writing, not drowning

Is it safe to . . .?

. . . step out from behind the curtain, after such a long absence?

Of all the events that might have caused me to scurry back to the laptop, the one that I would not have predicted was the reappearance of someone else - Kate Bush, to be precise.

The Dear Daughter had tried to get tickets for Kate's re-emergence. I tried to get tickets. No joy; sold out in just 15 minutes. We had to settle for the Guardian live-tweeting throughout the opening night and watching old video clips on YouTube. 

And then, a couple of days ago, the DD sent me a link to an eBay page, where someone was selling a poster advertising Kate's first tour in 1979.

'Remember this?' said the DD.

'Would you like it for your birthday?' I asked, in a moment of madness.

'I've already got it,' she replied. And so she had. It had once adorned a wall of her bedroom.

'I think I've got one of these too.' Attached was a copy of a 1978 Christmas card, courtesy of the Kate Bush Fan Club. 

In the 1970s, Kate was a significant presence in our house; well, her voice was, along with various Kate-related stuff.  The DD was a HUGE fan; I was pretty much of a fan too. So we could not possibly miss going to see Kate on that first tour and we did see her - at the London Palladium. No frustrating hours spent endlessly reloading internet pages in those days; it was all very civilised: a phone call or a trip to the box office. And affordable tickets.

We loved every minute and, 35 years later, I was amazed at just how much I could remember of that concert. It was one of the high points of a year during which other things in our world were beginning to unravel.

'I think I've still got my ticket,' said the DD. 'I just have to find my Kate Bush memorabilia . . .'

I spent the rest of the day playing four of Kate's early albums (vinyl, of course). They belong to the DD but live here because I am the only member of the family who still possesses an ancient hifi with a turntable, so that I can play my substantial and much-cherished collection of LPs and 45s, not to mention EPs. I was transported back to our flat in Marylebone, still young(ish) at 31 - which seems very young when one is nearer 70 than 60 - and the mother of a daughter on the cusp of her teenage years. As Sandy Denny once sang, 'Who knows where the time goes?'

But I couldn't find Hounds of Love. I searched everywhere. I could see the cover. I emailed the DD. 

'I think I had it on cassette,' she answered. 'What year was it?'

'1985.'

'Oh yes, I already had a Walkman by then.'

Ah, the refuse heap of technology.

But the disappointment of not bagging any tickets this time round in no way detracts from the wonder of being there the first time and seeing my daughter's face light up when Kate appeared. It was, almost, unbelievable . . . 

There was one final email from the DD, normally a very private woman. 'You can blog about this, if you like.' So I did.

'We never shall have any more time . . .'

That's Arnold Bennett in How to Live on 24 Hours a Day. The quotation continues: 'We have, and we have always had, all the time there is.' The Zen-ness of this notion appeals.

I shall print Mr Bennett's words and pin them above my desk or write them, by hand, on a small piece of paper, then fold the paper and slip it into my wallet, which is what I used to do, years ago, with quotations that made me stop and think.

So, I am at last easing my way back into blogging, which I have missed but which I could not do - because every time I thought of something to write about, I then dismissed the subject matter as trivial. I knew why and there was more than one reason. I knew that the feelings would pass, in time, and they have. I just had to let time do its work, and it did. I knew that I would see or hear something that would make me think, 'Ah yes, that is the something.'

It turned out to be the sound of bleating, on a visit to my Smallholder Friend last week. She has six Castlemilk Morit ewes and all but one of them had just lambed.

Violet - still waiting:

Abigail, the boldest of the ewes, has already given birth; she is a very protective mama:

Abigail is just as watchful of the other lambs - and of me trying to taking photographs without disturbing the flock. She's just checking . . .

These moments with Violet and Abigail, and with the other ewes and the lambs, remind me that I must get myself back to the here and now and stay there. So I do. Back is good.

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 

In the midnight hour

Tonight, when I am safely tucked up in bed and, hopefully, fast asleep, the Dear Daughter and two of her closest friends are repeating something they last did five years ago. They're taking part in the Moonwalk London 2011, just three of the 15,000 who will be following the route of the capital's Marathon, to raise money for breast cancer causes. The London Moonwalk is just one of a year-round programme of national and international walks, marathons, marches and treks under the Walk the Walk umbrella.

You won't be surprised to hear that this means a great deal to me after last year's Massive Inconvenience but, sadly, since they last completed the Moonwalk, too many of their loved ones have also been diagnosed with breast or other cancers.

The money raised - and the Moonwalk raises squillions - goes in grants to charities like Breakthrough Breast Cancer, Breast Cancer Haven and Penny Brohn Cancer Care, as well as specialist hospital departments like the complementary therapy unit at The Christie, Manchester. And it helps to provide pioneering equipment like scalp coolers that make such a difference to patients undergoing chemotherapy.

So my daughter and her chums are walking for women and others like me, who have been given a diagnosis that nobody wants. I have personal reasons to be grateful to Penny Brohn Cancer Centre and Breast Cancer Haven but every cancer patient will have their own thoughts and memories about information, services and support that made a significant and positive difference before, during and after their treatment for cancer.

Above all, as those of you reading this who were around at the time will recall, I am enormously grateful to my daughter for taking such good care of me and helping me to stay strong, positive, and focused on recovery. Her chums were right alongside too. They're a tight team, have known each other for years, and my daughter is godmother to two of their daughters.

To be honest, although I said I'd be asleep, I'll probably be on mum-alert during the night, not least because my daughter lives with a rare and chronic medical condition that makes many aspects of her life extraordinarily complicated - things that most of us just take for granted, like sunshine and using a swimming pool. I'll breathe a little more easily when I know they've crossed the finishing line.

'Don't worry mum,' she reassured me, ' 'we'll be walking by moonlight so I'll be fine.'

OK then . . . and I hope she remembers her EpiPen which she has to carry at all times. Just in case.

The good news is that my daughter and her friends have already achieved something like 150% of their fundraising target before they take one step - and I know that friends and family members have been extremely generous. An enormous thank you from the team and from all the people like me, whom they are helping tonight.

Here's something funky and musically appropriate to spur them on. Who else but Wilson Pickett? What else but In the Midnight Hour?

Bien-être

So, for once in England at Easter, everything was just as it should be - because the sun came out weeks ago and, apart from a brief, wettish interlude, has stayed out ever since. A celestial gift after that long, harsh, ice-bound winter.

My family has been here; friends have visited; dogs have enjoyed long, leisurely walks by the river; hours have been spent outside, making the most of the unexpectedly glorious weather: 

In the garden, a double white lilac planted six years ago burst into bloom for the very first time:

There has been good food, much talk, including a lengthy discussion, with the Dear Daughter, about archteypes; there have been hot cross buns and - cake. I don't really do cake-porn on 60 going on 16 so no photos were taken of the pièce de résistance in its entirety, a lemon drizzle cake from this recipe, adapted for the Aga and definitely not stinting on the lemons, especially for the drizzle. (Not so much lemon drizzle as lemon drench - the scent of the Mediterranean on a plate.) It didn't last long and there's not much left:

The plate is hand-painted Sutherland bone china, possibly 84 years old, if family memories are correct, from the tea service my mother was given as a wedding present in 1927.  Much of it was destroyed in the Blitz and has been painstakingly replaced over the years. That touch of chinoiserie, very 1920s . . . unless someone out there can tell me otherwise. It's pattern number 1113, if that helps.

This evening, when the house was quiet again, the Edinburgh Boy and I walked up the hill to look at the sheep and their Easter lambs:

and to look back down the hill in the soft, spring evening light:

and across the fields to the village:

Home.