60 Going On 16

The new housemate

There has been one reason, above all others, for taking my eye off the blog for a month or so, and it is this: the arrival of a new housemate. You will not, I think, be surprised to learn that the new housemate has four rather than two legs and barks (but only occasionally). 

Miss P (for the purposes of this blog, we will call her that and to differentiate her from regular guest, Little Miss P, the Shih Tzu) arrived at the beginning of the year and, since then, has nudged her way into my heart as well as my home.

An indication of this came a couple of weeks ago, when I found myself writing quite spontaneously about Miss P. Here, with just a few minimal tweaks, is what emerged:

I had not been thinking about another dog. I already had the Edinburgh Boy; he was getting on, ten this year - almost elderly for a dog. We would be able to have off-days together, when we didn't go for long walks, especially when rain poured down incessantly as it had done for months, from the beginning of autumn and on and on through winter.

And then the sad, achingly sad, email about Miss P, a dog I had looked after frequently over the past year. A young bouncy crossbreed, with boundless stamina, who ran like the wind. A few kilos of pure energy. A bit of Border collie? A bit of lurcher? A bit of spaniel? Definitely a lot of Saluki. Not my sort of dog, really. Not a Labrador.

Life, however, has its distinct way of shaking you to your core and slamming the unexpected in your face like a splapstick custard pie - but without the laughs.

Miss P's devoted and loving owners had seen their world transmute into something they barely recognised and that they could not have predicted, which meant - and this was the very hardest thing - that they could no longer keep their dog, any dog, for the foreseeable future. But they could not contemplate the thought of their beautiful canine zephyr ending up with strangers who might not love her or understand her they way they had done.

She had been born on, but thankfully rescued from, what is euphemistically called a puppy farm, then fostered and eventually handed over to a rescue centre. And then the lovely owners found her, fell in love with her kind eyes, her silky coat and just the whole sweet-natured shebang of her.

So, she could not possibly go to strangers. Instead she came to me, despite the fact that I would never have chosen her in a 'pick your favourite dog' line-up. But she chose me because that is what rescue dogs do. Best not to fight it, just concede gratefully and graciously.

As it turns out, she is the dog of my dreams, or my dream dog, what you will: a faithful, affectionate, kindly dog, in love with life, with people, with other dogs. A dog who will run every hour of her waking day, if she can, but who will turn on a sixpence and hurtle back to my side like a rocket at the sound of my Acme dog whistle.

I am in awe, watching the exquisite line of her as she races up hillsides and flies across Exmoor's streams, her feathered tail rippling and flowing out behind her .

In the evening, curled up by the woodburner, draped across her beloved companion, the Edinburgh Boy, she sleeps contented, dreaming her doggy dreams.

And I realise that I cannot, now, imagine my life without her.

"What a piece of work . . ."

I'm not referring to my poor neglected blog, of course. The muse has been on an extended vacation and other things have been happening, as things are wont to do, but I just took some deep breaths and trusted that all would be well, writing-wise, in due course.

I always think of January and February as my fallow time; nothing much is done, apart from the essential. The lack of light, the lack of sun, the wet and the cold all contribute to the slow smothering of creativity and then . . . and then just when I think I will be trapped in the cold, wet, grey creative fog for ever, somewhere and somehow a small trigger is pulled  (sometimes several small triggers).

Which is precisely what has happened in the past few days; e-mails from a patient reader, wondering where I had gone, and from a new reader, who had stumbled upon a recent post containing a U A Fanthorpe poem. Well, thank you for the nudges, dear readers; they were just what I needed.

And the next nudge came on Sunday. Friends were visiting and after we had walked all the dogs (theirs and mine) we tucked in to a proper winter fireside tea. The conversation turned to two television programmes from the previous evening: Sinatra Sings, which I had seen but they had not, and Lucian Freud: Painted Life, which they had seen but I had not. My love for Sinatra's music was pretty much on a par with one of the friend's love of Lucian Freud's work.' If money were absolutely no object, she said, 'he is the first artist whose work I'd buy.'

I caught up with the Freud programme that night and was struck by parallels in the lives of these two men who, on the surface, could not have come from more different backgrounds. Unless one starts with the family history of exile from another place . . .

Sinatra SIngs includes rare footage of The Voice in a recording studio. Sinatra had an intense dislike of being filmed when he was recording and yet this footage conveys so much of what made SInatra a master of his art. The concentration, the intensity, absolutely in the moment . . . and then, when the recording is finished, he slips seamlessly back into wisecracking mode. And then his face as the recording is played back . . . no words needed.

A Painted Life also included not simply rare but unique footage - Lucian Freud at work in his studio. And in his studio on the very last day that he painted. Contributor after contributor, colleagues, former partners, daughters, models all spoke of 'Lucian's intensity'.  That word again.

And all the other parallels: the women, a life lived on their own terms, the hordes of people wanting to press the flesh, the absolute dedication to their art. Awkward, difficult, challenging, brilliant men - with devoted daughters, who spoke of their fathers with love. Tina Sinatra fondly remembering her father sitting by the pool, listening to a ball game on the radio; one of Freud's daughters (Esther I think) is moved to tears as she remembers running her hands through his hair for the first time, when her father was already an old man.

I found both programmes fascinating and, yes, moving, although I appreciate that, in SInatra's case, the myths, the stories, the scandals all have a habit of getting in the way of the music. And there are those who find Freud's work offensive, not least the paintings of his daughters.

It will always be a conundrum. Do we allow the artist's (whatever the art form) behaviour to inform our reaction to their art? I remember once reading a very hissy-fitty comment about a well-known and highly regarded writer who, it transpired, had slept with people to whom they were not married at the time. If the words 'Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells' had appeared at the end of the comment, I would not have been surprised.

As to the conundrum, I rather think that Gay Talese got to the heart of things - as least as far as Sinatra was concerned - in this groundbreaking article, which originally appeared in Esquire in 1966.

I happened to mention Sinatra's vocal accomplishments to an acquaintance yesterday evening. She pulled a face, saying that she found it surprising that someone who so often hit a wrong note, managed to make his voice sound rather good. Wrong notes? How come I had never noticed?  'Not my sort of music. At all. But I do hope I haven't spoilt it for you,' she added. (Er, no; I think it would take more than that.)

Experience should have taught me that now was not the time to mention . . . Lucian Freud. The acquaintance made another face and mentioned the thing about the daughters. The conversation trailed uncomfortably away.

Ah well.

You, lovely readers, will have your own view about these things. Sinatra Sings has already been shown in the US; meanwhile, UK readers can still catch it here until 25 February. (And UK readers can also watch Lucian Freud: Painted Life here until the same date.)

Since watching both these programmes, I do find myself wondering what sort of world it would be if the only art that was produced, the only songs that were sung, the only books that were written, the only music composed, had emanated from people who led pure, blameless and spotless lives. (If I knew anyone who had led a pure, blameless and spotless life, I might be able to tell you.)

Meanwhile, I'll just leave you with Frank. In the studio. Doing what he did best. And, as far as I can tell, not hitting a wrong note. 

 

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