writing, not drowning

To write or not to write…

Suddenly this summer . . .

Three weeks of almost unbroken sunshine and we almost forget that we live in Waterland and that there has been no decent weather to speak of for almost two years. Until the weekend when it changed back to the same old, same old.

Still, those three weeks were quite wonderful, especially for sun-worshippers like me, although it did require a good deal of work juggling  and there was a prolonged absence of  blogging, to ensure maximum outdoors time. But worth it because we never quite know when Helios will favour us again.

There has been much singing (and much rehearsing too) for the Exe Valley Voices, which included taking part with 1000 other singers in Sing for Water West in Bristol on a suitably hot day. It was such an uplifting event, which - when everyone's sponsorship money  and donations from the audience have been counted - will have raised more than £50,000 for WaterAid projects in the Afram plains region of Ghana. And it provided an opportunity to meet up with several friends, who were singing with choirs from Somerset and Gloucestershire. A huge thank you to everyone who sponsored me and in case you would like to know what we sounded like, there is a batch of videos here, the first of which includes two of my favourite songs from the day, Carly Simon's Let the River Run and a Georgian song, Shen Xar Venaxi.

Two days later, we were singing with more lovely people, including choirs from local schools, at the Two Rivers Festival in Tiverton, which marked the official launch of the Tiverton Co-operative Learning Partnership. Tiverton High School made a video of the event and we (as in some of the choir members) are in there somewhere . . . well, half way through and right at the end and very briefly - a fragment of a Xhosa song from South Africa, O Li Lizela.

Last week, we held our annual summer party on a farm in a steeply wooded coombe, just a mile or so from my village. We ate, drank and sang our way into the night, gathered round a fire on a balmy evening, under the stars and an enormous, pale yellow moon. Who needs nightingales in Berkeley Square? Take it from me, there was magic abroad in the air in deepest Devon that night.

And on Friday evening, three of us joined another of Claire Anstee's Devon-based choirs, the Withycombe Warblers, as well as the Woodbury Community Choir, in Exmouth, to take part in a fundraising concert for Exmouth and Lympstone Hospiscare. The town sits between the Exe estuary and the South Devon coast so our voices were accompanied by the cries of seagulls . . .

There is, of course, the other happy aspect of choir life, which is the social side. Lasting friendships are formed and we all enjoy each other's company. Earlier in the month, a group of us trooped off to the second night of the Tiverton Balloon and Music Festival. I have always wanted to be wafted skywards in one of these but, at £145 per person per flight, we decided to stay where we were and simply watch. There is much to be said for the quiet contemplation of balloons drifting up and away into a still sunlit evening sky.

And so to Saturday, when one of the tenors celebrated her 80th birthday with a marvellous party, darlings! Forget any stereotypical notions of what an 80-year-old woman should look like and how she should behave. She is truly amazing, super fit and has more energy and zest for life than many people half her age. She looked phenomenal and was still dancing at midnight . . . 

Most of the music was provided by a local group, all of a certain age, but who have been playing and singing together for years and who went down a storm. And, yes, we all sang all the words to all the songs, from Steppenwolf's Born to Be Wild to Fleetwood Mac's Man of the World. There was dancing, of course, and it seems that we all love to dance - a fair bit of flinging ourselves around in gay abandon - and then one of the male tenors, who happens to be an extremely good dancer, whirled me round the dance floor. Yes, proper dancing too! I haven't been whirled round a dance floor in, oh, 35 years and had almost forgotten the sheer delight of it (although you do need a partner who knows what's what - and mine did.) It was also the first time I had danced the night away since the Massive Inconvenience muscled its temporary way into my life three years ago and it seemed long overdue.

The last few weeks have felt just like summer should, the way we like to imagine summers used to be. At a deeper level, for me, the sheer physicality of singing and dancing has helped me to reconnect with and to forgive my own body. A disease like cancer can knock one's confidence in one's physical self but for those of us who are fortunate enough to see the disease sent packing, there is much joy to be had in reclaiming what is ours.

Dear oncologist, are you listening?

It's two and a half years since I wrote about the alarming ignorance shown by my erstwhile oncologist (and by one senior radiographer) on the role of diet in the treatment of cancer. So, when I read that today's Food Programme (BBC Radio 4) would be on this very subject, I made sure that I was listening. The oncologist and radiographer are both still working at the hospital where I was treated - and where, thank goodness, the staff at the Breast Care Centre took a more enlightened view - so I can only say that I hope that they were also listening.

These days I rarely post about my  experience of being diagnosed with and treated for breast cancer (fondly referred to on this blog as the Massive Inconvenience). That's because I continue to be cancer free, am fit and healthy and, to be honest, cancer is not uppermost in my waking thoughts these days. But . . . I take nothing for granted.

It's not as if my pre-cancer diet was unhealthy but, from the point at which I received the diagnosis, I paid even greater attention to what I was eating and I still do. I chose to give up alcohol and certain foods, including dairy products, because the type of cancer I had was oestrogen dependent and I wanted to avoid anything that would push up my oestrogen levels. I missed cheese but, as neither alcohol nor other dairy foods, such as milk and butter, had figured highly in what I ate or drank, going without was not much of a sacrifice. I also stopped eating anything that contained sugar, which I am now convinced is the devil's food. (Did you know that sugar consumption in the UK has gone up by 31 per cent since 1990 and that the average Brit now eats 1.25lbs a week of the wretched stuff? Yikes!)  That's stopped as in routinely; there has been the odd glass of champagne at celebratory events and an occasional cake, but only very occasional. Yes, I enjoyed them at the time; no, I don't want them every day or even every week.

Lest anyone should think I lead a hairshirt culinary and dietary existence, nothing could be further from the truth. I love good food and I've always enjoyed cooking for family and friends - and for myself; I just don't want to eat stuff that does my body no favours. Also, as a woman of well over a certain age, I'm on a tight post-60 budget, so I can't and don't spend a fortune on food. But a healthy diet does not have to be expensive; nor does it require spending hours in the kitchen. The phenomenal success of A Girl Called Jack, a brilliant blog about eating well on a minimal budget, shows what is possible and provides a welcome relief from the increasing and often ludicrous excesses of far too many television food programmes. 

The photo above in case you are wondering, is a double-page spread from Nigel Slater's Tender: Volume 1, which I picked up for a snip (ie £5, that's about 1.54 US dollars) at a local charity shop on Friday. Pristine, still in its  wrapper and seemingly unused. A great, fat book, by one of my favourite food writers, it's full of wonderful things to do with delicious veg.

Yum. 

The convert

For years my mother tried to convert me to the joy of beetroot, one of her favourite vegetables, but achieved nothing more than an epic fail. (I think my junior school was trying to do the same with swede, so often did it appear on our plates at lunchtime. Another epic fail.)

When I went into healthy eating overdrive after the arrival and banishment of the Massive Inconvenience, I thought I might give it another go and tried juicing beetroot, mixing it with other more palatable items. This is doing me good, this is doing me good, this is doing me good, I uttered like a mantra, as I forced it down. The taste lingered for the rest of the day and I remained more unconverted than ever.

But yesterday, a small miracle occurred. We, as in the tenors of Exe Valley Voices, met for a rehearsal - we have three performances coming up - and lunch at the home of one of the tenors. I knew that she had prepared soup, so I took along some freshly baked soda bread - still warm from the Aga, mmm - which goes perfectly with hearty winter soups.

Our hostess had thoughtfully provided chicken soup for the carnivores and a vegetable soup, a beautiful soup, the colour of rubies. My heart sank, however, as I knew that there was only one soup that looks that special: borscht. Yes, beetroot soup, to which she had added apple . . . but, as I don't eat meat and because I had no wish to come across as a fussy eater, I said yes to the borscht. It was, I have to say, a complete revelation and tasted as good as it looked.

I'm going to ask her for the recipe but, meanwhile and for all you other beetroot loathers (and lovers), this version looks similar. If you prefer a vegan borscht, one commenter says that it is very good without the feta or sour cream and suggests that a touch of ginger might work too. I think I might give that a go.

'One day like this . . .' and four good things

So, yesterday. I wasn't quite sure how it would all pan out. My beloved cat, Mr C, was back at the vet, a recurrence of a troubling and potentially serious - even fatal - condition. He had been readmitted the previous day for further investigations, not by either of our usual vets but by another member of the team who, unlike our usual vets - both women - does not do warm. He does not reassure. He does not speak kindly and gently to my dear old boy.

But just as I was setting off for an early walk with the dogs, one of the kind vets called to say that there was good news, Mr C was much better, although - if I were agreable - they would like to keep him for another day for an X-ray. She rang again, twice during the day to confirm that his recovery had been sustained.

So, that was the first good thing.

And then it was off to the hospital where I had been treated for breast cancer AKA on this blog as the Massive Inconvenience; it was the day of the annual post-treatment check-up. My Dear Friend, the Only Blonde in the Village came with me for reassurance and distraction. I wasn't anxious; I knew at a deep, instinctive level that I was fine. Nevertheless. . .

The concerned radiographer managed to make the mammograms less uncomfortable than in previous years; no mean feat, as any woman who has had them will tell you. As a late friend of the Only Blonde once remarked, it's akin to having your tenderest part shut in a fridge door. After the mammogram, the examination . . . but the young and rather gorgeous registrar came in smiling, so I knew: the news was good.  Two years down, three to go before I am officially out of the woods but I continue to travel hopefully because it is the only way. The rather gorgeous registrar was followed by the jolly consultant who promptly organised some physio for ny stubbornly frozen shoulder - a side effect of the sentinel node biopsy two years ago and 'general wear and tear'.

Within an hour of our arrival, the Only Blonde and I were out of the hospital and, not for the first time, did I give thanks for the NHS to which I have happily contributed all my life and which gives me the care I need, free at the point of delivery. I may have to worry about paying the heating oil bill and the car service bill and every other big bill but I do not have to fret about finding money for essential healthcare.

So that was the second good thing.

We set off for a delicious and celebratory lunch at the Rock Inn at Waterrow. (Highly recommended, by the way.)

We met again later in the afternooon, when we were walking our dogs, and that is when things started to unravel. Because Miss P, my lovable but slightly bonkers foster dog, a Saluki collie-cross, went AWOL in pursuit of a pheasant. We called, we whistled, we searched, but the minutes and then an hour ticked by. The light was fading. There was no sign of her and the woods fell silent. And then night too fell.

For the next hour I shuttled between home and the ink-black woods, putting up 'dog lost' posters as I went. And then, good things happened. Friends and neighbours helped with the search: the Only Blonde and her husband said that they would drive their 4x4 around and through the wood, along the only vehicle-accessible track. The young gamekeepers who live in the village took details and said they would look out for her. Miss P's dear owners drove over from their village, kitted out for muddy night-walking, with torches, stout boots and warm jackets. We set off again, leaving the other dogs at home, snoozing after their supper.

When we arrived at the wood, we could see the lights of the Only Blonde's 4x4 as she and her husband finished their circuit and suddenly a cry went up: 'She's here; she's here!'

And indeed she was: cold, wet, shivering and frightened, running behind the 4X4 - three hours after she had gone missing.

So we all went home again . . . and I wanted to cry at the kindness of good people. I did cry.

It was the third good thing.

My original intention had been to sit up and watch the results of the US elections unfold - the Only Blonde and I had been united in our hopes for Obama - but I was as exhausted as my little dog. Bed beckoned. I slept through it all but woke to yet more good news and found myself bursting into song. This one in particular, by Elbow, which the choir I sing with learned over many weeks earlier in the year. It's a tricky song to master but once there, it's a fine song to sing and to listen to, as well. It contains this line:

'One day like this a year will see me right.'

Indeed it will.

A fine result, sealed with an equally fine speech.

The fourth good, exceptionally good, thing.