On sitting down at my computer just now, I felt something sort of tickling up my left sleeve. I put my hand up there to take it out, and it turned out to be a ladybird, which I then had to painstakingly take to the window to release it. I'm not very good at handling small crawly things not because they scare me, but because I dread finding myself left with a leg or a wing in my hand. However I managed to womanhandle it across the room, dropping it a couple of times, and eventually get it to the fresh air which it availed itself of by flying away. Sweet.
By the way I am typing this on my brand new very flash silver iMac keyboard, which has replaced the one I spilt tea into. Meanwhile my mother has my old black keyboard along with the Graphite iMac that goes with it, which is my old machine. We took it round to her yesterday as a delayed 93rd birthday present (her birthday was last Wednesday) . She was really excited and got the hang of the internet and email fairly quickly, under the expert direction of her grandson. Unfortunately the cheap dial-up connection we got for her ceased to function the second time we switched it on, so now we will have to think about getting her broadband. She really wants to email friends in Austria and America. I am so impressed with her enterprise.
While on the subject of changes of technology, I am still driving the courtesy car (Nissan Note) which I picked up last Tuesday, as the garage hasn't yet finished doing cosmetic surgery on my Punto. The Nissan is a really smooth drive but feels a bit like a truck to me as it's very high up and longer than the Punto. I am quite proud of myself for adapting to it.
For I have found the secret present which I lost and thought never to find again. All will be revealed in approximately 11 days' time.
Meanwhile, The Grouch and I went to a swing dance tonight, organized in support of Christian Aid as part of the Pentecost Festival which, confusingly, is not at Pentecost. There was a jazz band, group tuition in swing dance steps (which we didn't join in as I wasn't sure my back was up to it), lots of agile young women in Fifties-style whirly skirts, fairtrade juices, Cola and chocolate, and a discussion of climate change in the interval. We missed that bit because we were too hungry and left to go for a meal (we did have one dance before we left though) The whole thing was at my old church in Waterloo which has become very posh and arty since I left. And we ate at the Italian restaurant on the corner which has not changed in the thirty years I have known it, and probably not in the at least fifty years it has been there. Finally we had a stroll around my old haunts, checking out which shops and restaurants had changed and which hadn't, and peered up at my old flat where someone appeared to be in. There seems to be a new fence round the flat roof which wasn't there in my day, but certainly makes it safer.
There are far more facilities in terms of shopping etc there than there were when I lived there. But I wouldn't go back - it was a lonely life on the whole. In spite of all the struggles I'd rather be where I am now.
...the chestnut trees are this year, with their majestic spread and their candles reminding me of the real candles on the real Christmas tree of my childhood. Indeed all the trees seem to be particularly splendid as they burgeon into leaf. Or is it that they are this beautiful every spring, but I don't normally notice them?
Apologies for long radio silence. I do have the perfect excuse, which is that I have spent the last four days or so mainly flat on my back in bed (alone, in case you were worried).
You won't believe this, but last Friday I managed to put my back out severely while having reflexology at a carers' relaxation day. Yes, I know. Basically I was on a reclined sun lounger rather than a proper massage table, and the reflexologist lifted up my legs onto a precarious arrangement of cushions, which kept slipping, so that he could gain better access to my feet. The result was that I spent at least ten minutes, possibly more, in an uncomfortable position which put huge strain on my lower back, and when the session was over and I attempted to get up, I couldn't. I should have complained much earlier that I was uncomfortable, but unfortunately I've been too well brought up.
All of which meant that I was unable to go on the retreat that I'd booked for Saturday-Monday, and instead had to make do with a home retreat which consisted of resting my back and reading a lot of books. Not too bad, but not the same as spending two days in a gorgeous seventeenth century manor with beautiful grounds, a lake, a fantastic library and lots of home-cooked naughty food not cooked by me. The Grouch and Genius Brat cooked for me at home, but it wasn't the greatest culinary experience.
Now I have to claim a refund on my rail ticket, with £10.00 docked for admin, and I have to pay the full whack for the retreat I didn't have. Piddle. And Bum.
Appendix: Books read while supine.
A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon (he of the Curious Incident). Very funny and poignant.
Losing my Religion by Gordon Lynch. On leaving evangelicalism. Struck lots of chords.
The Scheme for Full Employment by Magnus Mills. Also funny and original.
Not Religion, but Love by Dave Andrews (he of Christi-Anarchy). A bit more challenging than I was ready for.
The latest issue of Christianity magazine. Very much confirmed why I'm glad I'm no longer trying to be an evangelical. Not that I ever succeeded. Yes, a lot of things have changed since those days but the good old guilt-inducing language is still the same. And the good old insular culture.
Finally today, which was officially work: proofs of Good Enough Mother by (my editor) Naomi Starkey, which doesn't come out till next year and for which I am meant to be writing a cover endorsement. This suggests, reassuringly, that while I may not be exactly famous, I must be a little more famous than Naomi :-)
Today after having lunch with a friend, I took myself to Tesco and bought, for my son, a new pencil case, pens, erasers, sharpener, maths kit and ruler (I had pencils at home already). This will hopefully stop his teaching assistant grumbling about his ill-equipped schoolbag. What a glorious thing new stationery/office equipment is. Place your bets here on how few days it will be before he loses the lot.
Finally made it to the ear, nose and throat hospital today, in spite of walking straight past it when I know perfectly well where it is, having passed it deliberately several times before on my way to the dental hospital which is on the same road (and which I have to go to as well in a couple of months). Had the usual wait with all the other patients (it seems to be one of those places where everyone gets given the same time), had my blood pressure taken by the nurse from hell (never in my life have I had a blood pressure cuff that tight) and finally saw the doctor who, predictably, was not the one my letter said I'd be seeing.
He shoved a horrible metal tongue compressor down my throat, peered up my nostrils and then sprayed anaesthetic into them, and finally shoved a piece of flex with a micro-camera on the end up each of my nostrils in turn, pushing it in till it almost went down my throat. Despite the anaesthetic spray, it hurt like hell. During this procedure he also asked me to snore on demand. The upshot was, he wants to take me into the hospital to observe my sleep, and then have another appointment.
So that's another of the hospitals of London added to my long list. I really can't be far off ticking them all off. Shouldn't I get badges or something? Green Shield stamps, perhaps?
And apart from that, I've been to the dental hygienist again and she told me off for not using mouthwash, and tortured me with her instruments. Still, good persecution practice...
Just got back from going (alone) to a Blockheads gig at a local theatre. I was very pleasantly surprised to hear how good they sounded even sans Dury. Even more surprised to see there was a smattering of people under 50 in the audience. The support band, the Sex Patels (yes you read that right) were good too, with Indianized versions of some punk and post-punk greats (though in fact only one of the band appears to be Asian and the rest are white as could be).
I still feel like death warmed up in an underlying sort of way, but now there is a layer of cheerfulness on the top, somewhat akin to the whipped cream which is the only really worthwhile part of a trifle. Hit me slowly, hit me quick, hit me, hit me, hit me...
Having yesterday cancelled my place at a seminar on hospitality I was going to today, and instead booked in last minute for a Quiet Day at the local retreat place, I duly dragged myself out of bed and joined three other ladies and the retreat leader to be quiet in a very pleasant house and garden up the road (I do like having retreats I can walk to). This particular day was focused on Julian of Norwich, of whom I am a big fan (not Julian of Norwocj whom I just typed by mistake and who is obviously Polish - or possibly Pilish).
I actually learned some new stuff about Julian, which surprised me, and I also sat in the sunshine holding a hazelnut and trying, not very successfully, to imagine it was 'all that is made'. But by the second session I was definitely dropping off, so instead of walking or praying I lay down and fell fast asleep, waking up twenty minutes after lunch had started (fortunately there was food left). In the third session I coloured, quite badly and with dried up felt tips, a rather twee drawing of Julian done by a nun. All in all it was quite a refreshing time but would have been better if one of the ladies had not obviously gone to chatter rather than being quiet.
Next weekend I hope to go on a proper retreat down in Sussex, with two overnights. I need it really badly. Everything makes me cry at the moment.
The Mattress Doctor came yesterday. He is a pixie-like little man with a white coat, a powerful vibrating hoover, a UV light box, and a practised line in patter. He gave me a demonstration of what was currently in my mattress (19 years' worth of nasty grey dust which is apparently dead dust mites and their, as he put it, excrement). Then he hoovered with his power hoover, inviting me to feel the bed for vibrations as he did so, brushed under all the woollen buttons that hold the mattress together, and ran the UV box over the mattress to kill any live mites, finally spraying with a sanitation spray which he said was organic and citrus-based.
As he needed to do both sides, and as our mattress is a king-size and very heavy one, he had to recruit me to help him turn the mattress over, which he assured me he usually manages alone. He also treated my precious goose-down pillow and advised me to replace other, cheaper pillows as it costs less than having them treated.
He predicted that I would have a very good night's sleep. I didn't, but I did enjoy the feeling that I was sleeping on an ultra clean mattress. And I didn't cough, which I often do on resting my head on the pillow. The whole thing took him nearly two hours, and was a much better job than I could have done with a normal hoover and a chemical spray. It did cost £70, but I probably won't do it for another 19 years.
After I'd written here, my Apple/Command key stopped working (I'm on an iMac) and soon afterwards my space bar expired with a small, sad sigh. I have a spare new-style (ie white) iMac keyboard but on that one neither Alt key works. So I had to dig out my old-style (black and bigger) keyboard on which I have now forgotten how to type (the keys are further apart and I've now got used to my new one). Hopefully hubby will fix the new one - which appears to be full of biscuit crumbs as well as tea) over the weekend.
Of such minor irritations and unwelcome changes is life made up (and backward speaking I am I know, but 900 years old when you are... etc)
I got various domestic tasks done, I went out to a delicious Indian lunch with a delightful friend who gave me red tulips, the sun was shining as I walked home, and I got out several games of my new Patience game. Even the sight of an empty bird's nest on the patio didn't discourage me that much - I thought I might possibly write a poem about it (which would be the first for about three years).
Then - I made the mistake of looking at my screen instead of my desk when putting down my freshly made cup of tea. Hot tea all over my top, all over my jeans, and copious amounts of it in my keyboard. I ran to the bathroom and with a damp flannel managed to sponge the worst. Then I got changed into a new top and newly washed jeans which would hardly do up, and went to attack my keyboard with a large number of cotton buds. Then I sat down at the computer again (feeling decidedly constrained by the too-tight new jeans.). After a few minutes noticing that odd things were happening on the screen, in particular unexplained flashing in the web address field, and refusal to type a capital T (how significant) I noticed something else. My posterior was feeling decidedly damp. I had failed to notice that the posture cushion on my chair was also soaked in tea. Now I'm sitting here with wet legs and a wonky keyboard. And there's hardly any tea left to drink. Do I dare to risk making another cup? Oh well, I've managed to type all this, which suggests the damage isn't huge.
According to a little piece in the Guardian Weekly, the life expectancy of writers depends on what form of writing they espouse. This has been scientifically researched, investigating nearly 2,000 writers across four cultures.
Poets (as one might expect) live on average a year less than playwrights, who live three years less than novelists. But the greatest longevity is enjoyed by non-fiction writers, who live a whole 5.6 years longer than poets. I guess that novel in the back of my head is never going to be written then... And I should actually be pleased that I haven't written a poem for three years. Unless I want to die romantically young of course (and I may already be too old for that).
I seem to have managed to delete yesterday's entry when I was only meant to be deleting the first version of today's. This is very frustrating. However it wasn't that interesting...
... just an account of how, being 'on the door' at singing last night, I accidentally greeted the newcomer who said 'Hello, I'm Heidi' by replying 'Hi'. And ho-de-ho too.
Also an explanation of my long absence, most of which was due to being in South Wales. I really can't be bothered to go into all the details again. Suffice it to be said that we had a good time. And to whoever it was (ee, I think) who told me to organize a wibmeet next time I'm in South Wales: thank you, I'll do that if I'm there again. Meanwhile the retreat/B&B we were staying at can be found by Googling 'Mill-Leat Ministries'. Highly recommended for those who want to be in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with log fires.
... the way the colours in my scarf perfectly match each of the four coloured bands of my earrings. And the earrings are fairtrade and the scarf was charity shop, so that means extra greenie points to me.
I am also deriving some satisfaction, though I wouldn't say pleasure, from having written the first draft of my sermon for Sunday. How do you preach on healing to a church where a 20 year old girl, who was born into the church, is battling with aggressive cancer that she's unlikely to survive without a miracle? I feel inclined just to stand there and cry, but that won't help anyone.
PS: I am now also taking pleasure in the fact that when one of my earrings, which are a favourite pair, fell out in Tesco, I actually heard it drop and found it again :-)
My tongue hurts, my shoulder hurts, my neck hurts, my life hurts. And I have a spot between my mouth and nose, which itches. Surely 55 is too old to have zits?
Obviously still fired up from Shine a Light, I couldn't get to sleep last night. 'Start me up' kept going round my head. I finally dropped off around 3.00. Well, if one has to spend time not sleeping, might as well spend it not sleeping with Mick Jagger.
A tip for those over 50 but who haven't yet reached the big 60 (which is, of course, the new 40). Go to see Martin Scorsese's new film Shine a Light, about the Rolling Stones and in particular their big concert in New York for the Clinton Foundation. I guarantee you will be among the youngest people in the audience.
You have, however, already missed the premiere which was beamed via a live link from Leicester Square into 100 cinemas around the UK. I was there, in my local art house cinema, roaring and clapping along with all the other Saga louts. Before the actual film we were treated to half an hour or so of various celebs arriving down the red carpet, and Edith somebody (Foreman?) interviewing all the Stones individually. Mick and Ron were polite and professional, Keith was totally sloshed and appeared to have come from the nearest Salvation Army hostel, and Charlie Watts (who had his granddaughter with him) kept saying 'It's what I do' as though he was turning into the Bishop of Southwark.
The film was fabulous, in spite of being basically Last of the Summer Wine with a lot more noise. But what glorious noise. Mick Jagger is still sex on legs even at sixty-something. He is the living definition of 'strutting your stuff' - no one struts like him. One unexpected highlight was him being joined in the vocals by Christian Aguilera! The concert was cut with various hilarious footage from earlier years. Top moment was definitely a pretty young (30ish?) Jagger being asked if he saw himself still doing this at 60. 'Easily' he replied. And boy was he right.
...before opening mouth. The Boat Race is a difficult call at the best of times in our household, having one Oxford graduate and one Cambridge graduate, which means offspring has to choose which parent to go with. It was not helped this year when I found myself saying 'I can't see the Cambridge side's cox'. Ahem...
1. No one was hurt.
2. My car only has a pitta bread-sized dent.
3. A policeman who had just come on duty witnessed the entire thing and said it was definitely the other driver's fault.
4. The other driver, who turned out to live in the next street to me, was really kind and broke the rules to ring me up and ask how I was.
5. I still got to my 'special needs mums' lunch'.
6. The other driver's insurance have offered to cover the lot.
7. Did I mention no one was hurt?
From all of which you can gather that I had a minor car smash today. It didn't feel minor while I was having it though, as the car leapt up in the air and then came down before I did, resulting in rattling of spine as well as emotional shakenness. And, being that sort of person, I still think it was really my fault because I didn't make my intentions clear and my momentary braking gave the other driver the impression I was letting her in.
But thank God everyone is all right and neither car is badly damaged.
What a joy it is to get an email with good news in it. I heard today from a single friend and former colleague who for many years has been teaching deaf children in Jordan. I knew that she had fallen in love some time ago with a Jordanian man but that they were kept apart by the fact that she is a committed Christian and he is a Muslim. Now she tells me that after seven years of carrying a torch for each other, they have finally got married (she is 52). I'm so pleased (even though I was going to introduce her to a lovely man I know who sometimes visits Jordan - I'll have to find someone else for him now!).
Other good news: I just got out a fourth game of Accordion, the new Patience game I've been playing. Of such small victories is daily life made up...
In the last three or four days I have discovered a new and fiendishly difficult Patience (Solitaire) game on my computer. (Incidentally, when did Solitaire stop being the name for a game that starts with a cross arrangement of pegs in holes with the middle peg missing, with the aim of ending up with just one peg in the middle, and start to be the official name for what I have always called Patience? I blame the Americans..) Anyway, the game's programmer encouragingly notes in his rules and tips that it took him 25 years to get his first game of this variety out. With the help of his solitary tip, I managed to get my first game out in two days. And I have since got a second game out. I am inordinately proud.
I'm also proud of the fact that in the last few days I have braved the uncharted territories of Facebook, and by dint of raiding the friends list of a friend from church, have built up a respectable network of 18 or so friends. I even took a reasonable photo of myself with the built in camera in my new iMac, and managed to upload it to my profile. (And yes, I do remember that I promised to post photos here of my cat in an intray - I will get round to that soon, honest guv...
Led astray by the thought of my son's sexual performance being graded, what I omitted to tell you on Thursday, dear reader, is that on my way out to the school meeting the previous night I had a mishap. Fingerless mittens are very useful when wanting to get out money and still have warm hands, but I have discovered that they can get caught on things - in this case, on the bit of brass below our doorlock that juts out and enables one to shut the door (there must be a name for this but The Grouch who tends to know these things is out swimming with Genius Brat).
So anyway, I caught my glove on this protuberance and someone managed to overbalance myself in such a way that I went flying headlong onto our front path, falling heavily on one knee which is now bruised, also wrenching my shoulder (though I have no idea how) and spiking my ring finger on a rose thorn - causing me to have gloomy thoughts about whether my tetanus jab was up to date, which I'm sure it isn't. My keys which I had been holding must have flown out of my hand and disappeared without trace amongst the shrubbery, as they were no longer in my possession.
I thereupon resolved to drive rather than walk to the meeting, (because my knee hurt too much to walk), and instructed hubby to hunt for keys while I took another set to drive with. When I returned, and having had my confusing conversation with the neighbour, I discovered that The Grouch had searched in vain for half an hour. He finally gave up and kicked a rose bush (as you do) whereupon the bush tinkled, and he very soon found the keys hanging from it. Which was to the great relief of all, as I had visions of having to change the lock because keys to it were hidden in the front border (though how a burglar who didn't even know they were there, would have found them, I have no idea. Unless he were a rose-kicking burglar).
Consequent to all this, I have been going round for the last three days unable to move my arm behind my back or over my shoulder, which makes everyday tasks such as getting dressed or going to the toilet exquisitely painful. In spite of this I managed to be interviewed on Premier Christian Radio on Thursday afternoon (well I didn't really need my arm for that), and organize a Passover seder for my church in the evening. This, my first time running it all, went very well and was a delightful time. With high doses of Ibuprofen, my arm has improved considerably and I even managed to wash my hair today. Which was a good excuse not to go swimming, and which means that I won't have manky hair when I preach at the Easter service tomorrow.
In spite of the pain, I have actually been enjoying Easter an exceptional amount this year. In my childhood it was something of an anti-climax compared to Christmas, until I started spending Easters at the Lutheran conference centre which was my second home in my late teens. Our annual seder at the Mennonites has made Easter more celebratory, but often it has taken place several days before Easter itself. Having it on Maundy Thursday this year, plus a well attended and moving service at the Mennonite Centre yesterday morning, and following The Passion on BBC TV, has meant a much greater sense of occasion; and breakfast together tomorrow before the Easter Sunday service will be the icing on the Danish pastry (I bought six of them as my breakfast contribution).
Tallking to my teacher neighbour yesterday about how well my 13 year old son is doing at school, and how he's expected to get levels 7, 7 and 8 in his year 9 SATS, I was alarmed to hear my neighbour saying 'Then he'll get a grade for his sexual performance'. It was only when he repeated this using the initials EP that I worked out he'd said 'exceptional performance'. Phew! what a relief. Well, he is from Northern Ireland (the neighbour I mean) so I could be forgiven for mishearing.
.. the kaleidoscope. And lo verily, the teacher said, our lives are like the pieces in a kaleidoscope. Broken, odd shapes, random colours, and seemingly no hint of a pattern. Yet shake the pieces up, focus the lens, and behold there emerges a beautiful design, symmetrical and perfect. For viewed through the prism which is the Holy Spirit, our lives have order, beauty and purpose. And each new pattern is unique.
And more, said the teacher, while we often view the pieces from the wrong end, and see no harmony, our Father God sees us always through the prism of Jesus' love, and thus to God we are always full of beauty. But forget not, for the pattern to be visible, the pieces must often be shaken up. Therefore fear not when the foundations of your self are shaken, for God's purpose is always to create a new picture.
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