Yesterday someone was asking me about my journey to Denver next week. This person is intelligent, switched-on, politically aware, caring, and tries to live her life according to strict ethical principles.
I told her I was flying to Heathrow to catch the plane rather than having Dave drive me there, because of Insulate Britain. She said: 'What's Insulate Britain?'
'You know,' I said, 'they're an offshoot of Extinction Rebellion and they keep gluing themselves to motorways in the south east. They're protesting about the government's inaction on the climate. Haven't you seen it in the news?'
'I gave up reading the news. It was making me depressed.'
I know just how she feels. I tell people I'm not reading the news because it's so upsetting, but I am still skimming the headlines everyday and reading two or three stories in depth. Also, I'm still writing to my MP and she is still writing back, toeing the crap party line.
Anyway, if you too find the news too much to bear, here is my list of suggestions of things to do in bed alone on these dark autumnal mornings:
read a good book
play in Procreate on your iPad making art.
do a
word puzzle. I like Typeshift.
look at all the fashion clothing sites
you like to see clothes you have no intention of buying, except that then you
alight upon a decently-priced soft cotton boiler suit in navy that would be perfect
for painting in and then when you click on 'buy' find they have sold out in your size.
check the hour by hour weather forecast to see when you
can go out and get some fresh air without getting soaked.
try writing a blog post in an email to yourself with your new apple pencil and marvel at the way it translates handwriting into print.
look up and realise that it is finally light and you can draw the blinds.
Isn't it amazing how things that seem insuperable when you're ill or under the weather magically appear possible when you're feeling sprightly?
All the time I was ill I was whittling about getting tested to fly to America. Which was the right test to have? Was it really acceptable to have a rapid antigen test (i.e. lateral flow test) and not a full blown PCR? And would things change before my travel date of November 9th?
Why has arranging this trip been so laden with anxiety? It's not really because the list of things to get sorted out has been longer than usual:
Visa waiver
NHS certificate of vaccination - will paper do or should I get digital as a back up?
Research and book tests - which? and from whom? and when?
Travel insurance (which boils down for me to medical insurance if I'm going to the USA)
Plane ticket - which route? how to be sure of getting to Heathrow now Insulate Britain are still gluing themselves to motorways?
Medication for the plane flight
Extra normal medication for while I am away
US dollars
Presents for all the family
Decision on which of my small paintings to give to Isaac and Wendy
The girls at the reservoir
Our Christmas kitchen
The corner of the bedroom
Usually I have everything sorted out and arranged at least two weeks before the flight. But this time I can't, because I have to be tested within 3 days of the flight so added to the admin is the huge anxiety attached to not being 100% sure I am going until I get my fit to fly test result, which will probably arrive 2 days before the flight. I never used to be an anxious person. It's crept upon me in the last two years. One of my sisters also feels more anxious than she did when she was younger.
I got a text from my GP last week inviting me to my booster shot and it was booked in for last Saturday. I was so excited. How very strange to be excited about getting a jab. This is a weird world we live in now.
They gave me the flu shot in the other arm and on Sunday I couldn't get out of bed. I also felt so low about everything, that the thought crossed my mind as to how much easier it would be to be dead than to live through another year of this UK pandemic half-life where no indoor public space is safe because of government intransigence and stupidity.
Then on Monday morning I was better, my head was clear and everything was possible, and I was well enough for a bike ride!
It's made me think about all those people who are ill and not fit to work and are being hassled by the DWP, telling them to apply for jobs, and/or to jump through ridiculous hoops in order to get their puny welfare benefits. And then there are all the people who deal with health issues and go to work everyday.
I am a lucky woman. I am usually healthy, I have a good and accessible GP, I have been vaccinated three times, I have a pension, and I have enough money to fly to see my family. I am very thankful.
Yippee! First day free of antibiotics.I am happy I had them, of course, because they cured my complaint, but the side effects of the medication were horrid.
The other good news - Yippee! - is that I am going to Colorado in November to see Isaac and Wendy and the girls -
My ticket is booked, and now I am trying to make sense of tests and testing times.
These are certainly testing times. I was horrified when getting my travel insurance that my recent illness has cost me £200 extra this year. And my last provider wouldn't even offer me an annual policy.
Dave came into the study when I was wrestling with this and when he heard the prices he said : "Could you just go there and die if you were ill?"
I hooted with laughter.
Later he came in and said it wasn't so bad. I should think of the cost of the holiday as being the cost of two holidays - with me away, he gets a holiday too.
Aspies...you've got to love 'em.
We are currently glued to a Netflix series called Love on the Spectrum, about aspies trying to start dating. It's respectfully and beautifully done. It's touching and excruciating and very moving. What a harsh and difficult world it is for aspies. I wish they were more understood.
This book is an entertaining read while introducing some nuggets of revelation and ahah moments for anyone who has ever wondered if a friend or acquaintance or ... perhaps even partner actually is an alien, or just wired very differently!
I enjoyed "But I Told You Last Year That I Loved You...." so much that I have, so far, bought 5 copies as gifts for friends and relations not just because they will undoubtedly gain pleasure from reading it but also a discussion starter about how things can be...
I am still not well, but while I've been lounging around feeling useless I've been wondering about several things, some of which stem from the too-much-television I've been watching.
Firstly, what's happened to Grace and Frankie? The latest four episodes released are absolutely dire. They're not funny, they're crass. Do they have different scriptwriters? After six great series is the show going to crash and burn on the last?
And what has happened to Jane Fonda? She's always looked unnaturally 'lovely' for her age and I've grown used to it, and as her on-screen character has developed into a softer person, her appearance has not mattered so much. But in these latest episodes her wrinkle-less face is looking grotesque, and more like a doll-like mask. Has anyone else noticed that?
Secondly, against my socialist principles I have been working my way through Downton Abbey and loving it. It's really just a high-class soap, isn't it? But can someone tell me why Lady Mary talks in that peculiar way? I don't mean the poshness I mean the cadence of her speech. It is so unnatural, it makes her character seem even colder than her behaviour already suggests. What a nasty piece of work she is. Her kindness to Anna is her only saving grace. How could Matthew be so besotted with her?
Thirdly, I've had a revelation about wrinkles. In September I saw Mel, my sax teacher and friend, after 18 months of online-only contact. Mel is 20 years younger than me. She said 'Well, you haven't changed,' and I said 'Except for more wrinkles.'
And without hesitation she said 'When I look at you I don't see the wrinkles.'
And I realised she wasn't being tactful, she was telling the truth. Because after the initial meeting, when you're talking to someone you don't look at their wrinkles. You look at their eyes and their mouth. It made me feel a whole lot better, because now my jowls have sunk, for the first time ever I have been thinking that if my puritan scruples would let me - in other words if I was a different person - I might think about having a facelift. But I am me and I won't.
Photo by Isaac: Me in 2015
Photo by Wendy: me in March 2020
Dave is still puzzling over an article he read in the weekend paper about a woman journalist (of 46) who had plastic surgery on just about every part of her body and is now pleased with her appearance. She got all of it free because she's a journalist, but a lot of it will have to be repeated and she will have to pay for that. What he just said was 'We don't need a cult of youth, we need a cult of wisdom.' Rock on, Dave.
On the other hand, his underpants problem has re-emerged and he goes to the chest of drawers in the morning bewailing the demise of his current set of pants, and the impossiblility of finding others that would be up to the mark.
In case you are new to the blog, I quote from an earlier blog post, and book -
“So what do you think the perfect underpant needs?” I said.
“Security, material that shrugs off stains, adequate ventilation – possibly assisted – and a reliable fastening. It’s about time persons of quality gave their attention to the comfort and protection of the nation’s manhood. Paxman tried a few years ago – do you remember all that kerfuffle on the Today programme? Nothing happened. Next thing you know, Prince Charles will be muscling in with the Poundbury Pant and the Prince’s Truss.”
Today he described himself as the Don Quixote of the underpant Grail.
Then he said: 'Do you think Paxman was bought off?'
OK. I've written the blog, and now the question is - do I feel strong enough to get showered and dressed? or shall I go back to bed?
Do you remember Di McDougall who in the comments section on my blog goes under the name of Marmee? She has been reading my blog for at least ten years, and she wrote a guest post on here last March, telling us about her experience of Covid in South Africa.
Guess what? She has begun her own blog and it's terrific. I commend it to you.
Plus, I'm going to add a link to it at the side of my blog with the other links.
I wish you good luck, Di, and look forward to reading your blog in the years to come.
The news was making me anxious last week, but after 5 days away in Wensleydale with my sibs, and a news blackout, I feel so relaxed I may give up reading the news forever.
It rained a lot, but that made the many waterfalls worth visiting. This time we didn't go to Aysgarth Falls, but we saw Mill Gill Force, West Burton Falls, Cotter Force and Hardraw Force.
Jonty and I climbed up and walked above and around it
Here's the top of the waterfall. The small yellow circle shows you how small the people at the bottom look.
Hardraw is where Kevin Costner made an appearance in Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves, and where my brother Jonty used to walk behind the waterfall carrying a glass of beer, to see if he could do it without spilling it. (FYI Jonty was also the first streaker in Hawes.)
We drove more than usual because of the rain. This included a trip up to Tan Hill, the highest pub in the British Isles. It was too wet and cold to stand outside and take a photo so I took one of the stunning front cover of a book about the pub. Just look at that fabulous sky.
There is a large porch at Tan Hill which they leave unlocked night and day so that anyone lost in a storm can take shelter. When we were there it was full of sodden anoraks. The sodden people were in the bar.
The rain didn't spoil the holiday. We still had a lot of laughs.
Driving up there on the motorway during a chat about online and texted scams, one sister asked me to text a reply to her husband as she hadn't got her glasses on. That sister's communications are notably succinct (I still remember a text she got while away from home that said 'All fine. Hen dead') so I didn't bother adding a kiss at the end.
Then my other sister's phone pinged, and as she was driving she asked me to text her husband back (as if I was her). I typed the brief response and wondered how many kisses to add. Neither of my sisters are as soppy as me, so I finished with one kiss.
'Thanks, Sue. How many kisses did you put?'
'One.'
'Oh my God, he'll think it's a scam!'
One morning during one of our leisurely breakfasts I was telling the others about my recent annual check up at the doctor's. The nurse came to the waiting room and asked me to step onto a machine in the corner that would weigh and measure me and take my blood pressure simultaneously.
I told them I'd protested to the nurse that I was wearing my boots and my coat and how much would that add to my weight?
Jen said: 'What about your false boob? That adds extra weight.'
'Not that much,' I said.
'Weigh it!'
Much laughter.
I found some scales in the holiday cottage kitchen cupboard.
For the record it weighs 250gms.
It was so wonderful to be all together after two years since the last time (though we missed Pete, who because of Covid restrictions didn't feel able to come.)
We argue and snap at each other from time to time - of course we do - but I find a deep down comfort in being with them all. I am struggling to express where this comfort comes from. Is it because I have known them all my life, and we all loved our parents and our childhoods? There are some stark differences between us but there is something underlying that means we accept those differences and see there are far more important things at stake than whether we agree on the need for the monarchy, whether Robert Peston looks grubby, or how to cook baked potatoes.
We certainly all agree that the £20 cut to Universal Credit is cruel.
I just found an earlier blog post from five years ago exploring this conundrum.
"Four sibs are keen ornithologists. One sees a bird that's been pointed out to them, and thinks: "Yes. And?"
One objects to a milk carton on the breakfast table, two think that coming down to breakfast in pyjamas is a capital crime, and the others are baffled by the strictures (although two protest at an electric kettle left on the table.) It's complicated.
Four like background music. One prefers silence.
Four are technophiles. One's a technophobe.
Four sibs are tough stoics. One is a wuss.
Three have cats, one prefers dogs, and one has hens and brought eggs for us all.
Two think Mrs Brown's Boys is funny. Two think Mrs Brown's Boys is beyond the pale. I forgot to ask the other one.
Three are foodies. Two consider cooking to be a tedious necessity.
Two are monarchists. Three are republicans. (N.B. the lower case r.)
Two sit in bed in the morning reading the news on their iPads and fuming about the current government. The others don't, but are nevertheless prone to the fuming bit.
I suspect that Venn diagrams drawn up by my sibs would highlight different things.
Our undisputed commonalities would be our love of Wensleydale and our love for each other. Priceless."
Tomorrow I'm going away with my sisters for a holiday in Wensleydale, a holiday that was cancelled a year ago because of Covid.
I haven't seen my younger sister Jen for two years and it's been too long.
I'm just sorry that Pete, one of our brothers can't come with us, as he usually does. The other one, Jonty, lives there, so we'll be spending time with him.
We may be cooped up because of rain but I don't care. It will be so lovely to be together again that I thought I'd share with you an old post celebrating sisterhood that I wrote when we were prettifying our mother's house to sell.
Here it is...
Love conquers all
I’ve seen some blogs where every post is chirpy, and they read like an exercise in counting blessings. Blogs like that get on my nerves. On a personal basis, cheerfulness is attractive. Upbeat people are a joy. But unrelenting cheerfulness in a diary is dull. I can’t take the cheesiness. And it sounds so fake. What is this person NOT telling me?
A weekend away for three sisters in their mother’s empty house (empty of their much-loved mother) had the potential not for cheese, but for immense discomfort, when the purpose of the weekend was to prettify the house (on a tiny budget, and with odds and ends from home) so that buyers could see its potential, and be willing to take on the modernisation required. Three women with different tastes engaged on a joint venture of domestic chic is bad enough. If those three women are straight talking, with very definite views, and are also picky, it doesn’t bear thinking about.
Other conditions were not propitious. We arrived in fog so thick we couldn’t see the hills; the house was freezing cold (despite the fact that Jonty had turned up the heating and also lit the fire for us – what a peach!) because a cottage with three foot thick stone walls takes a lot of warming up. The weather was cold and grey, with rain and sleet. We were too busy to enjoy the dale, apart from a brief walk to Aysgarth Falls, and an evening out with Jonty and Rachel, who cooked us a fantastic dinner.
As for the mission..there was a spat over whether a leather suitcase on the dresser looked old-lady-ish or Country Living–ish, a disappointment over a framed poster that one sister wanted to hang and the others hated. One sister’s cushions were banished to the boot of her car because they were the wrong colour, and there were tussles over the exact position of a vase of flowers on the windowsill, and oh yes – a chair which one wanted in one corner and the other wanted “Here! To cover up this stain!” There was also a last minute overruling that the basket in the porch was an affectation, and looked twee.
But the mission was accomplished: with new curtains, new bedspreads, new cushions, different pictures and lots of hard work and careful thought, the house looks lighter and prettier.
And we had lots of teasing, lots of laughs, lots of cosy chats in bed with mugs of tea. We loved being together.
Love really does conquer all.
(And you’ll just have to forgive the cheese.)
Oh, and this is the bedroom where they wouldn’t let me put the leather suitcase! The b******s!
The news from Hepworth Towers is that I am still obsessed with grasses.
This is my latest painting, inspired by that Ezra Pound poem I keep putting on here...
And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
Not shaking the grass.
Ezra Pound
Acrylic on canvas board 59x42 cms.
And I've been enjoying looking at the book of the latest Hockney exhibition, The Arrival of Spring, which my dear friend Het gave me. Hockney painted all the pictures on his iPad, and it inspired me to buy a painting app for myself.
I'd already painted this turquoise and white background on canvas below, and couldn't decide how to develop it, so I imported a photo of it into Procreate and have spent a happy hour in bed this morning, playing with colours to learn how the program works, and to see if I can decide where to take the painting.
It beats reading the news. I've been completely focussed, and the free floating anxiety due to the collapse of this septic isle completely disappeared.
Neither is right, but it's a work in progress.
Het said to me, yesterday: 'You're prolific.'
Me: 'I need to keep painting. Then I don't have to clean the bedroom.'
The only other thing to report is that it was back to olden times here last evening. During lockdown Chrissie and I would have drinks and nibbles on Facetime, and last night we did it again because we live six miles apart and we're both saving petrol for upcoming trips.
I hope you're all staying saner than me in these disturbing times.
I have to admit that I was feeling fairly gloomy this morning.
1/ the state of the country: nuff said.
2/ worrying about whether I will have enough petrol to get up to Wensleydale next week when my two sisters and I are having a holiday together that was cancelled last year because of you-know-what. (Dave kindly went down to Bakewell at 7 a.m. and filled up the car but reported that several pumps were empty already.)
3/ whittling about when the USA administration will make a definite announcement as to the date we can travel there and whether they will accept those vaccinated with Astrazeneca. It's so tantalising when they say 'early November.' Why don't they give a date? I want to get my ticket booked this minute to go and see Isaac and Wendy and the girls.
But after my early doctor's appointment in Bakewell I cycled past the Co-op and spotted our lovely Big Issue seller Sofia - whom I haven't seen for 18 months. It was so wonderful to see her that it really cheered me up.
Then I cycled home up the Trail, littered with drying leaves, and bounded by firey rosebay willow herb
and was thankful for the changing season. It's deeply reassuring that the world continues in its seasonal cycles. 'The sun rises in spite of everything.'
When I got home our boxes of cox apples arrived. There is no apple that compares with a new season cox. I once embarrassed a greengrocer by saying that biting into my first cox of the autumn was almost orgasmic.
And now I am considering the irony of my whittling about leisure travel, when Sofia will be worrying about paying for heating this coming winter, and the swingeing cut to the benefit she's probably claiming.
This poem never fails to comfort me:
Everything is Going to be
All Right
How should I not be glad to contemplate the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window and a high tide reflected on the ceiling? There will be dying, there will be dying, but there is no need to go into that. The poems flow from the hand unbidden and the hidden source is the watchful heart. The sun rises in spite of everything and the far cities are beautiful and bright. I lie here in a riot of sunlight watching the day break and the clouds flying. Everything is going to be all right.
Derek Mahon
from New Collected Poems(2011), published here by kind permission of The Gallery Press
I was having a chat with my GP the other day about why I get so tired. We went through all the possibilities and came up with nothing, which was reassuring. Then I found myself telling him about my daily life, and heard myself say '...cycling, creative activities, thinking...'
What?
Thinking? He probably checked my occupation to see if I was down as a philosopher.
But I do think a lot; and thinking is tiring. I've just checked the science, and brain activity accounts for 20% of calorie expenditure, so there you go.
And there is so much to think about. Even before you start reading the paper, look at the bumph that comes with it:
How can I even think of buying a new jumper that I don't actually need, when there is so much real need in the world?
But there are so many other things to worry about. What's troubling me at the moment is the fact that every single thing the current government does is anathema to me. Just one example is the upcoming cut in Universal Credit, which does not affect me personally but which will affect nearly 3.5 million children.
Here are some other things - privatisation by stealth of the NHS, the collapse of the care sector, the demonisation of refugees and asylum seekers and the criminalisation of those who arrive by "illegal means."
The second reading of the Nationality and Borders Bill was backed by a majority of MPs in July. It included provisions for people who have fled war, terror and oppression to seek asylum here to be arrested and prosecuted under a new offence - that of arriving in the UK without a valid entry clearance. Such vulnerable people could face up to 4 years in prison.
What can I do about any of this? It feels as though there is nothing apart from writing to my (Tory) MP to say:
NOT IN MY NAME.
And it's not as if there is a decent opposition. I'm 72, and it feels that for the rest of my life the UK will continue to go downhill.
A friend who shares my feelings said it was very tempting when feeling powerless to effect change to simply disengage and turn one's back, but that that felt wrong.
When I asked the family-member-who-declines-to-be-named about it, he said: 'Violent revolution, but it's probably not a good fit for you.' Very true. Apart from being a pacifist I wouldn't have the energy.
Hey ho.
The good news is that I finished a painting I am pleased with:
Acrylic on canvas board 59 x 42 cms
And the other good news is that it's a sunny day.
I will leave you with this:
by William Stafford from the anthology ASK ME, pub. Graywolf Press 2014
I LOVE my phone. I love the fact that I can have quick interchanges with three of my friends from the comfort of my bed, sharing laughs and love and beauty.
I love the sunshine coming in the window.
I have had a wonderfully sociable week seeing friends and family but another strand of it has been ridiculously stressful - trying to get established with BT as our new internet service provider.
We have the connection - such as it is - but their customer ID security system is ridiculously rococo and they have so many glitches that have to be referred to the back room people that I'm seriously wondering if we have made a mistake in switching to them. But we have so few choices, living as we do up this lane in the sticks.
If it hadn't been for my wonderful BT helper Amanda, I would have already pulled out and told them to stuff it. After a week of trying to get an online ID with them I am still not sorted, and Amanda is ringing me tomorrow to try again. I told her that if we are successful we should each have a piece of cake to celebrate.
I have other admin crap to sort out and I realised yesterday that if I find all this stressful now, in ten years time Dave and I will have to get our daughter to sort things out for us. He said it'll be fine in ten years because we'll both be dead. You can always depend on Dave to see the bright side.
So anyway...back to the morning sunshine streaming in through the window and texting friends. It's better than reading the hellish news and fretting about what's to be done about any of it.
One of the problems of being a Quaker is having all these other ancient Quakers dead and alive doing such heroic things - those 80 year olds protesting with Extinction Rebellion and being arrested, for example.
I need to cut myself some slack. An old friend who is twenty years younger than me has just had a hot tub installed in her miniscule back yard. She says you can have a dreadful day and then get in the tub and lean back and you instantly think - Whatever!
I think I need to do more whatevering.
Today I am going to paint outside. I have a sky to paint and more grasses to add to this
I've just come back from a silent peace vigil in Buxton's main shopping street.
We were there to draw attention to Europe's largest arms fair (Defence and Security International) which is beginning in London today. We were there, too, in solidarity with all those protesting outside DSEI. Here's another link.
DSEI is promoting the sale of arms that cause death and destruction for thousands of innocent civilians all over the world.
The British government sends out formal invitations to countries, including those with a known record of human rights abuse, internal repression, and external aggression: they invite countries that the government itself considers to be a human rights concern, namely Bahrain, Bangladesh, Colombia, Egypt and Iraq.
These were some of our placards:
It was easy to stand silently for an hour holding these signs. I've done it often in Bakewell with other placards - for Remembrance weekend and Hiroshima Day.
But I've been thinking lately about my Quaker grandfather, who was a Conscientious Objector in WW1. He went to a Military Tribunal and was fortunate to be granted absolute exemption, presumably because he was a pacifist on religious grounds.
But his life and that of my grandmother throughout the war must have been so difficult. They lived in West Hartlepool which was bombarded by German warships in December 1914. 130 people were killed and hundreds more were injured. Dozens of buildings were destroyed or damaged and many of those hit are still scarred by pieces of shrapnel embedded in the walls. Morethan 1,100 shells rained down on the shipbuilding town.
The attack galvanised the local people, with 22,000 men joining up, a huge proportion of the population, and many more men and women working in the shipyards and munitions factories.
The other result was that Hartlepool, on three occasions, won awards for raising the most money per head of population of any place in the British Empire for the war effort. The equivalent today would be £545million.
I'm thinking it would be hard enough being a CO in WW1, but to be one working in Hartlepool as a bank clerk, a public position, must have required huge stoicism.I have imagined him being ostracised, denied promotion for years and years, and much much worse.
I've told you how every morning Dave asks me what are my plans for the day, haven't I?
Yesterday when he asked me I said: 'I have some stuff to do and then I'm going out on my bike.'
Dave: 'What stuff?'
Me: 'I don't want to say.' and only when I explained it to him, did I realise why. 'It's boring domestic stuff and I'm trying to keep it under the radar, not think about it, try and slip it into my schedule without my noticing it and feeling fed up.'
It's possible this only works for me, and that it's because it takes me so long to wake up in the morning. Yesterday we were waiting for the satnav to boot up
and it twigged that the blank screen, where even the menu doesn't work, is just like me first thing in the morning.
There is, of course, another way of dealing with tedious but necessary tasks: you can make a list and have the satisfaction of crossing the items off when done.
My new method of slipping things in under the radar is good for things like changing the sheets and cleaning out the fridge, but not so good when trying to activate my new BT account which I'd put off for too long and then getting snarled up in BT's overtight security measures and having to talk to a charming BT person who cannot fix the problem even after 50 minutes of trying, with me on the other end of the line. Aaarghhh!
I don't want to be dealing with the glut of plums, either:
That's just the first batch of our harvest (from our only tree.) Last year we had no plums at all. This year the branches are so laden they are breaking off.
I am getting so possessive of my time and energy. All I want to do is paint,
or be outside in this current spell of sunshine, cycling, walking, reading or playing table tennis...
...or looking at this beautiful book that my dear, thoughtful and generous friend Het sent me in the post
because she knew I was sad to miss the London exhibition.
