responded, “you’ve said a lot worse!”

 

 

 

The North Wind Doth Blow

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That nasty old North wind has come back. For over a week I’ve been busy trying to get as much of the outdoors painting done as possible before the predicted change for the worse in the weather today. Our house is like the Forth Bridge, in that when you’ve finished all the maintenance works it’s time to begin again! In spite of the cold wind this morning it was quite warm in the sunshine on the sea-side of our house, where I took the paint and brushes to paint the railings by the back steps (our house is sort of back to front because the back is the architectural front and our main entrance from the roadside is really the back elevation); at the same time Chris was painting our gate on the other side – the cold side – so I had the preferable task.

I’m into philosophy at the moment and enjoy listening on YouTube to lectures on the great thinkers while I paint – of course, that’s usually painting of a different sort but if I can listen while I paint pictures then why not when there are less challenging railings to be painted? So I clicked onto a lecture – “Carl Jung’s “Synchronicity” Explained” – and began painting those seemingly endless railings. Wearing an old demoted sun-top and shorts I was surprisingly warm – even had to nip upstairs and put on sun screen – so long as the sun was out. Two huge grey clouds threatened rain and made me shiver but they they both passed over and shed their loads over the sea.

Soon Chris came down with the phone and I turned off “Synchronicity” (Synchronicity is a concept, first explained by analytical psychologist Carl Jung, which holds that events are “meaningful coincidences” if they occur with no causal relationship yet seem to be meaningfully related.)  It was my friend Rosie inviting my sister Mary and me to meet her tiny new granddaughter Senka; coincidentally, I am soon to become grandmother to a little girl (at present Penelope), and Mary became grandmother to her fifth granddaughter last year.

When our telephone conversation ended I resumed painting without feeling the need to continue listening to the lecture; I was happy just to think about the things Rosie had said to me. I smiled to myself as I considered our conversation. Rosie said I was a “young grandmother” – in attitude, if not years (Mary was thirty-eight when she first became Grandma) – and attributed her notion of youthfulness to my being from the flower power era in the late sixties and early seventies. And the more I thought about it, the more I agreed…

To Mary and I living in Australia at that time “flower power” meant wearing psychedelic flares, apple-seed necklaces and cheese-cloth tops, and we wrote words like, “Make love not war”, without really understanding that we were growing up in an age of greater freedom – because we were part of it, being too young to have actually brought about any changes. We made slave shoes out of raffia, not realising that the symbol of the flowers represented peaceful protest (at least, I didn’t think about that at twelve years old).

By happy coincidence at four o’clock, just when my “Forth Bridge railings” were finished at last, the north wind brought showers of sleet and hail. Tomorrow we’re promised more of the same so I’ll be back painting in my studio with Carl Jung or Jean-Paul Sartre in my ears. It’s so nice to be regarded a young grandmother – more aptly perhaps… a Jung grandmother.

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Cutting It

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I have just had my morning shower and I’m looking for something to wear, so I’m stood in only my “bare necessities” as I peruse the vast array of tired clothes in my closet. Nothing inspires me, hence I’m standing there for quite some time. Suddenly, I feel a pair of masculine arms encircling my waist from behind. I don’t look around because I am reaching up to take a garment off its hanger and also, I know who it is. Nevertheless, I ask lightheartedly:

“Who is that?”

He laughs and pulls me tighter. As he does so I bring my hands onto his and I feel something sharp – I look down and see that he has a pair of nail scissors in his left hand. (Obviously he was coming back to the bedroom to return the scissors to his ‘man-drawer’.)

“I know who you are,” I say before adding, “Edward Scissorhands!”

“Cut it out!” Chris says.

“No need to be so sharp,” I say back.

 

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A Little Dotty

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Something very sweet happened to me last week. Chris and I were just coming home from a small shopping adventure at our local Sainsbury’s. Chris had rushed ahead of me and flew down the steps before I had even reached our gate. I was about to go through the open gateway when I turned and noticed a lady walking with a tiny tot wearing reins. The toddler caught my attention because she was rather tall but she had a nearly bald head like a much younger baby. Also, the dear little mite looked right at me in the unabashed way of an innocent who has not yet learned the social mores.

“Hello,” I said smiling.

Would you believe that the tot toddled over to me, put her arms around my legs and snuggled up to me? I was rather overwhelmed with the urge to pick her up and give her a big kiss but I wasn’t sure what her mum would think so, instead, I patted her little bald pate and, seeing that her mother was smiling, I bent down to kiss the scant hair above an ear.

“What’s her name?” I asked.

“Dot…Dotty,” she said.

I suddenly had a childhood memory of the cartoon character “Little Dot”; it took me back to the time when I was nine and had just had my appendix out. I could hardly move in my hospital bed for fear that my wound would open up and I was reading “Little Dot”. The cartoon Dot was dying of thirst in a desert when she saw a cactus and cut it open for the water… Cartoon Dot awoke with a start from her desert dream as she realised she was just about to eat the cactus pot plant on her bedside table! That had me in stitches! Isn’t it funny what strange things come back to us years later? Just because of a name…

The real little Dot didn’t have a red dress with black polka dots – she was wearing a pink baby dress over grey leggings and she wore pink shoes. Dotty was looking through the open gate at the view of the sea between the rooftops. I picked her up that she might see better the sunshine glittering on the water.

“She loves the sea,” said her mum.

“Well I must go Dotty,” I said, putting Dot down on her own two legs. (Yes, I know you might think I’m dotty already!)

The darling girl took me by the hand and told me, without the need for words, that she wanted to go for a walk with me. Ah, so sweet…

And in early July my son’s little girl is due to enter the world. James and Jaimy say they’ll be happy to let Penelope come down to Devon from Brighton and stay with Grandma and Grandpa when she is old enough. But I won’t be able to introduce Penelope to “Little Dot” from the comic – they finally stopped producing them in 1984.

 

Nineteen

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I don’t know what Sigmund Freud would have made of it…

I was trudging up a long and steep hill, and, most peculiarly, I was wearing Chris’s bright blue plastic sandals, having opted to wear his rather than my own bright yellow plastic sandals. Disturbingly, Chris took umbrage with me for wearing his blue sandals and he walked past with a group of young women. I couldn’t catch up because I was so weary. Then suddenly I was in a shower-block, like those on campsites, and every door was shut to me because the women with Chris had taken them all first. It was terribly distressing…

Just as I was feeling my most wretched I heard a sound beside my right ear and I opened my eyes to see primroses on my bedside table.

“Happy nineteenth anniversary!” Chris said. “I had to search high and low for the primroses – they were early this year!”

He had been out before six in the morning on the hunt for the pretty yellow flowers that were so abundant when we married on the birthday of my dad and also my friend Sally – two days before Primrose Day.

Whilst I was still lying down, and adjusting from dream to reality, Chris assured me that he would never be upset if I wore his sandals but he would be surprised because he doesn’t have any blue plastic sandals and anyway, he takes a size 11 and I wear a puny (by comparison) size 8! And to prove that he would never go off with other women he proceeded to read me the poem he had written in anticipation of our anniversary morning rather than a bad dream…

NINETEEN

For my Darling Sally on our Nineteenth Wedding Anniversary
Nineteen summers, nineteen winters
laughing at Life’s shards and splinters
Each successive Spring and Autumn
practising all Life has taught’em
Every year the trials and triumphs
challenging complete compliance
yet despite these undulations
testing inter-marriage patience
All I ever loved and needed
while the months and years succeeded
lay right there within our marriage
and our vow to love and cherish
proved to be the one and only
guarantee ‘gainst being lonely
for, you see, since first I saw you
every day, I still adore you
Sally, sweetheart, you’re my treasure
finest friend and greatest pleasure
And, like before, still just as true
I WANT TO SPEND MY LIFE WITH YOU!!
My early attempt to hypnotise Chris when we first fell in love seemed to have worked. I wonder what Freud would have made of that?
From the bedside And more on the table

The Scream

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I couldn’t resist putting in this image of Edvard Munch’s iconic painting, which pretty well sums up the way I felt earlier in the day when I was waiting at the doctors surgery.

As per usual I found a chair as remote from the waiting throng as possible (well you don’t want to pick up any germs – do you?). My chosen seat was in a niche at the top of the stairs leading down to the lower section, but still on the middle level and separated from the main waiting room by a wall above the stairwell; therefore I was protected not only from the germs, but also from the sight of most of the other patients. My spot afforded me a view of just two patients sat opposite on the far wall and I could see the comings and goings through the doorway to the doctors’ rooms. Before sitting down I picked up a bowel cancer screening leaflet.

Some minutes later I was thinking that perhaps I should ring and ask for a testing kit when I heard a nasty cough emitted by an elderly man behind the wall. After flinching somewhat at the sound of loose phlegm I recovered my composure and almost smiled to myself – how sensible I had been in choosing such a good spot; okay, the sound travelled rather too well through the waiting room wall but I was at least safe from those horrid germs. Bored with all the health warning brochures I went over and chose reading matter from a pile of magazines beside the bald young man directly opposite me (he didn’t look too ill).

Soon it was hard to concentrate on the “Woman” magazine, not only because I didn’t have my reading glasses with me and I had to squint, but mainly due to a loud and high-pitched scream behind the wall. My hands went instinctively to my ears to protect my eardrums from the piercing noise. The screaming persisted and no chiding or soothing sounds came from behind the wall. I surveyed the faces of the two men on the bench seats opposite me. Each kept his head down, perhaps in the hope that the noise would cease if they paid no heed. The older man (with plenty of hair) glanced momentarily my way and stifled a chuckle. I was still holding my ears like the subject in the painting of “The Scream”.

With my hands planted firmly beside my face I began to read the article on my lap. I was attracted by the large print in the title – “WHAT IS MISOPHONIA?” I laughed aloud (no-one could hear over the young child’s piercing screams anyway). The first sentence read:

“Misophonia is an intolerance of sound and sufferers have specific symptoms and triggers that can set them off.”

The stolen page...with a couple of extra photographs.

The stolen page…with a couple of extra photographs.

 

If You go Down to the Woods Today…

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There are no Teddy bears in Banstead Woods – that’s where we were just over a week ago when Chris and I stayed with our good friends John and Barbara (Chris and John went to school together). Having spent the night at Belmont, next morning we went for a walk in the famous woods close to the grand house where Chris lived for much of his childhood. Until then I had no idea that the woods Chris had spoken of with such fondness, where he and his brother Jeremy had many great adventures, was even better known historically as the woods King Henry VIII bought for his new love, and second wife, Anne Boleyn.

The paths are wide and the trees, mostly still winter bare, are tall and stately; the bluebells, inspired by the sunshine, were just beginning to show their blue buds and hinted at the prospect of oceans of blue under the trees in a few weeks. We stood by a man-made pond and pondered on the fact that King Henry VIII had it dug as a watering place for the deer.

There was something magical about walking in woods so full of history. I kept thinking of Anne Boleyn meeting her lover in a secret tryst in a thicket or on sweet smelling beds of bluebells. I could nearly hear the huntsmen and the courtiers. I fancied I saw King Henry on horseback. When I checked out my photographs this morning I found to my amazement that, indeed, there was magic afoot…

A Bit of Bad Luck on the Food Front (and the Car Front!)

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You could say I’m rather hapless but definitely not unhappy or shapeless (well, the words do look a tad similar especially if you’re a speed reader). In particular I’m referring to a spot of bad luck over lunch yesterday. You see the newlyweds, Matt and Amanda, who are over from Australia and have been spending part of their honeymoon with us, were running out of time; after lunch they were going to see cousins in Paignton and would be having dinner with them, then back here for their last night. They were booked up on the train for Brighton late this morning so, in effect, yesterday lunchtime was our last opportunity to have a proper meal with them on this trip.

Charmingly, my nephew and his lovely young wife were excited at the prospect of yet another pizza (the one of three that wasn’t required at the family gathering the night before) but it was a nice pizza and I made it even more unctuous and delicious with the addition of extra cheese, peppers and pepperoni. Unfortunately, the numbers on the oven temperature dial have worn off hence it’s all a bit of guesswork; plus, I can’t time the cooking exactly according to the instructions because I always add extras so, for these reasons, I have never cooked a bought pizza to perfection – they are ever so crisp and brown, if not burnt after twenty minutes on blast furnace setting. Yesterday was no exception – but that’s normal – the mishap was yet to come.

I had laid the kitchen table but Chris, noticing the glorious sunshine outside, suggested that we eat out on the terrace balcony looking over the sea. We each filled our plates with salad and the well-done oozing pizza, added the dressings and the condiments, and took them onto the balcony. Suddenly I thought of drinks. A minute later I was back with a large bottle of sparkling water and four glasses. One glass dropped from my hands and shattered on the table… and some glass bounced… onto the plates of Amanda and Matt, especially so in the case of the latter.

The young stoics laughed and insisted that they didn’t mind pulling the small cubes of glass from their plates – “At least they were cubes (like a shattered car windscreen) and not shards!” Matt jested. I hasten to add that I brought out two extra plates and Chris and I brushed the patio floor (the newlyweds wore socks alone). We talked about the first “Die Hard” film with Bruce Willis, in particular the part where Willis has to run barefoot over broken glass and, once again, we were reminded how lucky we were that the tumbler had broken in such a fortuitous way. During the course of the meal my nephew stood up and walked to the balustrades, not to enjoy the view but to remove something from his mouth and throw it over the wall. He said:

“You know what? Glass really isn’t too bad, not nearly as bad as metal. Once I had a Chinese meal and a lump of metal from the wok got caught in my teeth. Now that was bad – it broke a tooth. No, glass is quite chewy and easy to find.”

At the end of the meal Matt made another wry comment:

“Isn’t it funny how this was our last meal together and it really could have been our ‘last supper’?”

Someone asked if he was in any pane and I can’t remember the other glass jokes.

 

In the evening, some hours later, the young couple came in and joined us in the lounge room. Chris turned off “Masterchef” (I endeavour to take note of how not to overdo things) and they told us of their excitement on the way home. The warning light had come on and, not wishing to cause any harm to the engine, they stopped and tried to open the bonnet. They were some time trying to find the lever to open the bonnet… They couldn’t find the lever – mine is a tricky little French car with levers in funny places. Luckily Matt chose to knock on the door of a rich old couple who were disposed to help the young Aussies in every possible way. The rich man’s son was called; he, in turn, looked up Peugeot Cabriolets on Google and… “Bob’s your uncle!” Soon the car was furnished with two bottles of superior quality motor oil from the posh garage and a jug of water for good measure. Apparently they had a jolly time with Brian.

They arrived safely, and on time, in Brighton this afternoon. I expect they are chatting with Jim and Jaimy right now, probably telling my son and his wife about the pizza and the breakdown. Chris took my sporty little French car with the foxy levers out for a spin and gave it a good polish to boot (not just on the boot). The car is going like a dream now it has had its fill of new oil from the “good Samaritan”. No harm done and no “last suppers”! But thank goodness we don’t live in glass houses!

Here are some photos taken at our family gathering:

 

A Day to Remember

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The year is 2011 and we are at the top of Purling Brook Falls, Springbrook National Park in the Gold Coast hinterland (Queensland). Chris and I are with my big brother Bill, his wife Lita and my nephew William. We are walking single-file on the path leading close to the cliff edge and the falls. We haven’t been here before and it’s terribly exciting, a bit frightening and exceedingly beautiful. It’s around midday and Chris is walking behind me. Suddenly he wraps his hands around my waist and whispers in my ear:

“Darling, I just thought I had better tell you that it’s my birthday today.”

“Oh no,” I said shocked, “why didn’t you tell me?”

“Well, I rather thought you might know,” he began, “considering you’re my wife!”

 

I’ve never lived it down. But it wasn’t such a terrible thing after all because now Chris’s expectations are so low that he is thrilled to receive a “Happy Birthday!” wish at all and is inordinately pleased when I’ve gone to a little trouble to make him a card (even if it is a tad late in the day).

This morning I remembered Chris’s birthday and we went out to lunch with my lovely sister Mary and her husband Geoff. When I recalled the tale of six years ago Mary smiled but was not at all surprised.

“What about Mum and Dad?” she said. “One night when we were kids and Mum and Dad were in bed Mum said, ‘It was my birthday today’, and Dad said, ‘Was it?'”

Oh dear, it sounds rather familiar…