Quiet

Today I'm going to start - not finish -  with the latest review of my latest book - DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE.  

It has been a quiet week at Hepworth Towers. Dave has been engaged in Kirigami; I have been struggling with the patchwork quilt. I always prick myself several times when assembling a quilt, and there is always blood.

Fortunately there is always Fairy Liquid.

Yes, it's been a quiet week, and one in which I haven't wanted to blog. I found this poem by Mary Oliver which sums things up: 

With the shops re-opening, the Trail has been quieter, thank goodness. Listen to the birds.

I'll see you next week. I might have something to say. I'm saving all my words today for the letter I'm going to write to my MP. There is so much to say to her.

Onwards and upwards, dear friends. And lots of patience.

A new week, a new day

Last evening Dave told me that I am always bad tempered these days.

I didn't argue, because he is probably right. When I say I worry I'll never see my Colorado girls again, Lux and Cece

and he says everyone has to accept that the world is different now, and air travel might never be what it was and we have to accept this, and there are lots of other people feeling upset, I do snap back like an angry crocodile.

But I need to be a sweeter person. I need to work harder at it in the place we are in right now, the new normal. While Dave has been even-tempered and patient for the last three months - Oh my God is it really three months we've been staying at home and avoiding the world? -  I have been swerving all over the place. Well, you know, because you've been reading the blog.

I apologised before bed, and promised to try to be a nicer person when we woke up. And Dave smiled because he is sweet and kind-hearted, and said:  'See you in the morning, if we're spared,' and I smiled, because even though he's said it a hundred times before, it still amuses me.

I slept well and woke up too early and picked up my iPad in the dark to see if there were any new episodes of my favourite programmes on BBC Sounds and found Poetry Please. Hooray! It hasn't been on since before the lockdown and I've needed it.

The first episode of the new series was hosted by Roger Robinson who wrote this poem, which I have permission to share with you, and have shared with you before:

A Portable Paradise 

And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

Roger Robinson

© Roger Robinson, from A Portable Paradise, 2019. Used by permission of Peepal Tree Press.#


He chose some nourishing and thought provoking poems. My three favourites were:

Grace by Roger Robinson,  Fam by Caleb Femi - listen to it here  - and 

Eurofighter Typhoon by Fiona Benson.

I am trying to memorise the lines from Fam which go...

we mean we have to laugh, 
crying doesn't stop it from happening

Listening to poetry on the radio is a much nicer way to wake up than reading the news, so I was already feeling chipper when I checked my email and found this:

from the birthday girl. 

Love spans the miles. 

And here is the plate I painted at her Zoom pottery painting party on Saturday night:

Wishing you all a better week than the last one, and lots of love.

Escape

My brother Jonty told me yesterday that dolphins shut off half their brain in order to be able to sleep without drowning.  

Do you ever want to escape your brain?

A long, long time ago at a time when I was very unhappy I can remember wanting to chop my head off and put it in a fridge for a while so I could have a rest from my swirling thoughts. 

These last two weeks I've needed a day off from them too, and I managed to escape for the afternoon on Wednesday by playing with my acrylic paints while listening to an ancient sitcom on the radio, Second Thoughts, which stars the wonderful Lynda Bellingham and James Bolam. (If you decide to listen to it, the person in charge of BBC Sounds has jumbled up the order of episodes, so check the broadcast dates to see which comes first.) That was a lovely afternoon and I produced a painting I am going to hang on the wall. It's called Solace.

Another way to escape yourself is to pretend to be someone else. When I first started painting in lockdown I dressed up in ripped and patched dungarees with my mother's oversized knitted waistcoat: I was channelling the aging hippie Frankie from Grace and Frankie, because so many of her paintings are ridiculous and she made me feel free to mess about with my paints, and not worry what other people thought about the results.

Dave's and my television tastes barely overlap, which means we watch the same things over and over. At present, at the end of our busy days mostly spent separately, we play Scrabble or do a cryptic crossword, and then watch two episodes of M*A*S*H.

I'm really enjoying Frank's paranoid dialogue. 

e.g.
Franks walks into the swamp.

Trapper says: 'Hi Frank, how are you?' 

Frank: 'Do you think that scares me?'

Later, Frank leaves the swamp.

Trapper says in a friendly tone: 'See you, Frank.'

Frank: 'Threaten me all you want, bud.'

So I told Dave that the next morning I was going to channel Frank, just for fun. It would work well because I am (ahem) rather difficult when I first wake up.

I had my first response all  lined up...Dave would ask me how I was, as he always does, and I'd say 'As if you care!'

But Dave forgot the plan and brought me a mug of tea and I was completely disarmed. 

This week we've had two grandchildren's birthdays, but I am only allowed to mention one, so here she is - birthday girl Cece in Colorado, for all of you who remember her when she looked like this:

Now, she looks like this: aged 8, and in charge.

Cake with Harry Potter symbols

She's invited me to her pottery painting birthday party via Zoom. 

Woo-hoo!   Another chance to escape!

Think it possible you may be mistaken

I go on Twitter because it keeps me informed of news and opinion, as well as providing jokes and levity, and a place to publicise my writing.

Sometimes I can't stand it because it can be like a sewer, with insults and nastiness, intolerance, and much much worse. It makes me sad that people cannot be more respectful. 

I don't often mention my Quakersim on the blog, but this morning when I went on Twitter, I thought of these two points from our Advices and Queries, because  everyone on social media might benefit from considering them, whether or not they believe in God. (And just for the record, I don't.)

17.  Do you respect that of God in everyone though it may be expressed in unfamiliar ways or be difficult to discern? Each of us has a particular experience of God and each must find the way to be true to it. When words are strange or disturbing to you, try to sense where they come from and what has nourished the lives of others. Listen patiently and seek the truth which other people’s opinions may contain for you. Avoid hurtful criticism and provocative language. Do not allow the strength of your convictions to betray you into making statements or allegations that are unfair or untrue. Think it possible that you may be mistaken.

22.  Respect the wide diversity among us in our lives and relationships. Refrain from making prejudiced judgments about the life journeys of others. Do you foster the spirit of mutual understanding and forgiveness which our discipleship asks of us? Remember that each one of us is unique, precious, a child of God.

And now you've read them, here's a photo I took from a recent excursion. I was going to say 'an irrelevant photo' but it's not, because the beauty of the natural world is never irrelevant.

I hope you have a good day, dear friends. 

It's wearing thin

Dave said yesterday that sometimes he feels like one of those zoo keepers who’s been looking after an animal for 30 years and one day goes into the cage and gets savaged.

After twelve weeks of lockdown I sometimes wish he would stop talking.

I also wish he would desist from opening the fridge door and peering in disconsolately and then shutting it. And then five minutes later doing the same thing again. It makes me jumpy.

Dave is much nicer than me in lockdown. But then he isn't really fed up with it. I have been asking people to rate how fed up they are on a scale from 1 to 10 where 1 is mildly irritated, and 10 is so fed up you feel like punching someone. The only thing bugging Dave is that he can't get DIY materials and he can't visit his sister. so he gives it a rating of 1.

Very occasionally I would have a rating of 2, but mostly it swerves between 4 and 7.

I spent yesterday morning trying to photograph my paintings in order to upload them for the King Lear competition. Two were not too tricky, but one has glitter on it, and no matter how we took the photo, we could not get the glitter to show up. Glitter shines when you view it from an angle, and of course, you have to photograph a painting directly from above. The glitter is an important feature of the painting, so I was stymied.

Dave said - "Well, you'll just have to treat it as a learning experience and know not to use glitter in future.”

Aaarggh. He is full of annoying teacherisms like that - comments that in no way  help with the problem in hand. 

“I’m not thinking about the future, I’m thinking about how to get this bloody thing uploaded now. I suppose I will have to post the thing. I shan’t get it back, but that doesn’t matter.”

Dave: “You can't do that! It's part of your portfolio - when you're the new Grandma Moses, it could be valuable.”

Oh, Dave. 

Yes, on the one hand this is sweetly supportive, but honestly! I'm a writer who has six published books under her belt and who still can't get an agent. Does he think I want to be a failed painter as well? Painting for me is an enjoyable break from reality. Nothing more.

I can’t show you any of the paintings just yet, so you can see these boots I drew instead.

The new plan

Last week I started having early morning nightmares again. And I spent this last weekend on the verge of tears. 

Why? The continuing police brutality in the USA, even while the world is watching; the realisation that the UK government doesn't care about our welfare and even if they did, they are not competent to look after us; the Brexit disaster; the frightening swing in world politics to right-wing populism; the continuing illness from Covid of my friend - after seven weeks; the death of a dear friend (already mentioned to you); the feeling of helplessness and inability to make a difference.

This morning I woke up after 8 hours sleep and no nightmares and am ready to tackle a new week, but I have a plan.


1. Only read the news in the morning. Never at night. And that includes Twitter. 

This is Mary Oliver's poem: 

The Morning Paper

Read one newspaper daily (the morning edition

     is the best

for by evening you know that you at least 

     have lived through another day)

and let the disasters, the unbelievable

     yet approved decisions,

soak in.


I don't need to name the countries,

     ours among them.


What keeps us from falling down, our faces

     to the ground: ashamed, ashamed?


2.  Buy a copy of Why I am no longer talking to white people about race, and read it again. If you do not believe racism is endemic in the UK, I recommend you read this book. There's currently so much to read online about racism in the USA: this morning I found this piece interesting.

3.  Consider what I can do to support #BlackLivesMatter.

4.  Stop rushing to get as much as possible shoehorned into my days so that when I look back, these months of distance from ordinary life will not feel like a waste of time. I must calm down.  I will make a list in the morning of just three things I want to do before tea time, when I usually collapse.

6.  Find a new novel to read. I am enjoying Anna Karenina, but it is slow going. I go back to it in the evening because I think - Oh, I should read some more Anna Karenina (note the should) rather than looking forward to reading it in the same way I have looked forward to watching another episode of Call My Agent on Netflix.  I need a novel that enthrals me.  I don't want a whodunnit or a thriller or anything violent or harrowing. But I don't want slush, either. Do you have any suggestions, friends?

7.  Get my art submissions sent off to the King Lear competition for the over 70s.

Here, for your amusement, are two photos Liz took of me on a recent walk. The orange glove is so I can open gates without becoming infected. The other photo speaks for itself.

And here is my latest attempt at reading an extract from DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE. I've not read you this one before. Listen here.

I hope you all have a better week than the last one.

Letter from home

I've started having early morning nightmares again, as I was earlier on in the lockdown. I think it's because I took my eye off the day-to-day and was thinking about the future, wondering when family and friends and community happenings will be possible again, and thinking it might not be for another six months.

Yesterday I had to write a piece for our Quaker newsletter on my hopes for the future. It was hard to write about hopes for the future at the end of the week we've just had - the continuing dishonesty and mishandling of the pandemic here in the UK, and the dangerous and threatening response to the justified demonstrations in the USA. I have been horrified by the response of the president (no capital letter deserved) and I've felt physically sick on seeing the video footage of the police brutality. Where will it end?

But I found this comforting quote from Seamus Heaney's The Cure at Troy:

History says, Don't hope
On this side of the grave,
But then, once in a lifetime
The longed-for tidal wave
Of justice can rise up
And hope and history rhyme.

Let's hope for a tidal wave of justice.

Let's do what we can to bring it about.

There is something every one of us can do to make the world a better place. 

Here at Hepworth Towers as well as writing three times to my MP, I've been making a patchwork cot quilt for my friend Mary's first grandchild, expected in July. When it's finished and been presented I'll show you a picture.

The potatoes that were scorched by the frost are recovering:

The two runner beans and one dwarf bean that managed to germinate are looking perky:

The lettuce is thriving, and delicious:

And I managed to plant out some of my cosmos seedlings before the heavy rain arrived:

I've put wood ash around them to keep off the slugs. 

Yesterday I found another lovely review of DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE and it warmed my heart. It's so rewarding to think I'm bringing pleasure through my writing.

Lastly, I saw some wonderful news on Twitter this morning - the writer and poet Michael Rosen who was dangerously ill with Covid is recovering steadily in a rehabilitation hospital.  

I hope you're all well, and your indoor projects are engrossing.

Onward and upward, dear friends.

Back to our usual pandemic programming

Well, what do you know? The government has done a U turn and allowed proxy votes for those MPs who cannot attend the House of Commons because they are particularly vulnerable to Covid19.

I can now resume my normal pandemic blogging.

On Monday morning I didn't want to risk going on the Trail again and meeting lots of people so I rode my bike up the hill behind the village and onto Longstone Edge. Here is a photo I took from the top:

And over the brow of the hill I stopped in a gateway and took this video of the view on the other side:

Once upon a time I'd thought it would be fun to record an audiobook. Since I tried to make a decent recording of an extract from my new book - DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE  - I have changed my mind. Admittedly I've been doing it in bed with the mobile phone perched on a pillow in front of me, instead of a recording studio, but technical difficulties aside, it's harder than I thought. Where to put the stresses? Where to pause? Yes, I wrote the thing, but reading it aloud is another matter.

Anyway, here is my latest attempt. It's taken from a day on the blog when I didn't feel up to blogging so I posted a piece I'd had in the Times. That's why I refer to Dave as 'my husband.' 

If you want to hear it, click on

https://soundcloud.com/user-764420757/days-are-where-we-live-september-2010

And talking of audiobooks, could you recommend one to me?

I am about to jack in my subscription to Audible and want to spend my last credit on something I'd like to listen to more than once.  I have most series of Ed Reardon's Week, but my favourite that falls into the listen-again category is Alan Bennett reading The Wind in the Willows. 

I am currently involved in a sewing project 

and listening to The Age of Innocence - one of my favourite novels. I have toyed with attempting a Trollope novel, or even Middlemarch, but I have never liked wordy Victorian novels. Indeed, as I listen to The Age of Innocence which I have read several times, I'm thinking - how did I ever get through this? I think it must be because I read much more quickly than it's possible to narrate. So anyway... any suggestions?  

Failed!

Look, I've tried to keep politics off the blog during the pandemic. 

I've tried to make it a place where you can come and have a break; 

see some nice photos of where I've been on my bike rides and walks; 

hear some of the stuff Dave comes out with (the latest - 'I don't want you to fall through the window pane and have to rush you to hospital, and think of all the blood that will need cleaning up); 

show you some of my beginner's art; 

document my tiny attempts at vegetable gardening: progress report - I have a tub full of lettuce plants, three vigorous bean plants, several potatoes, and a row each of jaunty cabbages and willing spring onions. If I'd been depending on the mail order lettuce seedlings I'd have been pretty fed up.

All the time I have been writing these sunny posts I have been angry about the UK government's incompetent and shocking handling of the pandemic crisis, but after reading the news this morning I was boiling with rage. 

I came down to write a blog post about it, and then email my MP, but have been interrupted by various domestic duties, including a skirmish in the kitchen with big D over my unhygienic work surfaces, having to ring the bank at 8 a.m. to make sure I could get through straightaway, responding to an email from the Trussell Trust food bank charity to write to the government to urge them to introduce a Coronavirus Emergency Income Support scheme for the millions of people in the UK who cannot feed their families or pay the rent because of the lockdown restrictions.

The thing that made me finally explode is the MPs ditching a fully functioning remote voting system to queue up to vote in parliament yesterday while 100 or more MPs who are shielding or self-isolating because of age, disability, health conditions or pregnancy had to stay at home and not vote. The latter are disenfranchised and so are the millions of the public whom they represent. This is a sinister blow to democracy, quite apart from being totally bonkers.

You know what? I am actually too angry about this to write coherently. Read John Crace in the Guardian - the satirist for our age. Here.

I'm signing off and having a nice cup of tea, though I actually feel like having a drink of something stronger. Then I shall write to my MP about it, along with a complaint about the government's ditching of a promise of safe passage to child refugees abroad who have family in this country. If you also want to write about this latter issue, you can find the details here.

I hope that when you read me again I shall be calm and coherent.

Letter from home

I hope you're all OK.

It's hard to write a domestic post when America is burning. But I am sure you're reading the news: you don't need me weighing in with hand-wringing. Just when you think the world is as dark as it can be, it gets darker. It brings to mind a quote from the film Out of Africa but I can't pin it down. Can anyone help?

And I'm sure you've been following the Barnard Castle furore. I have nothing to add to the Guardian's excellent reporting.

Here in the Derbyshire Peak District, it's another fabulous day with a clear blue sky at 6.07 a.m.  and the lockdown is offically easing, so I expect that in a few hours time on the Monsal Trail 

it will be like Blackpool beach on an August Bank Holiday - as it was every day last week - which would be fine for the people who like it, if we weren't in the middle of a pandemic. 

The lockdown may be officially easing but it's going to make no difference whatsoever to what Dave and I feel safe in doing. It generally feels less safe, because the threat is still there and yet so many people are behaving as if it has gone away. If they'd lost a loved one to Covid, or they'd seen how ill my friend has been with Covid - a young fit person - and how long it is taking her to recuperate (she's into her seventh week now, I think) they wouldn't be so bloody blasé.

At least the sunny weather means I get to see some of my family, sitting in the garden. 

Yes, I know the photo is too dark, but it's such a lovely composition.

And I know that recording of me reading from DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE was not top quality, which is why I have taken down the link to it. I'm going to try again and read a different bit. Watch this space.

I'm sitting here in bed with the cat stretched out beside me

thinking I ought to be getting up now, this minute, to seize the Trail while it's still deserted. 

Rain is forecast for Wednesday which happens to be the day we have two tons of topsoil arriving to fill in one of our ponds. Oh dear. The 24 year old liner had deteriorated past mending and Dave decided after much deliberation to say goodbye to the pond. We have a second smaller one, teeming with frogs and newts, so we won't be totally bereft. It's all part of the garden retrenching project, brought on by diminishing energy for gardening.

Before I go, though, I want to tell you about a creative arts competition for the over 70s called the King Lear competition. Entry is free and you can enter as many times as you like. It's specifically aimed at the over 70s during lockdown, but there is a category for over 60s too. I am entering a couple of the paintings I've done. The competition is for amateurs.

Lastly, I have two lovely  new reviews of DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE, which I'm posting here for anyone who can't decide whether it's worth buying. You might be thinking - 'But I can read the blog, and to be honest, there's not much there.'

For the book I downloaded the best 250,000 words and then pared it down to 110,000. I kept only the best writing, and as an example, this post I am writing now this minute would not have qualified. So, on to the two latest reviews - 

I hope the sun shines for you today, actually or virtually.

Fame and the lack of it

Ever since my new book arrived in Boulder...

the girls have been asking 'Sue, are you famous?' and I've been saying 'No,' and they've been saying 'Why aren't you famous? You write books. J.K.Rowling writes books and she's famous, why aren't you?'

Ah me. How to explain.

Yesterday on Facetime they told me they'd asked Alexa 'Who is Sue Hepworth?' and Alexa knew. They showed me by asking again when I was within earshot of their Alexa.

Alexa said: 'Sue Hepworth is an author of at least five books. Her most popular books are Plotting for Beginners, But I Told You Last Year That I Loved You, and Even When They Know You.'

'So you ARE famous!' they said.

I don't care about being famous, I really don't. I just want people to read my books. 

And unfortunately I'm finding that it was easier to sell my novels than it is to sell DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE, and yet I actually think it's one of the best. 

I don't think it's selling yet because it falls in the category of memoir, and no-one buys memoir unless they have heard of the author, or unless it's been recommended by a friend, or by a mainstream media review.

You know what I'm going to ask you, now, don't you?

I know a lot of you have bought DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE, and I recognise a couple of the names on the Amazon reviews as blog readers' names. And one or two friends have told me they are reading the book slowly because they don't want to finish it: they are enjoying it so much. Also, it is a book that lends itself to being read a few pages at a time.

I always ask you to review my books on Amazon and/or Goodreads, and I'd like to say thank you again to those of you who do. 

Please will you review DAYS ARE WHERE WE LIVE as well, as soon as possible?

and perhaps you'd be good enough to mention it on Facebook, or Twitter? And tell your friends? 

The latest review on Amazon says 'Just the thing for Lockdown reading.' That's what I hoped when I rushed it out.

A little hello

Hello. How are you doing? I hope you're OK.

I'm sorry for the lack of posts: I ran out of puff. A dear friend died of cancer at the weekend and it was suddenly all too much.

This morning, to cheer me up, Dave agreed to come for an early morning walk by the river. Walking is not really his thing. Cycling, or nantling in the shed, or basking in the sunshine are more his cup of tea. 

The walk was lovely. I find walking by the river under the trees, listening to birdsong, very calming.

This viaduct carries the Monsal Trail:

There's a flight of steep steps to the left that takes you from the river path up to the Trail.

We saw a heron standing on a rock, preening itself:

'They're a lot more picturesque when they're not picking at themsleves, aren't they?' I said to Dave.

'So are people.'

Walking with Dave is a different experience from walking with Liz. 

With Liz (a latter day Fotherington-Thomas) it's 'Oh, look! A red kite!' or 'Isn't it lovely where the sunlight breaks through the trees and lights up those ferns!'

With Dave it's 'I'd like a bit of blue plastic pipe like that,' or 'This galvanised wire netting is a good non-slip surface, we should have some on our stairs instead of carpet.'

It was still very nice. He's a sweetie. And we didn't just talk about building stuff, we talked about Philip Larkin, too. He's a bit of a polymath. Did you know?