Heat and respite

What a relief. I've just had to close the window because the breeze was too chilly for me in my sleeveless nightie. 

How have you found the heat? 

I hated it.

Dave loved it. He was outside most of the day - early on in the sunshine on his 50km bike ride. Later, sitting in the shade with his feet in a plastic box of cold water, reading Lytton Strachey's Cardinal Manning. Dave comes alive in the heat. (What am I saying? He's the most alive person I know and only shrinks into the background in social situations.)  

I, meanwhile, got up early to drive a friend to hospital, then went for an early ride on the Trail and then came back to the north end of the sitting room (south window shut and curtains closed) to paint for the rest of the day.

This is what I was working on and at teatime thought I'd finished

but now I've posted it on Instagram I realise that the left hand side foreground tree leaves need to be slightly darker. 

Dave kept coming in and saying 'Come outside and experience it!' and I kept retorting 'I know what it's like! Hateful! And shut the door! I'm trying to keep out the heat!' Yes, I do mean those four exclamation marks.

Today Dave went out early and is out all morning so I've been lying in bed late, relishing the quiet, and gripped by this:

It's about death and dying. It's written by a palliative care consultant and is educative, challenging and utterly fascinating. It's such a relief to find a book I don't want to chuck in after 28 pages.

Have you heard of this reading rule suggested by someone called Nancy Pearl?

When you are 51 years of age or older, subtract your age from 100, and the resulting number (which, of course, gets smaller every year) is the number of pages you should read before you can guiltlessly give up on a book. As the saying goes, "Age has its privileges."

Now I'm going to pick some sweet peas, then make a coffee and I'm going back to bed with my book. There have to be some perks of being ancient, and freedom to do this is one of them. Friday and Saturday will be full on: Friday cooking for the refugee day and finding flowers that have not wilted to decorate the lunch tables, and Saturday the day itself. 

Enjoy the breeze. I am.

Meditations

I made sixteen jars of blackcurrant jam eight days ago and yesterday I made another eighteen. I only have two blackcurrant bushes now - having given away three - and yet there is loads more fruit to pick. 

I was thinking this month that I had moved past the stage of being excited about picking fruit from my own bushes, that it had become a chore, and jam making another chore. But I came home from a trip out yesterday worried about something and the sorting and washing of the fruit and the making of the jam assumed a meditative, calming quality and I felt a whole lot better by the end of the afternoon.

Today I picked my first bunch of sweet peas and they are sitting on my desk as I write this, smelling heavenly. I will never get tired of growing sweet peas.

It is seven years since Mary died and last week was her birthday and for the first time ever I felt cross with her that she wasn't here to talk to. Grief follows no pattern.

Just wild flowers on the Trail

 

Het rides to the rescue - again

First, let’s get the crap out of the way - ALL the candidates for Tory leadership would keep the obscene programme which trafficks desperate and distressed  refugees and asylum seekers to Rwanda. And all of them are complicit in the corruption of Johnson's "government." 

Nuff said.

So….there I was on Monday, sitting on the train to London in my FFP2 mask, on my way to Winchester to stay with my sister Jen, when my brother (who was also going) rang up to say that he’d spent the evening with his daughter the night before and she had just rung to say that her friend - with whom she had spent the evening before that - had tested positive for Covid. He thought he should warn me. Jen didn’t mind if we still went to stay, but how did I feel about it? 

Now you might think I'd be as likely to catch Covid from the person sitting next to me on the train as I would from my brother, but said person was wearing a mask and told me she had tested negative that morning. Also, the incubation period for the current strain of Covid is 2-3 days, not 5 as before. And I'd be with him for 4 days.

I have two important events in the next 10 days - one of which is a Refugee Hospitality Day that I absolutely cannot miss, so getting Covid right now would be massively inconvenient. Therefore I told my brother (who lives in Belgium but was already in London) to go, and I'd turn round when I got to St Pancras and catch a train home. I had already arranged to meet Het for a coffee at Waterloo, and that would rescue the day.

But it was better than that because Het invited me to stay for the night, and I did. 

Toasting the demise of Johnson

Plus she was happy to cut my hair for me, which my sister had agreed to do.

Ready for my haircut

What a friend.

We talked and talked and talked, and the next day on the way to the train saw the wild flowers blooming in the grounds of the Tower of London. They looked fabulous.

But I cycled up the Trail yesterday and loved the wild flowers there just as much. I am so so lucky to live here.

Also, I plan to see all of my sibs in October in Wensleydale. Let's hope Covid doesn't have other plans.

Goodbye to a corrupt, shambolic liar

 

Where the blog is heading

Why do I have the same dreams time after time? Is it because I watch so many repeats on Netflix?

Last night I dreamed AGAIN that I was late for school. I am 72 for Pete’s sake. Perhaps it’s my aging brain. I don’t remember ever being late for school, and if you asked my friends and family, they’d say I was a punctual person, so what’s the dream about?

And why did I not mention that the photo that inspired the painting in my last post was taken one dark morning a few days after Mary died? I don’t usually have flowers on my bedside table, but I bought those freesias and genista to cheer myself up. (Blog post here.)

The fact I didn’t mention this shows how my blogging powers have diminished: it’s sad, but it’s real. What should I expect when I tell people I’m not a writer now but a painter?

Last week I got an email from The Society of Authors (which is a kind of writers’ union you’re allowed to join when you’ve had a book published.)  They run courses and events and send out a journal four times a year, and they give you advice on legal matters, copyright, contracts with agents and other heavy duty stuff. The fee this year for my membership category is £83, and I’m dithering about whether to renew it.  If I’m not writing there seems little point. The only reason for staying in is if a legal issue comes up with one of my books, or if I am finally discovered and someone wants to be my agent, or if Hollywood comes knocking. We all know how likely the last two are.

The only membership benefit relevant to me these days is a 10% deduction on the price of books bought from Waterstones, and I go there perhaps twice a year. Yes, there’s a certain frisson from waving the card around in a bookshop quite apart from the 10%, but £83 is a big price to pay for said frisson. After all, £83 will go towards the tank of heating oil we’re currently not buying because of the cost.

So. What’s what on this summer Tuesday which has a cloudy sky and an annoying breeze that interferes with outdoor table tennis?

For one thing the moonpennies are going from strength to strength.

And the meadow cranesbill is out on the Trail and looking lovely

but this year's sweet peas are pathetic and I will not shame them by showing you a photo.

The fabulous grandsons have finished their exams and left school. I am not allowed to say anything else, more's the pity.

The fabulous granddaughters are well

and they're coming over with Isaac and Wendy at the end of the month. Yay!

The girls are currently engaged on an art project to fix to their back garden fence:

Dave is still busy making three Adirondack chairs like these

for a friend. 

The family member who declines to be named and the lovely Jaine are moving house, and we have Peanut to stay for the duration

The house needs cleaning.

I am painting.

We have a new microwave and yesterday I tried making jam in it because the booklet says it’s possible. Unfortunately I got distracted and I think you can imagine what happened. But I shall try again. Also yesterday I made a roast vegetable lasagne to freeze for the next refugee hospitality day.

But what about the blog?

Well, you’ll have noticed that politics is rarely mentioned. If I started on politics these days when would I stop? We live in a rogue state that breaks international law. Our government is corrupt and sleazy. It’s led by a man with no morals. Enough. Most of you live here and you know.

So what about the blog? 

I used to be devoted to a certain blog, and then the blogger turned her focus away from everyday life and turned to her art. And I didn’t like her art. Besides which, I wasn’t reading the blog for her art I was reading it for her insights into life. I don’t want to go down that same road on my blog and it feels as though it’s heading that way.

I am proud of the blog. It’s been going a long time, and of all my books, I think the collection of the blog’s best posts in DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE is probably my favourite. So I don't want the blog to peter out in a string of less-than-entertaining posts. 

Therefore, if you don't hear from me for a while, you'll know the reason why. But I have been here so many times before that I fully expect to be back...next week or next month or next season.

Thank you, dear friends, for visiting. 

p.s. I also forgot to tell you that when I recently teased Dave about his awful baggy stripey shorts he said snootily "I am an inexplicably unregarded sartorial cynosure."  

 

This and that

What can I tell you? That I woke up from a lovely dream this week in which Alec Baldwin was feeding me the most delicious warm chocolate pudding? I know why I dreamed about him. It was because the night before I’d been dithering over whether to watch It’s Complicated for the third time. It’s not a top notch film but he and Meryl Streep are so entertaining in it. 

Telly is wonderful. It amuses you when you have the most boring job in the world to complete, such as topping and tailing gooseberries.

And again when you’re waiting for the jam to reach setting point.

Dave wasn’t there to amuse me as he normally is during jam making as he’s in the middle of a big carpentry project. The wood is cluttering up our bay window because his shed is so full of things he can’t bear to throw away. Hey ho.

It’s been an up and down week due to a/ family stuff, and b/ how my current painting has been progressing. And the week's up-and-downness does not even take into account our "government" and the further disastrous lurch to the right of the USA Supreme Court. You know the story.

But let's focus on Hepworth Towers for now.

On Monday night I was so excited about my painting I couldn’t wait to wake up in the morning to continue work on it. 

On Wednesday night I thought it was so dreadful and so difficult that I was considering stopping work and starting all over again.

Here’s one of those Spot the Difference puzzles for you…it's in order of progression through the week...

It’s almost done now - at least to my satisfaction. I’ve the title to write on the white book’s spine and one or two other details to add, and then I’m calling it a day. It’s not perfect, but I am quite pleased with it. And Dave says it’s one of his favourites, which is nice.

This is me last Saturday at the exhibition preview in the Buxton Museum and Art Gallery also feeling pretty pleased with myself, because my March Wind painting was on the wall amongst work by so many talented professional artists. 

Photo by Cath Dunn

A terrific week

What a great week!

It started with my giving a talk in a local church service at the start of Refugee Week. The minister leading the service had asked me to talk about our Refugee Hospitality Days. At the end of the service something happened that I was not expecting - several people came up and offered to volunteer (whoop whoop)  and there was also a generous retiring collection which has gone towards our expenses for the Days. 

Then on Monday Mick Lynch began to hit the airwaves and stood up to stupid and dishonest politicians, calling out lies, and held his own honourably with hard questioning from hostile journalists. How refreshing to see someone intelligent and straightforward speaking truth to power. Let’s have him for next Labour leader.

Then on Tuesday I tripped and fell over - according to Dave “like a felled tree” - on the patio and amazingly broke no bones. I had grazes and bruises and felt as if I was 100 for a couple of days, but no other damage. The next day I tripped and fell forwards onto the grass. No damage at all except to my dignity and Dave’s worry circuits. My fears were allayed, though, when I read in the paper that whether or not you can stand on one leg determines whether you’ll still be alive in 10 years: I can stand on one leg for as long as you like. However, the falls do make me think that these days I need to stop walking around in a dream, and not be like ex US president Gerald Ford who allegedly could not walk and chew gum at the same time.

I’ve had several fabulous bike rides up the Trail this week, which is strangely quiet for this time of year. I’m wondering if the cost of petrol is the reason. Visitors from local towns and cities don’t just casually ‘pop out’ to the Peak District any more, just as Dave and I don’t casually pop into Sheffield. We’re also ringing up the oil company twice a week to see if the domestic heating oil price has come down. We’ll be needing it in the winter.

Back to the Trail…there are orchids blooming there right now 

But my favourite wild flowers now the cow parsley is finished are the moonpennies

and the keck:

I finally finished my hedgerow painting, which is huge:

And I started a new painting I’m excited about. It’s of my bedside table.

And now this morning, the end to a perfect week - the by-election wins by opposition parties in Wakefield and Tiverton, and the resignation of Oliver Dowden, the chairman of the Conservative Party. Oh frabjous day! Calloo! Callay!

I took a screen shot of his Wikipedia entry this morning:

The second sentence said: "Everyone thought Oli was a wetwipe but this morning everyone thinks he's an absolute lad."

This has now been deleted, but well done Dave for spotting it early.

Wishing you a wonderful weekend!  

Dogged

I have never lived with a dog and I have never wanted a dog.  Dave, however, is different. He has done both. And since our cat Chione died he has been angling to get a dog. I have resisted, but since getting to know one or two dogs and liking them, I reneged and said that if he wiped it’s feet when it came in from a muddy walk, he could have a dog.

Dave’s response was that he does not wipe his own feet so why would he wipe the dog’s? He frequently gets mud on the carpet. I hate housework, so anything that makes more when it’s unnecessary, is very annoying. He never even thinks about wiping his feet, and it’s always puzzled me. Having lived with him for more than 50 years, I finally solved the puzzle one recent Sunday when I was sitting in Quaker Meeting and my mind was wandering. I was brought up on a farm and when you came in the house you either wiped your feet or took off your wellies. Dave was brought up in a shop. To get into his house he had to walk through the shop. Who wipes their feet when they’re walking from a city street into a shop?

[I need to interrupt the story here to tell you that this seemingly unspiritual thought in Meeting did lead on to spoken ministry. Having felt bewildered and enraged by his barbarous threshold behaviour for all of our married life I could now see an explanation. The ministry was that everyone has their story, and we should find out what it is in order to understand their behaviour, rather than making damning judgments because they do things that baffle or annoy us.]

Back to the dog. A friend with an adorable dog recently came to see us and asked Dave if he would like to have the dog to stay while she went on holiday. She knew my objection, winked at me and nudged Dave and said ‘You could prove to Sue that you can wipe his feet.’

Photo by Michelle

He asked if I’d mind Snoopy coming to stay and I knew how much he’d enjoy it, so I said OK.

And I have to tell you that Snoopy is the best advert for dog-kind that I have ever come across. He is quiet, obedient and affectionate. And Dave has also been impeccably behaved, washing the dog’s feet after the only muddy walk they had. But the weather has been dry, and it’s summer. What would it be like in the winter?

Is Dave going to go to this trouble then?

Snoopy has now gone, and he’s not there to make a fuss of me when I go downstairs for my first mug of tea in the morning, or when I come home from a bike ride. I can certainly see why people like dogs, but I think my objection boils down to this: having had family living with us for so much of our married life and now it’s just Dave and me (which I like), I don’t want to go back to being responsible for a dependent’s welfare. 

But Snoopy is a sweetheart, and I wouldn't be surprised if he came to stay again.