The Devil Comes Knocking

 

The banging on the door was heavy and most insistent. Whoever was there wanted me to come quick. It took me a moment to realise that the banging was on my door, but as I got up I realised it was actually coming from the kitchen.

Somebody was in the kitchen!

Not somebody something.

A manic creature which was shaking the kitchen to pieces.

I rushed from where I was sitting hearing things crash behind me as I did so, was that the lap top that had just fallen to the floor?

The banging noise in the kitchen was coming from the washing machine which had gone into a spin and was battling with an uneven load. I switched the machine off and as it sighed to a halt I looked around at the damage.

The washing machine in its shaking and rattling had managed to dislodge the wooden plinths from the adjacent work units. They now leaned out just above the floor revealing builders rubble in the crevice beyond.

‘Won’t take a moment to put them back,’ I thought after extracting my sopping dressing gown from the machine and draping it on the bench outside.

After sweeping up some of the rubble first and wiping the tiles I set to work. The small plinth on the right hand side slotted back easily into place. Cheered by this I now attempted to put the other plinth back.

It wouldn’t move.

It was jammed.

I tried to shift the washing machine but it wouldn’t budge.

The few second job was already eating away the minutes.

Eventually I ended up like an upside down crab on the floor using my feet to push it back into place.

The plinth didn’t move.

I was afraid if I took it out that I would never get it back in place.

But I did.

Minutes later I repeated the crab dance on the kitchen floor.

And to my great joy the plinth slipped back into place.

‘Hah!’ I thought. ‘I did it!’

I was thinking this as I opened the cupboard door under the sink to throw away the onion peelings and carrot tops and tails.

To find that the bin had been shaken from its place and failed to open out just as the peelings dropped from the plate.

After that was fixed I dared to check on the lap top. It was fine. It had been a pile of books that had tumbled to the floor after my hasty exit.

Phew!

Small Birds Need to Fly Even Lower!

 

The birds don’t sing anymore in the evenings.

I had thought it was the season, or perhaps the disappearance of birds that had caused this emptiness and quietness.

It was while on a recent visit to Barnsdale Gardens as I said my goodbyes to a friend that she chanced to mention birdsong. She could hear them merrily tweeting away in the gardens behind us whilst others she said were singing in nearby high trees.

I strained to hear.

But all I could hear the low rumble and whoosh of cars on the road. I did hear the flat call of a duck from somewhere close, and I could hear my friend’s voice as she turned and pointed in the direction of another small bird she could hear.

But I could hear nothing.

It was quite a shock to realise that something as precious as birdsong had vanished and was unlikely to ever return.

Whenever I read the I Ching it usually tells me, whilst at the same time emphasising my lowly status in the world that the small bird must fly low for its song to be heard. A lovely poetic piece of writing.

So it seems small birds need to fly even lower, and perhaps even perch on my shoulder for me to have a chance of ever hearing them again.

Sword Dancer

 

I’ve become a sword dancer.

‘Come at seven,’ they said.

On a day rainy day I pulled into the car park against the gothic pile of a church and then waited for others to arrive.

I was on time, but the people who were to unlock the hall doors were late. It was a cold night and raining. Thankfully some degree of prescience meant that I had a hot water bottle with me.

The hall eventually was opened up and the sword dancers entered.

It was my first lesson.

Thankfully the ‘blades’ looked nothing like swords.

“Hold the swivel in your right hand,” I was ordered.

I puzzled over the handles wondering which one was the swivel. The ‘swivel’ obvious the others had to be pointed out to me. It was a handle that moved. The wooden handle on the other end was fixed.

So that was how the illusion of the dance was created, the handle moved saving twisted arms from falling off.

Before too long I was walking under ‘blades’.

These were ‘rapper’ blades apparently used by miners to scrap the coal dust from the backs of ponies.

“Don’t duck,” a woman called.

It was all right for her. When the arches formed she was quite safe, being so short in statue, whereas for me the blades were circling just above my head.

“Don’t duck,” she yelled again. But I did, ignoring her, and wisely so it turns out as the blades narrowly missed slicing into the forehead of a tall girl opposite me.

Somehow we weaved in and out, formed what they called ‘nuts’, spun around and picked up our blades anew.

Afterwards, I rang the ex-teenager, ‘I’m now sword dancer,’ I proclaimed wanting to impress, but I left out the information about pits, ponies and coal dust.

I’m a Man!

 

In the traditional folk dancing group I have just joined women outnumber men. I was so impressed by the willingness of some of the women to take the man’s role, so that so many more could then enjoy the dance. They slipped bands over them so that we could identify them more readily. And they did so with minimum fuss.

I had wondered if men could as easily take the part of a woman if ever it was necessary.

The other evening I got my answer.

One of the dances called for a set of nine people. The Caller wanted the men to stand in the middle with a woman on either side.

By chance in my group of nine people this worked out perfectly. And we also had real men and real women. Except, I noticed a man in one of the woman’s position. I was impressed. By taking the woman’s part in this dance he was allowing the other eight people to dance.

Nobody said anything to him, as we went through the walk through.

Then by chance he looked around at the other sets and realised the role he was playing.

If this had been a woman playing the part of a man she would simply have got on with it. She would not have made any fuss. Would not have caused a hold up. But not this man.

“Hang on a minute,” he called out, preventing The Caller from explaining any more of the dance steps. “I can’t do this. I’m a man!”

In this particular dance it really didn’t matter who was who, at all. There were right hand stars, and left hand stars, and we then had to follow this person or that person. There were no paired couple steps at all. It was a dance like a whirl of cogs rather than of romantic hearts. And we already knew this from the walk through. Everyone knew this.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, _____,” someone, perhaps his wife said.

“But this is a part for a woman!” he protested, “and I’m a man.”

His voice was getting louder, and I also wondered if he’d also lowered it an octave or two to emphasise the point. He blustered, inflating his chest with air.

“I’m a man!”

His shoulders were flexed, he-man style, as if he was about to wrestle a woolly mammoth.

The others’ cajoling had no effect on him.

“I’m a man,” he declared.

His arm went into the air. He wanted a woman who was sitting out to take his place.

A dainty elderly lady did so.

As the he-man still chuntering his man-tra sat down with arms folded across his chest, and with his legs set apart.

He seemed too large for his chair, but soon as the dance began we forgot all about him.

He was after all only a man!

The Devil’s Chain

 

I’m standing still and everything around me is in confusion.

“Don’t stand still,” the caller implores.

I look for hands to hold, to make the lady’s chain. There are none.

Someone grabs me, it’s an unknown woman, “I’m your man,” she says. She spins and releases me, but I’m now going the wrong way.

“The woman should be on your right!” the  caller’s exasperated voice yells.

I’m unravelling the complicated weave of the dance. Everything has become chaotic. We stop to reform and wait for the beat to reach a beginning again.

I try once more. It goes half right, but there is one part I can’t recall, I’m suppose to peel away in a half-eight or something, and then do something dozy with the man, who is it the woman-man, and then step to the left, or was it the right?

On the next dance a woman elbows me sharply in the chest and I wince. I think she was trying to show me the right way to go, but  it might have been deliberate.

I’m trying to be light-footed, to twirl on toes. I greet the ones I walk towards with a smile.

“Don’t smile,” the caller snaps.

I realise that the others don’t.

They are simply mechanical parts in the machine of the dance. With tight thin lips they shunt forwards and backwards.

The expert real men occasionally grab me tightly and march me firmly into position, before releasing me to my twirling fate elsewhere.

“Keep the woman on your right,” the caller snaps.

I puzzle over rights and lefts. First we are couple number two and then we couple number one. Now we are couple number three and improper!

The brief rehearsal hasn’t been enough. I’ve forgotten the next bit as I’m grabbed. Was it three steps then a half-turn? Do I go forwards or back?

By the end of the evening there are none that want us to join their set. and I can’t blame them. I am disturbing the free flow harmony. But some do join us eventually.

“Don’t dance it. Walk it!”

I realise this is what the others are doing, with flat footed accuracy.

There are more women to men, so many of the women are having to double up as men. I don’t know who is a man and who is a woman anymore. The men-women also get confused and remember the woman’s steps and not the man’s

The men have none of this confusion. They have never been asked to dance a woman’s part. They have no idea how difficult this can be. How alien and confusing.

“Right hand, left hand,” the caller bellows.

There is an interval and the floor clears.

We sit. I’m hot and sweating, but feeling quite please with how it’s going. I got some of the steps right.

My friend and I were in an animated conversation, When the caller comes a calling.

I look up.

He’s not  happy.

“We’re not that bad are we? my friend asks.

“Well, yes, you are,” he says.

My friend is mortified, and I feel upset as it is her birthday and I’d said I’d accompany her, as she wanted to dance.

“He’s just watching us,” she said.

I’m embarrassed.

When the next dance is announced we gamely stand up again.

“Oh, I’m going to go through that again,” the caller says wearily during the next walk through. “You two change places.”

Everyone stands still to watch.

“We’ll go through that again.”

He dictates the moves, but I’m struggling to remember the earlier steps.

The music begins, and I am whirled into position. Some dragged me here. Some drag me there. I’m cajoled by some and yanked into position by the exasperated male experts. But there are some delights. A half-blind man cheers whenever I repeatedly find his waiting arms.

“Here she is again,” he laughs, and I’m delighted by his sense of fun as he promenades me back to my partner.

At the end of the dance, the caller jokes, “I’ve been watching the newcomers and calling for them, I knew they were behind. I didn’t realise they were four beats behind the rest.”

He gets a laugh, but it is embarrassing. He is watching my every mis-step.

I am delighted when a real man takes my friend away to dance. Glad that she is given respite from my errors and clumsiness.

Right at the very end this same man reappears again He kindly walks with me in the dance. Shadowing me so that with this one I can not go wrong.

I am grateful. I think the dance was called ‘The Devil’s Chain’. First I’m on the inside and then I’m on the outside. He indicates the next person I am to dance with. These men grab me with a fierceness worthy of the devil himself. I am touched by this help. Then when I look for him he is ahead of me seated on a chair and smiling to see that I’m doing the dance properly.

I’m happy and rosy-red when the folk dance evening finishes.

It was fun.

But the next day, I fret that perhaps I  ruined it for the tight lipped, flat footed, elbowing dancing experts who had probably wanted a lovely evening of intricate woven dancing and there I was unravelling it all.

.

Bert Jansch

 

I don’t know the names of the people who sewed my clothes, made my carpets or designed and made my furniture. I make my tea not knowing who made my life so much better by designing a kettle with a flip lid or who enhanced my enjoyment by choosing that particular blend of tea. They are nameless and legion. Perhaps every item should have a tag on it. this was made by … and brought to you by… and then a whole list of people could be applauded for their vision and skill.

But music is different. There is a tag on every song to say who it was written by… and then there is always a singer’s name.

So we more easily moan the loss of the singer-songwriter than we do the person who designed the kettle.

So with apologises to the anonymous kettle makers who find themselves entering the pearly gates I want to pay tribute to the singer songwriter by your side whose name I do know: Bert Jansch.

I never saw him play. I was not a huge fan, but I have enjoyed so much of his music over the years. His guitar playing skills made acoustic songs hauntingly beautiful.

Sadly this troubadour, who bound the present day to the tender music of yesteryear, has passed on by; and England’s lost and ruined castles are draughtier and silent now.

 

 

 

My young love said to me,

My mother won't mind

And my father won't slight you

For your lack of kind.

And she laid her hand on me

And this she did say:

It will not be long, love,

Till our wedding day.

As she stepped away from me

And she moved through the fair

And fondly I watched her

Move here and move there.

And then she turned homeward,

With one star awake,

Like the swan in the evening

Moves over the lake.

The people were saying,

No two e'er were wed

But one had a sorrow

That never was said.

And I smiled as she passed

With her goods and her gear,

And that was the last

That I saw of my dear.

Last night she came to me,

My dead love came in.

So softly she came

That her feet made no din.

As she laid her hand on me,

And this she did say:

It will not be long, love,

'Til our wedding day.

Paint Stalactites

 

I’m not very good at painting.

My window sills over the years have all grown stalactites.

These have been formed as the white gloss paint slowly drips after I’ve finished painting a window sill.

It was the warm sunshine that got me painting.

It’s a nerve-wracking procedure for me as I have to use the step ladder, and just climbing onto the first rung is scary.

I also tend to get more paint on the glass than on the window frames.

This year I sellotaped around the glass, close to the frame so that when my brush inevitably erred I could then remove the tape, and revealed… drum roll… a perfectly painted window.

That was the plan.

A week later, I removed the tape.

I even scoured along its edge with the sill so that the paint would not be pulled off the window frame itself as the tape was removed.

Sellotape has a mind of its own.

Somehow despite the soaring temperatures that week and having left the gloss paint a week to dry, some of the paint on the sellotape was still wet.

The sellotape then snapped as I tried to pull it away, leaving long thin tapering fiddly sections that I had to prise away from the glass.

I realised that somehow the paint had  seeped under the sellotape.

How could that be?

‘That’s from last year’s paint job,’ I kidded myself.

The tape having broken would then writhed like a snake into as many different formations of the figure eight as it could possibly invent. Wrapping itself tightly around my fingers, so that I had to prise it off, before placing it in a heap at the top of my wobbly step ladders.

Soon there was more paint on the windows, on my fingers and on the step ladders than on the window frames themselves.

As for a nice clean paint job… well no, I’m afraid not.

And when I last checked, all the paint stalactites had grown a little longer to show that yet another year had passed.

Looks Deceive

 

I was aware that I was being watched. I looked up and saw a woman leaning out of an upstairs window next door but one.

She was staring at me, and had probably been staring at me long before I looked up.

“Hello,” I said.

She didn’t reply but continued to stare, making me feel very uncomfortable in my own garden.

That particular house is occupied by students, a different cohort every year.

Last week, I saw the new intake for the first time.

The weather was warm and they were outside on the lawn. Two were sunbathing in what seemed to be outsized pyjamas into which they were squeezed. A young man was idly kicking a football as he stood chatting to them. A studious-looking bespectacled girl was sitting upright seemingly concentrating on the papers she was holding, whilst an older red-haired woman looked on.

I was impressed by the studious girl. She was obviously trying to work despite the others lazing around her. She was obviously keen to get a good degree and to get her studying off to a flying start.

As I glimpsed them a little later, I realised there was something wrong with this picture.

The studious girl was the focus of attention. Her hands seemed to be busy with the papers in front of her.

Then she lifted the paper up to her mouth and licked its edge.

All the time I thought she had been diligently studying she had in fact been rolling a joint.

The woman who had stared at me from the window a couple of days later and not responded to my, ‘Hello’ was breathing smoke out into the air.

So with this cohort, it looks as though the local university isn’t likely to climb any higher in the league tables this year.

The Pretty Things Sad Eye

 

Sad Eye

Well if you ever baby,

Feel like changing your mind,

Don’t think twice just take it easy,

Anything you do will please me.

Just as long as you see me.

 

And if you ever baby,

Feel like starting again,

All you gotta do is phone me,

There is nothing you need show me.

Just as long as you know me.

 

Well I knocked on every door,

Looked on every sea and shore.

Just to find that you had left me.

 

You were a special one,

Like the setting of the sun,

Now it’s too late to help me.

Kimya Dawson Singing Machine

 

 

 

We switched to Jay Leno from da Ali G show
To see some kids that we know do what they do on TV.
Sometimes I wish I was there, but mostly I just don't care
I cry and laugh and forth and back, it's all good comedy.

And there's no rhyme or reason for the changing of the seasons
Sometimes the winter lasts for months sometimes it lasts for days.
The world is an amazing place there's gaping holes in outer space
Sunburned for the first time skin is peeling off my face.

And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian"
And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian".

Open up your eyes and see the beauty over there
Open up your ears and be surprised by what you hear
'Cause it's not just on the radio, it's not just on the video
It isn't all downloadable, there's music everywhere.

And the fact that they divide us should be enough to unite us
We are the world so boys and girls let's all collaborate
'Cause when we play together we won't notice the bad weather
Like flashlight tag when it's real cold or kickball in the rain.

And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian"
And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian".

Get out there and be seen, you're lean and clean,
You're barely nineteen, you're a singing machine
Get out there and be seen, you're lean and clean,
You're barely nineteen, you're a singing machine
Get out there and be seen, you're lean and clean,
You're barely nineteen, you're a singing machine
Get out there and be seen, you're lean and clean,
You're barely nineteen, you're a singing machine
Get out there and be seen, you're lean and clean,
You're barely nineteen, you're a singing machine.

It doesn't matter what you look like, doesn't matter what you sound like
Doesn't matter if they like you, just remember to be kind.
And tell someone you miss them, tell someone you need them
Tell someone you wish you could be with them all the time

Sounds silly but it's not a game, making music makes me sane
I sing away my pain and everything turns out okay
And I’m not talking fame and glory, 'cause that's a different story
This story is about how truth and love can save the day

And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian"
And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian".
And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian"
And Bruno said what Anders said some producer said to young Lennon
"They can't all be ballads Julian".

"They can't all be ballads Julian.”

The Eighth Deadly Sin

 

I’m perfectly happy.

I’m enjoying the occasional windfalls like the gift of a bag of apples and some small gnarly looking potatoes for the great treasures that they are.

I’m loving the sunshine, the salmon pink hollyhock and the peacefulness of my house.

I ‘ve just enjoyed home made carrot and coriander soup. (I even grew the coriander myself from seed. Oh, it was organic seed too. From Duchy seeds.)

I’ve a few cherry tomatoes ripening outside.

All is well.

I am at peace with the world.

Except there’s one tiny little thing that’s troubling me…

I’m worried about being smug.

Worse than that I’m worried that my smiles of delight will be taken for looks of smugness.

Oh hang it!

I can’t help it!

I shall embrace this eighth deadly sin.

Today I am merrily, deliciously smug!

 

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Astral Projection

 

There was a saying my grandparents were fond of, “See a penny and pick it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.”

I wasn’t sure if this applied to really dirty pennies but I did pick one up and slipped it into my bag.

With the economy drive I seem to have embarked upon I was walking to the huge big Tesco store almost three miles away. I intended to exchange my remaining Polish bank notes for ones that I could actually spend.

I intended to make just one purchase; a tub of Astral moisturising cream.

I had run out of it, and as it was something my skin had become addicted to, this constituted a crisis. I had to get some.

I’d been introduced to the stuff by Karen on Kibbutz Yiron. She swore it kept her wrinkle free. Being a mere twenty-one years of age at the time, or something close to that, I was easily impressed. And she obviously had no wrinkles and was really old; I mean really, really old I thought that if it works for her it might work for me. Karen was twenty-seven…ancient.

So I exchanged the Polish notes with no difficulty in the Tesco store in the post office there and then I set about trying to find Astral Cream. I even asked somebody for help. She kindly took me back to where I’d been earlier looking and then pointed out an empty plastic container on the very bottom shelf. They were out of stock.

Undaunted, I walked back towards home via Morrisons.

In Morrisons I ask first one person who then put me onto somebody else.

It seems Morrisons are no longer selling Astral Moisturising Cream .

“There’s no demand for it,” I’m told. They stopped selling it, “three months ago.”

I walk on towards home, there is a chemist on the way. They sell tiny tubs of the stuff at exorbitant prices. I shall have to go in there.

I’m musing about the so called ‘good luck’ that my penny is bringing me as I trudge along. It might have been better had I left it on the ground.

After a journey of nearly six miles I enter the chemist shop. And begin my search.

They do have the cream on the shelf.

They even have a special offer on it.

And it’s cheaper than ever it was before.

Delighted I buy three tubs.

By the time they run out I will be ancient and my skin will resemble crocodile hide so it not longer matter much if there is none available in the future.

I drop the change into my bag and it jingles with the lucky penny as I walk home.

Chinese Rose Tea

 

I’m on an economy drive and have just run out of tea.

For a tea drinker like me this is terrible.

I am trying to use up what is in my cupboard. What is left at the bottom of my tea caddy is not very nice. It is a spicy concoction which makes me grimace.

Even more unpleasant is what lies in my cupboard. Here are the gifts of tea, herbal infusions and the like. There is one box right at the very back of the cupboard on the top shelf. You have to stand on the shoulders of a giant to reach it. I do so and bring the pretty box down to eye level.

The wording is in Chinese. One of the ex-teenager’s friends bought it for his Chinese mother. She declared that she did not like it and so this mysterious box was somehow passed to me, and it has remained at the back of the cupboard ever since.

But now desperation forces me to try it.

The instructions are written in Chinese, but I assume that the method of brewing tea to be universal and known to all known civilisations, except for those living in North America.

I opened the box and discover a plump sachet inside. I open the sachet. There is something curled up and brown inside. It looks like a desiccated foetus. I prise it out gingerly. It does not look like tea at all. I drop it into the pot and pour boiling water over it. Then I leave it for a minute or too.

When I eventually pour it out something akin to urine fills my cup. I try it. It is tasteless, perhaps there is a hint of rose petals as suggested by the label on the packaging, but it is not tea.

Disappointed I pour the rest of the brew into the sink.

Then I look and shiver.

In the sink are blanched alien things. They look like mini starfish with octopus tentacles, that are spread out and open, and half the size of my hand. I’m guessing this was the ‘rose’ flower. But it’s the creepiest thing I’ve ever seen in the sink. Sort of slimy yellowy-green and transparent.

It makes me shiver…or perhaps that’s the withdrawal symptoms from the hard stuff: proper tea.

The Sounds left in the Air

 

It is appalling to be in a place and not to see it.

I’ve been reflecting on my visit to Schindler’s Enamelware Factory in Krakow.

On the way back to the Qubus Hotel I had stepped over old railway lines overgrown with weeds vaguely wondering where they once went.

I’d then crossed the main road laced with tram tracks and found myself in a square. It was an empty place and I wondered at its large size and whether or not it was still used for markets. It was surrounded by run down buildings and a few businesses which did not appear to be thriving.

I knew where I was, and yet at the same time I did not know where I was.

I noticed an odd statue of a chair, and others beyond it; But I dismissed it as an oddity, some modern temporary art installation perhaps. And by the time I’d reached the hotel I’d forgotten this chair entirely.

Last night I watched again Schindler’s List.And saw again the Enamelware Factory, the railway lines and this square.

Equally chilling was the view at night of the ghetto in the film, with flashes of light as it was cleared with machine guns. Was this the same view I’d had from my window in the Qubus Hotel? The view I had thought of as ugly, and had thought little of at the time. How I now wish I had really looked.

Sometimes we can see things without seeing.

When I saw the bronze chair in the square I did not realise its significance. Now I understand that it was meant to represent the furniture of the Kraków Jews that  they carried there following their forced removal from Kraków. This square was in the ghetto.

I’ve since learnt that the square is now called Plac Bohaterow Getta, once known as Plac Zgody Square.

Unknowing I had walked hurriedly across a place where so many murders were committed and transport selections made.

Sometimes we walk and can not feel the ground beneath our feet, or hear the sounds left in the air.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Plac_Bohaterow_Getta_Krak%C3%B3w.jpg

 

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A Memory Was All She Ever Was

 

She’s gone.

I didn’t know until her daughter and son in law knocked on the door. I invite them in. They’ve never been in my home before and  sit uncomfortably on my settee making me embarrassed about its shabbiness.

My neighbour, a woman in her seventies, has been taken into a nursing home. They’re not certain that she’ll be able to come back home. She has a mysterious rash and terrible pain in her back. No one seems to know the cause.

I bubble, saying too much, saying too little, not knowing what to say.

It is only after they’ve gone that I realise that she probably will not return. It is only today that I realise that my neighbour’s daughter has already begun to reassess where her mother should be and that back home is probably out of the question.

The other daughter is taking the tortoise today. It was her childhood pet which she’s now going to reclaim.

The blinds are closed in the kitchen and bathroom windows. I used to look to see if they were open, felt oddly comforted when the lights were on.

I feel I haven’t done enough. I remember how when last cutting the grass my neighbour had stopped and then sat on the wall. Spotting this, I’d finished the job for her.

I’d planted pink geraniums in her garden, and I’d recently cut down her two nitida bushes. I’d given her some of my home made soup and shop bought bread to try. I’d looked after her tortoise. I’d given her hot buttered crumpets when she complained about hearing a didgeridoo that kept her awake at night. And I’d chat with her over the wall if ever the sun was out.

It seems like neglect on my part that I didn’t know about her most recent suffering, and that she’d gone away on Monday and I didn’t know until Friday.

The house next door now feels terribly empty.

I don’t think her daughters will let her return, for one is kindly, and the other a practical business woman; a deadly combination.

And now it seems that my neighbour’s life has been concertinaed into this single moment, as if a memory was all she ever was.

 

.

Was this the Satellite?

 

It’s 22:20 and I’ve just witnessed one red glowing light travelling low which seemed to burn up which was then followed by three similar lights. One of which seemed to disappear and the others then were obscured by trees.

Before the first glowing light appeared a plane was heading towards them. The lights appeared to be on a lower altitude.

Was this the tumbling down to Earth satellite?

The Blog the Search Engines Can’t Find!

 

Hardly anyone visits this site so this post probably won’t be read for many, many years.

Even I can’t find my blog through search engines.

I typed ‘I believe in Dragons’ into Google’s search engine knowing that to be the title of one recent blog post. I then searched ‘blogs’ but there was no sign of my post, even when I added a date.

This site seems to be eluding the search engines.

Consequently, this blog is well under the radar, and visited by just a few like yourself who must have stumbled upon it by chance, and who will probably never find it again.

In the last month the stats say that people who found this place came from:

 

United Kingdom

226

United States

95

Philippines

8

Russia

7

Germany

5

Singapore

5

Ukraine

5

Latvia

4

Pakistan

3

France

2

Hello all, especially those in the Philippines, Russia, Germany, Singapore, Ukraine, Latvia, Pakistan and France. I was so surprised to find there were visitors from such countries.

And this is what you were reading…

Posts

Cue Camera Action! 18 Sep 2011 8 Pageviews

I Believe in Dragons! 17 Sep 2011 5 Pageviews

Point for Discussion 26 Aug 2011 5 Pageviews

Thank You for Visiting! 13 Sep 2011 4 Pageviews

Back to the Nursery 16 Sep 2011 4 Pageviews

Voices from the Universe 22 Sep 2011 3 Pageviews

Shut Your Row! 19 Sep 2011 3 Pageviews

Dog Sitting 21 Jul 2007 2 Pageviews

Hello…Hello 6 May 2011 2 Pageviews

The Gardener’s Chanel 21 Sep 2011 2 Pageviews

 

Thank you for visiting… tis music to the soul!

Waiting for Pandora Radio to Return

 

Dear Pandora Visitor,

We are deeply, deeply sorry to say that due to licensing constraints, we can no longer allow access to Pandora for listeners located outside of the U.S. We will continue to work diligently to realize the vision of a truly global Pandora, but for the time being we are required to restrict its use. We are very sad to have to do this, but there is no other alternative.

We believe that you are in United Kingdom….

 

 

This happened long ago and this site still can not be accessed from the UK. This was grievous for me as I love music.

When I was able to access Pandora I  discovered  music I liked. More than that I was introduced to bands that I’d never heard of before.

And then.

Guess what then happened!

I bought the music!

Yes, I bought the music I really, really liked!

I bought hundreds!

So I was supporting the music industry.

My music buying habit was stultified instantly once this Internet radio station closed its door to the UK.

I tried other stations but they were just not as easy to use and were simply not on my wavelength.

So obviously I can’t access Pandora. And if I could then I would protest loudly against any new design should they have adopted one… should I be able to see it.

I loved the old format, the design, the colours, the style, the ease of use. I loved it. Loved it!

I loved the pale blues…so should a new patterned format with circles in a dark blue background enshrouding the music information bar be used, then I would say no! The original was better. Much better. Please give me back the original instead.

I hate such updates!

I would protest loudly if I had experienced …(but being in deepest darkest England how could I possibly know of this?)… adverts that blare over a track even as it is being played.

I would also decry any sudden expansion of adverts, perhaps for ‘I’m guessing, ‘Charlies’ Angels’ suddenly exploding forwards and taking over the whole screen, especially when the music is playing beneath it.

I would protest most strongly … should I have witnessed any such thing.

They wouldn’t tamper with the lovely Pandora format, would they?

That delightful interface we love so well and which so many are patiently waiting to see again.

My dream is that one day Pandora will be open world-wide once again and the interface we loved will be back looking just as it did before.

But being in England how am I to know of such things?

Must just be something passing in the air, some nightmare, made visible by some aberration.

It will come back, won’t it? Pandora Radio. Looking just as it did before.

And soon please. Soon.

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Voices from the Universe

 

I am getting better at it: multitasking. A friend rings and I find I can listen to her and write several emails at the same time. I can talk to my parents and Skype to the ex-teenager at the same time. I can even retune the TV to the new digital settings and continue chatting to the ex-teenager on Skype.

Having done all this I want just a little time solely to myself. The plan had been to listen to The Archers and then to watch the programme about dinosaurs, but my friend had rung just as The Archers was starting and my TV needed retuning during The Dinosaurs so I ended up missing both.

Once all was quiet I idly flipped through the channels.

It seemed I now had 700. When only one really good one would have been enough for me.

I found a programme that looked interesting and settled back to watch it. It was nine o’clock and I was ready to be entertained.

Suddenly the phone rang I picked it up just as the music on the tele reached a particular scary sound.

It was from a woman I’d worked with many years ago and with whom I’d not spoken to for over twenty-five years. She was about to go on a theatre trip and had somehow been reminded of me. She was getting in touch with people who had been helpful to her in the past.

This set all my alarm bells ringing.

I switched off the computer and unplugged the television to give her my full attention.

Sometimes our wheels travel too close to the precipice.

She said she heard voices from the universe. That there were patterns. Connections.

Inwardly, I sighed for I do not believe in such things, seeing such synchronicity only as happenstance and coincidence; but I did not disillusion her.

She was picking over old wounds of which I knew nothing. I did not ask for the details, as I didn’t want to open these wounds afresh; and also as it was obvious that she had gone over these past problems in great detail with many others, over many, many years, before she’d picked up the phone to me.

It was a long call.

Towards the end of the call I said, “I’d like to be one of your voices from the universe.”

She stopped talking, and listened.

“Each time your brain signals an unhappy memory, try saying, “Thanks for that brain. You’ve reminded me about that before. And I don’t need to be reminded of it again. Thanks all the same. Is there anything more cheering you can remember instead?”

“Oh, she said. “So that this means that the wound has a chance to heal and that you no longer pick at the scab.”

“Yes,” I said. “It’s just a suggestion, but it works for me.”

 

Who knows if these words were of any help, but I felt she was now driving towards safer ground.

All I really knew was that towards the end of the call I was multitasking once again, and had somehow clambered into my pyjamas.

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The Gardener’s Chanel

 

My shoulder hurts.

It’s my own fault.

Some months ago I was sat with a group of people in a nearby house. The conversation turned onto the subject of the house owner’s garden as she kindly made us all some tea.

I hadn’t seen her back garden but guessed it was something similar to the front garden. This had been covered with a black fabric looking sheet and then pegged down.

“We could dig over the back garden and grow vegetables,” the sparkly lady said.

“Oh that’s a good idea,” the jigsaw enthusiast replied.

A mouth watering discussion about vegetables followed, and I envisaged runner beans growing on canes, stately rows of fat onions, and tall rows of leeks standing smartly to attention.

“Are you interested?” the sparkly lady asked me.

I was. It sounded like a great plan and also a ‘thank you’ for the woman who lent us the use of her house every week for us to gather.

Around me there were other voices of agreement.

“What’s going on?” the owner lady asked as she handed out the mugs of tea.

The sparkly lady announced the peaceful military coup that was to take place.

“Oh,” said the owner lady. Gardening wasn’t her thing, and she wasn’t really interested.

“Obviously, since I have…” the sparkly lady reeled off a list of ailments that would prevent her from doing any actual digging of the garden… “So I can’t.”

It seemed that all the other voices who had sounded so enthusiastic had also wisely not committed themselves  either and that I was the only one to have actually have actually said, “Yes”.

“I understand you are going to do my garden,” the house owner said some time later.

My heart sank. It seemed I was the only one.

But I am a person of my word. If I say I’m going to do something then I do it.

I cheered myself up with a vision of raspberry canes and strawberries all bearing fruit.

“I don’t want vegetables,” she said. “I want low growing plants.”

“Oh!” I say.

“My garden once looked really lovely,” she said.

I love flowers, and so I smiled and ask her for a description of how it had once looked. I’m imagining neat lawns and beds of cascading colours.

“It was black,” she said. “All blank. It was just after the covers were put down.”

My heart sinks even deeper into my boots.

 

I went around to take a look at her garden. The black material which had now decayed was torn. Weeds had grown through this fabric and around it. They were high and obviously deep rooted.

Sparkly lady tells me she is actually free on the day that I’ve chosen to do some gardening, but she’s not sure she can make it. She will ring, but she doesn’t.

And so I begin alone.

The ground was harder than I imagined. And the day and time I’d chosen always turned out to be always the hottest of the week.

I would attempt to dig out the weeds for a couple of hours until I was thoroughly exhausted and demoralised; and I could see as I left that the house owner was also not overly impressed by the little I had managed to clear.

Eventually, I’d cleared one quadrant and planted ‘snow in summer’. Then I cleared out most of the next quadrant and planted campanula.

 

In August I was away, or had guests staying, and so could do no more.

I had suggested another blue plant for the third as yet uncleared quadrant. And the house owner ordered this plant which would be delivered in September.

This meant that this quadrant also needed to be cleared and soon.

The house owner helped a little, but despite the two of us digging for a whole morning we didn’t manage to clear it. Also distressing for me was seeing the return of weeds in the two quadrants I’d earlier cleared.

The snow in summer was losing its battle against dandelions and the invasive grass; and my heart sank even lower when I could see no sign of the campanula at all in the other quadrant.

I spent ten hours alone last week trying to clear this new quadrant and weeding the other two.

I was so pleased to have got these three quadrants done almost to my liking. It had been very hard unpaid work indeed.

 

My shoulder still hasn’t recovered.

Thankfully at the back of the bathroom cabinet was a tube of “Deep Heat” the balm that the miners in Yorkshire used after they’d bathed in front of fires in their tin baths.

It is wonderful stuff.

It somehow warms when it’s rubbed into the skin. It has a very strong smell which is not quite Chanel number 5. After using it I know I can’t go into anyone’s company.

With my aching back, my tender shoulder and this smell of ‘Deep Heat’ wafting around me, I was hunched like a troll as I opened the door after series of loud knocks.

“I’d like to treat you to a one day course, as a thank you for what you’ve done to my garden,” the house owner said.

I’m touched and grateful. I thank her and profess  it’s far too much, far too generous.

“Well, the fourth quadrant still needs to be done, you can owe me that,” she says.

My heart sinks.

It seems that somehow I am now in debt to her.

Bewildered, I hear the laughter from that first evening when the gardening idea was first mooted ringing hollowly in my ears.

I inhale deeply the gardener’s ‘Chanel’ and sigh.

 

.

 

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Shut Your Row!

 

Once long ago, I had a story accepted by a magazine.

Posting the ‘Yes, you can have my soul’ letter which gave the magazine the first rights to publish this story was one of the happiest days of my life. I still regard that post box into which this letter tumbled with particular affection and smile whenever I see it.

Reading my printed story in the magazine (many months after than when they said it would appear) was one of the saddest days.

I had at that time no idea that a magazine had particular guidelines about what it would print. Instead, I’d simply read the stories in that particular magazine, and had written one that I would prefer to read instead.

I had noticed how the words used in this magazine were rather simple. ‘Dumbed down’ I thought. I’d wanted to change that. And so my story was peppered through with erudite language which I hoped would set the reader reaching for their dictionary.

At that time, the stories in this magazine were somewhat gloomy, so I’d written something light and funny, along with an accompanying uplifting title: ‘A Good Night’s Sleep.’

I had no idea that a magazine makes such substantial revisions to a story. When printed my delightful title had been revised:

“Shut your Row!” I read.

All my complex vocabulary had also disappeared, and had been replaced by bland simple words.

The ending had also been changed.

And then, as if to make a point, even my name was misspelt.

It was no longer my story, and I felt ashamed of it, and hurt.

Magazines, it seems, imagine the mindset of their readership and then set their contents to wax in such a mould. The result is a house format which suppresses the different styles of contributing writers.

Suffocation of a writer’s natural flair is further ensured by guidelines that would be writers have to read avidly before writing their stories and submitting them.

So many topics are off limits. So many tones and styles are anathema. So many plot lines or devices are just not wanted. Adjectives, similes and metaphors are  trashed in favour of pared down, simply-worded sentences: the shorter the better.

Writing within such a strait jacket of rules is an art form in itself.

I recently learnt that only a quarter of one particular well known writer’s work is actually accepted by the magazines she writes for. And she’s written the “How to…” book on the subject.

Women’s magazines have now started to curtail their fiction slots. So the poor writers,  who are still dutifully adhering to the rules, have even fewer outlets for their work.

With the competiveness this creates, the lonely writer will inevitably hear the yowls of their cat sat on the mat when  rejected stories land on top of them.

I can’t help thinking that magazines have got their fiction slots wrong.

And the trend is now to remove fiction slots from magazines.

This must be because market research has indicated that fiction slots are no longer popular with their readership.

Now I why?

Could it be because women’s magazines have stifled creativity? Could it be because they have churned out bland stories in the house style format week after week? Is it that they have underestimated their readership?

I think this is indeed the case.

It is as if magazine fiction editors have treated their female readership as children.

I squirmed with dismay when I read my mutilated story.

And I squirm even more when I read what is printed today.

 

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Cue Camera Action!

 

So there is a satellite to hurtling to Earth

It will break up, they say. It will break up into smaller pieces.

It is likely to land anywhere between “57 degrees north and 57 degrees south of the equator”, sometime around the twenty-fourth of September, they say.

So I guess I won’t be the only one wearing a hard hat that day.

The chance of it landing on top of my hard hat, or yours, is just “1 in 3,200”, they say.

And only two hours before it lands will NASA be able to issue any more accurate predictions as to which particular hard hat or unshielded skull might need to raise a defensive umbrella.

With a motto of ‘Cowards Live Longer’ I should be gathering up kith and kin and dashing off to the island of Skye in Scotland, which has a latitude of 57 degrees 15’ just out of the danger zone.

There is after all plenty of time to do so, but I won’t.I’ve watched too many disaster films. I know that my role is to stay put and to ignore the geeky scientists just like the extras do in films.

Then when the two hour warning is given, my role is to go screaming into my car, before joining the honking gridlock of the M1 motorway.

Escape of course would be impossible.

For the safety of seagull encircled Skye is much further than two hours distance from here.

Only if the film’s hero jumps into my car with some sort of hand held tracking device, and then directs me away from the road and into the fields would I have any chance of survival.

But only if I can drive fast, soar over ditches and turn the wheel hard enough to miss the washing machine sized pieces thumping into the ground around me.

Chances of  a hero with such a tracking device jumping into my car… er zero.

Chances of meaty chunk of metal landing on top of my brainless skull even with its hard hat… er very high. 1 in 3200.

I’m not a lucky person.

If there were two pieces of paper in a bag, one that said ‘You’ve just won a million pounds’ and the other completely blank then my hapless fingers would inevitably curl around and the blank piece of paper.

If there is one mud puddle in a field  the size of England then I’m the one who would straight  into it.

So if there’s a satellite hurtling to Earth…

Oh hum!

Cue camera, action!

I Believe in Dragons!

 

I believe in dragons.

I always have. They had to have existed, for why else would they be spoken of to children who are barely out of nappies. And why does every child instinctively understand their shape and form as if  dragons are as simple to understand as breathing, but just like breathing their presence hadn’t been noticed before.

They had to be the remnants of ancient dinosaurs.

Which means that I believe dinosaurs and humans co-existed.

This was of course very bad news for the dinosaurs, especially for the ones that laid eggs. For we all know how keen humans are on eggs.

Just think how easy it would be to drive a creature to extinction simply by eating all their eggs!

It happened in New Zealand when the first tribes in that land (not many people)  hunted the moa to extinction. No doubt the bird’s demise was also hastened by clever observation of the its nesting habits and then the subsequent thieving of their eggs.

How much easier it would have been for more ancient peoples to dine upon dinosaur eggs rather than risk breaking their teeth on tough dinosaur hide.

Eat all the eggs, and all the dinosaurs in that region within a generation become extinct and the fire breathing menace is gone. Egg eating was probably the first effective pest control activity our ancestors ever used.

Dragon eggs no doubt were equally tasty.

You wouldn’t need a comet to collide with the earth, or even a volcanic winter to drive these great beasts towards their demise, just a few omelette loving humans armed with a frying pan would be enough.

So the next time you mention dragons to a child pause a moment, observe if they lick their lips. Then ask them exactly how they’d like their eggs.

 

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Back to the Nursery

 

Nursery workers are brilliant. They set up islands of activities in well lit areas. When you toddle in with your youngster you too want to reach for those paintbrushes and leave marks on those white sheets of paper. You too want to sink your hand into the coloured warm bubbly water and play with the boats, and you too can not help but start building towers with the bricks. And indeed when only the little ones are watching… you do!

It is all there ready and waiting and all the child has to do is to begin.

For adults, with their tidied away homes and everything in its place, we think about doing something creative perhaps when passing and glimpsing something on the way from the computer to the kitchen. But it’s a fleeting thought, for within minutes after the kettle’s boiled and the tea’s made, we then troop back the way we have come not deviating from our well trodden path across the carpet.

This happens to me. There are some pencil crayons I glimpse on a shelf beneath a desk. I see them as I go out to feed the fish in the pond. These pencil crayons were bought for the now ex-teenager for one of his school years long ago. He never used them. Twenty-four beautiful shades that each time I see I yearn to touch and use. But the thought is only fleeting. Within moments the fish are holding my attention and I’m trying to remember the names I gave to them; made difficult as they are changing from black to golden and the patches on their bodies keep changing. Then there are the last of the tadpoles the few that for some reason shrugged off the state of frogdom and opted to remain aquatic instead. Their tails are ragged and tinged with white and I wonder why these few lacked the switch to change their being and preferred to stay in the nursery. Perhaps we all should have remained in the nursery longer experimenting with colours and shapes and how things fit together just like these tadpoles. You can see from this just how quickly I forget the pencil crayons. And on the way back inside I don’t see them at all.

The other day I had a brainwave.

A very rare thing for me!

I set up areas downstairs in the house as if it was a nursery. Islands of things to do that might tempt me to stay and linger there awhile.

On one desk I’ve set up paper and the pencil crayons and also a picture of anemones that might inspire. On another there is a pen and a writing pad. By the keyboard I have the first few bars of “God” by John Lennon ready to try. On the coffee table I have placed a book and a book mark that I started to read and then though I glance at it on the shelf I still didn’t reach for it. At each of these places I have set the chairs at an angle as if inviting me to sit there awhile and try it for a moment. The coffee table is also on an angle inviting me towards the settee beyond where the cushions are plump and inviting.

And though these last two days I’ve been out and too busy to try these things I am lingering longer as I pass them by, and studying the picture as if to see exactly how I could draw it. And oh, it’s all so wonderful and tempting as if I’m back in the nursery and beginning again.

And I’m now thinking exactly how does the piano sound in “God”?

God

 

A Good Short Story Should be like: Fish and Chips!

 

Not being the brightest button in the box I know the fault is mine. But I do try to listen, and I do concentrate, and I do try to understand.

I’m talking about the BBC Short Story Competition that’s running this week.

I’m thinking they must be so fine these stories, so erudite, so well written that they will be like spun glass, or the finest wine or the most amazing orchestral symphony. That was what I was thinking as I waited in anticipation to hear them.

I’ve listened to three so far. I missed Tuesdays, so I don’t know if that one was any different to the rest.

I’ve already forgotten Monday’s story.

I can only remember Wednesday’s as it was on yesterday and it was about sugar beet. Though I can only remember that because I’m a dull thick button. I didn’t know what a sugar beet looked like, and instead of imagining a round turnip/swede-shaped thing when I listened to the story I imagined a stalk of sugar cane instead.

I only realised my mental image was all wrong when I listened to the interview with the author. I had taken the trouble to listen to this particular interview because of course being made of dull plastic I didn’t understand the story’s ending. I was hoping for some explanation, some hint that would allow a dawning revelation, but I didn’t get any. So I’m still as confused as ever about what actually happened at the end.

Thursday’s story was about an astronaut trying to readjust to daily rhythms back on Earth. And whatever finer points there were in that story passed me by completely.

I don’t understand these short stories.

The judges obviously think they are excellent like chilled sorbet, and simply delicious, but I find them bland, rather like blanched cabbage and over-boiled at that!

They end, and I think, okay… so what was the point of that?

I’m not enlightened, thrilled, amazed or moved. There is no imagery that inspires me, no plot that makes me smile, and no heart to these stories at all.

But then though, it’s probably just me. They are probably so brilliant that someone like me obviously wouldn’t be able to understand them at all. Couldn’t understand them.

And the tone of these stories is  so flat and empty like a wasteland. A wasteland populated by characters who don’t communicate with others properly and have loneliness written through them like a stick of Blackpool rock.

I guess I don’t get these stories in the same way I don’t get orchestral works or red wine. I guess I prefer candyfloss to spun glass because I’m just the wrong kind of button in the box.

This dull button would prefer a story that makes her say, ‘Wow!

Rather like when you eat really good fish and chips when you’re really, really hungry, and you can’t help but exclaim, “Wow! Delicious! Yum!”

That’s what a good short story should be like: Fish and chips!

Totally Inveigled in the Underworld

 

There is heavy banging coming from somewhere.

I vaguely wonder if it’s my neighbour needing help, but these thuds have more energy behind them.

It’s half-past seven.

I’ve been awake since five so I’m not being disturbed by the banging that continues.

I realise there must be someone banging on yappy dog’s door.

I wrap myself in my dressing gown and go downstairs.

I know I look a fright and that my hair is wild.

There is a policeman standing outside the house next door.

“Sorry love,” he says as if I’ve just arisen from the sleep of Alph. “Sorry to disturb you. Do you know if Rhys still lives here?”

I have occasionally seen a man living there in the rented house, but I didn’t know that his name was Rhys. I’ve also been away recently and I haven’t seen my neighbours in their garden, but with the remnants of hurricane Katia blowing through the trees wildly that’s hardly surprising.

“I don’t know,” I reply, suddenly conscious that someone might be listening to my words.

But for all I know they might have left last weekend, while I was away. The yappy dog certainly hasn’t been around.

The policeman looks at me as if he knew I would say, ‘I don’t know’. His look tell me that he thinks I’m obviously an old bag totally inveigled in the underworld who is protecting my neighbour. He looks at me as if he knew I’d be the type of person that wouldn’t co-operate with the police. He expected me not to know who my neighbours were. He expected no help and he didn’t get any.

“Sorry to disturb you,” he says dismissively and he gives up battering next door’s door.

And I’m left to ponder my answer. Did I tell him the truth? Was there anything else I could have said? At least I restored peace and quiet to the street.

Trains

 

My passengers had to get to Norwich.

There was a train that left from Sheffield Railway Station that went straight there and would have been ideal, but for two people the cost was close to £100.

I was travelling down into the East Midlands and by going down the Great North Road the A1 and then dropping them off at Peterborough there was a train that could take them to Norwich for only £20 for the two of them.

So we did that.

I heard today on the radio just a few moments ago that the train service in England is a rich man’s toy.

It is so true.

What a terrible shame.

What I found amusing as I checked the prices of these trains on the internet was how the trains with more stops and changes were more expensive than the train that went directly to Norwich Station. Seems the poor old passengers have to pay for the inconvenience of getting on and off trains and waiting on windy platforms.

Thank You for Visiting!

 

I had thought that as the blog counter slowly ticked up that people maybe just one or two were reading each update and keeping up with my tales from this darkest corner of England. What vanity! This is not the case at all. No one is reading my posts here. And this one is unlikely to be read I’m guessing for many years going by what I’ve just discovered.

A new tab now shows ‘stats’ in the back room of the blog, and from ‘stats’ I’ve discovered some remarkable facts.

It seems that my older posts from 2007 are the ones that most people are reading.

The most popular pages being:

The World's Worst Teacher 17 Jul 2007 123 Pageviews

Semi-centenarian 3 Mar 2007 103 Pageviews

Shaking Ambridge to The Core. 2 Jan 2011, 2 comments 87 Pageviews

Mud Hounds and Worms 6 Mar 2007 51 Pageviews

Sorry I Missed Your Call 17 Feb 2009, 2 comments 45 Pageviews

Another surprise was that people in Russia were so interested in the blog. Though the word ‘interested’ is taking a bit of licence with a blog that gets so few hits.

United Kingdom 1,184 United States 807 Russia 78 Germany 57 India 45 Canada 29 France 26 United Arab Emirates 24 Ukraine 20 Japan 18

So hello all where ever you are, and thank you for visiting.

Gift of a Thistle

 

Gift of a Rose

 

There is a small village in Norfolk where some of our ancestors once lived many years ago.

We pulled off the main road to visit it. A man was cutting the triangle of grass in front of the church.

I had never been inside the church but coming towards us was a woman with flowers who seemed to be holding a key.

“The church is never locked,” she told me.

It seemed there was a knack to opening the door, which had defeated us on the last two occasions we’d visited.

It was odd to find myself in a small white washed church where once my ancestors were baptised, married and buried. Odd to think that they too would have studied the carvings on the font, or wondered at the lopsided features of the altar as they sat in the pews. Odd to think that they may too have worked their needles to design the patterns on the kneelers.

The woman standing at the font was rearranging the flowers. She had sprays from a small pink floribunda rose.

“Smell that,” she said.

I did.

The scent was faint and delicate.

“Beautiful,” I said.

I told her why we were there. That we were descendents of people who had once lived in that village. We later established that both she and my son shared a grandmother with the same surname as she readjusted the flower display, and I wished she would also replace the wilting greenery.

“Would you like a cutting of this rose?” she asked.

“Yes please,” I replied.

She took me back towards her house.

I had been told earlier before we arrived that day, that the original houses when my ancestors lived had long since been pulled down and that new buildings had taken their place.

I asked her about a road with Kiln in the name, for that had been the road where they’d lived.

She didn’t know of it. But she asked the man cutting the grass who said that there had been a brick kiln down that road. It turned out that he was pointing towards this woman’s road.

So I’m pretty sure that I later found myself standing in the garden that my ancestors had once stood in long ago even though the original name of the road had been lost and forgotten.

She then gave me a cutting of a rose that was growing there.

I felt I was under an enchantment.

Nearby was a tumulus called Peace Hill. And I wondered if there were older more ancient ancestors stirring there awhile to witness this gift of a rose.

What you can find on youtube when you can’t sleep!

 

Updates part Two

 

Just a few days after complaining about ‘updates’ I thought I would check to see if there were any comments on this blog.

I hadn’t checked for a while. It would only take a few seconds.

I signed in to discover only that I could not get any further at all.

I forget the exact words, something about ‘my browser’ and ‘not supported’ and ‘try Chrome’

Not being a techno person I had no idea what ‘Chrome’ was. Something shiny and cheap and to do with plumbing came to mind, but before I could gather my scattered wits my Internet connection stopped working.

It seemed after trying again and again to access the backroom of the blog that it all been ‘updated’ which is a euphemism for ‘it doesn’t work any more’.

For some reason the Google blog would only work in conjunction with a Google browser… funny that!

So heigh ho! I download ‘Chrome’ so I can get into the back room.

By then I’d forgotten why I’d wanted to go in there anyway, as so many minutes had passed.

Then I remembered, comments.

I check.

An hour has gone by.

There were no comments.

I feel uneasy though about certain websites only being accessible if you have their own particular shiny browser, if that is what ‘Chrome’ is.

A friend was telling me how she had tried to update her blog and mentioned Safari and something else. The something else she had forgotten doesn’t like to work with her Mac computer. A simple uploads task that should have taken just a click took her instead the entire morning as she struggled to get various interfaces (if that’s what they were) to relate to each other.

It seems such a shame that there are such in built barriers, and it’s made worse when your old way of doing something has been suddenly blocked by new barriers.

“Do you want to go back to the old format one backroom message prompts?”

Yes, yes, yes!

 

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Taps

 

Not many people wax lyrical about their kitchen tap, so I’d like to sing the virtues of mine.

When the original was fitted some years ago, water pooled around it. Being short-sighted and therefore less observant than the average person I did not realise that my brand new tap had several tiny holes along its horizontal brass top. These holes sprayed water into the air like mini fountains whenever I turned the tap on.

It took five years before I realised.

I quite like quirky things, so I rather enjoyed this mini fountain display. Then when the tap started to drip. I coped with that too. A sponge strategically placed, and the tin drumming sound was instantly muffled.

I used to attach the hose pipe to the kitchen tap in order to water the garden. This worked fine for many years, until one day when after watering the garden I came back inside to discover that water was dripping down the kitchen windows. The mini fountains had become larger and were now spraying water high into the room.

So the next idea was cling film.

I wondered why I hadn’t thought of that before. But somehow the cling film idea didn’t quite work. Water seeped into it making it bulge like a rather heavy soggy nappy.

Still for a while it served.

Then while I was out of the country something inside the taps gave up completely. Water would only drizzle if you were lucky, and if you waited awhile. And the clunking sound (which I’d forgotten to mention as over the years had become so familiar and was hardly noticed) became louder.

Squinting closer at the tap I realised that tiny stalactites had formed where the water had leaked out from the cling film, and below them was a soggy mess.

So now there is a bright new tap in the kitchen.

After the new plumber fitted it it worked perfectly, but as soon as he had gone it began to play up.

Turn the water off and the flow stops instantly. Take four steps away, and there’s a  sudden dribble of splattering water.

“Is it supposed to do that?” the ex-teenager asked.

“Dunno,” I replied.

But secretly I was pleased.

Seems this new tap has character too!

I hate the small yappy dog next door.

 

I hate the small yappy dog next door.

Except it isn’t next door. It’s in my garden.

I bang on the bathroom window.

The small yappy dog looks up at me. It can see I’m furious. It can see the steam coming out of my ears. It’s been barking incessantly at the birds in the tree, and driving me mad, but now it knows it’s being watched.

So what does it do?

Does it beat a hasty retreat?

Does it panic and jump back over the wall.

Heck no.

Instead it simply cocks its leg and wees all over my most prized Aquileia, the pale cream one, before trotting off calmly back home.

I hate that dog.

A little later I have to buy fish food. The fish are starving.

While I was away the house sitters who were responsible for feeding the fish left the fish food containeron the bench. Of course within the hour the ‘orrible small yappy dog had mangled the box, worrying it until its contents spilt and then ate the lot.

Oh, how I hate that small yappy dog.

I hope it grows fins!

An Update

 

I want an end to “Updates”.

There I am happy in my little computer bubble, oblivious of the magic that makes it all work, happily using just the few bits that I like and understand.

I am perfectly content.

I am happy.

There was a song I’d come across. I just wanted to know when it was written and if the version I’d heard was the original version.

The title was “Let’s Go Dancing” and the band, Drivin’ N’ Cryin’.

I got nowhere on the Internet. Then I thought I’d go and have a look at the iTunes music store and see if I could find the same track and the year it was written.

(I have recently played music on my iTunes player on my PC, but I’ve not had cause to buy new any music for ages since the Internet Radio Station Pandora closed its doors to the UK.)

I clicked on the iStore link to be told I needed a new update to access the iTunes iStore.

I clicked on the link.

Again and again.

I went to the support pages which take an age to update and then show videos on how to download iTunes for the first time… but I didn’t want to do that. I’ve been directed here to get an update and have been left in a sort of no man’s land which does not explain anything about updates.

I try again.

I shut down my computer and restart.

Minutes pass. I still can’t access the iTunes iStore.

I begin again.

Something finally begins to download. I blindly agree to everything, and a status bar tells me its status. It’s looking hopeful.

Then it tells me something is now wrong with QuickTime. The status bar now tells me its  unravelling all that it has just done. And now I’m panicking. Will all my precious music be lost? Already my iTunes short cut icon has vanished.

Terrified, I wait twenty minutes while the install tells me its removing even more files.

Then the computer restarts.

My iTunes short cut icon is still not there. I manage to get iTunes to load up but it looks all wrong. I spend an age amending the view back to the way it was. I then have to send off again for the album art work. Apparently, iTunes can’t find the artwork for 8 tracks. A report has been sent, it says. This makes me feel anxious, even though these are tracks that I have uploaded from discs that I own; but I now feel that iBrother is looking over my iShoulder.

Then I try the iStore. I do get in but the search facility pings and will not allow me to type in my search.

So I close iTunes and start again.

I do eventually find the song, but no date is listed.

So I’ve just spent two hours on this wild goose chase and have wrecked so much to end up with not so much as a feather. All because someone somewhere decided that something somewhere had to be ‘updated’.

The next time I’m asked ever to update anything the answer will be, “No, no no!”

So dear techie type can we please, please have ten years off from updates?

Can all you bright young things who think of these things put all iIdeas on iHold?

Hang on, let me update that….

…can all updates be put on hold? PLEASE!

Thanks!

 

 

Drivin' & Cryin' -- Let's go dancing

Well, the hobo's watch stopped at five o'clock, I fear I'll never find him
Oh Dear John, where are you? I know you're out there somewhere
Well I've got a hurricane in my pocket, but no one will believe me
They poured a bucket of tar on top of a flower, somehow I knew they'd try it
To find it, and defy it, and to buy it
Oh, let's go dancing
Ooh, Let's go dancing
Said the firefly to the hurricane
Said the pouring rain to the open plain
How many times?
Oh, I stopped a freight train with a grain of sand, can you hear it crashing?
I split a mountain in two with a flake of snow, still they won't believe me
Well the tales were tall the stories were old, yet some reason I believed them
I said what do you know about revolution? When all I's taught is patience
And waiting, and making a statement
Oh, let's go dancing
Ooh, Let's go dancing
Said the firefly to the hurricane
Said the falling rain to the open plain
How many times?
Oh, let's go dancing
Ooh, Let's go dancing
Ooh, Let's go dancing
Ooh, Let's go dancing
How many times?

 

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