writing, not drowning

To write or not to write…

Packing Case Central

So . . . as many boxes as can be hidden away in a storage unit have been stuffed to the brim and tightly sealed. There has not been enough time to go through every single item in this house and say 'yes', 'no' or 'recycle' but a great deal has already gone, never to return, and, in due course, I will liberate one box at a time from the storage unit. And will then be ruthless; at least that is the plan.

    Meanwhile, the primary plan, to move to the smaller house that means so much to me, is moving on. Slowly but most definitely moving on. My offer to buy the house has been accepted and the house is off the market. The vendor has yet to find the house that they want to buy and my Dear Old House is about to go on the market. So, in terms of pressure, we are just about equally balanced.

    I was doing very, very well until about 10 days ago, after the visit of the first estate agent, who came highly recommended by a good friend who lives nearby and has moved as many times in the past couple of decades as I have in my entire life.  I had worked very hard indeed to get the house looking as I understand a house for sale must look these days - very streamlined and as if no-one actually lives here ie fit to appear on Location, Location, Location. It's quite hard to do that to a 300-year-old house that welcomes many guests, human and canine, and has always had resident dogs and cats, but I was determined to do my best. Said agent has been doing his job for over 40 years, still enjoys what he does, and was a fount of knowledge and valuable information - but was in no doubt that 'a great deal more needed to be done' on the decluttering front.

    And then, the second half of what turned out to be a double whammy, the valuation was rather less than I had hoped, and would not, after purchasing the smaller house, leave quite such a comfortable financial cushion for me to see out my days. (In case anyone thinks that all we baby boomers are having a life of Riley on our great big fat private pensions, I have news for you: if you were a self-employed baby boomer like me for much of your working life, putting absolutely every last penny you could afford into a pension, you may well have ended up with very little to show for it indeed. Or at least very little by the time the pension companies, pension advisers, and various sundry interested parties had all dipped their mitts into your hard-earned pension pot. I think there are regulations in place to stop this happening now; too late for my modest pension though. Lesson learned, at least for the next generation.)

    I went into a bit of a downward spiral; I was exhausted and disappointed and all the packing and lifting and whizzing backwards and forwards to the storage depot and checking on the builders and running up and down the stairs many, many times a day, meant that the sciatica had returned, with a vengeance. And, of course, I do love my home and my garden and the views, and leaving it, after 20 years, almost all of which have been very happy ones, will be a wrench. There were tears. By the time I got to my yoga class, I was a wreck. Please don't anyone say anything nice to me, I thought, or I will start to sob and won't be able to stop. I just about made it through to a very welcome yoga nidra at the end of the class, by which time I barely noticed and no longer cared about the tears flowing onto my yoga mat.

    But, 24 hours later, I bounced back and just Got On With The Stuff and even managed to get quite gung-ho about it, with the words of my Friend in Portugal ringing in my ears: 'There will be another garden, other views.' She is right. And, yesterday, after the very last box had been stored away, I was all prepared when agent number two arrived. He loved the house, said I had done a great job of 'preparing it to go on the market' and that the terrace, with its old wooden table and chairs and the bright pink parasol - all bathed in sunshine, with views of the surrounding countryside - reminded him of France . . . and then gave me an even lower valuation than agent number one. (But I have already forgiven him because half way through going round the house, he remarked, 'How wonderful to see so many books. I LOVE books.' And it was not said in irony, which would have been understandable because there are, in fact, far too many in almost every room, but was quite spontaneous - and genuine. At least, I think it was . . . after all, he didn't suggest that I put them all, or even some of them, in storage. And, anyway, who wants to look at empty bookshelves?)

    Thank goodness, therefore, that I happened to read Corrie Corfield's recent blogpost about selling up and leaving a much loved home. For those of you unfamiliar with BBC Radio 4, Corrie is one of its best newscasters. She also writes an occasional but always excellent blog. This post says it all and it helped to remind me why I am doing this and how much I am looking forward to life in the smaller house - or another smaller house if things don't quite work out (because we all need a Plan B or even a Plan C or D).

    I also needed a reminder of another reason for wanting, needing to move: more time to write - and, ergo, more time to think - as I had almost forgotten how very much I loved writing . . . and all the thinking and reflecting that accompanies the creative process. (Chronic pain for months on end isn't the best stimulus for creativity; well, not for me.) This interview with one of the writers I admire most, Marilynne Robinson, which appeared in Friday's Guardian, was more than timely.

    All this has been going on against a backdrop of the best English summer for years; the thrilling performance of the best English soccer team for years - accompanied by a series of hilarious online exchanges with my Dear Old School Friend (one of the funniest people I know and who has only just embraced social media); a long overdue reunion with a very dear friend - and another, equally special, reunion with a close friend to come - and the prospect of going to the Frida Kahlo exhibition at the V&A before the month is out. Unforgettable, all of it, and every moment to be relished. So, if this does turn out to be the last summer at the Dear Old House, it will have been the very best of summers, unlikely to be surpassed - and the provider of enough good memories to see me through whatever lies ahead.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Well, er, look who's here . . .

The faithful Miss P

Where was I? Oh, yes, it was two years ago. How time flies . . . apologies for having apparently abandoned the dear old ageing blog; it wasn't intentional but stuff happens, doesn't it? Thank you to the kind readers who got in touch to ask what was happening; apologies if I failed to respond and I hope that this long overdue post will go some way to explaining what has been going on here in the Back of Beyond.

    And, indeed, a lot can happen in two years: good, bad, and somewhere in between, personal and political. But I'll keep off the politics and politicians, at least for a while. Too depressing. (Although I should award five stars to Hugh Grant for his depiction of Jeremy Thorpe in A Very British Scandal; extraordinarily accurate, as those who knew him will attest. I have my own particular recollections of the chain of events and shared many long conversations, at the time, with journalist chums who were covering the trial. But probably best not to go into details; you never know who's checking up on these things.)

    So, back to the stuff. Let's get the baddish bits over with; from pneumonia in May 2016, everything rather went downhill, health and energy wise. There were two rounds of eye surgery, then some rather scary bouts of sciatica, which left me with a numb left foot and leg. This in turn affected my balance, I took a mighty fall, and fractured my left ankle (the lateral malleolus for the medically minded) and then right-sided sciatica, which led to chronic pain for months on end. What a wreck. I am, however - and a long last - on the mend. Conventional medicine had nothing to offer me (the sciatica wasn't disc-related), apart from painkillers which were actually anti-depressants. Thanks but no thanks. In the end it was a combination of exercise, yoga and Pilates, plus acupuncture and homeopathy, that helped me to turn a corner.

    I didn't think anyone would be interested in reading about the tedious and frustrating chain of events and I didn't have the energy or the motivation to write, so I stopped.

    At the same time, I was watching my Loved Ones grappling with the tortuous journey towards adoption. A wonderful outcome, after a very, very long wait but, quite possibly, one of the most hideous and painful processes anyone can voluntarily put themselves through. It is not like this for everyone, thankfully, but the Loved Ones definitely drew the short straw in terms of the agency they went through and the professionals - bar one or two - assigned to them and to the Small Person (who had been let down at every stage of their very short life by people who should have been acting in the Small Person's best interests). But - and it really is a huge but - the Small Person is now a very much-loved member of our family; bright, blossoming, growing in confidence daily, happy, and outgoing, and a kind and compassionate young soul - truly a testament to the power of steadfast love, understanding and care. The Small Person and I have been building our very own special relationship and it is a joy. For safeguarding reasons there will be no cute grandchild pics on the blog, no names, nor anything that might identify the Small Person. Suffice it to say that the SP is safe, is loved more than words can say, and has a very bright future ahead.

    Of course, I could not discuss or write about any aspect of the adoption process, although I would very much like to have done, so shocking were the professional failures, inaccuracies, and general obfuscation at almost every stage. My job was to be Mama Rock throughout, so not being able to share what was happening was, at times, very hard. I often had to be my own shoulder to lean on and shed my tears in private. Actually, that is not quite true - the faithful sprollie has been here throughout and my closest friends have been everything that truly good friends always are. They are simply there for us; no explanations required.

    So, there we are and here we go. I am now in my seventies and a house move is imminent, so another big change. With luck and a fair wind, I hope to be here for a good while yet and if the house move goes to plan, I will be very fortunate in living somewhere that I have fallen in love with, just as I fell in love with my very old house and its hillside location and uplifting views twenty years ago. I had almost decided to be a sensible 70-something and move to the edge of a large village or a small town, with - you know - amenities, all within walking distance. But when the right house and garden (smaller, more manageable, Victorian and solidly built) suddenly popped up out of the blue, I realised that the tranquility of a rural setting is very, very important to me. We took the Small Person, who loves my current house very much indeed, to see the new house, garden and views, and what would be their very own new bedroom when they come to stay, and it was all given the five-star SP Seal of Approval. So that's all right then.

    Let the great decluttering begin. (One of the closest friends mentioned above popped round yesterday with a stack of packing boxes and tape to get me started. You see what I mean about friends?)

 

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 . . . 

Normal service is about to be resumed

So, that's it. Several months down the line and following surgery and three weeks of radiotherapy, with a slight detour via the staphylococcal infection, my treatment for breast cancer is officially at an end and I move on to annual monitoring mode.

Today's driver, Bob, and I took the scenic route to Somerset, a road that was new to him, because I thought he would enjoy it. He did.

It seemed a little strange to think that this would be my last daily visit, my final session of radiotherapy, and that tomorrow, my days and my former life would be restored to me. One of the radiographers has named me the Bionic Woman as  I have had so few side effects, have slept well every night, have experienced no loss of energy, and my skin has - so far at least - not reacted in the way that might have been expected. (Hooray for aloe vera gel.)

I would be less than honest if I didn't say that I felt more than a little emotional. The radiographers really do work their socks off and it can't be an easy job, especially if patients are nervous, anxious, angry, tearful or simply fed up because their appointment has been delayed. But I am very grateful for what they have done for me and for their part in helping to ensure my recovery. So there were some very appreciative handshakes and smiles before I left. 

As I walked back to the car I couldn't help doing a bit of a skip; it felt like the last day of term.

Heading back to Devon, Bob and I spotted clusters of now endangered mistletoe - it once grew in abundance in Somerset - and we talked about music. He's a former farmer and has sung in choirs since he was a boy. We agreed that music has the power to transcend almost anything that life can chuck at you and its ability to lift the human spirit should not be underestimated. Tonight one of the choirs he sings with is performing in Callington, across the Tamar in Cornwall.

"We're singing this," he said, switching on the car's CD player. More unmistakeable opening notes and then the choir, in full, glorious voice. And all of a sudden, I was back in Venice, and Bob and I were singing, joining in just about the best choice of music for a celebratory day.