writing, not drowning

Bugged . . .

 

No, I'm not under surveillance - can't imagine that any of my emails or telephone calls or tweets would be of significant interest to the Forces of Darkness. No, just laid low since Christmas with some sort of mega-bug, which has been having a merry time, working its way around various parts of my anatomy. Forsooth.

But while I am, of necessity, taking it slightly easier than usual, the joys of the single life mean that there is no-one else to walk the dogs. So, wrapped up to the nines, I have braved the elements each day to ensure that the four-footed ones get to run about and chase balls in gale-force winds and horizontal rain. But they are such dear creatures, who would deny them this small pleasure?

The Loved Ones were here for Christmas and, despite all our recent sadness, we had a happy time, doing the things that we love and that have become something of a tradition since I moved to Devon 16 years ago. And this year, at least, the Aga did not die on Christmas Eve, so the festive fare was served without a hitch. I may have mentioned, in the past, that none of us like mince pies or Christmas pudding or Christmas cake, so none were served. I did however, receive a request for home-made espresso ice cream, which is beyond scrumptious. The last time I made it was about 15 years ago but I underestimated how long it would take to prepare, which meant that it wasn't served until late evening on Christmas Day. Not the smartest of moves as we were still wide awake and goggle-eyed at three in the morning. . . this year I got the timing right and our ice cream was on the table at a sensible hour. Despite generous helpings, we all enjoyed a good night's sleep.

The Loved Ones headed homewards immediately after Christmas as they were off to foreign parts to see in the new year. Meanwhile, I cancelled all engagements, took to the sofa with a pile of books, a box of tissues, industrial quantities of Vitamin C - and 62 episodes of Breaking Bad. Believe me, I know how to do home alone with a bug. On New Year's Eve I was in bed and asleep by 9pm. There was a party going on next door, apparently. I slept through it all.

And now, here we are, it's 2014 already. I avoid making resolutions at this time of year; they tend to come to naught. Instead, I have simply made a  promise to myself to do even more of the things I love - singing, writing, reading yoga, seeing friends etc, etc, etc. Nothing too ambitious because lurking behind these modest aspirations is a pretty fearsome list of Things That Must Be Done. Stuff to be sorted. Repairs to be done. A house to be sold. Oh yes . . . (see how I slipped that last one in there?)

Still, there are another 364 days to sort out the list and, as Miss Scarlett observed, 'tomorrow is another day.'

My good wishes to you all for a year stuffed full of good things. And may your lists always be manageable.

'A wandering minstrel, I . . .'

Well, maybe not 'a thing of shreds and patches' but our choir had the distinct sense of being a bunch of 'raggle taggle gipsies oh' at one of our Christmas performances on Sunday.  The setting was a picturesque and historic 18th century watermill, now restored and transformed into an upmarket retail centre and restaurant. The place was heaving with customers and diners as this was the mill's festive themed weekend. Fantastic, we thought, a captive audience. The booking had been in our diaries - and the watermill's - for weeks. . .

There was just one problem, there was nowhere for us to sing, at least not all twenty-five of us; there was a small space by the blazing log fire where about four singers - one for each part? - could have squeezed themselves against the fireguard, at risk of singeing their special performance outfits. So we traipsed around the building and found a marquee housing a few market stalls but were promptly shooed away by the traders who were concerned that we would prevent customers from reaching their stalls. Sales could be lost. Heigh ho.

Eventually, we spread ourselves along a narrow and slightly precarious wooden gallery overlooking the mill stream, while our choir leader, Claire, set up her music stand outside the marquee on the other side of the stream in an attempt to conduct us. We were totally exposed to the elements and the rain was lashing down but at least a kind soul held an umbrella over Claire for the duration.

But we are nothing if not troupers and we sang out, despite the inclement weather. What else could we do? I think we had an audience inside the marquee as we could hear clapping from across the stream and we were told later that customers in the restaurant had heard us. This will, however, go down in our annals as one of our more challenging performances; just as well that glasses of hot mulled wine and slices of stollen were waiting for us when we finished.

Still, as my late ma used to say, there is nothing glamorous about being a performer, which is why you have to love what you do. And we do.

Next Saturday, we are taking part in Dunster by Candlelight, an annual event during which this perfectly preserved medieval village turns back the centuries. Lanterns light the streets; there are fire dancers, jugglers, a fairgound organ, and all manner of traditional merrymaking to be enjoyed. We will be singing in Dunster's 15th century parish church so at least we will be warm and dry. If you live in the area, or are visiting, do come along and hear what all the weeks of practising have been for, and say hello. (We are performing at 6pm on Saturday 8 December.)

Dunster by Candlelight raises funds for St Margaret's Hospice in Taunton, which offers physical, emotional, social and spiritual care to people with terminal or life-limiting illnesses and their families and makes a profound difference to their patients' quality of life. It has a special place in the hearts of many of us.

Our programme includes sacred music from France and the old English version - and to my mind the best version - of The Holly and the Ivy (as sung by Steeleye Span here) and Since First I Saw Your Face, a bittersweet madrigal, composed by Thomas Ford in the 16th century. This solo version, by counter tenor James Bowman, is sheer perfection. Long-time readers may recall that my love of the counter tenor voice knows no bounds. We may not be in the same class as Mr Bowman but we promise to do our best.

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 

What next?

Amazing how two weeks can disappear, just like that, and I'm wondering what I've been doing. Nothing remotely Christmassy; it's been a year of such major upheavals that I'm having a break from it all and - apologies to those of you who have been tearing around busily buying, cooking and decorating and generally wearing yourselves to a frazzle - I have to admit, I'm rather enjoying not being caught up in the whirlwind of seasonal bustle. Which has been going on since October, for heaven's sake. (I can't tell you what a relief it will be when the very last email bearing a high priority message about absolutely final Christmas ordering dates has arrived and been consigned to the Great Email Junkyard in the Sky.)

I'd say it was an age thing but the very best Christmas I ever had was exactly 20 years ago, when I travelled to Venice to join my student daughter for a week. There was demonstrably less emphasis on getting, spending and eating in Venice and I rather liked that. (Correction: I liked that very much indeed.)

We went to a Christmas Day mass at the Frari Chapel, where we looked up at Titian's Assumption and then visited the chapel's sacristy, so that I could indulge my love of Bellini and could gaze in wonder at this, the Madonna and Child with Saints Peter, Benedict, Nicholas and Mark. Painted in 1488, it is still in its original frame:

 

In the evening, we walked to the Zattere, to a small trattoria that was open for dinner, and had a meal that was about as far removed from what everyone would be tucking into at home as could be imagined. But fine for us because - and, again, apologies to all of you who are cooking for England over the next few days - neither of us eat turkey and we don't like sprouts or mince pies or Christmas pudding or Christmas cake . . . yes, the ultimate nightmare Christmas guests. 

* * *

I recently spent a day with my oldest friend and after a long walk with our dogs, we had lunch in a restaurant that looked out over an almost deserted bay and toasted 50 years of friendship. The labradors snored contentedly at our feet and, at that moment, I don't think either of us would have wanted to be anywhere else. We're a good deal quieter and calmer that we were all those years ago, when the only thing we wanted to do was to kick against the traces. I'm certain that neither of those rebellious 1960s teenagers could ever have imagined themselves as 60-somethings, who couldn't be doing with noise and fuss. When we were young, there was nothing that we liked better than a party, the louder and more riotous the better. In these, our reduced-hearing days, our greatest dread is being invited to the nightmare that is the seasonal drinks party or any drinks party, come to that, where you have to make polite conversation with people you barely know, about things in which you have little or no interest. (Although parties where you know and like every single guest are absolutely fine.)

All of which, probably makes us sound like a couple of miserable old bats, which we're not, honestly. Laughter still forms the major part of the glue that holds our friendship together. But one of the best things about getting older is that one doesn't feel the need to keep up any sort of front or pretence. About anything. And it is rather liberating.

We talked about Christmases past - the good, the bad and the indifferent - and how, these days, we think that less is definitely more and minimal is definitely good. Like me, she is doing Christmas-lite this year, out of the house and not cooking on the day itself. Her husband has already calculated that, with luck, they can be back home by 6 o'clock.

But back to the lost last fortnight; I can fill in some of the gaps. I have written and posted letters and cards; I've made a lot of soup and soda bread; I've read a good deal; I've put everything together for the last financial year and sent an enormous package to my long-suffering accountant; I've quite enjoyed being cut off while our hillside village has been ice-bound and accessible only to the bravest and strongest or just to the foolhardy (have just looked outside and the Kingdom of Ice is still there); I've put out industrial-sized quantities of food for the birds and local wildlife. And I've thought about the blog.

I've been going through one of those periodic bouts of 'why am I writing this?', 'who is it for?', 'what is it for?'. Come February, 60 going on 16 will be celebrating its fourth blog-birthday, so there has been some cyber-navel-gazing. I know that several of my favourite bloggers have been going through much the same process recently - because blogging isn't simply a matter of whipping up a daily or even a regular post. (The best writing is never forced and, after all, who wants to become stale and repetitive? Same old catch-phrases; same old jokes . . .)  It's also about being out and about in the blogosphere and going blog-visiting, which all takes time. For me, it means less time for other writing and there's the rub. It's a very big rub indeed and something has to give.  So, there might be shorter posts or fewer posts - or combination of same - next year; I'm still not sure. But apart from all this, 60 going on 16 needs a good overhaul, layout-wise. Something simpler, less chock-a-block, although I am ridiculously attached to my Bohemian Masala banner for purely sentimental reasons . . . it's going to be like decluttering the house all over again.

But between now and the New Year, I hope to write the odd post. Just in case anyone is at a loose end and has nothing better to do at the height of the festive season than turn on their computer. 

As if . . .

A cornucopia or a red envelope? You choose . . .

Whatever it is that you find yourself wishing for in 2008, I hope that one of the many goddesses of plenty (take your pick depending on your nationality, beliefs, cultural heritage, etc etc) ensures that your personal cornucopia is ever full.

The coin above depicts Abundantia, a later version of the Roman goddess of plenty - her predecessor was Fortuna - whose symbol was the cornucopia, from which poured money and food. (You might have other things on your annual wish list, of course.)

I like the idea of red envelopes, as favoured in China at New Year. The red envelope is said to bring good luck, prosperity and happiness to the recipient. Red is the Chinese symbol of happiness and ultimate joy - and who would say no to a little more of that?

So dear readers, as 2008 approaches (and for some of you 2008 is already here), consider yourselves the recipients of a virtual red envelope, each containing three virtual but very traditional I Ching coins. I hope that they will prove propitious for you throughout the coming year.

And, as the wonderful and much-missed Dave Allen used to say: 'May your god go with you.'