60 Going On 16

Ebb and flow, yin and yang, coming and going

I started writing this blogpost on 12 April and it is now the 22nd; blame it on the labyrinthitis, which, really, I could have done without. My GP tells me to expect up to six weeks of vertigo etc etc. Oh joy, oh rapture. She didn't mention that I would also get a streaming cold to add to the mix. Meanwhile, outside it is cold, wet, windy and grey - plus ça change - and it's almost May. Sometimes, I struggle, I really do, to love this country. Anyway, back to where I was ten days ago.

The spring holiday has been something of a bumper time for visitors at 60 Going on 16 Towers. The Dear Family (ie my daughter and her husband) were here until the morning of Easter Monday, leaving just enough time for a swift turnround before my Dear Friends, Mr and Mrs Gaucho, and their Border terrier, arrived from Scotland via the Cotswolds later that afternoon for a few days. They have now headed off to stay with a cousin in South Devon and I've been preparing one of the guest bedrooms ready for the arrival on Saturday of another Dear Friend, the Duchess. 

The Gauchos, the Duchess and I go back a long way. As Mr Gaucho said when we went out to dinner on Wednesday: 'You are my oldest friend . . .' And Mr Gaucho is most certainly my longest-standing male buddy. We first met c1970 at the architectural practice that he had joined as a newly qualified architect. I ran the practice library, ordered drawings, kept the accounts, did the PAYE, and grudgingly made coffee for the all-male architectural team (until I rebelled and the senior partners had to install coffee machines so that the chaps could make their own coffee). The Duchess arrived at the same practice c1972.

Mr Gaucho met the young woman who was to become Mrs Gaucho in the early 1970s and I just knew from the way he spoke about her that something special was happening. Which it was. Later, I was witness at their wedding and a proud godmother to their firstborn - a daughter, now a mother of four herself. 

'I'm trying to remember where and when we first met,' I said to Mrs Gaucho.

'You were standing at the top of the steps to your (basement) flat,' she replied.

That was here. (Not during the siege itself, you understand; that came later and there wasn't any hanging around at the top of the steps when that was going on. It was a matter of ducking one's head down and running as fast as possible, accompanied by a police officer, until one was safely inside the front door.) So we raised  our glasses to decades of a very happy triangular friendship. These don't always work but ours has, brilliantly, and I am proud to count Mrs Gaucho among my closest female friends.

For much of the year, I am entertaining canine guests, whom I love dearly, but conversation is, inevitably, somewhat one-sided. So the arrival of family and friends means proper, grown-up, human coversations about cabbages and kings, as well as the usual catching up.  In the past week or so, we have meandered, among many things, through writing, art, flowers, photography, politics, architecture, favourite blogs, and books, and food - in particular, food writers, most notably, a favourite food writer, Claudia Roden.

Mrs Gaucho, a fine cook herself, and I have both had the privilege of standing in Claudia Roden's kitchen, watching her at work, listening to her flow of stories, learning . . . For me, this was in the mid-1980s, when the company I was then working for published  a selection of recipes from A New Book of Middle Eastern Food. Watching, listening to, learning from and reading Claudia Roden changed the way I cooked and thought about food and Mrs Gaucho said she thought I might enjoy this recent post by Eat Like a Girl, who - almost three decades later - had also been standing in that same kitchen, watching, listening and learning. (I did enjoy it and I thought you might too.) 

Right, I have caught up; it is now - today.

While she was here, Mrs Gaucho and I put our heads together to create the foundations of her blog, something she has been wanting to start for a long time. I'm pleased to report that the running wave is now launched and I am looking forward to regular updates. Mrs Gaucho loves words and images as much as I do (and we like the same music) and I feel sure that you will find the running wave to be a source of delight.

Here's to friendships, tried and true, that stand the test of time. And to Claudia Roden. Why not?

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.

Will you still need me, will you still feed me . . . ?

I was 19 when the Beatles released this track on the Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album, (1 June 1967). I was at the start of all sorts of things in my life, not least of which was motherhood. And the answer to the question you might be asking is that, for a whole host of reasons, I have never had the slightest regret about being - by today's standards - such a young mother.

As for my mothering skills, you'd have to ask my daughter, except that behind the outgoing, sunny exterior is a very private person, so I doubt that we'd be able to persuade her to make a public appearance. You'll just have to take my word for it that she lit up my life when the midwife placed her in my arms and, all these years later, she continues to do so. She is an amazing woman of whom I am immensely proud.

But back to the song. At 19, I was incapable of imagining what it would be like to be 64, let alone whether my then Other Half would still be needing me or feeding me. (To which the answers were, as I soon discovered, 'no' and 'no', so my small daughter and I steered a different course.)  

I tend not to do 'hello, it's my birthday' posts; as I said to Twitter chum @maribeeb, yesterday, 'a bit cheesy, no?' However, today I have a proper excuse because, as of today, I am fully cognisant of what it is to be 64 and I can tell you this. It's just like 19 but with the addition of, hopefully, a soupçon of the wisdom of years and, very probably, a couple of extra inches round the middle. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And for me, there have been many more valued friendships forged, more books read, more music listened to, more parts of the world travelled to and explored, many hundreds of thousands of words written, many thousands of photographs taken . . .

Lest you think my life has been a bit of a doddle, there have been profound shocks and great sadnesses and betrayals too and, in my late thirties and for a few years thereafter, a string of losses and bereavements that came hurtling out of the blue and so close together that it was like watching powerlessly as a line of dominoes toppled before my eyes. I had no doubt at all, at that time, what it was to be acquainted with grief.

But I prefer, on this blog at least, to stand four-square with Jane Austen and 'let other pens dwell on guilt and misery'. ( I didn't think much of this sentiment when I was studying Mansfield Park for A-level; I was a teenager for goodness sake, I wallowed in guilt and misery. Tsk, tsk.) Besides which, there has always been the joy of animals . . 

Although I didn't read his novels, I remember an interview that the author, Dick Francis, gave towards the end of his life in which he said that the saddest thing about getting older was the number of beloved dogs that he had outlived.

(I do a mental tally: the dogs of my earlier years, Bruno, Rusty, Albert and Rennie, and, latterly, the Squadron Leader, the Rough Diamond, and my daughter's dog, the Divine Miss M. The cats deserve a mention too: Snooky, Fluffy, Tibby, Timothy, Victoria, Sunshine, Tara, Merlin, Tabitha and Muffin and, more recently Mr C's twin brother. Then there was Susan, the tortoise, and the hamster, Deborah . . .  and the horses on which I learned to ride in my middle years. Do not worry, my current companions, Mr C, the cat, and the Edinburgh Boy and Christmas Holly have no literacy skills whatsoever, so cannot read this. Besides, today - as on most days - the dogs have plenty of canine distractions and are happily bounding around with this week's guests: Little Miss P, the Mad Merle and the Seal. Mr C, sensibly, has retired to his dog-free quarters upstairs. )

Anyway, that's enough 'ageing woman looks back at her life and becomes perilously anthropomorphic' waffle. Here's the music:

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 . . . )