Life at Hepworth Towers

 I have been lying in bed since 4.30 am worrying about what to do about our car. We need to replace the one we have, and the most sensible thing in the current world situation seems to be to buy an electric one. This means change. At the same time, I’m wondering what to do about the heating. Should we ditch our oil boiler (we have no gas on our lane) and buy a heat exchange pump? More expense and change. And will it keep us warm?

We currently need to buy 1200 litres of domestic heating oil to fill up our tank, but the price has almost trebled since this horror began in the Middle East. A month ago it would have cost us £670, and the last time I checked, it would cost us £1632. Therefore we are not using the heating. Yesterday we had snow, sleet and hail and this morning there is a heavy frost.

The first thing I do after having my morning shower is light the log burning stove in my studio. In the afternoon, before teatime, we light the one in the sitting room. This is all fine. But yesterday when I went in the kitchen at five o clock to make my tea it was perishing; and the cold makes me miserable. Dave came in and saw me and switched in the heating for an hour because, he said, I looked so miserable.

So this morning in bed, to stop myself pondering all of this, I listened to the audiobook of Alan Bennet’s new set of diaries from 2016-2024. I have listened to his other diaries and enjoyed them, but this is a mixed pleasure, because he is not reading them himself, and for me, it makes a huge difference. Alex Jennings, who is reading them, has managed to adopt the same gentle style as Bennet, and he remarkably gets the right cadence, but he does not get the Leeds accent (i.e. the flat vowels)and just as I am slipping into forgetting it’s not Bennet, Jennings will come out with a southern ‘a’ and say ‘barsket’ instead of ‘basket’ or ‘charnce’ instead of ‘chance’ and I shout out the correct (to me) pronunciation. It is not an unalloyed pleasure.

But the sun is shining 

The sun shining through the condensation on the bedroom window this morning 

And my sweet peas have all germinated, and tomorrow I am going to get together with all my four siblings for the weekend in Wensleydale, which I am so looking forward to.

Even more exciting was my trip on Tuesday to meet up with a University friend I haven’t seen for 25 years. Wot larks. (as Het said.) We both remembered the first time we met in freshers week, but M remembered so many details - so MANY  details - that I had forgotten. We were both studying for a psychology degree but at the end of the second year I got pregnant, Dave and I got married, and I took a sabbatical. The prof said I could go back and do my finals after that, and I did, and M was by that time doing a PhD and oh so kindly looked after the baby in her room or the developmental psychology lab, while I popped into lectures. I am so indebted to her. Actually, I only realise now how indebted to her I am.

When I went for my viva with the professor after my final exam, he said “I thought you’d bring the baby with you.” I had made a conscious choice not to, as I didn’t want to be accused of special pleading. As it was, I had mentioned her in my developmental exam, in the question about Piaget, and got a first in that particular paper.

But I’ve now had my breakfast in bed, texted Het about something, popped down and laid the fire, and I must get up and go to Aldi. I feel better for the breakfast, and Dave has put the heating on for another odd hour, because he said I looked so miserable. I must try to mask my cold-misery or we won’t have any oil left for next winter. But hooray! I can have a shower in a warm bathroom today. What joy!

Coasting or dancing

I came across an old interview with Roger McGough this week in which I thought he said, at the age of 75, that he was “coasting.” I then talked to Dave about the definition of the word coasting with reference to our own lives in retirement, and he and I disagreed - as you might expect.

Then I texted Het who said this:

This morning I tried to find the interview where McGough had said he was “coasting” and I couldn’t. I was baffled because why would I have embarked in a discussion of the word with Dave and later with Het? Where had the word come from?

Was it actually from an interview with Alan Bennet, talking about aging?

I asked ChatGPT and it couldn’t find the word coasting either, though I wouldn’t take the first no for an answer.

OK, so this is what RM did say… 

All of this came about because I was wondering why I was exhausted when I got back from my lightning trip to London. I went on Monday morning and came home on Tuesday afternoon. Het met me at St Pancras at 11.30 and we talked until we sat down in the Royal Opera House at 7.30 to watch Giselle.

Giselle was out of this world - music and dancing. I have never seen it before and it was a beautiful production and I loved it. Loved it.

The next morning we went to see the Tracey Emin retrospective A Second Life, at Tate Modern. When Emin burst into the public consciousness with her bed…

…I knew little about her, and wasn’t impressed with her bed. But since I heard an interview with her a couple of years ago, I have been impressed with her, (and I like her bed.) This is why I wanted to see her exhibition. It’s huge, and includes paintings, tapestries, quilts, the bed, her studio, bronzes, documents, films and interviews. My favourite exhibits were the interview about her abortion, and the film of her dancing. Here is the Arts Council description of it.

She dances beautifully, and joyfully, and I love her message.

I still don’t understand why critics like her paintings, though Het thought this one beautiful:

Is Tracey coasting now? No. She has to spend three days in bed every week because of her poor health, following radical and extensive surgery for bladder cancer, but she is still working, and she is still pursuing her philanthropic work in Margate, supporting young artists, and doing so much more.

I’ve been coasting for three days, which has included two bike rides, one walk and lunch with a friend.

I’m not coasting this morning. It’s not yet eight o’clock, and I’ve already written this blog post and a letter to my “Labour” MP.

Cold

 We’re saving our domestic heating oil for next winter so I am sitting here in bed doing NYT puzzles and wearing three jumpers on top of my pyjamas. Dave just walked in and said “Imagine what it’s been like for Ukrainians all winter with no heating, and temperatures of -20 degrees C.” And he’s right. I have nothing to moan about.

Even so…I’m going to London today and looking forward to waking up in Het’s warm flat tomorrow, and seeing Het of course (!), never mind going to see the Tracey Emin exhibition. 

 

Spending time

Dave and I were at our favourite café yesterday morning having breakfast: it was a treat. I love going out for breakfast. Dave never eats. He just has a coffee while I eat my bacon and tomato breadcake. (It just took three goes to get the text to accept ‘breadcake.’ You can tell this iPad doesn’t know Yorkshire lingo.)

I love going out for breakfast or lunch with Dave. We seem to have more interesting conversations than we do at home. This morning, amongst other things, he explained (at my request) how minesweepers work, we talked about politeness, and I told him that our small granddaughter, MsX, had said she loved me. 

“I shouldn’t take any notice,” Dave said. “Three year olds don’t know what love means.”

This is the kind of robust remark you have to get used to if you’re married to an Aspie.

“I’m certainly not going to discount it,” I said. “Not many people tell me they love me.” A few people do who I wouldn’t expect to, and a few I would expect to never do. There can’t be too many people saying they love me. I’ll take all the love I can get. 

Like most people, I’ve been feeling low on account of the war and the suffering caused by it. It’s so black and so bleak. Not satisfied with flattening Gaza, the bloody Israelis are now doing the same thing to Lebanon. As Marmee pointed out yesterday in the blog comments, 700,000 Lebanese civilians have been displaced. It’s also quite scary. It’s easy to see how a madman could bring on the end of the world if he decided to get frisky with nuclear weapons.

And then there is this “Labour” government of ours which is constantly thinking up new cruel ways to make the lives of refugees and asylum seekers even more difficult.

Dave said “You can do nothing to stop it or change it. You have to focus on your own life.”

And when I was getting upset about the genocide, Het told me “They want you to care, not to suffer.”

Good advice.

So when we got home from the café I painted, planted my sweet pea seeds, went for a walk, then did some gardening. Then I sat in the sunshine in my fleece and woolly hat and read The Shepherd’s Life by James Rebanks.

The view from the bench:

My latest large painting:

Our kitchen sink

A friend asked me recently if I worry about planning for the future, and about death. I don’t worry, but I seem to be thinking a lot about being my age, 76. How am I supposed to spend my time at this age? Is the meaning of life different from when I was 26? Do I spend too much time thinking?

Ramblings

Here I am in bed eating an exceptionally moist pain-aux-raisins for breakfast, which was a weekend treat I forgot to eat yesterday. How lucky am I?

I finished this book yesterday

so I will have to find something else to read. I really enjoyed it, and found it gripping, despite the fact that it’s non-fiction.

The heating is on. We have it on for only two hours a day now, because of the price of domestic heating oil. Three weeks ago it was 56 pence per litre, last week it was 76 pence per litre, and this morning they are severely restricting how much each customer can have and the price is 139 pence per litre. We are not restocking, though we do need to. I am so thankful for the piles of logs that Dave has collected. I am so thankful I have a log burning stove in the room where I paint, as well as in our sitting room. I am sitting pretty.

The people of Iran and Lebanon are not, and my heart aches for them. Southern Lebanon is beginning to look like another Gaza.

Back on the home front, last night was the last episode of the last series of Call the Midwife.* It’s been on the telly for 15 years, though I only discovered it about 8 years ago. I have now watched all the old episodes on BBCiPlayer. This drama has everything that a Sue likes - social reality, social problems, personal problems and dilemmas, medical issues (thalidomide, abortion) all set in a historical context, humour, kindness, compassion, romance, friendship, community, and a cast of interesting characters. I have loved it. And I have loved the childbirth scenes. They are so moving and uplifting. Does anyone know, can anyone suggest to me, a series that I might like as much? A drama of sweetness and substance?

That last phrase reminds me of this poem, which I have shared on the blog before:

* I have found out that there will be more of Call the Midwife though not in its current form.

A blog in two parts

A blog in two parts. 

Part 1

I continue to be horrified and appalled on a daily basis by the headlines. A hatred of war lies deep in my genes. It’s hard to say more online, as although I have not been to visit the family in the USA for eighteen months because I am wary of immigration, there might be an emergency when I need to go. Let me instead quote from Barack Obama’s speech at Jesse Jackson’s funeral:

“We are living in a time when it can be hard to hope,” Obama said. “Each day we wake up to some new assault on our democratic institutions, another setback to the idea of the rule of law, an offense to common decency. Every day you wake up to things you just didn’t think were possible. Each day, we’re told by those in high office to fear each other and to turn on each other, and that some Americans count more than others, and that some don’t even count at all. Everywhere we see greed and bigotry being celebrated and bullying and mockery masquerading as strength, we see science and expertise denigrated while ignorance and dishonesty and cruelty and corruption are reaping untold rewards. Every single day we see that, and it’s hard to hope in those moments. So it may be tempting to get discouraged, to give into cynicism. It may be tempting for some to compromise with power, and grab what you can, or even for good people to maybe just put your head down and wait for the storm to pass.”

But, Obama said, Jackson’s life “inspires us to take a harder path. His voice calls on each of us to be heralds of change, to be messengers of hope…. Wherever we have a chance to make an impact, whether it’s in our school or our workplaces or our neighborhoods or our cities, not for fame, not for glory, or because success is guaranteed, but because it gives our life purpose, because it aligns with what our faith tells us God demands, and because if we don’t step up, no one else will.”

Part 2

It has been a busy week at Hepworth Towers…flinching at the news; playing Dress to Impress with 13 year old Cece (in Colorado) online - that’s me in second place, with the harvest theme; 

bike rides, walks, gardening, attendance at a portrait group, finishing this painting

and yesterday, a visit to a local child-friendly museum with 3 year old MsX and the lovely Jaine. (The week of sunshine had disappeared and it was bitterly cold and grey.)

MsX had been to the museum before and was very excited. The first thing she wanted to do was go to the Egyptian room because there are ancient Egyptian costumes to dress up in. Then - while she still wore her costume, which oh how I wish I was allowed to show you! - we spent ten minutes in the hall outside, still in costume, admiring a life-sized fibre glass cow called Rita, decorated in bright colours with fruits painted on, and jewels stuck all over it. 

Then we went to the animal room. Three minutes was spent looking at the rabbits, mice, moles, worms and badgers hiding underground, but the animal costumes were waiting to be tried on. So she wore a deer costume for two minutes, admired herself in the mirror, and then took it off and spent twenty minutes playing in the corner with three bean bags. “Where is she? I don’t know where she’s gone? Do you know, Jaine? Oh dear, I think she must have gone back to the Egyptian room. I’ll go and look for her…” 

Spot MsX

Her mum tried to lure her over to see the exotic butterflies in the drawers, and that lasted for two minutes, but then the bean bags were dragged over for more hiding.

Next a ride in a toy bus with two other little girls and their dad, then the cafe for rainbow cake and hot chocolate, and last a £1 ride on a fairground horse, with MsX being the ice horse from Frozen 2.

I find museums hard to take. I love art galleries, but not museums. So yesterday was huge fun for me because (at least for the present) it seems that MsX has inherited my disdain for looking at old things in glass boxes. 

Resurrection

It is very strange, and I feel awkward admitting it, but yesterday, when the Middle East was on fire, and my despair at certain men’s viciousness deepened, the spring seemed to arrive at Hepworth Towers, both physically and metaphorically.

When I went out to the shed in my pyjamas to bring in more apples I wasn’t cold. (It was 10 degreesC.) When I went out on my bike for just the second ride of the year, I didn’t shiver. And I came back amazed at my realisation of how much I have missed cycling because of the two months of rain. No wonder I’ve been depressed. No wonder I haven’t been able to paint.

There was something about the air that was springlike. All but two of our daffodils are still in bud but the soil was dry enough to work with, and I did my first spell of gardening this year. My sweet pea seeds should arrive in the post this week, so out will come the yoghurt cartons.  

I felt better yesterday than I have in months, simply because it was such a pleasure to be outside. I haven’t heard the blackbird yet, but I’m listening.

What do you know?

Liz has just this minute (6.35 am) texted me a recording of her blackbird singing this morning. 

Here it is.

Finally, in fairness to Starmer…I welcome his refusal to aid the Americans in bombing the Middle East.

Starmer is a dead loss

 All I have to say this morning is that Keir Starmer continues to be a disappointment. But actually, that’s not true. I never expected anything of him because I never trusted him, so I didn’t vote for him, so how can he be a disappointment?

Not content with supporting Israel in its genocide, now he has taken us into an illegal war by letting the US use our air bases for their bombing missions.

I went to a conflict resolution workshop on Saturday morning organised by my Quaker Meeting, and run by an external, skilled facilitator. The morning was titled “How to settle arguments kindly and constructively.” One morning is not enough time to learn all the skills involved, so the facilitator focused on what constitutes good listening. It was so worthwhile.

Have any of our world leaders every heard of peace and reconciliation? Of diplomacy? Of morality, even?

Taking part in our last Quaker peace vigil, holding as many placards as possible.