Worse things happen in the Mediterranean sea

I was talking to someone the other day who was depressed, and after he'd told me how he felt, he said 'But I have nothing to complain about - there are so many people in the world who have REAL troubles.'

What he said was true, but if you're depressed, counting your blessings doesn't help. It's in this same spirit, however, that although I burned the roof of my mouth 6 days ago and it's made me miserable, I've not yet blogged about it. You know what a wuss I am. You know how I long to be a stoic, but am the least stoical person in my family.

Do you know the film Annie? Do you know that bit when the orphans are singing It's a hard-knock life and Miss Hannegan says 'And we're not having hot mush today' and all the orphans smile and cheer, and then she says 'We're having cold mush'? Well, lukewarm mush is what I've been eating for days and I'm bloody sick of it.

But back to those REAL troubles. I heard the BBC4 programme Ramblings on Sunday and it made me cry. Clare Balding was walking in Surrey with a group of asylum seekers who are former detainees of the Gatwick Removal Centre. Walking with them were a group of volunteers from the Gatwick Detainees Welfare Group. You can listen to it here.

I am fairly well-informed about how the Home Office treats asylum seekers  - yes, it's still a hostile environment - but hearing on radio about one man's horrific and arduous journey from Eritrea to the UK brought it home ten times more powerfully than reading about it in the newspaper. The last part of his journey was from Calais to Dover and he travelled under a truck. It brought to mind the poem HOME by Warsan Shire, of which this is an excerpt:

you have to understand,
that no one puts their children in a boat
unless the water is safer than the land
no one burns their palms
under trains
beneath carriages
no one spends days and nights in the stomach of a truck
feeding on newspaper unless the miles travelled
means something more than journey.
no one crawls under fences
no one wants to be beaten
pitied

May

Mary died three years ago and I am used to the gap. Most of the time I get by but there are some times when I miss her so much it hurts. This morning at 4 a.m. was one of them. I needed to talk to someone and she was the only person who would do. Even the blackbird didn't cheer me up.

Still...in general I'm very happy. Hasn't this May (my favourite month) been fabulous? 

Here's a picture of our lane this morning:

And the hawthorn blossom is something else. I have never seen it so abundant as I have this spring. When I saw Hockney's paintings of hawthorn in his 2012 exhibition A Bigger Picture I thought they were overblown and faintly ridiculous. 

But this morning on the Trail I changed my mind and I took these photographs:

The list

Someone commented on my last blog post that I should make a list of fourteen books to leave on a hired narrowboat, so that whoever was on the boat would find at least one book that suited their taste. It's such a hard task, but here goes...

A comedy - a Jeeves and Wooster book by P.G. Wodehouse

A crime novel - by Ian Rankin or Christine Poulson

An intelligent chick-lit book, such as Bridget Jones' Diary by Helen Fielding or You Before Me by Jojo Moyes or Plotting for Beginners by Sue Hepworth and Jane Linfoot

A biography - Claire Tomalin's Samuel Pepys: the unequalled self

A poetry anthology - Staying Alive  ed. by Neil Astley, or Lifesaving Poems ed. by Anthony Wilson

A book on politics - The Establishment by Owen Jones

A thriller - please help me here!

A historical novel - The Siege by Helen Dunmore or The Essex Serpent by Sarah Perry

A book of short stories - Leaving Home by Garrison Keillor

A memoir - I am Malala

A non-fiction book (I nearly forgot this category as I don't read non-fiction)  - something readable about the history of canals

A Charles Dickens novel - you pick, as I am not a Dickens fan

Two contemporary novels - I suggest Under the Same Stars by Tim Lott and Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strouut, which are both accessible literary fiction.

So what do you think?

When you need a librarian

The man from whom we hired the narrowboat tries to give his boats little finishing touches - such as a bowl of fresh fruit, cotton sheets, toiletries in the bathroom, and a pint of milk in the fridge. He also had a shelf of books, some games and some dvds. We took our own Scrabble so we didn't need the games, but I checked the 12 dvds and there was nothing either of us wanted to watch. We both took books and didn't need his, thankfully. But at the end of the week when we were packed up and waiting to hand over the boat, I had some time to fill so I picked a book off the shelf to read.

This was the selection:

There are some big-hitting writers here in terms of sales, and apart from the one by Jane Francis, the Rankin and the Sharpe, they all look to fall in a similar category. I picked the Ian Rankin. I am not a crime fiction aficionado, but I know Rankin is a superb writer, and indeed, the book drew me in.

But the collection made me think. If I were furnishing a narrowboat with 14 books and wanted there to be something to suit everyone's taste, what books would I choose? 

Admission

I was talking on the phone on Saturday to the family member who declines to be named about his upcoming wedding, which incidentally I hope against hope is not going to become the family wedding that cannot be blogged about. And he mentioned the OTHER WEDDING, and I said I was going to be busy because my sweet peas were crying out to be planted and the bed needing digging over first. I grew them from seed this year and they've been tenderly cared for by our neighbour while I've been away in Colorado seeing these two sweeties 

and while Dave and I have been away on the narrowboat.

Also I wanted to get a bike ride in at teatime when I thought the Trail would be deserted. We're both republicans, and he and I assumed I was not going to watch the wedding, though I did admit I wanted to see THE DRESS.

Well, I planted out half the sweet peas (two dozen) 

and I was hot and sweaty and in need of a bracing coffee, so I made one and sat down at my desk and logged onto the net just as Meghan was arriving at the chapel with her mother. 

And oh! That DRESS! It was perfect. And then I was lured into watching the vows.... and more. I am a hopeless romantic. The first thing I turn to in the Saturday paper is that week's blind date. Meghan and Harry looked so happy! Didn't they look happy? And relaxed. It was so wonderfully different - thankfully - from the last royal wedding I watched: Princess Diana's. Sadly, I somehow missed the sermon, which sounds as if it was a cracker, so I'm going to watch that today on Youtube. Anyone preaching about love changing the world, about social justice and peace, has got my ear.  But first I have to plant the other two dozen sweet peas.

Hello

We're back from a glorious week on a narrowboat on the Lancaster canal. It was a perfect holiday - seven days of sunshine, quiet rural countryside, convivial chat and no wifi. There is nowhere lovelier than England in May. The trees by the side of the canal were beautiful - lush, vivid, and alive with birdsong. I heard so many blackbirds, it was as if we had one travelling on the boat with us.

I didn't take many photographs this time. I was just drinking it all in with no gadget in my hand. Here are my favourites from the week.

Below, the view from the front of the boat in my favourite mooring spot, with distant views (in the other direction) of Morecambe Bay and the Lake District mountains. The sky really was this intense blue, and the tiny copse was alive with birdsong. I'm showing you this view, because it encapsulates the simplicity of canal life and rural vistas, and why I like it so much.

Oh, OK. Here is a view of the Bay...not very clear in a picture, which is why I wasn't going to bother showing you...

I spent a lot of time sitting on the back deck while Dave steered the boat, talking to him, and saying every now and then - "Look at the trees!"

This last photo was taken on an evening walk along the towpath. It's interesting how beautiful dandelion clocks are when they're not in our garden at home.

Tattered Cover

There's a fabulous bookshop in Denver called The Tattered Cover which I always try to visit when I'm over there. They sell secondhand books as well as new, and the staff are very friendly. There are squishy chairs you can lurk in to read, such as when you're waiting for your son to finish work and you've had enough of the blazing Colorado sun, and a tempting Graham Swift novel is calling to you.

This time I bought The Light Between Oceans by M.L.Stedman, described by reviewers as 'heart-wrenching,' 'elegantly rendered' and 'sublimely written.' I wanted an emotional book. I wanted to see how it's done. 

And I recognised the title of this book, because there's a film of it - which I have not seen - starring Michael Fassbender, and the news of anything starring Michael Fassbender stays in my memory. (Have you seen his Mr Rochester? Swoon.)

Well, I've got to a crunch point near the middle and I can tell from here on in it's going to be emotionally gruelling, and I'm not sure now that I'm up to it. Watch this space.

It's been hectic since I returned from Boulder, and I have another busy week ahead when I know I shan't have time to blog. I apologise, and I'll try to make it up to you after that. 

Here's a May view of the Monsal Trail in the meantime:

Dicombobulated observations

Since I got home on Thursday I have been waking up in the early hours to go to the loo and every time thinking I am in my mother's house and that she is asleep in another bedroom. She died in 2008 and her house is long sold.

And in the morning I wake up as if drugged, and drenched in sweat. I don't know if it's due to jetlag or the antihistamines I'm taking. This morning was worse. I woke from nightmares that I was taking my O levels and had done no work - I mean NO WORK - and I was bunking off to go to the hairdresser's to get my hair coloured. (I did in fact work for my O levels back in the sixties, and did very well in them.) Usually I dream I am taking my A levels and have done no work, which is nearer to the truth. (Again - in fact - I passed them well enough to go on and get a good degree.)

It took me some time to shake this off. A bike ride on my beloved Monsal Trail certainly helped. 

I set off before 9 a.m. to beat the Bank Holiday Monday crowds, and it was very restorative. The cowslips this year are so much taller than last year when we had that dry spring. I love cowslips.

I have some things to say after my trip to Boulder, but they're disparate and fairly unrelated observations, hence the title of this post.

This time on my trip to Boulder I noticed that Americans never say "It's a lovely day," they say "It's a pretty day."

Secondly, people really like the British accent. A waitress in a restaurant overheard Isaac and me conversing and said "I love your accent so much, you could be really rude to me and I wouldn't mind."

Coloradans are very friendly.

I have yet to be in an American house that has china mugs. (I prefer my tea out of a china mug - it tastes so much better.) 

I have discovered (thanks to Dave) that there is far more alcohol in my favourite Colorado tipple - a margarita - than there is in a glass of wine. I am surprised, and somewhat disconcerted, and am considering whether or not this will affect my habits on future trips. Already decided: no.

I went away to America before the trees came into leaf in Derbyshire. Arriving home to all but the ash trees green, I feel as if it's Christmas and I've woken up late to find everyone else has started opening their presents.

Lux and me: photo by Isaac

Home

I'm home from Colorado in green, green May. And the trees are beautiful, but their pollen is making me feel too awful to blog. I hope I'll be feeling better soon.

Hostile environments

I may have ignored news of royal births while I've been over here, but you can be sure I've been following the important news, such as the Windrush affair. The Guardian has been highlighting awful cases for months and I've been tweeting about them and signing petitions. Yesterday, I read this letter to the Guardian and as it expresses exactly how I feel, I'm copying it here:

I'll leave it with you.

Lazy

I did intend to do some work while I was over here, but I've been indulging sybaritically (sp?) in unadulterated pleasure - reading Things a Bright Girl Can Do, The Enchanted April, and Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine; watching Project Runway with Wendy and Annie, Moana and Wallace and Gromit with the whole family; and last night I discovered the delights of American Ninja Warrior. It's gripping and intense, and made even more entertaining by Cece's running commentary to the competitor of the  minute - "Come on! You can do it! Don't give up! You're doing really well - don't give up!"

But I've been active too. I've been for bike rides, and on Saturday I went trampolining with the girls. It's surprising how much difference it makes to be engaging in physical exercise one mile high. Your breath doesn't go so far. I found that today too when Wendy took me for a lovely hike on the nursery slopes of the Flatirons:

I don't do a lot of lazing about when I'm at home. I'm always busy with something. So it's good to have a real holiday. It's also good to be able to order a margarita whenever I'm out. I wish my local cafe, Hassop Station, served margaritas, but as far as I'm aware, it's impossible to get one even in Sheffield, my nearest city.

Catch up

The Flatiron Flyer from Denver to Boulder takes 45 minutes. I left a cool cloudy Denver and arrived to sun shining on the Flatirons. It felt like coming home. I'd been away for three days and had a great time with Karen. Lux said "It feels like you've been away for three years." You try resisting these girls. Here we are after school on Thursday, just before cycling home:

Karen and I went to the Denver Botanic [sic] Gardens on Wednesday. It was wonderful. My favourite section was the Japanese garden because it was so peaceful, visually and aurally. The tree with blossom is common in Denver and is called a redbud.

But I had to take a shot of this huge and exuberant blossom in the hothouse:

I read the daily news on the Guardian that arrives on my iPad everyday, but I realised this morning, lying thinking in bed while Lux played Bad Piggies on said iPad, that I have no idea if the new royal baby is a girl or a boy. That's how much I care. I know that Americans generally are enthralled by Downton Abbey, The Crown, and our royal family, but it baffles me why Karen, a committed leftie, feminist, and ageing hippie, should also be interested in the new baby. She says it's because it's a continuing story. I know her political credentials, so I believe her.  

On not blogging

I’ve not wanted to blog since I got here and I realise now it’s because my brain was tired, and I needed to relax completely - I just needed to read, play, talk, and blob.

Also when I arrived, the weather was cold and cloudy, while at home a heatwave had started after the longest winter I can remember. I was discombobulated to be here, when my tulips at home were opening - the tulips I’ve been eagerly awaiting for months and months. It felt somehow disloyal to have left my garden just when it was coming alive - no, not disloyal exactly. But I felt as if I wanted to be there to welcome all the spring flowers and the new leaves on our hawthorn and silver birch, and the lime trees in the field across the road.

I’m over that now. It’s warm and sunny. The girls blow everything else out of my head, in any case.

But currently I’m in Denver for a few days staying in an Airbnb place with Karen, the ageing hippie from California, who flew into Colorado so we could catch up.

There are photographs I want to post on here, but I have a new iPad and it doesn’t support Blogger, which means I am doing it in a roundabout way and shan’t be able to post photographs until I get back to Boulder and Isaac’s laptop.

That’s about it for now. Except to say that we went to the Colorado history museum yesterday and I learned for the very first time that after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour, thousands of Japanese Americans were interned in camps, losing their homes and their livelihoods, because they were thought to be a threat to American security. I had no idea this happened. Why not? Did you know?

Postcard

Yesterday we went to town and the girls wanted ice lollies from Le Pops, a gourmet ice lolly shop. Yep. This is Boulder. 

Cece was trying to persuade me to have one too: 'Go on, Sue. It tastes as if fairies are dancing in your mouth and having a party.'

So I did, and as I ate my salted caramel lolly dipped in melted chocolate and covered in sprinkles, I wished I had Cece's powers of description.

I need to add that the photo of the sign above is one from my archives. The trees are not yet out in Boulder. I wouldn't want you to be getting the wrong impression.

Letter from Colorado

Last night in bed after an evening out with Wendy, I wrote a really entertaining margarita-infused blog post in my head. Sadly it's evaporated this morning, so you'll have to make do with the following.  

The first thing to say is that the girls like the red patch in my hair, even though it's already fading to pink. "That's OK," said Cece. "I love pink."

The second thing to say is that the weather is rubbish. It was fine enough to sit outside and read on my first day here as long as I was wearing a cosy jumper, but today we woke up to snow, which is pretty outrageous, especially when there's a heatwave at home. Hard cheese: what we're getting is apparently typical Colorado spring weather.

I'm still having lots of fun. 

It was a great bar we went to last night, with the best tacos I've ever had, and excellent margaritas. And you know how I feel about margaritas. The bar was humming, full of people relaxing after work on a Friday evening. It felt very friendly, and we had a charming barman called Griffin, who gave me their margarita recipe: 

1.5 ozs Tequila
1.5 ozs Lime Juice (fresh, of course) 
1 oz of orange liqueur
1 squeeze of pure agave.

So now I know, and so do you.

And here's Griffin:

Arrival

I'm here! Cece brought her Welcome sign. She couldn't find a stick so made one herself by taping a dozen lolly sticks together. 

Lux sat on my knee this morning and kissed me tenderly and examined my face as she always does, and said: "Sue, have you seen that movie called A Wrinkle in Time?"

Choices

My suitcase is open on the blanket chest to receive newly washed clothes for my trip to Boulder next week,

and unfortunately Lux reminded me on the phone on Sunday to pack my cossie, which means I'll have no excuse not to go to North Boulder Rec swimming pool with her and Cece. Oh, the things we do for our beloved grandchildren, that we would do for nobody else.

How do you feel about packing? I find it hugely difficult because of indecision. How many shoes? How many woollies, and which? How many pairs of jeans? Which of my two posh options for going out on the town? An essential item is my joggers for snuggling up on the sofa with the girls when we watch the telly. 

And on the subject of clothes....I have a question for my female readers. 

Last week a male writer of commercial fiction said he could write from a woman's point of view, and gave an example which I should really show you but it would take an awful lot of tedious searching. Suffice it to say it was crass, and focused on the woman's thoughts about her breasts and a man who was watching her. This caused a lot of well-deserved mockery on Twitter, and then Laura E Weymouth tweeted a series of tweets on the subject of how women feel about their clothes. this was the first (yes, I know it's labelled 2):  

I don't agree AT ALL. I'd say that 80% of my decisions about clothes revolve around whether I love the look of them, whether they suit me, whether they are flattering, and whether or not they're modern. The other 20% might be about comfort, and while pockets are useful if they don't spoil the line, they don't come into any decision about whether or not to buy an item. I mean, really! What's your view?

A social researcher friend of mine who has done research on older women's attitudes to fashion has a similar attitude to mine, but she says we are probably a specific 'sub cultural group.'

It reminds me of that question some of us used to think about when we were young: Would you rather be clever, beautiful or good?

I have a new question: Would you rather be comfortable, beautiful or stylish?

Good Night Stories for Rebel Girls

It's barely dawn and the blackbird is singing! it's the first time I've heard him this year. And yesterday when we came home from Bakewell with fish and chips for tea, it was the first evening I haven't rushed from the car to the front door to get in from the cold. Hallelujah! Is it really the Spring (whisper it) after so many months of winter?

And there's more good news for readers with young girls in their lives. Have you heard of this?

In ten days I'll be flying to Boulder to visit Lux 

and Cece

so naturally I've been deciding which books to take as presents.

The one above - GOOD NIGHT STORIES FOR REBEL GIRLS - is terrific. It contains 100 brief and inspiring biographies of outstanding women written in the form of stories.  (e.g. "Once there was a girl who could ride a bike so fast you could barely see her" begins the one about Alfonsina Strada, an Italian cyclist I had never heard of.) The book is illustrated by many female artists from all over the world. 

You will have heard of some of the women - Coco Chanel, Helen Keller, Amelia Earhart, Nina Simone, Maya Angelou - but there are many more who will be unknown to you and that is why it's so special. Some of the women are still young and active. There are scientists, astronomers, spies, computer scientists and activists. There's a tattoo artist, a rapper, an inventor, a Muslim weightlifter, a High Court judge, a drummer, a Syrian refugee swimmer, a surfer and a motocross racer. Some of the stories are very moving and brought tears to my eyes, and 97% of them are inspiring. The other thing to say is that it was crowdfunded.

It's not perfect. I am not sure pirates are role models - though there's no doubt they're exciting and gender-defying. And I would definitely not have included Jingu, a Japanese empress, whose ambition (in the book at least) is to conquer Korea, because it was "a country full of marvellous things dazzling to the eye." I don't approve of conquerors.

But the one that offended me most was Margaret Thatcher. (I suppose you can forgive the authors - they are American.) I have taken action. I glued those pages together. So bite me. Dave does not approve of the censorship, but I shall do as I think fit. Although when you compare Thatcher to the sorry lot we have in power right now...

Anyway, next time you're in a bookshop, have a look at the book and let me know what you think. I can't wait to read it to the girls.

Yes, I care

Long-time readers of the blog may have been wondering if I no longer care about the besieged people in Gaza, and the oppressed Palestinians in the West Bank.

No. Nothing has changed either in the situation out there, or in my heart. The Israelis continue to destroy Bedouin villages to build Israeli settlements that are illegal under international law. And they destroy structures such as mobile classrooms and solar panels donated to Palestinians by EU countries. The people of Gaza continue to suffer hugely under the siege, short of power, short of clean water, and with their hospitals scandalously under resourced.

And then there was what happened last week.

I urge you to read the whole article that was in the Washington Post this week. Click here. 

18 Palestinian protesters were shot dead, and hundreds more were injured. The crime: protesting within their own border. Israel has refused to allow an independent UN investigation. They say everything was in order.

If you have the stomach for it, please write to our ludicrous Foreign Secretary and ask that the UK express criticism of Israel over their actions, and if you are in London on Saturday, there is a national demonstration to protest Israel's actions. 

Saturday 7th April, 1 PM - 3 PM
Downing Street, London, SW1A 2, United Kingdom

Guess what?

Guess what? It's snowy here today. I could give you a photo, but it's April and I don't want to reward the weather. It's getting ridiculous. 

I went to see a film on Friday and enjoyed it so much I could have sat through it again straight away. The film was I Got Life (originally called Fifty Springtimes). This is the logline: 'A woman, separated from her husband, loses her job and discovers she's going to be a grandmother. Refusing to be pushed to the outskirts of society, she puts her foot down and decides to start over.'  It was charming and funny and touching and uplifting and I loved it. 

When I got home I looked up the reviews online and guess what? That snooty man in the Guardian, Peter Bradshaw, had given it a measly 2 stars. This was the same reviewer who gave 4 stars to the most execrable film I ever sat through - Greenberg. I could see I Got Life had flaws from a male, hardass reviewer's point of view, but 2 stars? Sally Howe of Plotting for Beginners and Plotting for Grown-ups would have given it 5. I would give it 4.

The film that Bradshaw liked that I hated was about a man of probably the same age as Bradshaw. I Got Life was aimed at older women. Do you see what I'm getting at in all my chuntering about star ratings?

On writing, voices, stars and sinuses

I've just finished reading Heartburn by Nora Ephron and I feel sad. 

(I'm also sad because I succumbed to a second breakfast. I've been dieting successfully but I was in the local shop yesterday and saw hot cross buns on the shelf and thought - Oh dear, I shan't be able to have a hot cross bun because of the diet, and then I noticed a packet of 4 reduced to 50p because of the best before date, so how could I not bring them home?  And now I've had one for my first breakfast and one for my second. Hey ho. I shall give the other two to the birds.)

I felt sad when I'd finished reading The Lie, too, but it was the story that made me sad, not the fact that I'd finished reading it. 

The odd thing is that when I'd finished The Lie I wished so much I could write like Helen Dunmore, and today when I finished Heartburn I wished I could write like Nora Ephron, and yet their writer's voices are so very different.

Ephron comes out with sentences like this...

"'Now you can sing these songs to Sam' was part of the disgusting inscription, and I can't begin to tell you how it sent me up the wall, the idea of my two-year-old child, my baby, involved in some dopey inscriptive way in this affair between my husband, a fairly short person, and Thelma Rice, a fairly tall person with a neck as long as an arm and a nose as long as a thumb and you should see her legs, never mind her feet, which are sort of splayed."

Even the punctuation is a joy.

And here is a passage from The Lie:

"There is a long silence, or you could call it silence although it's full of noises. I hear the gulls as they wheel out over the sea. The close drowsy burring of a bee. Farther off, a buzzard's cat-like cry. All the while the stirring of wind and water."

and another very different one:

"I can feel him smile against my arm. I know why he's smiling. It's because I'm talking like me, not like him. Not like any of those books in the Dennis library either. I hold him as close as I can and rock him, hardly moving him because I don't want to hurt his leg. I rock him in the same way the blood rocks inside the body without showing on the surface, on and on. All the while I'm opening inside myself, the way I have never been before, I don't know even what there is inside me. Darkness, maybe, more and more of it, velvety and not raw the way it is when you stare into the night, full of the dread of morning. I rock Frederick even more gently. We're neither of us moving now."

I feel sad when I read a two star review of one of my books, too, and then I look at reviews of books by Dunmore and Ephron - two brilliant and widely acclaimed writers - and find they have two star reviews as well, written by people who just don't 'get' the books, people who have a fixed, formal idea of what a novel should be and behave like, that they should all have a beginning, a middle and an end and a strong narrative in between, people who don't share the sensibilities of Dunmore or the sense of humour of Ephron, people who damn their books online because of it.

If they didn't enjoy the books, fair enough. But their non-enjoyment of a book does not mean it is not a good book. I hope none of these two-star reviewers above gets hold of my next book, because I can tell you now, they ain't gonna like it, even though it does have a beginning, a middle and an end.

On a completely different tack....

I've been writing a new Celtic blessing. It's not nearly finished yet, but it contains the following lines:

May your sweet peas always bloom
May your sinuses always be clear
May someone else be happy to clean the bathroom
And may you never get a two star review. 

So...

If I was the kind of person who started my sentences with "So" I'd be saying "So, the Spring has finally arrived and my head is too thick with cold to enjoy it."

To deconstruct the picture, those daffs are ones I picked from the garden because the heavy snow had broken their stems; there are two tissue boxes because one's for fresh and one's for used; the bedspread is my sunset quilt; and the book is Heartburn. I've read it before but Nora Ephron is always cheering, and I needed some light relief after finishing The Lie. 

Chrissie has been sending me newsy emails so I don't feel utterly cut off, and yesterday, as if my crazy friend in NYC knew I was in need of a laugh, I received in the post these Taste of Streep stickers. 

I need to get up and get busy today. I've been watching so many episodes of Call the Midwife that I'm developing a crush on Jenny Agutter/Sister Julienne, and considering a career as a nun. The good thing about steeping myself in 1960 culture is that I can see the social progress we've made since then, for example in attitudes to gay people, and this engenders hope. I just wish the Tories' austerity programme wasn't taking us back to Victorian times. Food banks are well-established, so their next plan must be to bring back the workhouse. 

Enough! It's 3.20 and I'm done with being up and busy and I'm back in bed with Sister Julienne.

At last there is hope

As you know, I go to Colorado twice a year to see my family. I'm going again in April. In all the times I've visited America, I've never seen a gun held by a person not in uniform and I'm thankful for that. I never think about guns when I'm over there.

When I am here at home and there's news of yet another mass shooting, and afterwards a massive outcry, I try not to pay it much attention. This is not because I don't care. It's because there is nothing I can do about it - nothing. I despair that there are so many gun-crazy people in the US who would rather give up anything than their right under the constitution to bear arms. It makes me boiling mad that because of this love of guns, my grandchildren are at risk. 

Here they are, setting off for spring break with their parents.

I have never had even a smidgeon of hope that gun laws in America would change until yesterday when I heard some of the speeches at the March for Our Lives rally in Washington. If you depend upon the BBC for your news, you may not have heard any of these speeches: the BBC has peculiar priorities (she said mildly.)

The speeches were made by young people and were moving and powerful. They were an inspiration. The first one I heard was by 17 year old Emma Gonzales, who was in the Florida school when her classmates were shot a month ago. She's one of the leaders of the March for our Lives movement. Her speech is 7 minutes long. Click here to listen. Stick with it.

The other speech I commend to you was made by 11 year old Naomi Wadler from Virginia. Click here. The speech is 3 minutes long.

Now I have hope that things will change. The gun laws in Florida have already changed as a result of campaigning by young people there. Much more needs to be done, but a start has been made.

Seeing and hearing these young people gives me hope - not just that gun laws will change, but hope in the future generally. These are dark times, and I am desperately in need of hope. Let's celebrate, encourage and support our young people. They are our future.

Dark and light

Sometimes, sitting in bed with my first Yorkshire tea of the day, I can see buzzards flying high above our garden. They're not there today.

I woke up with a head full of cold that I've been fighting off since Thursday. Instead of starting in on the Saturday papers, I finished reading Helen Dunmore's The Lie about a man suffering PTSD in the aftermath of the first world war. The ending reduced me to tears. 

Dunmore's writing is beautiful - simple, straightforward and yet so evocative, including sensual details the way she does. The fact she was a poet as well as a novelist shines through her prose, as it does for Sebastian Barry, also a novelist and poet. I love Helen Dunmore's novels, although not The Greatcoat. And I thought Birdcage Walk was disappointing. But The Lie is the most powerful book I have read since reading Barry's A long, long way - also about WW1. The epigraph at the beginning of The Lie is a quote from Rudyard Kipling:

If any question why we died

Tell them, because our fathers lied.

On a lighter note, I've recently been watching Call the Midwife every night on Netflix. I've never seen it before. Now I am in awe of both Jenny Agutter and Sister Julienne, but I find the character Jenny Lee unappealing. She's so prim. 

I like the way they have snatches of contemporaneous popular music in the soundtrack but it's meant that one song in particular has lodged in my brain and been on repeat for days. I love the words and the tune and can't resist getting Alexa to play it when I'm busy in the kitchen. Carly Simon's rendition is my favourite as it's the tempo I like and has a tasty bit of sax in the middle. The song is I only have eyes for you. The words are so romantic, and I love the tune.

Do you suppose anyone ever said to someone else 'I only have eyes for you'?

No-one has ever said anything like that to me, even when I was worth looking at. I remember 35 years ago when I was going to give a presentation of research findings to a large group of people and spent some time beforehand deciding what to wear and putting on make-up, to give myself more confidence. 

I said to Dave: 'Do I look OK to stand up in front of a lot of people I don't know?' and he said 'How far away are they going to be?'

This week I put on my new Sainsbury's leggings to go cycling in and we had a similar interchange.

Me: 'Do you think I look all right in these?'
Him: 'You look fine.' Pause. 'Anyway, you'll be going fast.'