60 Going On 16

On shifting gears

How pathetic; here we are, almost at the end of the first month of a new year, and I have managed only a couple of posts and have responded to no comments whatsover. Shameful. So I must start by thanking you for yours, for all of which I am grateful.

In December, I looked at my diary for January and saw that it looked, well, quietish and although there are always bills to pay and, ergo, an income to be earned, I rather relished the thought of a few breathing spaces. Except that it did not turn out quite like that. Does it ever?

First, many of the delightful owners who entrust their beloved dogs to me for day and holiday care decided that they had had enough of almost daily rain since September and were off in search of winter sun. Who could blame them? The breathing spaces became fewer. 

Then there were very welcome meetings with friends, including one whom I hadn't seen for more than 14 years. Over an excellent lunch at The Bridge, Dulverton, we simply cast on where we had cast off all that time ago. (If, like me, you don't eat meat, I strongly recommend the Bridge's Heidi Pie . . .)

Two evenings a week are now taken up with a) making a deep, joyful noise with Exe Valley Voices and b) returning to the bliss of yoga with a brilliant teacher. I can just feel my body saying 'thank you' after each session. 

I am also hard at work refining a new project that involves mentoring people who write and which I find extraordinarily satisfying.  More anon.

So, no breathing spaces or at least hardly any. However - and this has come as something of a surprise - having watched less and less television in the last decade, I now find myself being drawn to any number of excellent programmes. I blame it on the midwinter sojourn and staying with my family in the Chilterns, when bracing country walks avec Labrador were interspersed with some fine home dining and catching up with two absorbing television series (Boardwalk Empire, Series 2 - only available to me when I stay with my family, as I refuse to subscribe to Sky - and The Killing on BBC4, about which everything has already been written. Suffice it to say, we were all hooked).

And now there is Borgen, from the same company that gave us The Killing, and which is utterly compelling. As a Guardian sub-heading pointed out: 'It's brilliant, it's Danish - and it's got knitwear!' (Or as someone on Twitter wryly observed: 'Some day, all television programmes will be made in Danish, with sub-titles.') At the heart of the (fictional) series is Brigitte Nyborg, Denmark's first woman Prime Minister, but forget any comparisons with our own version, who held sway here for 11 years from 1979 - Nyborg actually cares about women in society; ours didn't even believe in society, let alone care about women's place in it. If you're in the UK and you've missed the opening episodes, they are still available here on iPlayer. (Usual caveat about hurrying applies.)

I know that I always seem to be plugging iPlayer but, really, it is just the most useful thing. Without it, I would have missed Pappano's Essential Tosca, broadcast early yesterday evening, which went behind the scenes of last summer's Royal Opera House production (two perfomances only), with Angela Gheorghiu, Bryn Terfel and Jonas Kaufmann. (Actually, the entire production is available for anyone to watch here on YouTube. Goodness me - that's Monday evening taken care of.)

However, if you too are short on breathing spaces, you could just watch this . . .

Resolving not to . . .

You know that thing about piecrusts and promises? The same could be said about New Year resolutions, so I am making no promises to myself this year. That way, I avoid setting myself up for self-recrimination or bitter disappointment. (And who needs them on New Year's Day?)

With one exception - I firmly resolve not to knit any of these for my family or friends. And, much as I love vintage patterns, I can just hear the sighs of relief:

Meanwhile, here is Leonard Cohen - because I can think of no-one with whom I would rather start the year:

Advance Notice: 60 going on 16 has been officially designated an Olympics 2012-free zone. Just so you know . . .

 

Blessings

I'm not usually lost for words but found myself struggling to find anything to write about this Christmas. As a family, the usual midwinter celebrations were overshadowed by the loss of one of my nephews a fortnight ago and his funeral a week later. He would have been 50 today, Christmas Eve. I was in my brother's home the day my nephew was born - in his parents' bedroom - and held him in my arms when he was less than an hour old.

Many tears were shed at his funeral, not least by his two stunningly beautiful teenage daughters, but afterwards, when friends and family gathered to celebrate his life, there were smiles and laughter. There were tales of one escapade after another and how he had made us laugh, often. His oldest friend sent a wonderful tribute from the USA, where he now lives - a string of hilarious anecdotes from their growing-up years. 'He was,' said the friend, 'the funniest man I ever knew.'

And that, I thought, was quite a legacy.  

* * * * *

Festive preparations were, inevitably, sidetracked. I was already planning to spend Christmas with my family in the Chilterns but had to bring my departure date forward by four days to attend the funeral. Only when I unpacked did I realise how distracted I had been, with lists, presents, addresses, suitable clothes and much else besides left behind in Devon. Heigh-ho. It was not the end of the world. And at least I managed to remember to put the Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy in the car.

My daughter and son-in-law worked right up until Friday evening, so I have spent the past week being mamma in the kitchen, cooking hearty meals for the returning workers. Tomorrow my son-in-law takes over at the stove, apart from pudding, which is down to me. But, as we are not keen on traditional fare like Christmas pudding, Christmas cake or mince pies - and as a non-meat eater turkey is also off the menu for me - I'm making  triple chocolate brownies from Isidora Popovic's Popina Book of Baking. They are utterly scrumptious but very rich so best saved for special occasions. There will be a touch of nostalgia for too, as Isidora's recipes take me back to our old home territory of Portobello Road, where she set up her first market stall ten years ago.

And then we will try very hard to unwind for a couple of days, before a round of visits to other members of the family and to friends.

Meanwhile, back in Devon, one of my canine guests, will be sporting the fruits of my crafting labours on Christmas Day, because, yes, I do make things - I knit and sew but tend not to write about my efforts because this isn't, by any stretch of the imagination, a domestic arts blog, of which there are very many - and a good many excellent ones. Anyway, I hope Little Miss P appreciates her present. For a small item, it was a bit of a pig to knit and I had to check on Ravelry to see if any other member had made it and whether they had also encountered problems. To which the answers were yes and yes - but one or two had posted useful tips and I just managed to finish the coat in time to gift wrap it and leave it under her owners' tree before I left for Christmas.

So here is Little Miss P having a final fitting and, could she speak,  I am sure that she, together with the Ednburgh Boy, would want to join me in wishing you the blessings of the season, wherever you are and whatever and however you are celebrating.  

Thank you for being such loyal readers during what has been something of an stop-start year for 60 going on 16. Next year, I hope to get back into my stride, thanks to the yoga and the choir and all . . . and the fact that at my (much-delayed) first annual post-Massive Inconvenience check-up, the consultant was delighted to tell me that I remain cancer free. Tomorrow, we might just be raising a glass to that.

Earlier today, I watched - as I do every year - the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols from King's College, Cambridge, and this year's festival included BC: AD by the late poet, U A Fanthorpe, read by a young undergraduate. Fanthorpe was a Quaker and this clever, thoughtful poem reflects her particular and quiet faith. Even though I do not follow the same path, I was drawn to its deceptive simplicity. As with all good poems, it presents us with the familiar in an unfamiliar way and is absolutely to the point. If Fanthorpe's poem is new to you, think of it as a virtual gift from me.

BC : AD

This was the moment when Before 

Turned into After, and the future's

Uninvented timekeepers presented arms.

 

This was the moment when nothing

Happened. Only dull peace

Sprawled boringly over the earth.

 

This was the moment when even energetic Romans

Could find nothing better to do

Than counting heads in remote provinces.

 

And this was the moment

When a few farm workers and three

Members of an obscure Persian sect

Walked haphazard by starlight straight

Into the kingdom of heaven.

U A Fanthorpe 

November - and what I did about it

You can tell from the fact that I managed only one pathetic blogpost in November that it is not my finest month. In fact I wrote hardly anything of any description at all at all and stopped taking photographs. Oh dear. I could quite happily see November cast out of the calendar, except that three of my close friends have birthdays during the month, which go some way towards redeeming it.

I won't go into the reasons for November tending towards the grim and grey for me, you'll just have to take my word for it although, in recent years, it had become a little easier. Apart from the personal associations, the closing in of the days and winter on the horizon do not help. Well, they don't help if you are a 100 per cent summer person, who thrives on sunshine and light and warmth . . .

So, given that we had an unseasonably mild - and sometimes sunny - November, this year should have been better, right? Wrong. November 2011 hit me in the solar plexus like a champion heavyweight. For no apparent reason. Then, when I had just about reached my nadir, a much younger friend suffered a calamitous blow. She is the same age as my daughter, has a daughter herself, who is currently studying at one of the UK's leading veterinary colleges and, until 13 November, she had a husband to whom she had been married for a few days shy of 24 years. On 13 November, her much-loved husband suffered a massive cardiac arrest and died instantly. He was just 46.

We had become friends over the past couple of years through walking our dogs and she had sent me a text. Could we meet? She could do with a chat. So we met and she told me and we stood in the field, as the dogs raced around, clung onto each other and cried our eyes out.

'You know what it's like, don't you? she said. And I did. I do. 

Now, November is past; her husband has been laid to rest and we are staring the festive season in the face. We both agree that November might be a very good time to take a long holiday in the future.

So, that was the worst thing that happened in our here and now in November and, after that, I knew I had to take steps . . .

Which meant that I could have kissed the neighbour who asked me if I'd like to join the yoga class (with new teacher) at the village hall. My sort of yoga, hatha yoga, with an emphasis on breath and pausing between postures and relaxation and yoga nidra. I'd missed my class so much; it had folded about four years previously and the nearest (packed) class was eight miles away - and when the weather was at its most harsh, pretty well inaccessible. And then the Massive Inconvenience got in the way. Now I could walk to my yoga class. I went along and it was like coming home after a long, long time away.

The other thing I did to send a sort of 'yah boo sucks' message to November was to roll up for a taster evening with our local community choir, Exe Valley Voices. I could sit and watch and listen or, said the choir leader, Claire, if I was feeling brave, I could join in. Much to my surprise, I was up on my feet in no time, belting out Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah etc etc  - hovering somewhere between the basses (which had equal numbers of male and female singers) and the all-female altos. I'd always known, instinctively, that this was the correct pitch for me and, after more than 50 years of simmering resentment about my ghastly music teacher plonking me down, at the age of 12, with the sopranos - where I couldn't bring myself to sing a note - I finally felt vindicated. I love singing. Very much indeed.

Despite the joy of yoga and singing, which had helped enormously, I was still extremely glad when November was over. As we moved into December, the grey lid disappeared and I felt quite chipper and started noticing things again.

And these things have already included, yesterday, what has to be one of my best 'only in Devon' moments of the past 14 years. I was in our local post office at lunchtime; there wasn't a queue, it was fairly quiet and one of the counter assistants (whom we shall call Janice for the purposes of this post), was insisting that her colleague take her lunch break. I was having a forage through the greetings cards when a elderly lady stepped ino the post office, looked around rather furtively and then whispered at me 'Is Janice on her own? I need to see her about - er -something.' I said that I thought that she was.

A minute or so later, I turned back toward the counter where Janice was placing some tissues on the post office scales. The elderly lady had put a large brown holdall on the floor, from which she produced - a tortoise. And then carefully lifted the tortoise on the parcel scales.

'She brings him in to make sure that he's the correct weight,' said Janice, sotto voce.

I was quite entranced, having fond memories of my own childhood tortoise, Susan.

'What's his name,' I asked the owner.

'Sparky,' she replied, breaking into a shy smile.

Sparky was an exceptionally fine specimen of tortoisehood and was very alert and agile. I asked how old he was.

'Over 100', said his proud owner.

It was all I could do to tear myself away but, in any event, as soon as Sparky's weigh-in was over, he went straight back into the holdall. I didn't like to ask about hibernation . . .

I had better not mention the location of the post office as I suspect that Sparky's weighing sessions are a private arrangement between his owner and Janice and are probably in contravention of all sorts of health and safety regulations. Hence no happy snapping on my part.

Not Sparky, but Timothy who lived from 1839-2004, ending her (yes, her) days at Powderham Catle, here in Devon

December? Bring it on . . . 

Singing from the heart for 11::11::11

Like so many people, I have my own reasons for remembering on this particular day and, this year, one song has captured the emotions of the day like no other.

If you live in the UK, you may have seen the wonderful Gareth Malone's latest efforts to get the entire country singing. For series 3, Gareth took himself down to Royal Marines Base (RMB) Chivenor, which is not too far from here, to encourage the wives and partners of the marines based there to form a choir. If you watched the first programme, earlier this week, you'll know what an emotional journey it was going to be, as the majority of their partners were about to be deployed to Afghanistan for six months. (The programme is still available online in the UK via BBC iPlayer here until 28 November.)

For their first public performance, the Military Wives Choir (or @milwiveschoir if you're looking for them on Twitter) sang a Bob Dylan classic, Make You Feel My Love, in the unlikely surroundings of Barnstaple Pannier Market. 

Tomorrow, the choir will be giving the performance of which, one feels sure, they will be most proud, at the Royal British Legion's annual Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall. 

As Gareth Malone says, during the programme, it doesn't really matter what you think of the military presence in Afghanistan, these women  'are incredibly stoic - they just get on with it '. And they sing their hearts out.