60 Going On 16

On built-in obsolescence and the joys of vintage

So, there I was, having a brief break from it all in the Chilterns, iBook open, all ready to jump back into regular blogging, when something went wrong. Something horrible and technical, which meant that my beloved iBook, which has been half way round the world and back with me, might not work again. After a bit of deep breathing and giving myself a good talking to ('calm down, dear, it's only a laptop . . . '), I decided to use my oldie's bus pass and take the scenic route from where I was staying to, er, Reading. As you do on a Bank Holiday weekend.

Because Reading has an Apple Store and where there's an Apple Store, there's a Genius Bar. And I apologise to those of you who have PCs rather than Macs because this will mean not very much to you. Suffice it to say that the cool young things at the Genius Bar will tell you, among other things,  a) what's wrong with your Apple whatever and b) whether Apple can repair it or not. I think you already know what's coming. My iBook must be all of five or six years old so, no, Apple doesn't stock the required part any longer and cannot repair my writing companion.

It's not that we're joined at the hip, or anything like that, but I was a little sad. The sky was the colour of lead and the weather cold, windy and wet as I waited for the return bus to arrive and thought of all the places we'd visited together and the fun we'd had and the thousands of words I had pounded out on the keyboard. That's my iBook up on the right-hand typebar, doing its stuff in sub-tropical Kerala. Sigh . . . 

All is not yet lost and there is always the possibility of tracking down a relacement part somewhere and the asking my Apple guru to see if he can fix it. But still, five or six years do not exactly warrant a long-service medal, do they?

The iBook disaster came in the same week as the dishwasher at home ground to a halt and a CD - it was, natch, a library CD and not one of mine - got jammed in the (wrong slot) of the radio/CD player of my trusty old Subaru, the day before it was due back. (It was disc two of Jonathan Safran Foer's Eating Animals, as it happens.) The nice man at the Subaru garage said he would sort it out, which he did, and when I went to collect the car, he produced not one but two jammed CDs, one of which bore the grime of years.

'How we laughed,' he chortled.

I looked at the CD.

'Not mine,' I said, feeling affronted. 'Do I look like the sort of woman who would have a cheapo cover version of big band ballads? Must have been the previous owners.'

In which case, it has been stuck where it shouldn't be for oh, about 10 years. The previous owner bore an impressive and historic title and was a Deputy Lieutenant, so über posh, but with surprisingly naff musical tastes. 

The dishwasher was fixed too, thanks to a local family firm of electricians who come out at short notice, put things right in a tick, and do not charge an arm and a leg. I know, a vanishing breed.

Thank goodness, however, for our continuing - and growing - love affair with vintage fashion and secondhand pre-loved clothes, which has made increasing sense in these cash-poor and eco-conscious times and which continues to give many a fine garment a new lease of life (unlike my poor old iBook). I've written in the past about my Biba and Bus Stop 1960s clothes bonanza but, despite all those amazing - and affordable - new clothes, my girlfriends and I often added vintage accesories from markets like Portobello Road. It worked especially well with Lee Bender's Bus Stop designs, with their echoes of 1940s styling.

If, like me you still have a passion for fashion but a very tight budget, it's a great way to give a shrinking wardrobe a lift. My Dear Old School Friend, who is tall and slender and always looks a million dollars, never buys new and can work a charity shop dress rail like no-one else I know. As her daughter-in-law remarked, 'Who else could spot an Amanda Wakely number going for a snip in an Ilfracombe charity shop?' Amanda Wakely? Ilfracombe? Who'd have thought?

Anyway, I've been watching the way she works and I think I've picked up a tip or two. This summer, I bought a stylish little black shirt by Nicole Farhi, two Oska linen jackets and two designer-label white linen tops, for the total sum of £22, courtesy of charity shops in Devon and Somerset. And while I was staying in the Chilterns, I trotted along to one of the nearest town's four charity shops - ostensibly in search of a book or three. But this is celebrity land and these shops are positively heaving with brand new designer clothes, bought on a whim and never worn. So, instead of books, I came out with a thing of rare beauty: a Diane Von Furstenberg two-layered skirt in immaculate condition - cotton underskirt with a patterned and hand-beaded silk overskirt. Cost? Embarrassingly cheap at just £5. Now I just need the right party to come along so I can wear it to dance the night away - but the design is timeless, so I'll get years of wear out of it. In the meantime, I'm going to hang it up where I can look at it and admire all the work that went into designing and making something so very lovely. 

If only iBooks worked the same way.

(This post is brought to you courtesy of my Big Mac, which is also five years old . . . )

AWOL

I'm not quite sure how or why I lost the blogging habit. Perhaps the clue lies in the word 'habit'; five and and a half years into blogging and I had become too used to the sound of my own words. It did not explain, however, the fact that I seemed to have lost track of other people's blogs, blogs that I enjoyed, blogs that opened windows onto different lives, different worlds, blogs that connected like-minded people across time and space.

Perhaps, to paraphrase Salieri, there have just been too many words (except that it wasn't Salieri, was it? My niggling inner editor reminds me that it was Emperor 'too many notes' Joseph II.) For those of us in the UK, there has been a plethora of words in the past couple of months. We have been almost smothered by layer upon layer of news coverage, scaremongering features and opinion columns as the country has been engulfed by first one scandal, then another, until - inevitably, perhaps - the lid blew off the whole thing and urban pockets of the country erupted. We had still not recovered from the actions of profligate and greedy bankers, nor from the shock that many of our democratically-elected politicians had been lining their pockets with expenses fiddled from the public purse, before we were confronted by the grisly spectacle of phone-hacking journalists and all-powerful editors so devoid of sensitivity and decency that they were prepared to sanction anything that might boost circulation figures.

And then the rioting and the looting.

From the wealthiest and most influential to those who barely clung to the margins, there were individuals and groups who seemed to have slipped through or cast off the net of what we like to believe are our shared morality and values. The threads that held us together seemed to be unravelling.

In my head, Yeats's words on things falling apart and the centre not holding were surfacing yet again, as they tend to in times of strife and uncertainty. Except that they weren't falling apart and compassionate people made good things happen; as George Malone said in the final episode of Boys from the Blackstuff - in the wake of all the conspicuous consumption triggered by the greedy 'there is no such thing as society' 1980s: 'I can't believe that there's no hope.'  George was speaking specifically of his own class, the urban working class, but his words (or, more correctly, writer Alan Bleasdale's words) have a resonance that now crosses class and social boundaries. There is hope and it could be seen on the streets of our cities after the looting.

Against this backdrop, it seemed almost futile to be writing about small, everyday things, although it is the small, everyday things that root us, that keep us sane. My canine-care life continued, with four-legged guests coming and going. Loved ones, family and friends came to stay, places were explored, books read, music and films enjoyed. My professional writing and editing life continued; it was the more personal, reflective writing that languished.

Reflecting, however, is precisely what I was doing. It is exactly a year since I was diagnosed with breast cancer and just under a year since the Massive Inconvenience was vanquished. Only a small scar remains and that is fading. To be truthful, I don't think about it too often. The Massive Inconvenience has become, like the past, another country. I have, however, learned more than I could have imagined possible and one of my more surprising discoveries is that I am - or at least, I have become - a far more positive person than I realised I was or could be. I say surprising as I had more than a few dark nights of the soul when I was a young woman and not just dark nights but dark days too, days that could spill into weeks and months. And sometimes did. 

Maybe it's because, although I cannot afford to retire, I now earn my living doing two things I love: caring for animals and writing. Or maybe it's an age thing.  In today's Observer Magazine, Miranda Sawyer, 45, discusses her own experience of, and thoughts on, the mid-life crisis and reaches an encouraging conclusion (of which, more later). She mentions her friend Sam, 'who is in his early 60s, and . . . is happier now than he has ever been, but that people who don't know him think he can't be, and treat him accordingly.' When it comes to the 60-something happiness factor, I'm with Sam. It is hard to imagine, when one is in one's 20s, 30s or 40s and, especially for me, the tedious 50s, which I experienced as a strange, no-woman's limbo between the end of being young and the beginning of being old (I think it's called menopause . . . ) that the 60s can bring such joy and delight and that one can actually wake up happy, for whole days at a stretch. There are, inevitably, the flatter, greyer days (which I attribute in part to the English weather) and the occasional down day but these are, thankfully, the exception.

So, emerging out of what I will probably come to see as my Quiet Period, I have resurrected everything I had planned to do last autumn, before the Massive Inconvenience got in the way.

After seven years of being a member of a writing group, I realised that it was time for a change, and I now work individually with my writing mentor, Briony Goffin. We get together for a couple of sessions each term and It has proved to be exactly the right decision, at the right time, and I am enjoying every minute of it. (Thank you, Briony.)

In September, I am starting a photography course, something I have wanted to do for years, learning about what goes on inside a camera because I love photography with a passion and I know that it is about so much more than looking through a viewfinder or looking at an LCD screen and framing a passable shot.

In September, and because I love music with an equal passion, I am starting piano lessons, hoping that the musical gene that runs through the family (professional pianist grandfather, piano-playing and singing mother, piano and violin-playing brother) has not passed me by completely. I can still read music and just about pick out a basic tune on the beautiful Victorian piano I was given last year but I know that I learn best when I'm studying with an inspirational teacher. (And I think I've found one.)

Then, last week, I took out, dusted down and oiled my late grandma's 100-year-old 27K Singer sewing machine for the first time in 35 years. It worked perfectly and has already been put to work - with plenty more to come.

This is just for starters.

As Miranda Sawyer says: 'Midlife or not, in the end, or in the middle, these are the days of my life. These are the days of your life. And the thing to do is live them.'

Which all chimed in, rather, with a song I heard on the car radio as I drove home from a great morning, spent with my Salad Days Friend, at a vintage textile fair in Honiton. There is a high point en route, on the A373 between Honiton and Cullompton, at which all Devon is spread out before you, its hills, its rolling fields, hedgerows, trees and meadows and I had just reached that point when the song started playing. Written by the Bee Gees, sung by Esther and Abi Ofarim (in 1967, for goodness sake).  It still makes me moist-eyed but in a good way. 

In which Glastonbury prompts me to action

I lost my blogging mojo rather, at least for a few weeks. But I tried not to get all angsty about it. The mojo, I thought, will either return or it won't. Que sera, sera . . . 

In truth I had been exceptionally busy with my two jobs (freelance writer/ editor and purveyor of high quality dog care- ahem) and grappling with shingles and the dodgy shoulders. Jobs now come into the 21st century category of income streams so I have been busy keeping the income streams flowing, which sounds marginally more professional than than merely working. 

I slipped into 'oh, must blog about that - mañana' mode but mañana never came. Does it ever? Until, that is, my daughter and her husband went on their annual pilgrimage to Glastonbury. The Dear Daughter sent regular updates and photos from her iPhone so that, whenever I found myself feeling wistful and wishing that I were there too, I would look at the pictures of deep, deep mud and realise that Glastonbury, this year, would not have been a sensible choice.

That is where the BBC came to the rescue, as it does most years,  with plenty of Glastonbury coverage and not just of the megastars. So, from the comfort of the sofa, I was able to watch: Coldplay, who - truly - played a blinder of set, with amazing lighting and effects; the first half of U2 until I got bored, all of Paul Simon (who was suffering from some wretched infection that didn't do his voice any favours - but Paul Simon is Paul Simon), some Plan B, and absolutely all of B B King. At 85, this extraordinary man is still performing - and brilliantly, even if he has to sit down on stage these days. Well, at 85, it's allowed. I'm afraid that I gave up rather on Laura Marling after just one song, which was more than enough. Apologies to those of you who adore her.

I haven't caught up with Beyoncé's set; to be honest, her style of music and presentation doesn't do much for me but I will say no more, lest I find myself cast out into the exterior darkness, like poor old Zane Lowe. (But at least Zane's reaction proves that it's not just an age thing.)

There was, however, a single performance by the Raghu Dixit Project, an Indian group, who were new to me, that had me quite spellbound. So much so that I immediately emailed the Dear Daughter and the Friend in New Zealand (AKA the Finz). 'You must listen to this', I cybersqueaked, sending them both a link, not to the Glastonbury coverage but to an earlier performance of the same song by the same group on Later . . . with Jools Holland.

The three of us share a passion for India; we've all been there and the Finz was my travelling companion on the quest for my Indian family roots a few years ago. She is also my constant point of reference on matters musical; If she loves a particular singer, musician or piece of music, the chances are that I will too, and vice versa. And we particularly love the thrill of live music. She hadn't heard of Raghu Dixit either but, ever since I sent her the link, she too has been working her way through everything that is available on YouTube. I suggested that she might also like Adele - and she does. In fact, Raghu Dixit and Adele have provided the soundtrack to the bag-packing that is now under way in New Zealand, as the Finz prepares to fly halfway round the world for a month's stay in the UK.  

She'll be here in just over a week. Can't wait. And, by the time her train pulls into Tiverton Parkway station, the Raghu Dixit CD will be here too. (Yes, I'm still old-fashioned enough to buy CDs). We'll be whizzing along Devon's lanes listening to this and smiling rather a lot. No words needed.

On convalescence and Cliftonville

So - the Massive Inconvenience came and went; not quite in the blink of an eye but almost. I had the surgery; I had the radiotherapy and I bounced back. Except that I didn't, not quite. Because the road to recovery is proving to be rather more uphill than I had envisaged. I blame it all on that rotten staphylococcus or its near relative, which seems to have been taking up residence in various parts of my anatomy, one after the other, and then wreaking havoc. As my gentle Polish dentist, Ewelina, explains, anywhere that there's a weak spot. Factor in my notoriously inefficient immune system / pathetically low white blood cell count and I am definitely in a state of festina lente.

Recovery, I now realise, cannot be rushed or forced so nothing for it but to adopt a Taoist approach, namely one of least resistance. Hooray, no feeling guilty about housework and chores undone; I can just stretch out on the sofa, in the manner of Madame Récamier, with a good book, or with a DVD on the laptop and be entertained - which is just as it should be when one has zero energy, a hacking cough, which has been hanging around for weeks, wheezy lungs, root canal related toothache etc etc. And it is raining. And cold and grey. (But in case you are wondering, yes, I still walk the dogs for two hours every day. Because that's what you do when you have dogs.)

On a deeper level, however, it occurs to me that I haven't wanted to venture out much either. I don't want to be with strangers or people with whom I have nothing in common, nor with people who lack sensitivity or compassion. I just want to be with people whom I know and love and trust. The precise feeling is hard to pin down. Breast cancer has left me with a legacy (temporary, I hope) of feeling vulnerable at times and, at others, as if my confidence has packed its bags and left town.

I wondered if this was a common experience and asked my dear friend, M, over at Random Distractions if she too had felt this way 16 years ago, in the early stages of recovery from her own encounter with a Massive Inconvenience. It had, she said, and she urged me to give myself time, plenty of time.

"It's called convalescence," said M.

And that's a word one doesn't hear very often, which was not the case when I was a child. Whenever my granny, who lived with us, had been 'poorly' (I was never quite clear as to the exact nature of the poorliness), she would take herself off for a week's stay in a convalescent home at Clifttonville on the Kent coast.

You see what I mean? When was the last time you heard anyone mention that they were spending a week at a convalescent home?

Granny would return from her sojourns at Cliftonville if not exactly a new woman, then at least a refreshed one. I was pondering this after my conversation with M. What did the guests do all day? Sip cups of nourishing beef tea?  Take light meals selected from the invalid menu - apple snow, that sort of thing? Gather round the wireless of an evening to listen to the latest episode of Dick Barton on the Light programme? Go for gentle strolls along the promenade? 

Granny wasn't much of a one for walking, she far preferred sitting, so I suspect that Cliftonville's Nayland Rock promenade shelter was as far as she would have wanted to go, preferably with another guest, so that they could have a bit of a chat and then wander off to the nearest tearoom for a pot of India's finest and a cake or two. A favourite pastime.

In choosing Cliftonville at which to ease herself back to health, she was in the very best literary company, for this was where, in 1921, T S Eliot came to convalesce after a breakdown. He stayed at the long-since demolished Albemarle Hotel. And it was at the Nayland Rock shelter that he wrote part of The Waste Land.

'On Margate Sands./ I can connect / Nothing with nothing. / The broken fingernails of dirty hands. / My people humble people who expect / Nothing./ La la

To Carthage then I came . . .'

All of which I find rather thrilling, the thought of Granny sitting in the very same shelter as T S Eliot. I think she would have been less impressed, however, being more inclined to light verse of the Patience Strong variety.

Given the significance of the Nayland Rock shelter in the history of 20th century Eng Lit (and in the life of my grandma), it was reassuring to learn that, in 2009, it was given listed status.

John Betjeman, that chronicler of quintessential Englishness, also immortalised Cliftonville in Margate 1940, thoughtfully posted here on the Cliftonville Chronicle blog.

There's clearly a lot to be said for convalescence, especially at Cliftonville. Shame it's on the other side of the country, otherwise I'd be packing my bags right now.

The dogs who come to stay

I know I'm not the only blogger who has been a little quiet of late but I've had my reasons. Truly.

Here are some of them - Hagrid, Ted, Mondot, Lewis, Flute, Bruno, Lewis (again) and Marvin:

 

and a few more - Frank, Cosmo, Bella, Flute (again . . .), Monty, Duke, you know who and you know who and chum:

 

I see that some of them sneaked in twice; well, that's collies for you. Super-intelligent dogs; they don't miss a trick. Eagle-eyed regular readers will have spotted that the Edinburgh Boy sneaked in too, pictured on a recent trip to Lyme Regis. 

These gorgeous boys and girls are now the stuff of my post-old life, post-corporate career, post-retirement career. These are the dogs who come to stay when their owners are away for the day or are on holiday. And they are all rather wonderful. The dogs that is, although the owners are delightful too. 

According to Alison Light in her excellent book, Mrs Woolf and the Servants, the nature of my brand new career makes me a 21st century servant. But I love every minute of it and now I can't imagine doing anything else. Except writing, of course.