My mother has died.
Most near, most dear, most loved... She is a procession no-one can follow after But be like a little dog following a brass band.(from George Barker's Sonnet to my Mother)
Our life is love and peace and tenderness; and bearing one with another, and forgiving one another, and not laying accusations one against another; but praying one for another, and helping one another up with a tender hand.
Isaac Penington, 1667
There were so many things I wanted to tell you about when I was in San Francisco, but the trouble is....Chapter 4 of my new book is set in California, and I didn't want to post things here that I might want to use in the book. Hence my concentration on tea and the weather - isn't that what we (Brits) talk about when we don't want to spill the beans about more interesting things?
That's my margarita above, and if you click on the picture you'll be able to see the fog beginning to sweep in from the left and mist up the view of the high rise buildings downtown.
Well, I've done it in a car, on foot, and now on a bike. Next time it will be roller boots.Click on the arrow. That's me. I cycled for 23 miles and it was fabbetty fab.
That's a lovely shirt on the 40% off rail. You look at the price and consider. But then Wendy reminds you that there's 8% tax on top of the price. So you work out 8% and add that. Then you work out what 40% off means (or should it be the other way around?) and then you have to remember what the dollar/pound exchange rate is. It was 2:1 last visit, but when I bought my dollars for this trip it was 1.69:1.
Who wants to do extensive mental arithmetic at 5.53 p.m. on a baking hot afternoon?
Woo-hoo! I'm off to California to do a spot of tree hugging, and I have the latest Garrison Keillor book to read on the plane. The first line is "Evelyn was an insomniac so when they say she died in her sleep, you have to question that."
See you in two weeks. Or maybe I'll post from there...
I went to talk to a book group the other night about Zuzu's Petals, and someone asked me who were my favourite authors.
The first ones to spring to mind were - Garrison Keillor, Carol Shields and Anne Tyler. But there are loads of others. I've just read Rose Tremain's The Road Home and really enjoyed it, and before that I gollopped up When We Were Bad, by Charlotte Mendelson - now there's a book I wish I'd written.
I got a whacking score - 2.69. The reason I'm so boastful is because I beat Dave. (He wins at everything in this house.) See if you can beat me. Click here to have a go. It only takes five minutes.
My friend, outraged by the intrusion, said "Sex, drugs and rock and roll."
The man behind him in the queue - an acquaintance - said, "No change there, then."
The bank clerk's face remained expressionless. He bent over the paper and began to write. "I'll put down leisure activities."
"I have nothing to say about David Miliband except pass the sick bag. Have you noticed there is only 2 letters difference between voting and vomiting?"
I just got back from a weekend in Wensleydale - the setting of half of Zuzu's Petals. The river was running a full pot because of the heavy rain, and I wanted to capture the beautiful colour of the water when the river is full.
The Upper Falls at Aysgarth...(click to enlarge any of the pictures)
On the way home I had to call in at Meadowhell Shopping Centre (sorry - Freudian slip - Meadowhall) to take something back to M&S, so I popped into Waterstone's to ask them how many copies of Zuzu's Petals they'd sold since it was published in paperback in July.
The guy behind the desk humoured me and told me, and then said "We have one in stock at the moment."
But I already knew this, because I'd checked, and I'd also turned the book face outwards on the shelf. (Local authors are a nightmare.)
You talk about staunch Protestants, and devout Catholics, but have you ever heard it said the other way round?
The middle of the village...
The kissing gate that leads to the path to the church...
The path to the church (where I always expect to meet Mr Darcy)...
Great Longstone church...
Great Longstone dairy...
The view over the garden wall...
For example - you can say a man is dashing, and you can say a woman looks fetching; but could you say that a man looks fetching, and a woman dashing?
I can't see this mole, so I asked Dave to have a look at it this morning and tell me what was happening.
"It looks like a very tiny and slightly overcooked Bakewell pudding," he said.
You wouldn't get a simile like that in First Aid in English. (click here.)
A shared cultural history is such a special aspect of a close relationship - for me. I love being able to mention obscure things from my past to friends and for them to know exactly what I'm talking about.
Examples?
Oh...Champion the Wonder Horse, The VOICE from Gary Halliday, Double or Drop from Crackerjack, the very biggest spotty dog you ever did see in the Woodentops.
And didn't you always feel sorry for Tonto when the Lone Ranger said "You go into town, Tonto, and pick up supplies, and I'll make camp here"?
"You go to Sainsbury's, Tonto, and I'll sit by the fire and have a cup of tea and watch Neighbours."
Butterflies on the Sedum...
My Verbena Bonariensis...
My Cosmos...
And the very last - and minscule - bunch of sweet peas...
Maybe a clue to my mood lay in that last title - the L word.
It's so rare to find myself in an empty house, and when I do I feel as if I'm queen of the world.
I can write and think with a clear head. The luxury!
The trouble is that my head is so clear this morning that I can't think how to entertain you. That's why I'm falling back on a piece I had in The Times several years ago. I hope you enjoy it...
Can spend, won’t spend
I am considering offering up my husband as a guinea pig for trainee salespeople.
He wants a new bicycle, he needs a new bicycle, he can afford a new bicycle. He just cannot bring himself to buy one. The current one has already been rebuilt and resprayed once, but after 120,000 miles the formerly elegant frame is suffering from metal fatigue. If he doesn’t buy a replacement soon, the bottom bracket will snap on a ride and he and the bike will suffer the ignominy of a lift home in the car.
The problem is that whilst he is passionate about cycling, he hates spending money on himself. It’s a puzzle how he managed to buy the bike in the first place. He bought it on the day our second son was born, eighteen years ago. I don’t know whether this was by way of a celebration, or a don’t think I’m going to give up cycling and spend more time at home gesture, or a panicky I’d better buy it now while there’s still some money in the bank purchase.
Whichever it was, he needs a new bike now, yet he remains immobile. Thriftiness is a welcome virtue in a family man, but my man is so parsimonious that he would be the only guest ever on Alvin Hall’s Your Money or Your Life programme to be told to go out and spend more money.
Years ago, the first time he asked if I wanted to go shopping I naively imagined that this would mean entering shops and handing over money for purchases. What it actually meant was walking disconsolately up and down the high street, looking in shop windows. We never stepped over a threshold because, either the desired item wasn’t in the window so they obviously didn’t have it, or, if it was in a display visible from the street it was always too expensive. “They don’t know what to charge” should be embossed on his wallet.
Consequently, for the last thirty years I have done all the shopping. This has definite advantages. It’s easy to smuggle an unjustifiable purchase into the house, hide it in the back of the wardrobe, and get it out to wear a month later. Then when he says “Is that new ?” I can honestly say “No, I’ve had it for ages,” which happily forestalls any questions about price.
I have to buy all his clothes as well as anything he actually wants – from guitar strings to books to spare parts for his bike. It only takes two months to rev himself up to shell out £5.99 for a set of new guitar strings, and it’s easy to take written instructions on brand and type. But only he could choose and buy the bike, and it takes more like five years to change into a high enough gear to hand over the money for that.
We have passed the first stage: three months of complaints about the fact that each and every component needs replacing, and three months on how it’s not worth doing because the frame is rusting and the transmission is as slack as his eighteen year old sweatband. We are now into the 2 years of weekend forays to local bike shops. He has weathered the shock at the increase in prices since 1984, but has so far not spotted his platonic ideal of a bike.
When he does, we will enter the period where I try to persuade him to do the deed, and he says no, he wouldn’t get the value out of the purchase because he only has a few years left to live. He is 51 and in good health; his only ailment is pessimism.
I’m starting to get desperate about this bike business, though. I’ve just remembered that he bought his guitar when our daughter was born. I hope he doesn’t have some strange yet-to-be-labelled syndrome which means he can only buy things when in a new surge of fatherhood. I love him dearly, but if he won’t buy a bike till we have a new baby, he can take up running instead.
© Sue Hepworth 2008
Appears here with kind permission of The Times
