Coming home from Cambridge this evening I noticed that the cricket creases have gone from the playing fields of Framlingham College and have been replaced by rugby goalposts. Says it all really.
There was an end of term feeling too to the production of Macbeth in the Fellows' garden at King's College yesterday evening. We gathered, one and all, with our picnics, our rugs, our comfy chairs, our umbrellas and our excitement, hundreds of us, to enjoy the last production of the open air Shakespeare festival, a highlight of every Cambridge summer. It was a nice evening, but rain had been forecast and, sure enough, it came eventually. Hidden under my baseball cap and covered from top to toe in my car rug as I lay back in my reclining garden chair, I actually didn't realise, and stayed dry throughout. The classy prosciutto and rocket pizza slice and pint bottle of Adnams Blonde helped with the relative oblivion no doubt. The actor playing Macbeth, a hot, fit young man with a terrific stage presence, clearly didn't notice either as he stripped to the waist, face whitened dramatically for the final mad scene, muscles glistening with moisture. He strode around the stage killing anyone he came across until Macduff, not born of woman for he was "pluck'd untimely from his mother's womb", did for him. It was compelling, powerful, quintessentially English, this experiencing Shakespeare in the open where it feels natural and necessary.
The Laings have made a decision that, come the apocalypse, they will head to Suffolk where we will all struggle for survival together or die together. We've often discussed how they will get here if all transport systems fail and there is no petrol, but they will walk, cycle, do whatever it takes. My part of the bargain is to stockpile food and gear to see us through the crisis, and to that effect I bought another two packs of four 2-litres bottles of sparkling water. Every little helps. Actually, I drink so much of the stuff myself it won't last long. Hopefully when the end is nigh there will be a bit of warning so that I can empty Waitrose of its shelves, safe in the knowledge that my John Lewis partnership card will not be demanding repayment. That's probably how I'd like to go out anyway, generously kitted out by the company that I have single-handed kept in such a healthy state for so many decades. It's been a partnership made in heaven.
Sunday, 30 August 2015
Saturday, 29 August 2015
Hoops and Loops
I was cooking my supper yesterday evening prior to going out early when another roar summoned me to the back door and there were the Red Arrows again, going the other way this time. Two lots of five, not seven. I must have got over-excited last time and exaggerated slightly. An amazing sight, 10 pilots, presumably all young men, whizzing past in perfect harmony with each other. I fancy they may be based in Lincolnshire, which is probably just a few minutes flight from here. But how do they all land? Do 9 circle around, looping the loop, while one puts down, and so on? What if they all want to get home first?
A piece of paper has appeared across the lane, inelegantly pinned to a tree beyond the ditch so that you have to lean right over to read it. I'm waiting for passing cars to career into the hedge as they spot it and try to make it out. It's notice of a planning application from Sarah my neighbour, who wants to build a studio in her grounds. She's had all sorts of obstacles thrown in her way by the council, from the need to protect the great crested newt to bats and some insect that might or might not live in the long grass. You really couldn't make it up. Every search that has to be conducted costs her £500, but that part of her garden is designated agricultural land because once someone kept pigs there, and so she has to climb through one hoop after another, and all to build something not very much bigger than my summerhouse. Have they nothing better to do at town hall?
It's a bank holiday weekend and I'm doing what the rest of the world is doing - getting into my car and going away for a few days. It's good to be at one with my fellow man.
A piece of paper has appeared across the lane, inelegantly pinned to a tree beyond the ditch so that you have to lean right over to read it. I'm waiting for passing cars to career into the hedge as they spot it and try to make it out. It's notice of a planning application from Sarah my neighbour, who wants to build a studio in her grounds. She's had all sorts of obstacles thrown in her way by the council, from the need to protect the great crested newt to bats and some insect that might or might not live in the long grass. You really couldn't make it up. Every search that has to be conducted costs her £500, but that part of her garden is designated agricultural land because once someone kept pigs there, and so she has to climb through one hoop after another, and all to build something not very much bigger than my summerhouse. Have they nothing better to do at town hall?
It's a bank holiday weekend and I'm doing what the rest of the world is doing - getting into my car and going away for a few days. It's good to be at one with my fellow man.
Thursday, 27 August 2015
Mules and Other Animals
I was languishing on the sofa in the garden room, half asleep and still feeling unwell, when a sudden great noise filled the room and I came to with a start and fancied I was in Syria about to be blasted to kingdom come. I glanced quickly to my left and through the window could see two sets of Red Arrows flying in perfect formation over the fields. It was such a beautiful sight, so unexpected and thrilling. I wanted to ring my friend nine miles down the lanes in the direction they were flying and say "Outside, fast, Red Arrows," but I trust she'll have heard them anyway. In the wake of the terrible disaster at Shoreham, a stretch of road I know well and an air show I've been to more than once, it's tempting to hate these display aircraft, but there's something about their might and power, as well as a hint of danger attached to their antics, that is compelling.
I must have dozed again because I was aware of intense heat on my legs, and when I opened my eyes the sun was flooding into the room where not an hour previously there had been a downpour of biblical proportions. The grass is tall enough to hide a few medium-sized zoo animals, but I know I'll regret it if I start mowing now, a job that nearly does for me when I'm 100% fit. The weeds around the pond are shooting up too, but I'm being philosophical about the neglect. It will all get done, one of these days. No sense in sweating about it.
Sammy and I could hardly stop ourselves from laughing out loud the other evening when door positions were being allocated for the Snape performance, and the manager called out "Muff, you can be on the west aisle." Muff? We glanced at each other and quickly looked away again. It could have got even more embarrassing. These old nicknames from childhood can reveal a world of innocence that is completely lacking nowadays. Sammy told me later that she once got a birthday card from work colleagues that said "Muffin the Mule is not illegal", but I still haven't completely worked that one out yet. The nuns would have been proud of me.
I must have dozed again because I was aware of intense heat on my legs, and when I opened my eyes the sun was flooding into the room where not an hour previously there had been a downpour of biblical proportions. The grass is tall enough to hide a few medium-sized zoo animals, but I know I'll regret it if I start mowing now, a job that nearly does for me when I'm 100% fit. The weeds around the pond are shooting up too, but I'm being philosophical about the neglect. It will all get done, one of these days. No sense in sweating about it.
Sammy and I could hardly stop ourselves from laughing out loud the other evening when door positions were being allocated for the Snape performance, and the manager called out "Muff, you can be on the west aisle." Muff? We glanced at each other and quickly looked away again. It could have got even more embarrassing. These old nicknames from childhood can reveal a world of innocence that is completely lacking nowadays. Sammy told me later that she once got a birthday card from work colleagues that said "Muffin the Mule is not illegal", but I still haven't completely worked that one out yet. The nuns would have been proud of me.
Tuesday, 25 August 2015
Perfect Pitch
Courtney Pine, wowsers! I've just seen him at Snape, heard him rather, and he is awesome. What he can do with a bass clarinet has to be witnessed to be believed. He hit the sweetest, highest notes and the deepest, richest lower notes. I'm in awe of the man. And he was accompanied by an amazing jazz pianist, Zoe Rahman, who reminded me of Oscar Peterson but was better. She did more than just support him as he gave her space to do her own thing and man, did she do it. It was a great night, the hall full of yet another different kind of audience. I've been a bit worried about this week as I have a virus, the result of exposing myself to the sun and ending up looking like a horror story. The virus must have crept in when I was weakened, and it's got a hold now. It's not too bad, but I feel generally unwell and have a permanent headache. I'm working three nights at Snape and I want to do them all, so fingers crossed it won't get worse. How I HATE being ill. It wastes so much time.
Yesterday evening I looked up suddenly from my book to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was looking fresh and clear. Immediately I donned shoes and went outside, and it was lovely, as if the earth was as surprised as me to see itself drying after the deluge and had put on an extra bit of sparkle and polish. I've been reading, or re-reading, another Sebastian Barry, this one set in the Wicklow of the 1950s, and so deeply involved in it have I been that I expected to see beyond my cottage the old mud cabins that still housed the poor in those days, and long muddy lanes untouched as yet by tarmac. A passing pony and trap wouldn't have surprised me, and though they are not uncommon in these Suffolk byways, none came past me. It's a very beguiling book, Annie Dunne, full of poetry and embroidered descriptions of the Wicklow hills, and I find myself longing to be there, a romantic wish that would only reveal a harsh world of deprivation and hard work were it to be granted. I soon adjusted to my own world, and halfway down the hill I stopped and gazed and gazed and gazed at the fawny tawny gold fields sweeping in every direction, bereft now of their crops but still unploughed, and I marvelled anew that this is where I live.
Yesterday evening I looked up suddenly from my book to see that the rain had stopped and the sky was looking fresh and clear. Immediately I donned shoes and went outside, and it was lovely, as if the earth was as surprised as me to see itself drying after the deluge and had put on an extra bit of sparkle and polish. I've been reading, or re-reading, another Sebastian Barry, this one set in the Wicklow of the 1950s, and so deeply involved in it have I been that I expected to see beyond my cottage the old mud cabins that still housed the poor in those days, and long muddy lanes untouched as yet by tarmac. A passing pony and trap wouldn't have surprised me, and though they are not uncommon in these Suffolk byways, none came past me. It's a very beguiling book, Annie Dunne, full of poetry and embroidered descriptions of the Wicklow hills, and I find myself longing to be there, a romantic wish that would only reveal a harsh world of deprivation and hard work were it to be granted. I soon adjusted to my own world, and halfway down the hill I stopped and gazed and gazed and gazed at the fawny tawny gold fields sweeping in every direction, bereft now of their crops but still unploughed, and I marvelled anew that this is where I live.
Monday, 24 August 2015
Gather Ye Rosebuds
The harvesters worked until the early hours of Saturday, but with my earplugs in place I had the window open and heard nothing. I awoke to see them bringing in the hay in the sunshine, and it was timely because by late afternoon there was a deluge. Later in the morning, driving across the country to have lunch with friends, I was surrounded by the fresh gold of newly cut wheat fields, nothing for miles apart from this buttery glow interspersed with hedges and trees. I stopped the car and just soaked it all in, the beauty of it beyond any words I could find. Soon it will all be ploughed up again ready for the next stage in the year's agricultural calendar. Things come, they go, the cycle never ends, a timely reminder if ever there was one.
Lunch and bridge were as much fun as usual, saddened only by the news that Caroline plans to move away next autumn. Our happy little group will dissolve then, but it will have been a great joy while it lasted. Caroline, unsuccessfully stabbing a stuffed olive, drink in hand, marvelled at her lack of skill since she was a world class fencer in her day, and wondered if she'd have more luck with an epee. Judy told us that she and David had been summoned to their old friend Richard's house to say goodbye as he seems not to have much time left. When they left he just missed landing a smacker on her lips as she moved her face in time, and despite his condition managed to grab hold of her bottom as he hugged her. Yup, some things don't change. I regaled them with stories of couples at my two bridge clubs, and their sometimes outrageously rude behaviour towards each other while playing. One partner is often super-critical, usually though not always the man. You can immediately tell who wears the trousers, I concluded. David was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked which of he and Judy I thought wore the trousers. "Oh, I think the trousers are fairly evenly divided between the two of you," I replied, and Caroline roared loudly, saying that the image of them with one leg each in a pair of pants would stay with her forever. We all shared her laughter.
Lunch and bridge were as much fun as usual, saddened only by the news that Caroline plans to move away next autumn. Our happy little group will dissolve then, but it will have been a great joy while it lasted. Caroline, unsuccessfully stabbing a stuffed olive, drink in hand, marvelled at her lack of skill since she was a world class fencer in her day, and wondered if she'd have more luck with an epee. Judy told us that she and David had been summoned to their old friend Richard's house to say goodbye as he seems not to have much time left. When they left he just missed landing a smacker on her lips as she moved her face in time, and despite his condition managed to grab hold of her bottom as he hugged her. Yup, some things don't change. I regaled them with stories of couples at my two bridge clubs, and their sometimes outrageously rude behaviour towards each other while playing. One partner is often super-critical, usually though not always the man. You can immediately tell who wears the trousers, I concluded. David was thoughtful for a moment, and then asked which of he and Judy I thought wore the trousers. "Oh, I think the trousers are fairly evenly divided between the two of you," I replied, and Caroline roared loudly, saying that the image of them with one leg each in a pair of pants would stay with her forever. We all shared her laughter.
Saturday, 22 August 2015
Away With the Birds
It's 10.30pm in the middle of nowhere and it might as well be Piccadilly Circus. Combines with arc lights are ploughing the wheat fields around me, and tractors and lorries are taking the grain across the lane to the barns behind Sarah's house to store. How clever of her to have chosen this weekend to go away! It'll be earplugs for me tonight if they haven't stopped soon. But how wonderful that the day has been hot and dry and the harvest will be brought safely in. The forecast after about 4pm tomorrow is for thunderstorms and maybe tornados. No wonder they are working so late. But how jarring the constant revving of powerful engines and reversing of big wheels on gravel are.
I read in the parish newsletter that a little owl had been trapped in the church and they'd had to leave the doors open for two nights until it made its escape. In the same newsletter Patrick had also written that an intruder had left little messages all over the church, on the pulpit, and the altar, the christening font and the pews. "Who do you think the grafitti artist was?" I asked him over dinner recently. He looked puzzled, and then said: "An owl took up residence for a few nights before we persuaded it to leave." I know, I responded patiently, but who do you think the vandal was? And he looked at me even more patiently and smiled kindly, and said, "There was an owl in the church Denise." And still I persisted, wondering why he was being so uncharacteristically thick. "Denise, it was the owl. The owl left little messages everywhere." And the penny finally dropped, and I wondered how I could have believed that two intruders, an owl and a human, had both entered the church and been destructive at the same time. Coincidence or what! No. Duh.
I've decided to apply to become an adviser with the Citizen's Advice Bureau, and have been sent the application forms. I know the manager of the local branch who often goes to the same concerts and operas as me, always alone. But despite our connection I'm concerned that she may not accept me for training. As can be seen from the above, I'm clearly not very bright.
I read in the parish newsletter that a little owl had been trapped in the church and they'd had to leave the doors open for two nights until it made its escape. In the same newsletter Patrick had also written that an intruder had left little messages all over the church, on the pulpit, and the altar, the christening font and the pews. "Who do you think the grafitti artist was?" I asked him over dinner recently. He looked puzzled, and then said: "An owl took up residence for a few nights before we persuaded it to leave." I know, I responded patiently, but who do you think the vandal was? And he looked at me even more patiently and smiled kindly, and said, "There was an owl in the church Denise." And still I persisted, wondering why he was being so uncharacteristically thick. "Denise, it was the owl. The owl left little messages everywhere." And the penny finally dropped, and I wondered how I could have believed that two intruders, an owl and a human, had both entered the church and been destructive at the same time. Coincidence or what! No. Duh.
I've decided to apply to become an adviser with the Citizen's Advice Bureau, and have been sent the application forms. I know the manager of the local branch who often goes to the same concerts and operas as me, always alone. But despite our connection I'm concerned that she may not accept me for training. As can be seen from the above, I'm clearly not very bright.
Friday, 21 August 2015
By Design
Home again from my travels, and now I'm well and truly back in the groove. A walk along the Cam at Grantchester in intense sunshine left me with heatstroke and a lower lip full of cold sores, worse than I've ever had before, but they're nearly healed now. I just can't be outside without a hat and some high factor lip protection, neither of which I had with me on that occasion. Lesson learned? Probably not.
I've been occupied with the satisfying task of collecting seeds from dried poppyheads, especially the wonderful large pink variety that appeared everywhere this year and splashed the garden with vibrant colour. I've got trillions already, but it's a bit addictive and so I continue to shake the old brown heads and fill envelopes. I've had several requests for them, but I think I already have enough to start a seed business. I'm kind of looking forward to the autumn so that I can get back in control of the garden again. Today my neighbours and friends Mike and Phil, they who watered my garden when I was away, came to tea. We sat in the shade of the umbrella and chatted about the village, other neighbours, the church, the countryside, the usual things, but mostly about my garden. They have a fabulous one of their own, an absolute gem hidden behind a high hedge that made my jaw collapse and stay collapsed when I first set eyes on it. He was the designer while she potters around gently, and I could see at once that he was the man to give me ideas for my own. Every time he's been here before he's assured me that it would be a gradual process, but today, after two slices of cake and two cups of tea, his creative juices started flowing. I couldn't believe it! He paced around, waving his arms, making shapes in the air, and then he called for paper and pencil. He hadn't told me he was an artist. And suddenly I had it, my new template. Curves, not geometric lines; the house and outbuildings provide enough of those. Big sweeps of beds towards the centre of the lawn, opening out towards the pond and view, a bit like a funnel. Only yesterday I had sketched something like it over my scale plan, but not so radical. A balustrade in front of the summerhouse, maybe an arch or pergola hung with laburnum. He was flowing with ideas. All I have to do now is decide on my new design and start achieving it. That'll keep me busy!
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| Poppies, poppies everywhere |
I've been occupied with the satisfying task of collecting seeds from dried poppyheads, especially the wonderful large pink variety that appeared everywhere this year and splashed the garden with vibrant colour. I've got trillions already, but it's a bit addictive and so I continue to shake the old brown heads and fill envelopes. I've had several requests for them, but I think I already have enough to start a seed business. I'm kind of looking forward to the autumn so that I can get back in control of the garden again. Today my neighbours and friends Mike and Phil, they who watered my garden when I was away, came to tea. We sat in the shade of the umbrella and chatted about the village, other neighbours, the church, the countryside, the usual things, but mostly about my garden. They have a fabulous one of their own, an absolute gem hidden behind a high hedge that made my jaw collapse and stay collapsed when I first set eyes on it. He was the designer while she potters around gently, and I could see at once that he was the man to give me ideas for my own. Every time he's been here before he's assured me that it would be a gradual process, but today, after two slices of cake and two cups of tea, his creative juices started flowing. I couldn't believe it! He paced around, waving his arms, making shapes in the air, and then he called for paper and pencil. He hadn't told me he was an artist. And suddenly I had it, my new template. Curves, not geometric lines; the house and outbuildings provide enough of those. Big sweeps of beds towards the centre of the lawn, opening out towards the pond and view, a bit like a funnel. Only yesterday I had sketched something like it over my scale plan, but not so radical. A balustrade in front of the summerhouse, maybe an arch or pergola hung with laburnum. He was flowing with ideas. All I have to do now is decide on my new design and start achieving it. That'll keep me busy!
Monday, 10 August 2015
Caught Out
So, I was sitting in the kitchen in my underwear just after lunch, trying to cool off as the heat and humidity rose. Nobody ever just drops by unannounced, I assured myself, so I'll be fine like this. Suddenly there were two men coming through the gate just feet away from the open door, and I tore through the house the long way round and then zipped upstairs to the safety of some clothes. It was Brian and George, Ashton's stepfather and younger brother, come to measure up the concrete where my old stable and tackroom once stood. Brian and Shirley bought it off me hook, line and sinker a year ago to use as a playroom and a workshop. They dismantled it bit by bit and hauled the lot off in a trailer, paying me £500. It took them a few goes to get it all away, but now they were ready to erect it again in their garden. They are a remarkable pair, both rather limited by their various injuries and health problems but strong and game as hell. It didn't look as if George was going to be much help. He had trouble holding his end of the tape measure, and looked as if just standing was a bit of an effort. He's looking for holiday and weekend work, Brian told me with a laugh, so I said if he ever gets his strength up to his brother's level I would always find him jobs to do. George struggled to find his smile muscles but it was just clearly beyond him.
Sammy and I ate quite a lot of cake when she came to tea today, so I walked it off up to the top of the hill and down again. Nearly home, I was accosted in the friendliest way by the most beautiful German shepherd dog I've ever seen. Her eyes were gentle and true, and her tail thumped around in her pleasure at seeing me. Her coat was something else. Lucy, she's called, and her mother is Rachel who is something big in the Green Party in these parts. What with one thing and another it was 9pm before I sat down to eat, a very simple supper of fussili, broccoli, olive oil and Parmesan, well seasoned. Deelicious. But thankfully with my nose in my bowl I didn't miss the sky. It was sensational, and I'm glad to say that my new camera is much better at taking these sorts of shots than my old one. Red sky at night shepherd's delight? It doesn't seem to work these days. Those old boys would be scratching their heads in bewilderment if they were alive today.
Sammy and I ate quite a lot of cake when she came to tea today, so I walked it off up to the top of the hill and down again. Nearly home, I was accosted in the friendliest way by the most beautiful German shepherd dog I've ever seen. Her eyes were gentle and true, and her tail thumped around in her pleasure at seeing me. Her coat was something else. Lucy, she's called, and her mother is Rachel who is something big in the Green Party in these parts. What with one thing and another it was 9pm before I sat down to eat, a very simple supper of fussili, broccoli, olive oil and Parmesan, well seasoned. Deelicious. But thankfully with my nose in my bowl I didn't miss the sky. It was sensational, and I'm glad to say that my new camera is much better at taking these sorts of shots than my old one. Red sky at night shepherd's delight? It doesn't seem to work these days. Those old boys would be scratching their heads in bewilderment if they were alive today.
Sunday, 9 August 2015
In the Dark
My supper tonight was so delicious, so perfect, I have to describe it. A Hereford rib-eye steak, pan-fried for 7 minutes to the consistency of cheese, soft cheese, Mozzarella maybe. I had it with new potatoes, and fried mushrooms and tomatoes, plus some cabbage in a separate bowl because my plate was so packed. I washed it all down with a small bottle of beer, and ate it in the garden room. When I'd cleaned the plate I stayed where I was in the fading light gazing out over the fields. I tried to imagine living in a town, or even a busy village, and I knew I'd shrivel up and die if I had to. I sound like a drama queen, I know, but I can't help it being true.
Last night I went to a proper "put on some make-up and get into some decent clothes, for god's sake" dinner party. There were seven of us, me the odd one out but I didn't mind. We sat in the garden sipping drinks and chatting for a good while on one of the hottest nights of the year, and then we all trooped inside to a huge round dining table lit by two large candlesticks. Our hostess had a seating plan, and we took our chairs as indicated, this adding to the theatre of the occasion. Then the food started coming. I'd noted the lines of cutlery beside my placemat with amazement, but I wasn't really prepared for the cooking. Keith Floyd and Elizabeth David and Albert Roux were all represented, suffice it to say. I can't describe two meals in the same blog. Many hours later I took my leave with the other guests, and staggered across the road in near pitch darkness. "Do you want a lift?" someone merrily asked, and I laughed back, an easy No thanks, I'm fine! But I could see nothing. It was a complete shock. I imagined falling into the ditch and having the rat for company all night, but I managed to find the lane and then my house. I'm going to have to get into the habit of carrying a torch when I go out at night. There is no lighting anywhere in the country unless the sky is light, and when it's dark you might as well be blind.
Last night I went to a proper "put on some make-up and get into some decent clothes, for god's sake" dinner party. There were seven of us, me the odd one out but I didn't mind. We sat in the garden sipping drinks and chatting for a good while on one of the hottest nights of the year, and then we all trooped inside to a huge round dining table lit by two large candlesticks. Our hostess had a seating plan, and we took our chairs as indicated, this adding to the theatre of the occasion. Then the food started coming. I'd noted the lines of cutlery beside my placemat with amazement, but I wasn't really prepared for the cooking. Keith Floyd and Elizabeth David and Albert Roux were all represented, suffice it to say. I can't describe two meals in the same blog. Many hours later I took my leave with the other guests, and staggered across the road in near pitch darkness. "Do you want a lift?" someone merrily asked, and I laughed back, an easy No thanks, I'm fine! But I could see nothing. It was a complete shock. I imagined falling into the ditch and having the rat for company all night, but I managed to find the lane and then my house. I'm going to have to get into the habit of carrying a torch when I go out at night. There is no lighting anywhere in the country unless the sky is light, and when it's dark you might as well be blind.
Friday, 7 August 2015
Power-ful
I know it's a bit perverse but, despite often feeling lonely and wishing for company, I love being alone, and this week I've relished what still feels like the luxury of empty days ahead in which I can get done all the things I want to do, at my leisure. Empty days are hardly a luxury, and yet when I have projects on I still view them as such. And so after all my visitors had gone I started on the summerhouse, cleaning the windows - there are no fewer than 16 - and the floor, polishing the tables, dusting the lamps and hoovering the rug. It all looked lovely afterwards, and so I had not only my lunch in there but my supper too. And then I lingered so long over my book that it was quite dark before I returned to the house. When I went back to turn off the two table lamps it looked so lovely at the end of the garden that I took a couple of photos.
The next day it was the turn of the shed, and then today the garage. Each took a full day, but how satisfying it was to hang all my tools up properly, tidy the shelves and remove mud and dried grass from the floor of the shed, plus what looked like a few thousand mice droppings. I don't mind them being in there in the winter. They are tiny little field mice, and if they need a warm, dry spot then that's fine by me. The garage was a different matter when it came to cleaning. I had only swept the floor once since moving in at the end of January last year, and there was more than ample evidence of its former use as a hay barn for the three miniature donkeys. Bits of straw clung to the rafters, the walls, the builders' paper that lines the walls. There was enough hay to fill a wain, I swear. I thought of collecting it. Someone might have wanted to paint it, you never know.
It was a dirty job. Spiders as big as a child's hand ran everywhere. One appeared on my sleeve causing me to rip my shirt off in a sudden panic. Cobwebs hung off the roof and beams in ropes, in hanks, in skeins. They clung to my brush, and fell heavily to the ground in thick grey lumps. Horrible, horrible. When I'd cleared everything except the floor, I collected the worst of it up in a dustpan and brush and then set the powerhose to work. Oh, that was satisfying. I drove pools of clotted grey water ahead of me towards the door until not a speck of dust was left. And then I turned the hose on the table tennis table, the two bikes, the car, the terrace and then the summerhouse base.
Earlier I had put up four shelves in the garage. I was making heavy weather of it and had screwed in four of the required sixteen narrow three-inchers with agonising slowness when I suddenly remembered my power screwdriver. Out I fished it from its hiding place, and despite not having used it for years, it worked! Like a knife through butter each long screw slipped into place, and the job took seconds, no more than a couple of minutes anyway, and I laughed out loud, really guffawed, so happy was I. I'm still laughing now, just thinking about it. How could I have forgotten an electric screwdriver? My house is awash with power tools, including three Kenwood things, a Chef, a juicer, and another one. I don't use them much. There are labour-saving appliances and devices aplenty indoors, same as every other house, but the ones I like best are for outside. There's the Karcher jetwash, one of my all-time favourites. Dirt vanishes just like that under its beam of water. Then there's the electric hedgecutter which makes mincemeat of out-of-control growth, slicing through smaller branches, twigs and leaves with ease. I love the Gardenvac which sucks up leaves, grass, anything lying around that has to go, and its sister the Garden Blower which does the opposite, blasting the leaves in one direction to make a neat pile. One of my first acquisitions was an electric drill which I still have. Bliss is making the right holes in the right place, finding the correct rawlplug, and everything joining up. I could never get on with a strimmer though, it made my back ache and it had to go. But I do have three electric lawnmowers. Enough said on that subject.
In between times I've been reading Sebastian Barry's On Canaan's Side. His prose is beautiful, always, but I think he's surpassed himself in this one. Three times I read one long page, so stunningly lovely I breathed it in and held it in my mind. One sentence struck me: "We as little children would smell it (the Wicklow heather), pull on its scent with our noses gratefully," and I thought yes, that's what I do! I don't just take in a scent I literally, literally PULL it in and savour it in my nose, in my brain, letting my synapses absorb it, know it, remember it. It's Irish writing, and the use of language is always different from English prose, richer, more real somehow, more appropriate. Honest. Different anyway. I love it, and I feel myself connecting with it naturally.
So, it's been a week of gifts which have far outweighed any lingering sadness. And now I'm off to collect a takeaway Indian meal, for we have those too in the depths of the Suffolk countryside, and though I'm alone tonight, I'm perfectly content.
The next day it was the turn of the shed, and then today the garage. Each took a full day, but how satisfying it was to hang all my tools up properly, tidy the shelves and remove mud and dried grass from the floor of the shed, plus what looked like a few thousand mice droppings. I don't mind them being in there in the winter. They are tiny little field mice, and if they need a warm, dry spot then that's fine by me. The garage was a different matter when it came to cleaning. I had only swept the floor once since moving in at the end of January last year, and there was more than ample evidence of its former use as a hay barn for the three miniature donkeys. Bits of straw clung to the rafters, the walls, the builders' paper that lines the walls. There was enough hay to fill a wain, I swear. I thought of collecting it. Someone might have wanted to paint it, you never know.
It was a dirty job. Spiders as big as a child's hand ran everywhere. One appeared on my sleeve causing me to rip my shirt off in a sudden panic. Cobwebs hung off the roof and beams in ropes, in hanks, in skeins. They clung to my brush, and fell heavily to the ground in thick grey lumps. Horrible, horrible. When I'd cleared everything except the floor, I collected the worst of it up in a dustpan and brush and then set the powerhose to work. Oh, that was satisfying. I drove pools of clotted grey water ahead of me towards the door until not a speck of dust was left. And then I turned the hose on the table tennis table, the two bikes, the car, the terrace and then the summerhouse base.
Earlier I had put up four shelves in the garage. I was making heavy weather of it and had screwed in four of the required sixteen narrow three-inchers with agonising slowness when I suddenly remembered my power screwdriver. Out I fished it from its hiding place, and despite not having used it for years, it worked! Like a knife through butter each long screw slipped into place, and the job took seconds, no more than a couple of minutes anyway, and I laughed out loud, really guffawed, so happy was I. I'm still laughing now, just thinking about it. How could I have forgotten an electric screwdriver? My house is awash with power tools, including three Kenwood things, a Chef, a juicer, and another one. I don't use them much. There are labour-saving appliances and devices aplenty indoors, same as every other house, but the ones I like best are for outside. There's the Karcher jetwash, one of my all-time favourites. Dirt vanishes just like that under its beam of water. Then there's the electric hedgecutter which makes mincemeat of out-of-control growth, slicing through smaller branches, twigs and leaves with ease. I love the Gardenvac which sucks up leaves, grass, anything lying around that has to go, and its sister the Garden Blower which does the opposite, blasting the leaves in one direction to make a neat pile. One of my first acquisitions was an electric drill which I still have. Bliss is making the right holes in the right place, finding the correct rawlplug, and everything joining up. I could never get on with a strimmer though, it made my back ache and it had to go. But I do have three electric lawnmowers. Enough said on that subject.
 |
| Visitor flowers still going strong |
In between times I've been reading Sebastian Barry's On Canaan's Side. His prose is beautiful, always, but I think he's surpassed himself in this one. Three times I read one long page, so stunningly lovely I breathed it in and held it in my mind. One sentence struck me: "We as little children would smell it (the Wicklow heather), pull on its scent with our noses gratefully," and I thought yes, that's what I do! I don't just take in a scent I literally, literally PULL it in and savour it in my nose, in my brain, letting my synapses absorb it, know it, remember it. It's Irish writing, and the use of language is always different from English prose, richer, more real somehow, more appropriate. Honest. Different anyway. I love it, and I feel myself connecting with it naturally.
So, it's been a week of gifts which have far outweighed any lingering sadness. And now I'm off to collect a takeaway Indian meal, for we have those too in the depths of the Suffolk countryside, and though I'm alone tonight, I'm perfectly content.
Thursday, 6 August 2015
Stone the ... Seagulls
A great cloud of birds took to the air behind my garden this morning. It was like a confrontation out of West Side Story. On my left, a huge flock of seagulls, and on my right, a huge flock of crows, rooks, what you will. They screamed at each other, flew past each other, flew into each other, and then they were just one glorious crowd of birds, black and white, flying together and then settling on the field to feed. It was really amazing to see them en masse in the air and then peacefully eating together.
Today I went to see the ride-on lawnmower that a local dealer said I could have for £150 plus the price of a new battery. It had been his mother's, and when he took it out of it's shroud of dust and cobwebs and tried it out he said it started first time and cut the lawn very well. But what I saw was a heap of rust. What did I expect for that price? Well, something old, yes, but something cared for too, and it was only the former. I tried out a few new petrol mowers while I was there, but they were unwieldy to turn, and frankly I'm done with pushing and pulling heavy things that I don't need to manhandle. Regretfully I left empty handed. There's still Did and his old one once he finds a replacement, but after the mess he made of my lawn, is that a bit of pie in the sky?
Nothing daunted, I went shopping. Not for clothes, like my friend Helen would, but hardware. I needed a rubber gasket for the water butt in my front garden which has been leaking. The gasket fitted around the tap which I had to take off. But it wasn't that easy. Inside was the other half of the tap fixture holding it in place, and I had to unscrew it to get the tap off. Hanging inside the butt, my arms were just not long enough to both hold the tap on the outside and undo the back inside. It's a big butt. Turning the tap on its own just turned the back too. I stretched, I flicked my right boob inside to get closer, and slowly, slowly, I inched it off. God, it was hard. At the hardware shop I bought other lovely things too: some more fabric to lay on my path to stop weeds growing through; four shelves cut to measure for the garage where I plan to put everythging currently on the ground; 30 metres of hose to be divided between all three butts the better to drain them when they get too full in the winter. Two will fill the pond, and the third, the one with the lovely new gasket, will drain into the field; and a smart length of very nice wood which will straddle the two elder trees behind the pond to make a seat. The trees have to be chopped down to size first, but that won't happen for a few weeks. I was very chuffed with my purchases. Helen would have been appalled.
Today I went to see the ride-on lawnmower that a local dealer said I could have for £150 plus the price of a new battery. It had been his mother's, and when he took it out of it's shroud of dust and cobwebs and tried it out he said it started first time and cut the lawn very well. But what I saw was a heap of rust. What did I expect for that price? Well, something old, yes, but something cared for too, and it was only the former. I tried out a few new petrol mowers while I was there, but they were unwieldy to turn, and frankly I'm done with pushing and pulling heavy things that I don't need to manhandle. Regretfully I left empty handed. There's still Did and his old one once he finds a replacement, but after the mess he made of my lawn, is that a bit of pie in the sky?
Nothing daunted, I went shopping. Not for clothes, like my friend Helen would, but hardware. I needed a rubber gasket for the water butt in my front garden which has been leaking. The gasket fitted around the tap which I had to take off. But it wasn't that easy. Inside was the other half of the tap fixture holding it in place, and I had to unscrew it to get the tap off. Hanging inside the butt, my arms were just not long enough to both hold the tap on the outside and undo the back inside. It's a big butt. Turning the tap on its own just turned the back too. I stretched, I flicked my right boob inside to get closer, and slowly, slowly, I inched it off. God, it was hard. At the hardware shop I bought other lovely things too: some more fabric to lay on my path to stop weeds growing through; four shelves cut to measure for the garage where I plan to put everythging currently on the ground; 30 metres of hose to be divided between all three butts the better to drain them when they get too full in the winter. Two will fill the pond, and the third, the one with the lovely new gasket, will drain into the field; and a smart length of very nice wood which will straddle the two elder trees behind the pond to make a seat. The trees have to be chopped down to size first, but that won't happen for a few weeks. I was very chuffed with my purchases. Helen would have been appalled.
No Pleasing
I worked at the Snape Proms last night, a Billy Bragg gig. It was good, I enjoyed it. But the woman next to me decided she was allergic to me and I had to move. At first I thought she was taking photos - strictly forbidden by Billy - but it was not a camera but her nebuliser that she held dramatically in front of her. "Are you wearing an A & A?" I thought she whispered loudly at me. It took a few tries as I had no idea what she was talking about, but eventually I admitted I'd applied a small amount of Coco Chanel after my bath. "I'm allergic to perfume," she told me, sweet smile but eyes like flint, and so I swapped places with my colleague. We exchanged looks, raised eyebrows, wry smiles. What are these people like? She goes into a packed auditorium and expects that nobody around her will be wearing perfume? Now removed from her proximity, I saw her stand at various points to ease the discomfort in her back, stretch out her arms, glug from a bottle, shake some pills out into her hand, and bring out that nebuliser from time to time. She could hardly get out of her seat at the end, so firmly wedged was her bulk. How grateful I was to Chanel for my lucky escape.
Billy was funny about Snape. He wanted to know if Benjamin Button had deliberately chosen wicker seating when he designed the concert hall so that we'd all go home with numb bums and 'kettering', apparently the official term for those tiny marks you get on your thighs after sitting on wicker. Anyway, the Snape management sitting across the aisle from me thought it was hilarious and laughed uproariously with the rest of them. Walking out to the car afterwards with a "naice" Snape lady, I was surprised when she agreed with me that his left wing lyrics and comments could hardly be decried in all decency. Equality, fairness, respect - what's to object to? But who were all those people who voted that dreadful man in, she wondered aloud in her Knightsbridge accent. Nobody in the audience, that was for sure. We laughed in the soft dark night, and went our separate ways. It's been a long time since I was at a gig of protest songs, and it was good to be surrounded by politically aware people, just telling it how it is.
Billy was funny about Snape. He wanted to know if Benjamin Button had deliberately chosen wicker seating when he designed the concert hall so that we'd all go home with numb bums and 'kettering', apparently the official term for those tiny marks you get on your thighs after sitting on wicker. Anyway, the Snape management sitting across the aisle from me thought it was hilarious and laughed uproariously with the rest of them. Walking out to the car afterwards with a "naice" Snape lady, I was surprised when she agreed with me that his left wing lyrics and comments could hardly be decried in all decency. Equality, fairness, respect - what's to object to? But who were all those people who voted that dreadful man in, she wondered aloud in her Knightsbridge accent. Nobody in the audience, that was for sure. We laughed in the soft dark night, and went our separate ways. It's been a long time since I was at a gig of protest songs, and it was good to be surrounded by politically aware people, just telling it how it is.
Wednesday, 5 August 2015
All Change
It's been like Eastenders, Casualty, Open Book, Mad Men and Wolf Hall rolled into one for the past eight days: high drama, changed plans, knife edge negotiations, deals made, numbers crunched. Happily no one perished and we've all survived, tougher and more determined: some of us are on track to make a lot of money. But where did it all begin? Guest rooms were primed with clean bedding and fresh flowers by Tuesday morning, which was just as well because the first visitor came a day early, just as the local farmers decided the barley was ripe and ready to harvest. It took several days for the combine to get to me, but within the space of 72 hours my near outlook had gone from golden seed heads to bright yellow stubble to bare brown earth plastered, and I mean plastered, in seagulls. It's a shock to the system, this instant transformation, though it took a whole day to turn the stubble to slices of rich red-brown soil, the first stage in the preparation for the next crop. Please don't let it be ugly muddy sugar beet.
In between the farm machinations I've been tormented by Love and Mercy, the film about Beach Boys Brian Wilson's mental deterioration and sadistic imprisonment by his so-called psychiatrist, and shattered by the story of the tragic downfall of poor, brilliant Amy Winehouse. The first film ended happily, the second didn't. Both were wonderful and terrible in equal measures, almost unwatchable at times but gripping in their handling of these two extraordinary people. Each left its own indelible mark. I've also been to a French operatic masterclass which blew me away, spent a day on the beach with a picnic and the sudden appearance of a bewildered baby grey seal, wandered around a beautiful garden, had a cream tea in a hotel, been on a hare hunt, played table tenis, done some target practice until the gun became jammed, and enjoyed some wonderful meals chez moi. The front of the garage was blacked, the wandering wisteria was tamed, and the lawn mowed, twice. I've played cards over a pint in a pub with no bar (my local), winner of CAMRA 2015 Best Pub, walked the lanes, and talked, talked, talked. It's been momentous, wonderful, stressful and traumatic. Mostly wonderful.
Younger daughter negotiated on speaker phone in the car on the way to Aldeburgh, about a valuable TV contract with a high-flying celeb. We listened in awe and admiration as she schmoozed her way to the lucrative deal, talking money levels that made our jaws drop. It's another world she inhabits. Respect. Incredulity. Meanwhile older daughter decided to turn down a fellowship at an American university - yes, the one most of the presidents have been do - in favour of touring and promoting her new book, out next March. Something had to give, and it was never going to be the three years of hard work that went into its creation. More negotiations, more hard talking, and eventually the decision not to go. Never mind about my plans to visit her, and catch up on old friends in the US and Canada. She's done the right thing, and in the space that followed the universe rewarded her with work offers and communications she could only have dreamed of. Respect. Incredulity.
It's not normally like this here. No celebrities, no household names, no high-powered deals. But the excitement hasn't ended, oh no. I have a ride-on lawn mower to go and check out which could mean the end of my twice-weekly struggles up the hill, I'm planning to spring clean the summerhouse, and there's still the land around the pond to transform. The farmer spent all day yesterday, until 7pm, ploughing up the stubble yesterday. At first I thought it must be quite a calming job, going up and down in regular strips while the seagulls sallied and screamed all around him. But imagine ten hours in a small tractor, not one of the big luxurious ones, carefully planting the wheels so that the shares missed nothing, up and down, up and down. I felt sorry for him in the end. I watched a rat go back and forth from my ditch to feed on the gleanings, and even took a photo of him. He seemed very chilled. And in the sudden silence left by the departed tractor and seagulls, so did I.
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