one crying eye

Two funerals and a christening

Possibly not such a catchy title as Mr Curtis’ Four Weddings… but the content may be similarly sweary in places. Sorry.

*One of several recent local church venues – Christ Church, Esher*

I currently appear to be in the singing phase of my life. Sadly, I also find myself in the early stages of the funeral phase. I’m leaning in, perhaps too much at times, to the former and trying to reconcile myself to the latter.

These two worlds collide from time to time. In August, I was part of a sub-group of Twickenham Choral requested to provide a musical interlude at the funeral of a choir-member’s husband. This involved refreshing my memory of a rather lovely section from Brahms’ German Reqiuem and a quick run-through on the day at a church on Twickenham Green with our former Conductor. I also taught myself the Tenor part for the three hymns, so as to be able to add depth and tenorial welly. We gave a pretty decent performance as part of what turned out to be an appropriately moving, but also entertaining, service for a man who had clearly not spent his whole life just sitting on the sofa. I had never met him, and only know his widow by sight at choir, but the various eulogies and stories brought him to ‘life’ brilliantly (not literally – oh, sorry) and the whole event passed off more than satisfactorily – if such an impersonal description is permitted for such an emotionally charged event.

Sadly, I DID know the man in the coffin at last Friday’s funeral in Barnes. Here, I was merely a member of the congregation, there being no choir for this one. Nevertheless, I determined to give the hymns my all, lurching between the soprano line and the bass depending how the mood took me. I find that focusing on the singing can detract from the potential for weeping – especially when I am not part of the core family and friends contingent and might feel vaguely fraudulent if convulsed in copious tears. (As the title of this blog will remind you, I do have a tendency to weep from one eye anyway, so I am well-practised at surreptitious cheek-wiping.) On this occasion, there was little overt wailing or sobbing – if anyone indulged, it would have been at the private committal afterwards – and the music for departure was the jaunty theme tune to University Challenge, as a nod to Richard’s participation in said event alongside Stanley Johnson in the early nineteen sixties (where he apparently exclaimed ‘f***’ on air – I didn’t meet him until the mid-eighties, but this story has never surprised me).

The congregation then mostly repaired to a nearby hostelry for the wake which, as the departed was a long-standing rowing club member, was loud, merry, convivial and ultimately exactly what he would have wanted. No more singing was required – at least not by the time I left to stagger to the train station.

And so to the third event, and yet another unfamiliar local church, this time in Esher. Not a funeral this time, hurrah! And this one has a bit of a story. Sometimes these things write themselves. Here goes.

July – I am asked will I help boost the local church choir in the autumn for the Christening of H’s first grandchild. I am, of course, only too pleased to help. I put it in my diary and think no more of it until early September, by which time H is otherwise occupied with sad and traumatic family problems and I rather think there will be a postponement.

Mid-September – a fellow singer confirms that the christening is not postponed, and points out that we have been sent the anthem on WhatsApp. I print it, colour in my Tenor line, practice a bit along with good old Spotify, and decide it is a rather lovely piece and perfectly learnable. I learn it, mostly. It has a couple of rather showy tenor moments – I will enjoy this.

Friday – on returning from the Barnes funeral I receive a reply to my request for details of the hymns for the Christening (so I can take an advance peak at the tenor line – I know, I am a dreadful swot), enclosing three hymn titles and a whole psalm setting! Two of the three hymns are not in either of my thick old hymnals and the psalm setting is by H’s former husband and not on Spotify. Sigh. She has at least sent me the manuscript, so I’m straight up to the printer.

Saturday – the anthem is still lovely and is almost learned. The hymn I can find in my hymn book is fine. I write out the tenor part with each set of words for the three verses which will make it easier than using a hymn book. The other two hymns I ignore. I can’t practise them if I don’t know how they go, and there will be a congregation singing anyway. I decide they are not important. The psalm – number 23 – has me at the piano checking the notes as I warble my way through a bit of sight-singing. Not too hard, I think. I mark up the tricky bits in code so I will remember what NOT to do (possibly) – and in fact I sing it through before I go to bed and miraculously wake up with most of it in my head in the morning. All will be fine. I will not disgrace myself as a boost to their Tenor line.

Sunday – for some reason I get up at 6.15am. It is still dark. I am mad. I miscalculated last night and am an hour earlier than I really need for waking, caffeinating, practising and driving to Esher.

Normal morning o’clock on Sunday. I arrive at the church in Esher and meet with the two ‘extra’ members of the choir who are ‘boosting’ today. Only two? A bass and an alto. Ah well, I joke, I’m sure there will be at least a couple of tenors in the choir.

We are kitted out in cassocks. I am ridiculously excited because both my offspring wore cassocks when they were choristers and this is another box I can now tick on the life-experiences list, even if the sleeves (are they sleeves?) hang down to my knees and the hooks and eyes up the front are almost impossibly fiddly.

*Aww – offspring in the brief period when they were both choristers*

Someone hands out copies of the order of service and printed copies of the hymns. The ‘missing’ hymns are, in fact, familiar to me and I will be able to sing the tune at least.

Someone else hands out copies of the Gloria – oh yes, we need to sing a setting of the mass. Hahahahhaa I think. Will have to mime that and let the resident tenors take the strain. I wonder when they will arrive?

I instal myself next to the basses and smile to myself at being in the back row of church choir stalls. Having been refused entry to my childhood church choir (on the grounds I was a girl) I can finally stick two fingers up to the authorities. They even let us into the lower voices now – nah-nah-na-nah-nah!

The choir-master arrives and tells me the tenors should be on the other side. I look across and see no men at all on that side, but gamely traipse across in my oversized cassock, with my handbag, cardigan, music, order of service, psalm, hymn-sheets etc. Presumably the tenors are all female here – well, that’s excellent.

Hmm. The ladies in the back row are sopranos. As are the ladies in the front row.

Rehearsal begins. The awful reality dawns. I am the ONLY TENOR. F***itty f***! I can’t do this! I’ve never sung a standard church service before. I can’t cope with all these bits of paper. I’ll either not be heard, or forget where I am and sing the wrong bit, or, or, or…

Get a grip! There is, at this point, no choice but to plough on. I am already thinking that the redeeming feature will be a blog-post. Some consolation.

In fact, having acquitted myself reasonably in the psalm rehearsal, we begin the anthem and my heart is beating so hard that I can hear it in the notes I’m producing. This is awful. But I must press on. In several places the tenors (the TENOR singular!) have an exposed and important moving note when the rest of the choir are sustaining. I’m sure I sound like a strangulated seal – or worse, a strangulated seal whose heart is beating out of its chest. Two-thirds of the way through, a young man arrives and my relief must be palpable as he sits himself beside me. And proceeds to join in on completely different notes, right through to the end. We go over a tricky part again, and once again, he is not singing what I am singing, or indeed anything very tuneful at all.

In the brief time between rehearsal and service, I introduce myself to this young man and we bemoan the lack of time to sing together in preparation. I gently ask if he is aware he was singing a third down from what I was singing (my guess). He agrees – and I feel this will surely resolve itself. It’s always difficult to pick up part way through a rehearsal.

We manage two of the hymns, the psalm (where the young man sings at least half of the notes, not unpleasantly) and the Gloria etc tolerably well as this seems to be required only in unison and we can both do that admirably.

At this point, I am so thankful for being a swot and for having actually learned most of this music in advance, that I end up taking communion. I’m a teeny bit ashamed, as I follow the sopranos towards the vicar, that I may have made this choice because a slug of red wine might aid my tired vocal chords (not that I drink! see previous blogpost!) and perhaps calm me sufficiently for the successful completion of those glorious tenor notes in the anthem to come, but decide that no, it is because I am swept up by the religious occasion – and also it’s easier to do what the others around me are doing. I am then only slightly disappointed that in these post-Covid days apparently they don’t offer the wine to be drunk from the chalice, but simply dunk each Communion wafer into the wine before handing it over. Who knew? Not so good for the old vocal chords after all.

And then to the anthem. I promise you, I try to get the young man to sing the same notes as me. I turn and sing at him several times in the first verse, but I need to face towards the congregation or they will simply hear his ‘wrong’ notes or nothing at all. All to no avail. I resolve instead to do my damnedest to out-sing him and hit all the notes perfectly – and loudly – myself. I have no idea if this will be acceptable. I have little alternative. The conductor does not appear to be scowling at me. We reach the end and the tenors have the final say – we both move to an F sharp* to resolve the final chord at approximately the same time and roughly when the conductor probably hoped, and eliciting a gentle acknowledging smile from him as we all wait to be seated for the prayers.

I sit. ‘F*** me!’ I hope I do not say audibly. And immediately am again ashamed to even think such a thing with remnants of holy wafer – and (tiny) traces of holy wine – in my unholy gob.

The final hymn. I belt out the tenor part I learned and enjoy the harmonies. In the final verse, we are all to sing the tune whilst the sopranos embark on a tricky descant. In a fit of madness, I decide to sing ‘up’ in women’s voice territory – and boy, do I belt it out! The relief that this is the last musical item is so great that I reach the giddy heights of a soprano top E not once, but twice – thus boosting my friends the altos who are doing a fabulous job as it is, and almost certainly do not need a boost of any sort from anyone, least of all a demented tenor-lady.

I mingle with friends and the christening party. We all agree the baby is an absolute star – she looks properly cute in an old-fashioned and not Instagrammy way, she is wearing what looks like a family christening gown, she slept right up until the main font action and then smiled and gurgled happily for the rest of the proceedings.

And then back to the car where I change out of my heels, laugh myself silly for a short spell, spend five minutes trying to unlock the crook-lock which I have apparently affixed incorrectly in my panic before the service (not laughing now are you, you silly woman!), and drive home to bore Mr J with the morning’s antics before disappearing upstairs to start practising the next set of rather different musical challenges for a performance later this week.

And Mr J retreats, wisely, to the garden.

*The young man came and thanked me afterwards for helping him along, which was nice. “We got that F sharp,” he proudly said. I am equally proud to say that I smiled sweetly, nodded and wished him a good day.

That drink problem

“I don’t drink.”

“Yeah, you said that last time. That isn’t strictly accurate is it?”

“Well, ok, on a scale with the rest of you, I’m definitely at the ‘not drinking’ end. Practically OFF the scale at that end, in fact…”

Grudgingly, good-humouredly – “True.”

I am now nearly four weeks ‘clean’, following the booziest week of my year, on choir tour in Italy. I can almost walk in a straight line again! The Italian week followed the usual pattern –

*Probably just one evening’s empties destined for the recycling*

Day 1 – have a polite glass of rosato at dinner whilst catching up with everyone

Day 2 – have a pint or two of water whilst hoovering up as many crostini as possible before sitting down to eat. It is, after all, still 30 degrees and my body hasn’t quite caught up. Indulge in a polite glass of rosato at dinner – and another, and possibly a small one more

Day 3 – sensibly decline an invitation to an informal wine-tasting, but am persuaded to go along for the social side, and inevitably sample most of the wines on offer. The sommelier is completely understanding of my predicament and gives me the tiniest drop each time (bless him – he has limited supplies tonight). I make up for it by indulging in a rather lovely medley of whatever is offered to me during the marathon that is annual pizza night.

*The sort of novelty wine generally only shared on the WhatsApp group*

Day 4 – after a stonkingly good concert, and ample sensible hydration in the car on the way back to the villa, I allow myself to join the others in a celebratory pre-prandial rosato or two and at the meal I find myself testing a couple of local whites. On declaring that I am off to bed – it is, after all, 2am – I am delayed by agreeing to make coffee for a few people and before I know it, I am sitting back down in front of a slug of Limoncino (local Limoncello – lemon liqueur) which has to be finished before I can retire. Hmm, I thought I didn’t like that stuff…

Day 5 – I am sad and grumpy because today’s concert has gone, for me at least, much less well than yesterday’s. Nevertheless, we head to a Montepulciano bar which must have one of the best views in the world and I have no hesitation in ordering a large and rather full-bodied rosato (mainly, of course, so I can take a naff photo of it into the sunset). Back at the villa, I miserably revert to my acqua habit but use a large wine-glass which accidentally gets filled with vermentino later on

Day 6 – today is a rest day. As it is too hot even to sit around all day, I choose to take the train to Perugia for a quick look-around. Trains are air-conditioned – respite at last! By evening, and on return from Perugia, the heavens have opened and we have to take the week’s main wine-tasting event indoors. This is a sign-up event for which those who partake pay a supplement, so that we can be treated to one or two properly expensive bottles among the range on offer. I would be mad to turn this down. I am not mad (just a bit grumpy and unhinged) so I steel myself and it proves completely worth while. I somehow avoid making any truly ridiculous comments. “I’m getting biscuit tones.” “A bit damp on the nose there”

Day 7 – our last full day begins with a fevered dash to the Duomo to sing Mass, and I congratulate myself for being one of the very few performers without a hangover. By evening, normal service has resumed across our entire team and of course we need to finish our supplies. There is, in fact, a shortage of white wine and no rosato at all, but I rediscover the delights of dessert wine and in anticipation of performing my ridiculous end-of-tour song may be observed with two full glasses lined up to allow a proper comparison between the cheap one and the more expensive ‘classic’. I am suitably emboldened by the vino and rise to my only-slightly unsteady feet to let rip with Funiculi Funicula and O Sole Mio as you have never heard them before – including a ludicrous finale of high Tenor notes! Of course, these songs come with my own words, and the quality of my writing is generally lower than last year I fear. There is, however, a gift of a piece from our concert repertoire this time which had just begged to be ripped off for comedic purposes and it does indeed hit the spot. Just a shame the composer’s son is sitting at the next table – perhaps this is why I needed quite so much dessert juice – although in fairness the words are taken from a famous saying by a rabbi from some 2000 years ago*, and thus it’s just my own interpretation… So, apart from the fact that I might somehow be cancelled for my mauling and caterwauling of an ancient Jewish text (this has only just occurred to me – and yet I continue to publicise here – perhaps I AM actually a bit mad), I seem to get away with it and there is an enormous laugh. I can see how comedians get their kicks.

Day 8 – the tour is ended. I retreat to a friend’s villa in the hills where it is cooler, the wine is proffered at a more civilised (still generous) rate, they have evening limoncello (as opposed to early-hours-of-the-morning limoncello) and they introduce me to Disaronno for which I immediately acquire a taste (oooh – roll on Christmas!).

As usual, in my tired and deranged post-villa state, I succumb to the lure of the Duty Free at Florence Airport and purchase (in addition to the unhealthy local sweet treats for Mr J as a sop for missing his birthday) one of those half-sized thin bottles of limoncello that all tourists buy, and a bottle of Vin Santo (a tipple to which I was introduced two years ago, into which I have been taught to dunk those hard almond biscuits – cantuccini) to lug across London in my already too-heavy luggage. Idiot!

I have lost count of the number of random bottles I have placed in our kitchen cupboards after overseas trips. In earlier days, these would have been consumed by the offspring when their friends came round, or maybe at Christmas if I’d hidden them better. But these days, no-one is going to drink them unless I remember to schedule them as courses or specific games-accompaniment at Christmas, or make a concerted effort myself in the meantime.

And here’s the thing. I have not had a drop of alcohol in the past four weeks. It just seems unnecessary. It is not part of my routine. If I have a drink, I add unnecessary calories without eliminating hunger. I have to drink coffee to stave off the headaches, but I otherwise stick to plain old tap water at home. When I go out, and others are drinking alcohol, I’ll probably join in, but quite often go for a lemonade instead.

I’d love a glass of limoncello now though. Or maybe this evening in front of the telly. Or both. Steady now…

*The piece in our concert was “He Used to Say” by Michael Zev Gordon. Ours was only the second public performance of it which was quite exciting in itself. The words are “He used to say ‘If I am not for me, who will be for me? But if I am only for myself, what am I?’ He used to say” (‘He’ is Hillel the Elder, a Rabbi from 2000 years ago and this is drawn from Sayings of the Fathers).

I think I’ve killed an owl…

Two years ago I was persuaded to begin lessons in Italian in preparation for my first trip to Italy. Friends suggested using the ‘fun’ App Duolingo. These friends were already using it and I thought it might be a good way of keeping the old grey cells active in a way that might actually be useful when travelling.

And so it was that I met Duo – the cheeky green cartoon owl whose lingo I was hoping to learn. There he was, bouncing around the screen on my iPad – cha-chinging merrily, flapping his little wings and blinking his huge eyes appealingly as I stormed my way through simple exercises. Oh how he praised me! He flattered me at my linguistic facility. He presented me with virtual gilded chests of shiny gems and awarded me mega-points. It felt so good.

For a while.

After that while, I began to get annoyed that I was learning how to ask for the ‘check’ (the BILL surely) or where to find the store (rather than the shop). And the Italian spelling of Philadelphia, rather than (eg) Slough. (I’d actually like to know how the Italians would tackle Slough.) Quite a bit of shouting at the screen ensued – I AM NOT AN AMERICAN – but I ploughed on relentlessly because the little green owl had cunningly tapped into a character-flaw – my ridiculous competitiveness. League tables! Promotions!

This is how they get you!

By practising, and getting the answers correct, I not only earned points and make-believe sparkly jewels, but I progressed up a league table. There is nothing like the threat of demotion, or the potential for PROmotion, to encourage a bout of fast-pace vocab-matching on a Sunday night. After working my way doggedly (or owlishly) through the more workaday precious things (Bronze, Silver, Gold, Sapphire etc) I reached the heights of Obsidian! And I still couldn’t honestly say I could speaka da lingo. (And full disclosure, Obsidian is not the top.)

I confess I did not use the full extent of this wonderful App’s resources. For a start, I refuse to shell out any money (ha! – so that ploy of offering me extra time and other paid-for advantages didn’t work Duo, did it?), so any suggested add-ons were out of the question. And any serious extra studying – grammar explanations in the Guidebook etc – was quite definitely not on my agenda. I preferred simply to work my way through the Learn pathway, following the Sections and Units as prompted and gathering points on the way. I would sometimes deviate to practise vocabulary at speed – but only because this would boost my points and shove me up the league table.

When we booked our trip to Jordan earlier this year, I was tempted by Arabic lessons, and dutifully practised every day for six weeks – to absolutely no avail. Whilst Italian had been having some small effect – due, I suppose, to my familiarity with other European languages – I am already completely devoid of any Arabic recollection just five months later. Whilst in Jordan I tried to pick out words I recognised and perhaps pronounce them. This proved pointless and completely unsuccessful. I even wrote the word for ‘England’ in Arabic on the address of a postcard which I asked the hotel to send to my Auntie. She reported its arrival some four months later. It had presumably been all round the world in search of someone who could fathom what on earth I’d written.

I redoubled my efforts with Italian before last week’s third Italian choir tour and I do feel I have made some headway, although this time I had to endure regular pretend phone calls with a vile cartoon woman in order to do so. I initially believed the suggested calls were with real people (my fellow league-climbers I supposed) and avoided them, but eventually I had to accept a ‘call’ in order to progress to the next lesson, and realised it was simply another cartoon creation to irritate me. The grumpy attitude on her was appalling. I caught myself appraising her attitude as an employee, before rationalising a little and calming down. The things we do in the pursuit of knowledge and greatness (and points!).

But with the 2025 Italia choir tour visit over, and no certainty of returning to Italy in the near future, I find there is little point in cluttering up my already busy day with chasing Obsidian glory. So I have stopped.

But that little owl won’t let it lie. I regret giving him my email address now.

“Your Italian won’t practice itself.” (I know!)

“Practice makes progress” (note, he doesn’t say ‘perfect’ – careful not to overpromise for fear of lawsuits perhaps?)

“These reminders don’t seem to be working.” (Correct.)

I am quite annoyed to be pestered like this, but I suppose that’s modern tech for you. Just ignore.

“Am I coming on too strong?” (Er, what?)

“Duo’s not getting any younger.” (Well, none of us is mate.)

“Are you ghosting Duo?” (Ghosting? Now come on, get a grip.)

“You made Duo sad. I’m very impatient.” (Now this is emotional manipulation!)

“Are you still there?” (Don’t say anything, don’t say anything)

“It’s been days – sad face emoji” (Hide, run and hide!)

Then nothing.

More nothing.

He’s gone.

Guilt creeps in. What have I done?

And this is why the similarly lurid-green parakeets are massing outside my window every evening and screeching at me ‘Murderer!!!!!’

Back on the blog – or am I?

It is more than two months since I last persuaded my tired old self to sit at my laptop and document some more of my little life. In that time, I have covered a lot of ground, quite a bit of it by train, and sung a couple of concerts. I like to think I have achieved a few things – although why I feel the need to achieve anything at all still puzzles me. Why can’t I just sit and read a book without fretting that I’m not ‘achieving’ anything? I suppose I could also question the need to write everything down here – aside from feeding my adoring public of course (hahahahaha) – but let’s not go there.

As on many previous occasions, I invent a silly heading and begin writing but then become distracted and abandon my wordsmithery for more exciting pastimes: walking and nattering for hours with my aunt; booking flights for a trip next April; re-potting a patio rose (yes, truly scraping the barrel of displacement activity with this one, but it has been on my list for ages and Mr J produces a large bag of potting compost from his motorcycle pannier and I finally feel obliged); and of course the inevitable choral practices and theatre bookings.

As I return once more to the laptop, I realise that not only have I been lax with this blog, but I have completely overlooked my other ‘holiday’ blog which is supposed to document in detail, and with pictures, my travel adventures. A quick check reveals that my three most recent jaunts overseas are missing from this important record of my life – and I immediately throw myself into the first of these reports, becoming immediately transported back to the Wadi Rum desert and the Dead Sea. Now I am hopelessly distracted from my original purpose. Focus, you silly woman!

Aaargh, ok, I really must put finger to keyboard for onecryingeye. I begin again.

Aha, I know, I’ll document my recent experience of singing in a huge choral concert at the Royal Albert Hall! I bandy around some ideas for my narrative.

The excitement at discovering the Lady Tenors have been allotted their very own exclusive dressing room, much to the amusement and slight annoyance of everyone else in the choir in their much more crowded spaces!
Female Tenor dressing room – result!
The bewilderment at endlessly being unable to produce my performer’s pass for inspection as I move around the august surroundings of the confusing round building, even though it is always secreted somewhere (secret) in my tiny handbag which is always with me.
The vertiginous choir seating.
The disconcertingly delayed sound from the other half of the choir seated on the other side of the organ. Are we singing in time together or effecting a slight syncopation?
My apparent inability to sing the right notes (in the right order, at the right speed etc etc) despite practising quite extensively, and the general lack of useful clues from the conductor (not ours!) on the day.
The regular whisperings, once the Youth Choirs have arrived for the afternoon rehearsal, of “Don’t touch the children! Don’t touch the children!”
The amazing organ and orchestral sound and my fascination with the percussion section arrayed in front of me.
View from the choir – before the children arrived (and we had to hide our phones)
The beautiful Ravel Daphnis et Chloé which I had completely omitted to listen to until the final week of rehearsals and then fell in love with. (I may have loved the piece but did not enjoy singing the wretched thing. The direction for the final section of this piece was to ‘sound orgasmic’ – which, I’m afraid, might usually at least raise my spirits by making me laugh, but in this case, coupled as it was with unsettlingly fond looks from the conductor towards his wife sitting two along from me, fair nauseated rather than tickled me ).
The astonishment that Mr J actually turned up to watch after a weekend of winning medals (again) and didn’t even fall asleep. Huzzah!

Themes and ideas suitably bandied around, I realise I have to once again rush out to the theatre which is to be preceded by a brief lunch with Son J. I grab my current paperback and lurch up to the station, plonking myself and my paperback in a quiet seat on a train up to town. I am reading Helgoland: The Strange and Beautiful Story of Quantum Physics. And I’m afraid that, by the time I arrive at Waterloo I have somehow been convinced that all my efforts at writing a blog are pointless* because without an interaction (a reader) it will not actually exist. Or might not. Or might be blue. Or red (or un-red/read). Or a cat, dead or alive. And who wants that in their inbox?

Son J and I have a spirited discussion on the topic of Quantum theory, where I am more than somewhat impressed that we both seem capable of using the word ‘superposition’ without even seeming self-conscious about it. I suppose it relieves both of us from worrying about whether to talk about feelings or personal relationships.

Returning home, I find it is easier to press Publish on the above and start again another time – perhaps with links to my holiday blogs when written – on the basis that, in the meantime, if anyone interacts with these jottings, they will be real. #

* weirdly, when I drafted this on my phone, predictive text offered ‘poo’ instead of ‘pointless’, possibly trying to tell me something!

# Can something actually be ‘real’? Read the book – you’ll be none the wiser!

What a to-do

Why can I not be bothered to work methodically down my to-do list today? Why, when I have a largely ‘free’ weekend, do I not race through some of the many outstanding items sitting in next week’s upcoming schedule? Why, when Mr J is away once again winning medals in the Midlands, do I not get ahead of the game for once?

In particular, I have spent the past 10 minutes wondering why I can’t simply get out the glass-cleaning spray and one of my many newly-acquired microfibre cloths and tackle the almost opaque window in my office whilst the sun is streaming in and shaming me for not doing it sooner. This weekend was surely an ideal time to put on loud music and flounce around the Mr J’less place with cleaning fluids and dusters – or paint the understairs cloakroom which still bears the masking tape of a previous abortive effort. Or fill the garden waste bin with freshly plucked weeds.

But I don’t do those things.

I HAVE managed to read the Sunday newspaper and complete ALL the sudokus therein – even accidentally completing the competition one online but then failing to submit it.

I HAVE succeeded in taking a longish walk to atone for consumption of a modicum of alcohol and several samosas at a party yesterday evening.

I AM completely up to date with Facebook and Instagram rabbit-hole exploration.

I DID spend two hours tackling a huge pile of ironing – mainly so that I had an excuse to watch Homes under the Hammer. These two hours are dangerously close to disproving my theory of weekend uselessness, but somehow the daytime telly admission detracts from the positive vibe I might otherwise derive from this ‘achievement’. And the two shirts I selflessly ironed for Mr J will no doubt be insufficiently smooth to fool him into thinking he doesn’t need to iron them himself (on the basis of my most recent previous attempt – ironing has never been a strong point in my wifely skill-set. I only attempted them because there was quite a lot of the second episode still to watch.)

I ACCIDENTALLY sent quite a useful marketing email to someone yesterday – which the law of sod suggests will result in the best result I have ever had from my endeavours to sell advertising space in concert programmes. (Well, except I’ve just jinxed that theory by mentioning it here!)

I DID fulfil the two tasks which were time-specific yesterday – the first of which was to prepare for a birthday party (buy and write card, buy suitable present and wrap, select drink and nibbles to take with me, select outfit to wear – all quite successfully achieved with at least three hours to spare) and then attend said party. I WAS a bit late, despite being fully aware of the start time, but forgetting that there was an early finish to factor in, and WAS initially a little uncompliant when it came to country-dancing – a task of which I had been blissfully unaware before arriving at the venue to find it already in full do-si-dohing swing! No matter, I made up for it by gamely joining in (eventually) with a dance or two, and then over-doing the disco participation later on (which may account for some of my inability to forge ahead with today’s tasks, although that may just be a lame excuse – boom boom!).

As the sun sinks, and I eagerly await the chink of new medals at the front door, I decide to give up pretending I might do anything else uesful this weeked. I reconcile myself to deferring all outstanding tasks in the splendid TickTick app* which currently rules (or doesn’t – haha) my life and check which TV dramas I have been intending to watch. It’s a hard life sometimes.

*TickTick – an app to which Daughter J introduced me a few weeks ago and which I now use on a daily basis to remind me what the hell I am supposed to be doing. You set up a task with a date on which you intend to complete it, and then you can tick it off when done. It is immensely satisfying – at least, it is when tasks actually get completed. It is also extremely useful to remind myself what I did yesterday or the day before – or at any time in the recent past which will have wiped itself from my memory. It is sadly quite easy to edit the lists and put later dates on the tasks. Having just done so for several items, I have put the phone to one side – but suddenly recall that I accidentally scheduled a few for 1st January 2026 due to user-incompetence. It would indeed be a task of moments to move them from there, but I haven’t put that task onto my list anywhere and it therefore does not exist. And who looks at to-do lists on 1st January? Confusion waiting to happen methinks…

The joy of work?

The sixth anniversary of my retirement has recently passed. If I were the celebrating sort, I would have had a party, or at least raised a glass or two. As it happened, I was too busy to do either!

I find myself in the odd situation of being employed again. Although most of my busy life goes unremunerated, with rewards counted in Brownie points or my own personal satisfaction, one of the following positions actually comes with a salary! So here is what I’m currently up to. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to publicise this – as a lame excuse for not publishing a blog in ages maybe? – but writing it all down helps me to justify the levels of occasional frustration which I may have voiced to various friends and colleagues.

I am the publicity officer for my ‘big’ choir, Twickenham Choral. This takes far more time than even my most pessimistic pessimism anticipated. It involves me being on the committee – something I particularly dislike, although the people – in all fairness – are absolutely fine. Of course, I devote quite a bit of time to learning the music for our concerts and attending rehearsals, so maybe this feels more all-consuming than it actually is. But then each time they add another task to my role which was not originally ‘in scope’ (old habits die hard – in a former employment one of the key skills required was to coax more fees from clients whenever they asked us to do anything outside the scope of our contract with them which they had undoubtedly only awarded after a bare-knuckle fee-and-scope-reducing negotiation – you see, I still shudder at this and no wonder I haven’t forgotten) I seethe a little – mostly at myself for agreeing to take this on against my better judgment. I’ve described here in this blog the horror of making a very visible error on the first posters and programmes I produced – a stress I could do without – but second time round the only error of which I am so far aware (3 days after the most recent concert) is one of omission and I am hopeful that few people will have realised. So, there is a satisfaction of a job, that no-one else wants to do, reasonably well-done. And I have a meeting this week to refine the ‘scope’ and develop some tools to assist with what remains.
Always worth it when we get to the performance. Landmark Arts Centre before Twickenham Choral perform Monteverdi’s Vespers of 1610.
I am the Honorary Treasurer for my folk choir. In stark contrast to the above, this one takes almost no time at all and is something that plays to my strengths (ooh, another spreadsheet, ooh some more money-counting!). I’m including it in my list because, however small, it is an extra thing to remember to do from time to time.
I am a regular volunteer for local charity RBKares, where my main role seems to have settled into chief purveyor of domestic gas/electric vouchers to clients at a monthly well-being day in a nearby community hall. AThis work is fairly predictable and time-framed and whilst it involves a fair bit of swearing at the cumbersome way I create and print the vouchers (no doubt through my general tech-incompetence), and an often cold three hours trying to avoid my papers blowing away whilst I’m issuing them outdoors, there is also a growing camaraderie and a satisfaction that what I am doing is truly helpful to some very life-unfortunate people. I also run errands for this charity as and when needed – on-foot deliveries, often carrying cakes for NHS consumption or Sim-cards to foodbanks – and am happy to be a small cog in what is an ever-growing organisation.
As chronicled here from time to time, I am signed up as a background/supporting artist, formerly known as an ‘Extra’ in the film and TV industry. Currently my main job in this regard is to sign up online for multiple opportunities and then read the ‘thanks but no thanks’ emails as the proposed dates approach. I recently spent the best part of an afternoon disporting my aged self against blank walls around our house, trying to self-photograph the various poses required in the Current Look section of my profile page on the casting website.
Usually the best angle
Relatively pleased with what I eventually achieved – with what, after all, is never going to be premium material – I was almost immediately crushed by yet another polite ‘not this time’ response to my application to be yet another passer-by in a ‘very exciting new production’. It is almost a year now since the last time I could be observed marching purposefully towards an A-lister in the street with the strict instructions (in my silly head) not to fall over, bump into him, trip him up, or stick out my tongue in some ludicrous attempt to make him laugh. I’m not entirely sure why I don’t just give up now. After all, I’ve had the experience of doing it, the hours are always awful and the pay inconsequential (unless you do loads). But, my agency membership is free, I’ve had some good laughs and I never did it for the £££s anyway – and you just never know where the next daft blog-story might come from. (See previous ridiculous episodes )
As a short-term only endeavour, I have agreed to help organise the first UK-based performance by the lovely choir who have allowed me to sing with them for the past two summers on their annual Italian tour. This has been rumbling on in the background of my Publicity role recently. It is satisfying in this case to have produced the concert flyer myself rather than paying someone else to do it. I’ve also performed a vaguely amusing juggling act to fit 24 people into a varied selection of village accommodation. So far, this is all on a spreadsheet and via a series of WhatsApp groups, but with less than three weeks to go now, the heat is on to turn it all into reality. And of course I’m frantically learning the music now that the latest Twickenham Choral concert is done and dusted.
And – drumroll – on top of all these voluntary roles, I am now a Trustee Director of an Employee Ownership Trust company. This involves overseeing the sale of a specialist vet practice to its staff and then managing the subsequent performance of that business. This is a non-executive director type role, something I was told I should probably do as an early retiree from the sort of career I previously had, but had largely dismissed because I just wanted to get away from everything remotely corporate. I was asked by a friend completely out of the blue last year and to my own surprise said yes. I have already mentioned in this blog how professionally I perform this work – in particular including the conducting of conference calls with lawyers whilst in beachside hotels in damp swimwear – but more recently I have trawled the depths of my accountancy knowledge (obviously very deep depths – former colleagues reading this, please do not laugh!) to provide an overview of accounting principles for my fellow Trustees and participate in our inaugural business review. I suppose I should not be so surprised at the level of enjoyment I experience in being part of this – learning about a completely new business (new to me, at least), helping ensure that this vet-practice at least will not be swallowed up by big-corporate world, having colleagues again – and being paid! Remarkable.

It was, I guess, inevitable that I would not shy away from responsibility for ever. I’m determined not to let this busyness stop me from travelling more in the next couple of years though. Time management Mrs J, time management!

Perhaps I should go one step further and start looking for even more jobs. Perhaps there’s something to be done in global tariff management right now… Hmm, now that’s just silly!

Apple-tree bathing

It is the season of offspring birthdays. The depths of miserable winter. What was I thinking, sprogging in such an uncongenial season?

We celebrated Son J’s special day on his actual birthday, 11 days ago – a Tuesday when restaurant lunch times are quieter and we could all find a few hours to meet up and celebrate in the time-honoured low-key Jillings way. The upmarket restaurant had reserved us their very best corner table with what would have been fabulous views if it had not been for the wind and rain outside. Both offspring enjoyed copious amounts of alcoholic beverages (copious by their parents’ standards and probably not their own) and every dish we chose was magnificent – but the highlight was reducing the waiting staff (and myself) to tears of laughter as large numbers of monkey-nuts were discovered half-way through our visit, spreading liberally around our table and found to be emanating from the trouser pockets of the birthday boy himself. As the waiters gamely deployed their dustpan and brush, we tried valiantly to hold it together and bemoan the fact that the crows of South London would be devastated to go without their daily treat. I like to think we spread a little joy wherever we go, even if it’s mostly for the birds.

And now, on an equally wet but marginally less windy day, it is the day on which we find ourselves bereft of twenty-something year olds and begin a chapter of parenting offspring in their thirties. So, do we whisk `Daughter J off to a swanky place and ply her with champagne for her thirtieth birthday? Well, no. Not today. Because we all have other things to do.

The birthday girl has apparently managed to get herself up to the wilds of Nottinghamshire where she will be celebrating with her old school-friends who are all making the transition to their fourth decades this year. Her brother is no doubt somewhere preparing to sing at someone else’s birthday or wedding party – an occupational requirement as the singer in a function band. Her father spent the morning on the river in a variety of oar-propelled craft and is now drying out whilst glued to the rugby on TV (probably asleep – I’ve heard no shouts, criticisms or encouraging whoops for a while now).

And I, the little darling’s mother, found myself just a few hours into the daughterly birthday morn, bogging around in a scrubby wood surrounded by damp strangers and being encouraged to ‘forest bathe’ by one chap in a leaf-bedecked hat and his companion steam-punk in shorts.

*Deep in the SW13 forest there’s a wassailing to be done*

I am tempted to leave it there and allow your imaginations to do the rest. But it was ‘such fun’ (to quote Miranda – see previous post), I feel I owe it to posterity to write a little more about one of the oddest mornings for some time.

Picture the scene: Still dark-o’clock. Mr J the earlier riser in Jillings Towers, peers around the bedroom door to check I have responded to my bleating alarm and is mildly shocked to see that I am out of bed, at least partially clothed. He beats a sensibly hasty retreat to the rowing club as I pile on a few more layers of ‘active thermal wear’ and a pair of old woollen tights which may be of similar vintage to the offspring.

There is an interlude in which porridge apparently makes itself and is consumed and the online quick crossword partially fills its squares. At some point, the railways app is consulted and my layered-up limbs swing into slightly discombobulated action as my dormant brain registers how little time is left before I have to leave. Autopilot – and a trail of clues set out yesterday evening – has got me thus far. Now I must focus on the job in hand – a Winter Wassail at which Pielarks (the Folk Choir to which I have belonged for six years now) has been invited to perform. In the rain. In Barnes. To which there are only two trains an hour so I must not miss the recommended one.

A few more layers later I am rejoicing in the knowledge that I have successfully packed a coffee flask and my A5 folder of songs into one of several unbleached linen bags I insist on keeping for just such an occasion (even if they do fill up valuable cupboard space) and there are still fully ten minutes to go before I need to make my dash to the train station. A sudden thought assails (not wassails – wait for it!) my unaccustomed morning being. We have been advised there is no need to dress up because of the anticipated inclement weather (see previous accounts of dressing up with this choir), but to my admittedly addled mind this is the gig to which we are probably best suited (perhaps along with May Day) and it seems a shame not to parade around in our full skirts and bonnets just because of a bit of mud. So I rush to the dressing up box (the bottom of the wardrobe two flights up) and drag out my usual striped costume apron and a manky old knitted poncho and ram them inside my linen bag for later deployment. Five minutes left…*

I am then miraculously on the train. There is one other (unfamiliar) person in my carriage so I settle myself to a gentle snooze. Within moments it all kicks off on the WhatsApp and I realise I am on the same train as several fellow singers who are gathering a few carriages behind me. I daren’t risk a platform dash to join them, guilty though I somehow feel for my isolation. My carriage-mate gets off at the next stop and I have the whole place to myself – quite handy, I weirdly feel, for rehearsing out loud the new song we are supposed to have learned. Until I realise that the guard is in the little cabin right behind me. Better to drift back off to sleep after all. I put my folder back in the bag.

We are at Barnes. I pretend to be awake and make polite conversation on the walk to the recreation ground where the Wassailing is to begin. I catch sight of the Wassail master and decide to don my poncho and apron OVER my modern-day waterproof coat to get into the mood. The drizzle which has held off until now, begins to make its presence felt, but we are plied with mulled cider and spiced apple-juice before singing our first wassail to rapturous applause (I may have been dreaming the rapture) and led away to the woods to take part in this most mysterious and mystical ceremony.

We don’t get far. There is a level crossing to navigate and our first five minutes is spent wondering when the flashing red light will actually usher past an actual train.

*No, Mr Wassail Master – you may not pass!*

We straggle across a damp field, along a slippery wooden walk-way, and venture into the wood. Here we are invited to consider mindful words relating to nature. I am mindful more of where to place my feet without slipping and of how to avoid saying any of my chosen words out loud. The trains roar either side of us on their relentless timetable, whisking early fans to Twickers for their pub visits before the afternoon’s match. There is definitely a blackbird singing somewhere though.

We are asked if we know about forest-bathing. I suddenly have an urgent message to look at on my phone which I wrest from the depths of my poncho/waterproof combo as I sidle into the undergrowth. Forest-bathing? Aren’t we wet enough already?

Rejoining the revellers, a very muddy path leads us to the apple-tree plantation. We gather round a sapling to listen to explanations of the Wassail tradition. The trains continue to speed past just a few metres away, but it’s an interesting talk and at least the rain has not got any heavier. The Wassail master successfully treads a fine line between earnestness and humour. I am particularly impressed with his ease at moving to a different sapling for the apple-tree anointing once someone has pointed out that he has so far been addressing a cherry tree. A couple of pieces of toast

*A toast to the apple-tree (the cherry just has to manage on rain and the occasional canine watering I suppose)*

appear from a knap-sack (or an Aldi carrier bag for all I know) and two children obligingly hang them on the sapling’s branches. A man appears with a carton of apple juice and squirts it at the tree. We sing another Wassail. And another. Singing is easier than forest-bathing, I feel, although in this drizzly case perhaps dangerously closer than I’d like.

Our return trudge through the wood is made more arduous by the increased weight of my clothing. Thick woollen ponchos are like sponges it seems, although fortunately the many layers underneath keep me completely warm throughout the entire escapade – well done me!

*Never turn your back on woodland glove puppets. They might turn into a good story*

We stop in a clearing. Glove puppets and stuffed toy animals are handed out. They don’t seem to have a snow leopard or a tiger (the only worth-while stuffed toys in my opinion), so I step aside and take a moment to message Daughter J a ridiculously dishevelled woodland selfie for her birthday edification.

On returning to the fray, there is a rather good story being told which involves the various animals and I have a moment of regret at my churlish refusal of fox/rabbit/owl/bear as they each participate joyfully in the telling of the tale. I think the fox is so good he should have his own TV show (ah – yes, ok, it’s been done before, BOOM BOOM!). Never mind – we swiftly move on to teaching the dripping crowd a Wassailing round. A successful endeavour, as it happens. So elated are we at our accomplishment, and perhaps excited at the prospect of soup and ukelele music to come, that we launch into an impromptu couple of numbers whilst waiting for the level crossing to oblige once more and let us get at that soup!

Ukelele band, soup and then a Morris Dancing display top off the most peculiar start to a weekend I think I may ever have had. Back on the train – my companion and I are kindly offered a seat by a younger passenger. We graciously decline, but I am prompted to glance down at myself and realise just how bedraggled I now look. And undoubtedly about 104 years old, weighed down as I am by that wretched poncho.

It’s all rather nicely convivial in fact. A bunch of soggy tree-huggers and a bevy of hopeful rugger-buggers – merrily co-existing on the Southwestern Railway. (Is there a song in there, I wonder?)

Home and dry (literally and figuratively), the morning’s experience makes such rich blog-post material that it leapfrogs the half-written tosh sitting in my lap-top and banishes the promised afternoon on the sofa. All good – but I have a nagging fear that it all went so well that this time next year we will once again be bathing in apple juice and troubling the saplings on the common.

There might need to be a birthday celebration booked instead.

*In case you are not already familiar with my body-clock, the train time was 8.52am and my alarm was set for 7am. I know this is not particularly early for some, but it is for me!

The surprising joyfulness of socks

I am obsessed with my socks.

My new and rather lovely foot-coverings.

Some were gifted to me at Christmas following a Santa list which included ‘walking socks’. Sadly the self-propelling little runarounds I may have had in mind (sorry!) were not forthcoming, but instead I unwrapped some rather natty American outdoor items from my US-based brother in law who works as an outdoor pursuits leader (amongst other most glorious duties in a US college) and knows about these things. He pointed out that the Vermont-created socks (from ‘Darn Tough’ – they do in fact sell in and ship to the UK) are marketed as everlasting – and he has had a good go at testing the veracity of this claim.

Anyhow, I was so pleased with these socks, and kept admiring them sitting there at the end of my legs, that I allowed myself to be influenced by social media adverts which kept popping up in my feed (hmm – can the algorithmicals now actually read my thoughts???) as I practised scrolling-as-an-alternative-to-constant-eating-in-January. I ordered a veritable bothy-load of thick hiking socks, succumbing in the process to an additional super-cheap come-on deal.

*Not the full set – some are in the wash. And I promise I don’t adopt this sock-yoga pose very often!*

I now have 13 pairs of lovely socks which I did not have before Christmas.

I cannot tell you how much joy they are bringing me. Isn’t that ridiculous?

In my defence, whilst my time spent hiking is not huge, I don my walking boots reasonably regularly, but perhaps more importantly these days is that I have largely abandoned my slippers because the house has finally stopped being full of filthy dust following our building work, and the new heated floor makes it rather nice to rest a be-socked foot or two thereupon. So these socks will be well-used daily in a practical way as well as for weird vanity.

I am currently listening to Miranda Hart’s audiobook “I Haven’t Been Entirely Honest with You” as I stomp around the neighbourhood. I am quite often irritated by her narration, in particular by her endlessly referring to me as MDLC (My Dear Listener Chum?) – and I am always a little wary of books which might fall into the category of ‘self-help’. However, I am somewhat surprised to find quite a lot with which I can, at least vaguely, agree. In describing her personal journey (“oops – unfortunate self-help terminology there for sure, sorry dear reader chum” – if you know Miranda, you can read that bit in her voice to get the idea…) to attempt recovery from a debilitating condition, she discusses various theories and suggestions she has tried. Whilst my scepticism and general antipathy to anything remotely ‘woo woo’ has been kicking in from time to time, there are definitely some nuggets of wisdom in this narrative. She talks about treasures and little joys – glimpses of rain-drops on leaves, for example – and this has struck a chord with me. Watching the birds in my garden would be an easily identifiable little joy of my own (apart from the b****y shrieking parakeets!).

I don’t think Miranda has specifically mentioned socks yet, but I feel sure she will before I reach the end.

I am not sure how many hours of fond staring will reduce this sock joy to a normal level of general well-being. I suspect it will depend on the level of colour deterioration and gradual bobbliness which ensues – and whether a similarly wonderful selection of, say, gloves might appear in my life.

In the meantime, I am putting my best foot forward (sorry my dear right foot, but my left is definitely better these days) and marvelling at its absolute gorgeousness.

HoHoHo? HoHum

Here’s another New Year. And a long time since I posted anything here despite best intentions.

I was going to write something about pride coming before a fall, but then the proud moment had long passed and the ‘fall’ element had somehow been absorbed into the acceptable now. *[see below for explanation of cryptic comment]

I was going to write a jolly piece about Christmas, but I was too busy getting on with it and then too tired to think of intelligent or amusing ways to recount it.

I had intended to record and publicise my silly version of The Twelve Days of Christmas and become a TikTok or Instagram star, but somehow in the manic weeks in the run up to Christmas I missed whatever small window of opportunity there might have been for such blatant self-publicity and decided that there would always be another Yule. (But will there? One never knows.)

So, there was no blogging or online sharing to be had in December and I find we are already in what might be termed mid-January, the first two weeks of 2025 having fortunately been very personally productive but not at all conducive to sitting creatively at my laptop.

I promise (to myself as much as to you) to keep writing stuff down here for posterity, amusement and therapy. In fact, I have an idea for the next one which I may even start today.

In the meantime, many good wishes to us all for 2025.

And in explanation of my first point above, here’s a piece of the recent past which may be best forgotten.

*A much-admired first attempt at producing flyers, posters and concert programmes for my ‘big’ choir’s Messiah just before Christmas was a source of great personal pride in myself. Despite not wanting the role of publicity manager, I seemed to have made the best of it and done a decent job. I was relieved and pleased in equal measure.

The printed programmes did look really good … until someone spotted that I had misspelled the name of one of the soloists on the cover. One letter in her surname was wrong. And when I checked, the same letter was wrong on the flyers, posters – the lot! For sure, very few people would notice the mistake and the same name was correctly spelled inside the programme. What was even worse though was that I had spotted the exact same error (it is a very unusual name!) made online by our website manager and alerted her to change it months before.

So all my hard work and success were immediately dashed. I humbly and hurriedly purchased a pdf-editing licence, made the tiny change in the file and persuaded the printer to print me 20 additional copies of the programme with the right spelling at the same unit cost – lovely man, thank you! – so I could give our soloists and sponsors a ‘correct version’. I then gave the soloist a face-to-face personal apology at the rehearsal before the concert.

I reckoned that by the time the concert was due to start, I had calmed down enough not to be fretful anymore – then, after making my apology to a gracious young soprano, laying out the imperfect programmes on the rows of audience seats and having an indulgent little snack…I lost my music! I was sure I had left it on my seat onstage after the afternoon rehearsal. But despite several furtive and increasingly anxious trips onto said stage I could not see it on, under or near my seat. I asked around, with mounting fear. Could I really sing completely off-copy? No. This was a complete disaster.

People rallied round and suggested places to check – my bag, the now-empty programme boxes, the Ladies’. As if I hadn’t checked all those three times already.

It was only when someone helpfully pointed to a seat in the middle of the stage with a folder on it and asked could it be mine, that I realised I had been looking at completely the wrong row of chairs – several times over. I pulled myself together with relief and sang the concert tolerably well (we collectively performed very well indeed), but spent several hours later fretting that I really was losing the plot. A slightly tearful train journey home lugging a too-heavy bag full of discarded (and misspelt) programmes (they are given to each ticket-holder so inevitably many are left on seats – and then our choir members can have them if they want, so I have to take them to the first rehearsal) gave me enough time to compose myself before rejoining my relatives at home and putting a brave face on.

With hindsight, it was a dreadful editing error to make but I can see how it happened and can hopefully catch such errors in future. And I was probably so stressed with the various plates I was spinning, dropping and catching in the pre-Christmas rush that anyone else would also have lost the plot a bit.

But… that little fear inside just grew a tiny bit bigger.

You know when you are winning at life when…

You’re lying on the optician’s floor with your feet up on the chair, congratulating yourself on avoiding actual unconsciousness so they won’t call an ambulance

You successfully dismount from pillion on your husband’s motorcycle without depositing yourself in the gutter, despite spending the entire journey wondering just how in hell you were going to do so (after more than twenty years not even attempting this manoeuvre)

You eventually realise that your left leg is not permanently dislodged from the rest of you as a result of your aforementioned ill-advised motorcycle adventure, after two car test-drives and a two-mile walk home “cure” it

You decide to roll with the ridiculous blingy car the hire company upgrades you to for your short holiday, even though the whole point was to test-drive a sensible replacement for our stolen vehicle

You watch back to back ‘Homes Under the Hammer’ because you’ve discovered it on iPlayer when bed-ridden with flu – and realise this can transform your life because you can now choose to do the ironing at any time you like, rather than only in the late morning when HUTH is aired

You write a daft blog-post and post it BEFORE 10AM (despite the fact that your more serious article on suburban theatre remains unwritten, a proposed cake is as yet unbaked and the house is waiting to be cleaned)

No wheels on my wagon…

Who needs a car?

I am a great advocate of walking everywhere, of not jumping in the car to pop to the supermarket, of perambulating to, from and around the local Royal Park at any opportunity.

I obstinately turn down the offer of lifts if I can easily get the train instead, sometimes to an unreasonable and unbecomingly sourpuss-esque degree – for which, indeed, I have recently felt compelled to apologise.

I am renowned locally for my walking delivery service, commenced in Covid-straitened days. There’s something rather gratifying in walking somewhere for someone else’s benefit, whilst at the same time accumulating healthy steps and often listening to brain-enriching podcasts (or uplifting music).

I have recently totted up how much I saved from my first three-year Senior Railcard (lots!) and renewed it for another three years. I love train travel – and even thirty-odd years of suburban London commuting hasn’t robbed me of this (partly perhaps because so much of it was spent barely conscious of an early morning and therefore didn’t count).

One of my proudest parenting achievements is that both offspring walked to school – one of them throughout his entire school career, the other for as much of it as we could reasonably insist upon although buses and friends’ generous parents sometimes encroached on this noble objective.

I am perhaps overly proud of myself in this regard, particularly when one considers my massively over-compensatory addiction to air-travel regularly described in these jottings. Oops.

It’s not that I don’t like cars or driving. I was brought up with a brother who loved cars and a father with a keen interest in the relative merits of different models – and a predilection for Saabs for many years. None of this ‘first to spot a yellow car’ on long unseat-belted childhood journeys; it was more likely to be first to see a particular model of Ford Capri, or a favourite example of old Cortina (yes, even then, we were nostalgic for the tripartite rear light clusters of the Mark 1) or … a Jaaaag.

I learned to drive as soon as I was seventeen. You couldn’t go anywhere in the countryside without access to a car and, even though it took me three goes to pass, I was still one of the earliest at school to be able to chauffeur friends around in Mum’s old Vauxhall Viva. (I am slightly exaggerating here, because I too always walked to school which was only just out of sight from my parents’ house and I reached my Saturday job in the town four miles away by using the bus which stopped right next to our front garden.)

These days I can go months without driving, but two weekends ago I drove myself down to Bournemouth to support three friends who were doing a half-marathon (another bipedal activity of which I sadly no longer feel capable myself). Of course, I had decided to go before I realised that the train service to Bournemouth would largely consist of rail-replacement buses that day, and I’m afraid I have learned from hours-long bitter experience to draw the line at that. But I was weirdly quite pleased to be forced into the driving seat for once.

*Happy finishers – great friends in Bournemouth*

My friends had a great race, we all had a nice chat, and my journeys there and back were uneventful. Even the parking was easy and I got quite a buzz from driving myself around, deciding which motorway service station to use and which of the several random routes the SatNav offered I should trust. A feeling of being in control perhaps, which is often not at all the case on public transport, and when Mr J and I travel together by car, he usually takes the wheel and I am just the co-pilot.

I had occasion to use the car again the following day – to collect a heavy box of printing from a small shop a few urban miles away. A much less enjoyable experience, especially where the parking was concerned. But all fine, and a sense of achievement perhaps that I can still manage to do this despite lack of practice.

You may be wondering why I’m banging on about all this. Mad old bat likes walking, quite likes public transport too, but finds she can still drive. So what?

*Last picture of our car. No wonder parking was easy in Bournemouth. I found a deserted car-park!*

Well, I can’t drive right now – because some a$£&h*@e has stolen my car. Our car. Parked and locked outside our house, keyless keys carefully stowed in a metal box away from the front door. No sign of broken glass, just a space where it had been left the night before. A somewhat unreal feeling.

It’s not been found. The police closed the case within four hours of my reporting it, and although the local community PCSO popped round a few days later (after a garden up the road was burgled) and chatted about security, there was no evident attempt to track down the perps. Apart from a brief excitement when another car was stolen from a nearby road (erm, not sure this is helping the value of our house – just as well we’re not selling) and recovered by the owners the very next day because they had a tracker in the car (yes, yes, lesson learned!) and Mr J leapt onto his motorcycle to check out the location from which it had been recovered, to no avail, the past ten days have taken on a somewhat tumbleweed vibe in the motoring department.

Of course, I have continued my usual walking existence. No Wheels on My Wagon, but I’m Still Rolling Along – and all that. But just knowing we can’t get in the car and go somewhere together is discombobulating, and the need to go through the mind-bending, hours-consuming and EXPENSIVE process of purchasing another one is a complete pain.

Don’t feel sorry for me though. Perspective has been restored in the most painful way today, in hearing – a heart-wrenching one line email – that a dear friend’s life partner has unexpectedly died.

This is not the first time I have ended a blog post with this kind of news and I suspect it won’t be the last.

Friends and family are everything. xx

In the Canaries (Not Singing)

September. I need a holiday. I know it’s not long since I was in Italy in the boiling heat, but as the leaves start to turn brown and the duvet goes back in its cover, I feel the need to go somewhere brighter before the proper onset of winter. As previously mentioned, I turn this yearning into reality, jump on the British Airways website like a many-fingered demon, and book to go to the Canaries.

Lanzarote – a completely volcanic island

I’ve never visited the Canaries. Friends have recommended all of the various islands at different times. I settle on Lanzarote, primarily because there are suitable flights on the dates which are my only option to escape, but also because I find a couple of small-group walks that I can join to allow me to explore volcanoes and cliff paths.

I have the inevitable wrestle with my conscience and my still-pretty-tight pursestrings (neither of which stand a chance, really) as I choose my seat – and karma visits on the outward flight as I am positioned immediately in front of a large and grumpy man with a most unpleasant cough and alongside a family including a screamy toddler. Serves me right, of course. But I make the best of it – I read a whole paperback in self-defence.

My flight is slightly delayed which means I arrive at the same time as several other plane-loads of Brits, causing a shuffle/stop melee in the arrivals hall as we wend our way disconsolately around the plastic barriers like sheep at a market, towards the automatic passport gates for Non-EU arrivals and the little man in his hutch with his rubber stamp and suspicious glare. All the while gazing sadly at the tiny dribble of people waltzing through the EU channel.

Strangely, once I leave the airport building, I don’t interact with any other English people until it is time to catch the transport back to the airport from outside my hotel four days later. There are a couple of Scots on a tour coach and some sweary Northern Irish lads on a camel – but I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m guessing that the British by and large prefer the resorts whilst I am staying in the capital Arrecife, conveniently close to the airport and ideal for day-trip pick-ups.

Day 1 – Breakfast in the hotel. It dawns on me immediately that the small amount of Italian I have learned on Duolingo will be of absolutely no use at all here, because this is a Spanish island and the people speak Spanish which is not the same as Italian, even if I thought it might be similar. (If I had thought at all, which I truly hadn’t.) My exposure to Spanish has been limited to Daughter J’s now-quite-a-long-time-ago GCSE vocabulary tests, usually done whilst trying to complete umpteen other domestic tasks at the same time – and to the occasional corporate hotel where I would have been conversing in efficient business English with an occasional “Si” or “Gracias” for effect.

My feeble attempts throughout the week are generally greeted with smiles and an English menu/calculator showing price. I manage but am somewhat ashamed.

This first morning, I eagerly strut around the town of Arrecife. There is not a huge amount to see (or I miss it, if there is) but I visit the castle which is free because their computer isn’t working (I leave a few pesetas – I mean Euros), and take a look at the marina and a few shops. It is then time to take a dip in the sea. I wonder if I can “borrow” a towel from the hotel’s rooftop pool? No, they don’t seem to have them, so I purchase the least lurid beach-towel I can find in the little shops along the front and, ready swimming-costumed, I strip off my modesty layers and sandals and fair race my way to the sea. Where I stop. The sand ends at the edge of the sea and underfoot in the shallows it is sharp volcanic rock; pointy bits and slippery bits and other nasty bits in-between. Furtive glances left and right reveal other hesitant bathers, hopping or swaying or retreating at the discomfort. And, of course, a couple of clever-clogs who have come equipped with rubber shoes. As if I was going to add those to my already heavy suitcase, what with the walking boots and all.

My over-active imagination already has me in hospital with a broken wrist or two and severe abrasions – on the first day, with none of my trips completed. Foolish old bat – why didn’t you just stay safely at home? Or take a dip in the tiny hotel pool? Well, that’s because you like travelling and you enjoy swimming in the sea far more than in a pool – and for goodness sake, just get a grip, crawl if you have to (I do) and lunge into full immersion as soon as depth allows.

I confess to staying in the water somewhat longer than is necessary to achieve the distance of remedial-level breaststroke originally intended, simply because I cannot work out how to make a graceful exit. The Atlantic is not particularly warm, and eventually of course I have to emerge, so I opt not to wait “gracefully” for the tide to rise onto the sandy bit of beach (just as well because said tide is still on the way out and it will be dark by then) but rather to adopt a peculiar crab-like scuttling manoeuvre. By devious sleight of all my extremities, I make my exit completely unobserved (achieved in my mind by closing my own eyes, so I cannot see anyone observing me) and saunter nonchalantly to my rather eye-catching turquoise (but definitely not emblazoned with multicoloured LANZAROTE! maps, monsters or other ridiculous motifs) towel and throw myself face-down to dry off – thus once again making myself invisible to others. I find this is the best, nay the only, way of operating on a solo beach visit when both over-weight and over-white.

I repeat the sea-swimming twice more later in the week, timing it better to ensure launching can be done from sand. A facility with tide-tables is always useful – meaning that Mr J, annoyingly, is right again.

Day 1 continued – I return from the beach, tired but pleased to be all in one piece and ever-so-slightly bronzed – and a little less-slightly sandy – after my antics. As I pour myself a glass of chilled water, my phone rings. I am still in my cossie, with a light wrap on top, and also still a little damp. Nevertheless, like an idiot I take the call. And within seconds I am in a four-way conference call, with all sorts of legal and tax terms flying hither and thither as an urgent deadline looms and decisions need making. In the moment, my business head makes a fortunate reappearance and we take the decisions we need to take in a calm professional way, whilst I thank my lucky stars that this is not a video call (at least, I think it isn’t) and that I am no longer actually dripping.

Beautiful evening – but if I’d waited for the tide, I’d still be swimming…

Exhausted now with all the keeping up appearances I have done, I send a few choice emojis of bikinis and palm trees etc to one of the other conference call participants (my vet friend who has persuaded me to take this new Trustee role), then send a sensible email to another, and decide to eat in the hotel after all, despite earlier plans to go and explore the restaurants on the other side of town. I then double check I sent the emojis and the sensible email to the right people…

The rest of the week – goes mostly to plan.

I join a volcano walk with a small group led by a brilliant guide called Raquel who gives explanations in French (for 8 walkers) and then in English (for me and an Irishman) – this is a great way for me to test my understanding of the French and I am rather pleased with the result.
Small group walk in Timanfaya Natural Park
I reward myself in the afternoon with a more decorous swim and then supper in a lovely tapas bar where, in my attempts to discover a local dish, I somehow manage to eat half my body-weight in fried cheese.
I have reluctantly pre-booked a coach trip for Day 3. I prefer small groups in minibuses but have been unable to find one which will take me all over the island. My fears are well-founded: it takes an age to pick everyone up; the coach is full to bursting; the guide is annoyingly jokey; I don’t want to ride on the camels – but the aforementioned unusually screamy Northern Irish teenagers do, so I watch from a safe distance;
Camels, once essential transport in Lanzarote, are now just a tourist attraction. Looked well cared for, but still…
I don’t want to eat in the touristy restaurant on our lunch stop, but there is nowhere else to go apart from the car-park where I eventually eat my banana; the roads are in amazing condition, and there are some spectacular switch-backs to ascend and descend the volcanic slopes in the Natural Park, but the roads were made for cars and not socking great coaches – I manage not to whimper noticeably I think. This now sounds a tad unfair in the telling. By the end of the day I have seen most of the island, sampled (and purchased) some rather lovely local dessert wine, enjoyed a demonstration of the heat lurking just below the surface on one of the volcanoes with fire and steam in spectacular evidence, and gazed in awe at a beautiful lava tunnel Jameos del Agua
Jameos del Aqua. Look closely and there are tiny blind albino crabs in the water
– a definite highlight. I cannot complain, and I even warm (or at least defrost) to the guide by the time I am dropped off.
El Golfo – a volcano right beside the sea with its own pool
Full day trips are tiring and I am unfortunately not able to take my weary self any further than the corner shop afterwards, resulting in a balanced supper of crisps, chocolate and fizzy pop.
I make up for my failings in the Spanish lingo by opting to join a French group on the second of my volcano walks. The alternative is to be the only English-speaking person in an otherwise entirely German group – so I feel I am being generous in allowing them to avoid listening to everything in English as well as Deutsche just because of me.
A misty Corona volcano
I find myself limited in small talk with my French companions – the words simply don’t come quickly enough to me these days – but we rub along ok and I have no trouble understanding the guide as there is considerable repetition from my first tour where I had been able to acquire the necessary volcanological vocab. The Corona volcano is shrouded in mist, but the Famara cliff walk is spectacular.
View from Famara cliffs north Lanzarote towards La Graciosa island
A great experience.
I make a second attempt to find a local restaurant serving local delicacies. Sardines, perhaps? Catch of the day? Sadly, but deliciously, I end up with Canarian potatoes and yet more cheese (this time disguised as a salad, but once again, vast quantities of baked queso). I stagger the mile back to my hotel, and ponder my clothing choices for the return flight – a size larger than on arrival perhaps.
My return flight puts me with the same family as on the outward journey. This time they are behind me, which starts badly with exuberant kicking of my seat, but they are good sorts and this stops after a while. I manage the other inconveniences by donning my headphones and playing white noise while I devour another paperback – so I have double aeroplane noise to block out the toddler’s squawks. I also experience one of the least visually appetising dishes I have ever been served anywhere. A mushroom risotto which has to be prised from the edges of the china dish on which it is served and is mostly the consistency of rubber and the colour of a moulting otter – but of course I eat it and it tastes rather good. Plus, there is plenty of cheese on the tray for afters. In for a penny…

Home now.

I realise that I have not sung out loud for the entire time I have been away. At home I never stop. It’s weird that I seem to switch off the singing except when at home.

*Three fried cheeses. With coloured (but otherwise unidentifiable) Canarian sauces*

And more importantly – Diet begins now! Pass (on) the cheese.

Dollies

I’ve just deleted a draft blog in its entirety. Sometimes I’m just not feeling it!

Re-energised by last night’s well-received public performance of a couple of my songs, sung previously only amongst friends, I have knuckled down and captured instead a couple of musical anecdotes from the past couple of months.

(1) The builders ruined our hallway floor in their haste to be helpful and shift our piano from one room to another. We are determined not to repeat the mistake on its necessary return journey. So, with an unusual degree of marital agreement, we determine to engage a specialist with the right equipment to execute the reverse manoeuvre without further damage. I am almost immediately on the internet sending a message to a likely looking outfit and in no time at all, I get a phone call and make a booking. This is a small local firm and we are patting ourselves on the back for keeping the suburban economy going. (We were recently saved by a local carpet shop and fitter, having been badly let down by John Lewis, so our focus is even more local than before.)

And I am pleased to say that not only does the job get done faultlessly, but it also provides a joyful comedy skit. At the appointed hour, our doorbell rings and my recent telephone correspondent announces himself as “Steve – come to move the piano.” His pal is in the van, procuring the necessary large-wheeled transportation implement. It turns out that both these operatives are called Steve. Boss Steve and Other ‘big friendly giant’ Steve. Chuckle Brothers? Certainly of a bygone age somehow. Worryingly probably both older than either of the regular inhabitants of Jillings Towers. But they have their Dolly. I mention that this impressive wheeled contraption is not dissimilar from the cut-away skateboard Mr J likes to employ in other furniture removals, but this just meets with confused expressions, and they set their minds to the logistics exercise they have been employed to carry out.

And so it begins. “You got your end Steve?”

“Yes Steve”

“Here we go. You got it Steve?”

“Yes Steve”

“Through this doorway Steve. You OK there Steve?

“Right Steve, yes Steve”

“Round to your left Steve.”

“Yes Steve.”

“Have you got it Steve?”

“Got it Steve”

“Watch for that door Steve”

“Got it Steve”

“To me”

“To you Steve”

“To you”

“To me Steve”

Back in its rightful place thanks to Dolly

I retire, unable to contain myself and cry a little, hopefully unseen, in the kitchen.

I fortunately manage to pull myself together sufficiently to adopt a coquettish (or perhaps faux-pleading) stance and suggest to the Steves that, were I to find a tenner about my person, they might be persuaded to move the sofa as well? Well, that worked marvellously and with no more ado (but quite a few more “To me, to you, Steve”s) my house was almost all back in the right place.

They packed up their Dolly and, clutching their hard-earned dosh, made their jolly departure.

(2) Continuing the Dolly theme (see what I did there?), I managed to find a cheap ticket for the highly-rated musical Hello Dolly! for a night when I was responsible for Daughter J’s cat and had access to her central-London flat. This was a ‘living the dream’ sort of evening – walk from “my” Charing Cross-adjacent apartment to the London Palladium clutching my absolute-bargain-ticket-containing App, breeze through bag-check, explore the bar and other facilities and discover my excellent Stalls seat – halting only briefly for a breath-stopping moment of realisation that although I have a cheap ticket, I am paying almost half as much again for the glossy programme! More fool me, I suppose, but having started collecting programmes for all my theatrical events, I struggle to give up this somewhat ridiculous habit. I try to disguise my annoyance, fearing public branding as a cheapskate.

This is a magnificent production. I have never before been to the Palladium, nor have I seen Hello Dolly so this is a proper treat. Imelda Staunton is superb and the whole company are at the top of their game. I treat myself to an ice-cream in the interval and, once that is finished, I am just settling back into my seat when I am showered with liquid from behind. Not just a small spray, a proper half-pint of something – on my head, on my neck and down my back. I register my disappointment in typically British fashion: a tiny gasp, an irritated shrug and a slight sideways nodding of the head. I do not turn around – the lights have just gone down and the action is recommencing on stage.

The shock settles as the music swells. I touch the crown of my head – please let this not be sticky as well as wet! Reassured, I try to concentrate on the on-stage action, but there is such dribblage down my back, that I silently grab a tissue from my pocket and gently – then in fact much more firmly – dab my neck and back to try and absorb as much of the liquid as possible. Whilst earlier I had been rather impressed and pleased that there was such good air-conditioning in this old theatre, I am now rather regretting my lack of forethought in not bringing a blanket with me!

Shivering calms after a while and I am immersed instead in the on-stage action. The well-known strains of the Hello Dolly number begin, but to my horror, there is an unwelcome accompaniment from the row behind me. I shudder (those damp-back shivers returning) as I try to reconcile myself to the modern trend of singing along at West End musicals that I have read about in stage press articles. It seems, however, that the rest of this audience are more in my own camp and someone further along the row makes a subtle attempt at ‘shushing’ the two ladies immediately behind me – yes, the very same drink-spillers.

Another reprieve and my shoulders are nearly dry now. But this reprieve is rapidly followed by a reprise of the Hello Dolly number, and this time my rear neighbours are not only singing but clearly sobbing snottily along to the music at the same time. Yes, there is pathos on-stage, but mucus-filled bathos surrounds me. No amount of shushing can deal with this, and my fellow audience members stiffen their upper lips anew, face forward and ride out this latest assault on decorum.

Of course, the production rolls on unhindered and we reach the curtain call at which point there is no hesitation to stand for an ovation that is surely expected these days but in this case probably more than deserved. Clapping and photo-snapping completed, I turn to exit the row – and a clearly-inebriated woman in the row behind me slurs -“I’m SHOW shorry I ruined your evening! I’m SHOW shorry. It was only water – I’m SHOW shorry tho” – as she appears to be about to fall over the seat-back towards me. ‘No, no, it’s fine!” I lie through gritted teeth and no attempt at a smile, as I redouble my efforts to get out of the end of the row without engaging further. Her friend grabs her, also wobbling, and I make my escape. I am halfway down Regents Street on my walk back to Daughter J’s flat before I calm down, and then – naturally – my default of ‘oh well, it will make a blog-post’ kicks in and I switch to jaunty girl-about-town mode for the remainder of my walk. Ho hum.

The cat greets me and I genuinely feel that he is less disappointed today that I am not his usual mistress than he has been earlier in the week. He proves this later by joining me in the bedroom to sleep on my feet and snuggle (purrs and all!!!) on my shoulder only when it is an appropriate time to wake up in the morning. This, I feel, is a completely wonderful breakthrough. *

I’ve just booked a little trip away to the Canaries to indulge my need for travel and exploration. I have never been to any of these islands before, so I will class it as a new country even though technically and officially it is just yer common or garden Spain. Just further away.

Hurrah for that, and here’s to the anticipated postponement of the early-dark evenings.

*This was not a breakthrough at all. The cat later left an unwelcome present on the bed without my noticing, to be discovered on Daughter J’s return. When she told me, this made me very cross indeed, more with myself for closing the bedroom door so quickly when he emerged to prevent him getting back in there and proving impossible to eject when it came to be time for me to leave. I don’t think there has yet been a completely successful cat-sit and we were so close this time!

Bella Italia – Return of the Grateful Tenor

Yes, I banged on about it so much after last year, I had to go back and do it all again!

To my delight, I am asked for my availability for this year’s Cutty Sark Singers tour to Italy and in due course am added to the 2024 WhatsApp group, indicating that I am indeed one of the chosen few. Odds are always better if one is a Tenor, I realise that, but I can at least say that I am better qualified this year than last, having executed three concerts with Twickenham Choral in the intervening period.

I may be overdoing the gratefulness here, but not only am I pleased to have passed whatever mysterious tests the choir may have surreptitiously or unwittingly set for me last year, but I am pretty desperate for a holiday, having not been anywhere for longer than one night since the August 2023 Italy tour.

In true ‘make the most of it’ style, I book a flight which will give me a day of sightseeing before tour begins, and arrange to meet one of my fellow choir members, and long-standing friend, B in Verona. B is spending several weeks in Europe using Interrail. I am very jealous of this and am quite determined to indulge similarly next year.

I of course spend hours and hours checking which flights are best value, taking into account that getting to either Heathrow or Gatwick can be free (or very nearly) by Public Transport with my old person’s Oyster card (yay for old age and London boroughs – there has to be a silver lining somewhere to this ageing business I suppose) which skews me further towards British Airways – and I confess I still cannot kick the habit of accumulating points with BA and using their lounges if I can snag a bargain Club fare. I am a tiny bit ashamed of this, and yet…not.

So it is that July arrives and I find myself on a train to Gatwick, everything running smoothly at a civilised time of day – early afternoon – a modest suitcase full of sleeveless and legless items by my side, the Italian weather forecast being unrelentingly hot, and my music tucked neatly in my rucksack for safekeeping by my side at all times. Not a care in the world (if you believe that, you don’t know me very well, but all things are relative) when I receive a message that my flight will be delayed by two hours. Sigh. But the message still advises me to check in on time and anyway, there’s no point going back home now, having got this far trouble-free.

*View from Gatwick lounge – one of my happy places*

Ensconced in the BA lounge (yes, yes, mea culpa), I congratulate myself that I am saving money on the inevitable snackery in which I would have indulged during any such long wait in the consumer’s paradise that is Departures at this, and any, major airport. I have an excellent view of the runway (nerd!) and a pleasing variety of free biscuits, soft drinks and coffee. Fortunately I don’t relax too much, nor indeed avail myself of the ‘come-hither’ Whispering Angel, and am rewarded for my attention to the departures board by not missing the rescheduling of my flight – back to the original time! Hurrah. Of course, there are a few late arrivals on-board, but everyone is finally accounted for and the child-steward and stewardess (is it me? they truly look about twelve years old apiece) happily confirm we will soon be away.

And then … the captain appears from the cockpit. I note he’s slightly older than the aforementioned juniors stewarding our cabin – probably a good sign. He jauntily takes the microphone and proceeds to make an announcement. He starts with what he refers to as ‘the good news’ – “We managed to find this plane to replace the one which was running so late. This one was due to go in for engineering works this evening” (a few nervously surprised looks are exchanged amongst the passengers) – “Oh, don’t worry, its certificate doesn’t run out until tomorrow!” (not sure that’s helped, to be honest). “But, now for the not-so-good news. We seem to have a puncture in one of the tyres, so we’re going to have to change the wheel before we can set off.” Of course, we can’t now deplane (yes folks, that IS a word) or they’d lose people, so I am left musing to myself whether a little AA van will arrive with an enormous jack and we’ll find ourselves leaning gently over onto one wing-tip while they make the change. At least we’re not in an active hard-shoulder lane on the side of the runway. Strange how the mind wanders when all there is for immediate distraction is the tiniest packet of salted rosemary-flavoured nuts …

Sadly I fail to detect any of the repair activity and for all I know they remove a wheel altogether, but within an hour we are airborne and, by dint of flying faster, or taking a magical shortcut, we land all our remaining wheels on Italian soil less than 40 minutes later than scheduled.

I rapidly negotiate the passport e-gates (stopping only to allow the nice border guard to stamp my document) and then miraculously master the ticket machine for the bus, brandishing my Apple Pay rather more deftly than the young person ahead of me (how very modern I am!) and woman-handle my baggage aboard the next bus to arrive. I am thus whisked into Verona and deposited outside the Railway Station which is purportedly just a 12-minute walk from my hotel. It’s almost dark by now though, and my nerve fails me at this eleventh (ok, tenth) hour. I join the queue for a taxi. I beat myself up for being a wimp, but then congratulate my common sense as I notice how dark and featureless the short 10 euro trip seems to be. Besides, I have brought some euro notes and cash with me – probably originally purchased several years ago – and am therefore able to persuade myself that handing a tenner over has not really eaten into my current year’s holiday budget at all. I seem to be able to persuade myself all sorts of convenient things when pushed. With hindsight, I made the right decision here.

Check-in complete at the hotel, I take the tiny glass lift up to the third floor where I discover that my inexpensive single room resembles, in my over-excitable imagination, a monastic cell! I think it is the fully closed shutters, the small bed and simple furniture and the red-tiled floor that suggest this to me. I update the family WhatsApp group so they can all either laugh or be glad that I am at least not living the high life without them.

Friend B is staying at a similarly priced establishment about a mile away. He apparently has a more luxurious room, with a fridge containing his breakfast. I am slightly envious of this as I go searching for the advertised coffee machine in my own hotel’s Reception and fork out a few of my ‘free’ eurocents on a decent espresso (even out of a godawful vending machine, Italian coffee is always better than expected) and – in order to spend the unrefundable 10c change – a cup of hot and slightly brown water into which I dunk a fruit tea-bag I discover in the depths of my handbag. Knew that would come in handy one day. I am perhaps lucky to survive the night after this, but all is well and the hotel more than compensates for its spartan rooms next morning with an excellent buffet breakfast in a delightful courtyard. Better than a box in the minibar B!

I stomp around some beautiful churches in the blistering heat of the morning, and then meet B for lunch before we find a mutually interesting (and hopefully air-conditioned) museum around which to potter until siesta time.

Later, as I set off from my Veronese cell to rendezvous for supper, I wonder at the gusting wind and the strange vision of a pavement-restaurant apparently moving towards me apace, napkins and parasols flapping and waiters chasing haphazardly behind. A quick glance at the lowering skies induces an urgent trot as I try to remember where the first lovely colonnade is to be found. I am only slightly wetted by the time I reach shelter, and there follows a stair-rodding hiatus in proceedings whilst I play sardines with fellow tourists and gawp at the lightning and puddles. I resist spending another ‘free’ €10 on a plastic poncho from the many touts who have appeared from the damp night and eventually make my way to an indoor restaurant at which B decides to order raw horse-meat. It takes all sorts, I guess. I stick to pasta.

On the morrow, untroubled by adverse equine after-effects, we converge on the Railway Station and begin our choral adventure proper. We congratulate ourselves on how very cleverly we managed to negotiate two different rail booking systems months ago to ensure that we now have seats next to each other on our train from Verona. As we progress, we hear from fellow choir-members on different trains, and an impromptu lunch meeting miraculously occurs in a restaurant near to Florence station. Oh here we are again – mwah, mwah! – so good to reacquaint ourselves.

Back at the station, B and I find a seat in first class (yes, that is what he has booked for possibly two whole extra euros) and settle back to await departure. We then realise that yet three others of our party are on the same train, so invite them to come and join us. Much excited prattle ensues, before we are unceremoniously ejected from first class (except B, of course) and have to rough it in an altogether identical (but more crowded) carriage. B joins us after all and we congenially clutch our luggage and prattle on.

And so to the villa. I have the same mezzanine space as last year and immediately empty my suitcase onto the floor, the bed and the balcony rail where glorious chaos will reign for the next week. Not a single day goes by when I don’t mislay at least one item of clothing/make-up/medication/device charger. Whilst this is sporadically annoying, I somehow don’t care. I am romanticising this I suppose. Perhaps I need to get out more.

On the first evening, there is a sudden downpour. I am still in the process of distributing my belongings as it begins, and am horrified to see that water is pouring down the wall behind my bed-head, and a thin stream is falling directly onto my bed, precisely where I plan to sleep. Ever-resourceful, I whip out from my case the large plastic clothes-bag I brought with me (for return-home laundry purposes) and spread this under the stream – mopping madly around it with one of the many towels which are fortunately to hand. The shower is over almost before it has begun, but I am now nervous about midnight soakings. Perhaps I should sleep on the other side of the bed? Strangely enough, later on and after an evening’s carousing, I forget this thought and sleep in the same position I did last year. Anyway, I believe it is a generally known fact that sleeping on the damp side of the bed is more adventurous, and I like to think of myself as intrepid! There is apparently thunder, lightning and more rain during the night, but I sleep obliviously through. After several days of precautionary towel and plastic bag arrangements when leaving the villa (and yes, I work out that plastic bag underneath the towel is more practical. I should have been a scientist after all), I conclude that the water-ingress was a one-off. Had it happened in the middle of my slumbers I would be tempted to say I dreamt it, but I honestly don’t think I’ve even exaggerated it for the purposes of this account. Bizarre.

Clearly I could bang on and on again about how wonderful this tour is, but perhaps it’s better just to list the year’s most notable moments in an attempt to shorten this piece:

The appearance in the pool at the villa of a crustacean which we conclude must
Not big enough for supper
have been deposited there by a passing bird. We rescue it and it is released in a nearby lake, despite mild protestations from some that we should barbecue it. In fairness, it would not have gone far between 26 hungry choir-mouths.
The revelation that using two hands on a pair of kitchen scissors to chop a large bowl of fresh herbs is actually a thing, resulting in the success of my second attempt at presenting the results of my endeavours to chef (after the ignominious one-handed initial failure). Chef, for those of you not already familiar with the set-up of this choir tour week, is one of our basses, the husband of chief organiser big Alice (who is petite but hugely important to the smooth running of this event) and an absolute genius when it comes to creating wonderful dishes from Italian ingredients, with enlisted help each day from fellow choir-members.
The embarrassment of admitting to my fellow kitchen workers that I am Googling “How to hard-boil an egg” – I am perfectly capable of producing 6 hard-boiled eggs without even thinking about it when I cook my signature Fish Pie at least once every year, but nerves get the better of me here and I don’t want to let myself down on this one. You can’t usually go wrong with Delia. Oddly, I am then required to create egg ‘crumb’ by wielding the kitchen scissors again – but having learned that two-handed was the way to go, I romp through this bit to glorious first-time approval. The crumb is used as a sprinkle topping (on I forget what) at table, just showing what high level of cuisine we are producing here. 100% worth the effort and huge respect to Chef R once again.
Being the only Lady Tenor this year (there were two of us last year) has its pros and cons. On the plus side, I have an absolute ball in the concerts alongside my much more accomplished (and very much LOUDER) male counterparts. There is nothing like a Tenor showboating session and I join in with all the gusto I can muster. I cannot describe quite how fantastic this feels. (As mentioned already, perhaps I should get out more!) I have definitely got louder and more confident this year. There are however a few moments in rehearsal where I fret I will never be heard in this company, and is it really worth having me here at all. In the end though I reassure myself that they would be completely lost without me and my marking pencil! Each note we are asked to make in our scores, I find myself handing my stubby little pencil left, then right, before demanding it back to mark up my own copy. I am nothing if not prepared! Perhaps this is why they let me come back.
A sublime soprano solo – only heard properly for the first time in our opening concert rehearsal. Chills indeed. And this particular young singer is less experienced than I am at this choral lark, which I find heartening somehow.
Meeting with friends who have an Italian summer home nearby – they come to our first concert in Arezzo and it’s wonderful to have a drink with them in their Italian habitat and join our two worlds a little.
A quick drink with friends outside Arezzo Duomo
For the second year running, we watch the sun set behind the Tuscan hills from a Montepulciano bar sipping chilled rosé and celebrating the success of our second concert. Doesn’t get a lot better than this.
Relentlessly fantastico meals at the villa, including the annual (fully home-made) pizza evening using the wood-fired oven in the villa grounds, preceded by wine-tasting conducted by our very own young sommelier, and followed by a beautiful moonrise and much additional lubrication
Moonrise during our pizza event
Charging around the beautiful countryside and dreadful Italian roads in a slightly-too-small car with an even smaller engine. This small Lancia, affectionately known as Lance, conveys us between villa and the various Duomo venues. With five of us aboard, we helpfully cheer “Come on Lance! You can do it!” as our driver floors the pedal to tackle the steeper gradients.
I am encouraged by one of my friends on tour to perform a song of my own. I initially refuse – I can’t imagine anyone would want to hear some of the silly efforts I make. But… I realise that the Italian folk-song Bella Ciao, which we sing in folk choir, is crying out for an update, and I worry away at this for a day or two in my bed-space and by the pool. On the last evening, egged on by others and possibly encouraged by wine, I rise to my feet and sing my new version which is peppered with silly references of our week together. What am I thinking? (Got away with it though. Phew! Calm down woman. You’re 62! Well, actually, that’s my excuse. Too old to care now.)

Maybe this is all a little rose-tinted – certainly rosé-tinted – but who cares?

I am sad to say goodbye to everyone, but we have to be out of the villa by 10am – quite a feat when most have been up until at least 2.30am – and a group of us gathers in a bar across the road from the small local rail station to stoke up on coffee and pastries before embarking on a train to Florence, where we mostly say our farewells and head off to our respective airports or further adventures. Roll on the next one! Hic!!

*Nearly there – sunset over London on the flightpath to Heathrow*

I have a return ticket from Pisa to Heathrow (a very inexpensive ticket this time), and have judged that, with an extra boost of stamina, I can just manage to see the famous leaning tower before check-in. Leaving my suitcase and rucksack in the Bagagli office at the rail station, I march efficiently – if slightly perspiringly – from the station to the touristy area which does not disappoint. I have no wish to go up the Tower (just as well, as there are no time-slots available to me), but I can wander round the Cathedral and the Baptistry and get a feel of the place on the walk there and back. Another traveller’s tick in a box I suppose.

And now I have to get back to reality for a while and deal with our carpet supplier going bust and other such delights. Arrivederci tutti!

About time too!

It appears to be seven weeks since I last attempted to commit my silly little life events to the blogosphere. In previous literary gaps, I have usually started several possible drivellings: perhaps a whimsical list, or a choice anecdote or the jocular retelling of an eventful day – one of which would make it, with editing and mild titivation, onto the website and into the inboxes of my awaiting public.

This time – absolutely nothing. The laptop has been used solely for sourcing essential items for our ‘great build’, the accompanying endless spreadsheeting required to keep track of same, and some TV streaming because our only ‘smart’ television is out of action for the duration until we get our ground floor spaces back.

Yes, we ended up with no fully usable downstairs room, apart from the new understairs cloakroom which whilst being fully operational, had to be shared with the builders and is a tad too small for two armchairs and a telly.

But I am relieved to report a significant milestone. The builders have gone!

Yay, hallelujah and THANK GOD!

They were sweary and untidy to the end, although in fairness they tidied up and retrieved all their belongings before waving us a last goodbye. Their parting shot was to remind us that we could leave them a review. “You’ll have to lie, of course,” they joshed. “Obviously!” was my immediate response. “Hmm – you said that too effing quickly there boss…” “Byeee”

We miss them already. Two quiet weeks later, I am trying valiantly – but possibly unsuccessfully – to return to more moderate language and a less gritty way of life. Sadly there is more grit (or dust anyway) to come, as the painter has now arrived to decorate the whole of the ground floor, but our chosen team for this job does not seem to include loud or sweary types (and if we have misjudged that, as we have misjudged so much over the past few months, I suspect these so-far charming Polish men will cuss in their own language which will hopefully not be quite as immediately offensive as the Anglo-Saxon to which we have almost become inured).

Before asking for a review, Builder P quipped – “Goodbye. It’s been emotional.” He’s not wrong. Oh dear, more than helpfully emotional in my case it seems.

Now, Mr J and I are not generally demonstrative types. Neither of us is naturally argumentative, combative or hotheaded. Whilst we disagree on plenty of things and I admit I can be quite grumpy, we have never had a proper row* and I can think of no more than two occasions on which I have lost it and shouted at him. In nearly 40 years. But I am full of shame to admit that I completely lost it with one of the builders.

It had nothing to do with building and much to do with his endless need to bang on about immigration, ULEZ, the role of women, politics and anything else that might be grabbing the headlines that day. On this particular day it was tax – and specifically pension tax rules – that had got his goat. As it happens, I know a thing or two about tax. I know how it works because I was trained by the UK tax authorities and then worked as a corporate tax practitioner for many years. I also know quite a bit about pension tax, having studied this for my own old-lady purposes in the last 6 years. So, unlike my usual quiet “Er, yes, I suppose so, ” or “Well, I’m not sure about that” before escaping to another room to do more dementia-postponing puzzles or go out for an invigorating walk, this time I decided I would engage and explain how the tax treatment of pension contributions and then pension payments actually works.

Well, I tried. But somehow the conclusion was still that the government just effing lies and effing robs us (his words, not mine). There may have been a further comment or several about “you rich people” or the awful “middle classes” or perhaps these had been along the way beforehand, but I couldn’t take any more of the apparent lack of listening to anything I had said and determined that I would walk away from all this before I got even more upset. I admit I may have been muttering my newly learned vernacular on my exit. And then…

… I fear I may have misheard. Recollections may vary – as someone once said – but for some reason I understood there to be amusement as Builder P claimed success in his bet that boss lady would say the effing F-word before they were done.

That was it. I may have been half-way up the stairs with my dignity just intact, but this was a red rag I simply could not ignore and I stormed back downstairs. There followed a veritable torrent of that F-word – “if you’re going to win your effing bet, I might as well effing do it properly, to your effing face”. Hmm. The look on the other builder’s face said it all. I had misheard, or at least slightly misjudged. (Perhaps… this one I tended to believe and he looked genuinely startled and leapt immediately to his pal’s defence.)

Once again muttering incoherently I made another undignified exit.

No more than one hour later, we shook hands and made up and jointly took some practical patio-related decisions. The discovery of an engraved stone panel underneath the old patio provided a much welcome distraction for the rest of the day.

Oh God, how awkward.

When Mr J much later returned from his day’s sailing (volunteering, not just for his own enjoyment, lest you think he is abandoning me unfairly to the dangers of the building trade), I confessed tearfully to my shameful behaviour. He claimed never to have been so proud! I don’t think he said this to make me feel better – although it most certainly did. My weeks-later recounting of the incident to Daughter J elicited the exact same reaction. Note to self – I’m clearly too meek and have left it far too long to assert myself. Just a shame I chose to do so on a dodgy mis-hearing. Ah well, move on.

I determined to keep this embarrassment to myself – I am still more ashamed than angry. But, the retelling to friends thus far has proved cathartic – and I am also a little ashamed to admit that I have enjoyed the laughter the story has provoked – so I have relented and written this down for posterity.

*The inscription that calmed us down, listing the many languages into which Byron’s works are translated. Rest assured, I will not be translating my shame into ANY other languages!*

But so far, I have been unable to begin the promised builders’ review. Where the eff should I start???

*to row – meaning to have a heated argument/disagreement. But please note that the more usual meaning in Jillings’ world would be “to propel with oars.”

From phlegm to traybake, and back

Mouth-breathing. A most unattractive and uncomfortable activity. Especially with accompanying dribble.

What started as a strange and mildly irritating dry cough more than two weeks ago turned into the mother of all head-and-chest colds, the like of which I do not readily recall. Exactly where all this unpleasant mucus comes from I cannot begin to understand. I can only hope that its creation is using up the vast number of additional chocolatey calories I have consumed in my quest for comfort since the onslaught began.

I choose to blame the builders for my ailment. As mentioned here before, they were generous in their liberal spreading of virus(-and expletive)-laden breath in recent weeks and it would perhaps have been a stronger constitution than mine to resist hosting a few of their friendly little bugs. Initially though, I blamed the chap sitting next to me when singing the St John Passion as he had seemed to cough every few bars in the dress rehearsal and the onset of my own little cough (little did I know…) seemed to fit the timing of such acquisition. We’ll never know, and the blaming of others hardly helps the wheezing.

The developing ailment meant that I was not bothered about the long and featureless Easter weekend. The only remotely exciting part of Easter this year was a drive down to a small industrial estate at the end of a lane in deepest Surrey countryside to view some paving for our new patio area. The flagstones, for which we had received a very competitive quote on the telephone, were very brown (the clue was probably in the name “Autumn Brown” but the pictures on the website had looked to be just what we wanted) and we immediately and unanimously disliked them. No wonder they were cheap.

Of course, we found something much nicer and made a quick purchase at a much higher price. Ah well, I suppose we will have to look at the patio – through our wonderful new glass doors if they ever arrive – for the rest of our days, so they definitely need not to be horrid!

As I continue to hack and sniff around the house, I slowly realise that the new appliances in the emerging kitchen space are connected to the mains and can be activated. I sift through the enormous pile of booklets and paperwork in the smaller of my two sparkling ovens in search of a few simple operating instructions. It rapidly becomes apparent that the manuals are so lengthy they require an entire magazine-length format, and – unlike the usual multi-lingual pamphlets to which we have grown accustomed over the years of occasional electrical goods replacement – English is not to be found at the front, the middle or the end of the first mag I pick up which appears to be entirely in… Danish! The next is in French, then come German, Dutch and a fourth un-immediately-identifiable language before I give up and decide to do something altogether else for a while.

Of course, being a linguist by training, I could attempt two of these brochures if I were showing off, but sadly – in the privacy of my own incompetence – I realise that supper would be after midnight if I went that route. My preference is therefore to look online. There will almost certainly be a whole section of Youtube devoted to the woe-begone digitally-impaired housewife searching for an on-switch on her shiny new and completely flat-surfaced appliance.

There is.

I watch for a few minutes and conclude that life is too short to endure any more of this cheerful so-called guidance. The urge to create a few spoof reels of my own is almost overwhelming, but is nipped in the bud by a more existential hunger. Actual hunger.

Naturally, when it comes to it, I muddle through the extremely straightforward controls in no time at all and the heating of a ready meal is achieved without a hitch. (Note/excuse: Ready meals are pretty much all there is to hand at present. Some weaning off these may be required at the end of this building process, but now is not the time.)

Once my snottiness settles to no more than a persistent chesty rattle, the days become sunnier and – on the rare breaks between effing builderly joshing and interminable (and largely ineffective) vacuuming – birdsong can be heard in the garden. I venture out for an hour’s weeding in the still-sodden flower beds, and am rewarded by the company of two fluttering robins (known in my mind as Emma and Dad – even though, of course, this is nonsense) who cannot wait for me to retreat indoors before seizing on the plentiful worms wriggling in the overturned soil.

Energised by this unaccustomed burst of Vitamin D, I decide to put the larger new oven to the test and cook up one of the few proper dishes I had been in the habit of creating before all this Grand Designs palaver took over our lives. No matter that the kitchen surfaces are temporary chipboard with oodles of sawdust and plaster residue. Don’t care that the tap has been unfixed and wobbles perilously if I forget and the hob is currently on the floor pending a worktop templating visit which I thought was happening on Friday but was an incorrect diary entry (my bad). I don’t mind at all that I will have to totter back and forth along the corridor to our temporary kitchen room to fetch all the ingredients from the temporary larder and the old fridge freezer. This will achieve much-needed “healthy” steps.

I am nearly ready to begin, when I remember why I did not do this earlier in the week. I cannot locate the tray-bake dish. I have looked in several cardboard boxes in the spare bedroom – twice in fact, which is annoying given that they are just that tiny bit too heavy for me to move safely but I do it anyway – and thoroughly in the cupboards in our temporary kitchen, and under our bed (where other trays are located, but not this one), and in the loft-roof-spaces (where all sorts of interesting things are hoarded, but no kitchen equipment) and I begin to wonder whether the ingredients I had optimistically purchased yesterday will go to waste after all. Of course, the possibility of creating something else with these same standard ingredients in a different receptacle is entirely beyond my addled brain even though, uselessly, it occurs to me now in the comfort of my temporary office (the previously unused armchair in our bedroom).

I do a Sudoku to calm down.

One more search. I contemplate the cardboard boxes in the spare bedroom. Maybe a third look? But this is a large earthenware dish I’m looking for, and I surely cannot have missed it twice already? Aha, perhaps it’s under the bed in this room rather than our own bed? I’m quickly on my stomach on the rug before I remember that there is an “extra” spare bed stuffed under the main spare bed, thus leaving no room for anything else at all. I bet I’ve just not looked properly under our own bed. So, up another flight and I fling myself unceremoniously into sniper-crawl position on the carpet and rummage once more under the bed – to no avail. I lie for a moment longer approaching quiet (and hungry) despair, when I glance – at mouse level – across to the wardrobe. Under which is lurking not only the elusive tray-bake receptacle but also a forgotten lasagne dish. Double hurrah – although of course by this stage I’d rather have a pasty.

*Proof! In amongst the dust is a beautifully clean oven cooking my supper. With windows still not installed, this is a brilliant space for unobserved dancing too, if only I had the breath!*

Dear reader, in fact the traybake was a small triumph – actually, not so small and there are leftovers for tonight – and I delighted in watching it almost silently bubble and brown through the wonderfully clean glass door, but all the dusty searching has not helped my elderly lungs and I’m still honking, creaking and rattling like a veteran miner *. Clichéd ending = “Ah well, onward and upward!”

*Note to self: Fact checking not always a good idea. Do not Google ‘miner lung disease’ again, at least not until coughing has ceased. I almost certainly don’t have pneumoconiosis…

Bach to building – and vice versa

The dust fairy continues to sprinkle her brick- and wood-based charms liberally around Jillings Towers, reaching parts heretofore pristine (well, that’s a lie if ever I wrote one – there’s never been a great deal of ‘pristine’ about this place – but please forgive such nervous hyperbole in a tired and dust-ridden bloggist) and gradually lowering our already unimpressive hygiene standards. Added to this expected construction grime, the builders’ ‘team cold’ has ensured that any idea at all of maintaining a hygienic household has been firmly ejected from the yet-to-be-completed fenestration, with more sniffing, sneezing, hawking and (not to put too fine a point on it) gobbing than you could shake a plague-doctor’s stick at.

I’m now confused at my own mangling of the English language and apologise for same – along with the unpleasant imagery (hopefully, or the words were pointless as well as mangled – sigh) it evokes. As I say, I’m a bit tired…

However, I will try to be more positive in my project update. Here goes:

We are about to take delivery of the kitchen units. Astonishingly, on precisely the date estimated at the beginning of this project.
The old understairs cupboard is shaping up nicely as a cloakroom after much entertaining measuring up using pretend toilets and sinks (in fact, I’ve never forgotten our previous builder demonstrating exactly where the toilet roll holder should be fixed in one of our bathrooms – there are some things that are seared on one’s memory for life, I fear). Sanitary wear also expected to arrive this week
The carpentry required for the understairs area means that the sweariest and sing-iest of the building trio is ensconced at the very centre of our home for hours on end – out of sight perhaps, but very much NOT out of earshot. Perhaps we are slowly becoming immune to his profanity and bursts of Elvis/Sinatra. (Hmm. Are we f***!)
Sorry. Moving on
We quite quickly choose some nice tiles for the cloakroom floor. I think some of our best design decisions over the years have been where Mr J sees something he likes and I don’t hate it/think it’s ridiculous/believe it’s a completely different colour from what he claims it to be. These tiles are a small example and I eagerly rubber-stamp the choice.
Naturally, the store turns out to have just the one tile remaining and, even for our smallest room, one tile will not suffice. The tile has no label on it but, if you set me a challenge like that, I do not rest until I hunt that thing down. Two days later, we travel to Sutton to Collect what I’ve Clicked and celebrate on the way home with a rather nice (and surprisingly inexpensive) lunch in Cheam, another good idea from Mr J (annoying, huh?)
Daughter J and cat have, sensibly, relocated themselves to somewhere altogether quieter, much-much-much closer to work and infinitely less dusty than our guest room. The cat, ungratefully in my view, has taken an immediate shine to his new home. Despite our collective fears that the move would stress him and that he would be lonely without his “grandparents” (ugh!) whilst his mistress is out putting in the long shifts to keep him in swanky litter and Dreamies, he has made himself completely at home and shows no signs of recognition let alone fondness when I turn up for an inspection of the new abode. Traitor.
The heating at JT, which was reconnected for a few weeks, has been switched off again temporarily to allow the newly poured concrete floor to set evenly. This floor is important, as it contains – excitement of excitements – underfloor heating, which of course means that in future I will be able to lie down on the kitchen floor whilst waiting for supper to cook itself in my new hi-tech ovens. Perhaps more likely (?) it will provide a soothing surface on which to lie when I’ve exhausted myself trying to learn how to use all this new hi-techery, and am waiting for the take-away to arrive
Shame there’s still no back wall on the house, but the lighter evenings are giving us greater positivity, and we slip easily back into our layers.

In amongst all the dust and mess and ‘language’ of the building work has been a small St John Passion oasis, in which I have been endeavouring to master the tenor line of this magnificent piece over the past two and a half months. The concert was last night and seems to have been carried off pretty well. Certainly no obvious disasters and I acquitted myself as well as I could have hoped.

Human nature being what it is, the key take-aways from the concert are – in no particular order

The tenor soloist (Evangelist – Jeremy Budd) had the most wonderful voice – completely beautiful, even from behind but especially lovely when he sang towards the choir in rehearsals
I took the train to and from the afternoon rehearsal and the performance itself. All worked perfectly. More miraculous than getting most of the notes right, to be honest
A friend came to watch/listen and it was great to catch up in the interval and on the walk to the station afterwards
Another choir member told me I have a lovely voice. I had never spoken to her before, nor do I remember ever sitting near her, so I have no idea how she might have formed this view – but it briefly made me happy all the same
I switched my phone off and turned my fitness tracker watch to ‘Cinema’ mode – but part-way through singing the first energetic number my wrist was being wildly vibrated beneath my smart black shirt-cuff. This happened several more times during the performance. In Cinema mode the watch is silent and does not light up so I was the only one to be aware. I later checked the app on my phone, and saw that the messages this vibration had been trying to impart included an offer to call the Emergency Services! This is on the basis that I did not appear to be active but my heart rate was above 120 bpm. Clearly I need to find an activity to programme into the watch which involves no steps but allows other exertion, or I risk inadvertently summoning an ambulance whenever I let rip a lusty chorus.
A brief exchange with the leader of my voice-group as we dismounted the stage: Me “I think that went off quite well, don’t you?” Him “Yes, but I was really worried just before the end because you hadn’t turned to the final number.” Oh, that’s how to burst a bubble! How had he seen from two rows behind me? It clearly hadn’t mattered, as I was completely ready – and obediently watching the conductor – when we started singing. I don’t even remember being late turning the page, or being any different from those either side of me. Did he mean another time? But I was fully prepared throughout – I even had judiciously placed paper clips for non-choral sections and had done my homework thoroughly, still feeling new and inexperienced. Why did this matter? Isn’t this his problem rather than mine……??

I’ll give you one guess as to which of the above has stayed with me the most.

How stupid. Hahahahahaha.

Foggy foggy brew, and other stories from the building site

Ahoy there. I’m still here.

But colder. Also a little older, but none the wiser. And ‘delighting’ in my new profession as a tea-lady. (Note: my choice of the ‘bon mot’ seems to be leaning towards the cliché rather than reality – since when have I found anything to do with the dreadful brown sludge that is apparently my nation’s favourite beverage delightful?)

I should explain. Followers of this blog will probably be aware that Jillings Towers has been due a makeover for some considerable time, and our aim to upgrade the kitchen has been something of an on-off frustrating journey ever since I left work five years ago and realised how grotty everything had become.

Well, now we are finally putting that right.

“The Build” seems to have taken all my focus and energy, and I realise I have failed to update this blog for weeks. But here are a few thoughts which I have been diligently thinking, but casually failing to write down over the first phase of these works.

Week 1

On the fourth day, to remind myself of the progress that has been made by the builders, I poke my chilly nose out of the living room. This room, formerly little used (as the ceiling has been threatening to fall down for years, and we have retained its manky sofas purely for the use of itinerant musicians wishing to rehearse somewhere off the street) which is now mostly our daytime ‘home’ because it contains all the survival elements, the most important being the microwave and our enormous fridge freezer. Even the fridge-freezer has gone quiet in awe at the sound of destruction all around – or perhaps it’s just full of dust, like everything else, and is conserving its voice in preparation for imminent pegging out.

I have reluctantly re-learned to make tea in order to provide a seemingly endless supply to our trio of builders. As on our previous big build, we seem to have hired a salt-of-the-earth outfit: local men who have been in business together since their teenage years who, now they are in their middle years seem never happier than when wielding sledgehammers, mixing cement, haranguing their clients in unimaginatively profane joshing and drinking their tea – regularly pointing out how generously provisioned their previous clients’ biscuit tins had been. I quickly remember that Asda is cheaper than my local Sainsburys and, as a bonus, by walking that little bit further for my bargain biscuits I can ensure I can no longer hear the swearing.

Re-entering the house, I wonder if my glasses have steamed up with the exertion of those extra steps to Asda, but eventually realise that this is the new indoor environment. A haze of dust from the demolition work which has happened extraordinarily early in this lengthy project penetrates into even the darkest corners, and of course eventually settles – over ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING.

I stagger under the weight of biscuits and teabags and fumble my half-blind way to the works canteen (our living room) and through the fog of descending brick-dust I clumsily make a brew.

As I vacuum after the men have departed, I recall that 18 years ago, the third man of our first building trio ran his cement-flecked Henry around every day before going home. Hmm – how times have changed, and I begin to mutter gently under my breath – effity, effity, eff – etc.

Week 2

My ludicrous over-excitement at our first major, and long-coveted, kitchen appliance purchase at a stonking discount (a genuine discount, as disbelievingly verified by another independent supplier), wanes as we stumble through a double quagmire – firstly that of the enormous and bewildering choice of ovens, hobs, extractors, floor coverings, blinds, and technology-enabled items we’ve barely heard of, and secondly the actual quagmire that is our poor old garden now the builders have churned up the part nearest the house and the rest has turned into some sort of boggy lake. (Ok, the lake I will concede is due to the weather, as the UK has sadly revolved into a permanent rainy season.)

It is exciting though. At last, the plans we have been worrying away at for years are coming to fruition. We cannot complain about the speed with which it is all happening in the end. Builders suddenly became available, and clearly wanted to start as soon as possible. So, after taking up references (you can take the couple out of the Civil Service, but you can’t take old-fashioned due diligence out of the couple!) at super-speed, we gave the green light and within two days we were living in a building site.

I spend most of my time wearing a minimum of five body-core layers (thank the good Lord for Uniqlo, Mr Marks and Mr Spencer – the holy trinity of thermals!). As a result, I think I am currently winning the “Who’s the hardest!” competition and, when our one modest electric heater is not required in our Home room, I graciously allow it to follow Mr J rather than myself. When the situation becomes severe and even an extra sixth layer fails to raise my temperature to an acceptable level, I leave the house at speed with my trusty shopping bag (sometimes filled with yet more items for the charity shop) and schlep around a bit, usually returning with treats of one sort or another and a slightly healthier glow.

This is the first time I have written my blog wearing gloves. I have been trialling my splendid (and extremely cheap in Superdry, of all places) bright orange knitted fingerless gloves on outdoor fuel-voucher issuing duty for the past two months and I’m not sure my fingertips are any warmer sitting in my bedroom today than they were outdoors at the last event. Please therefore excuse any typos which slip through. Accuracy has never been my strong point, but fat orange-clad fingers are not helping one bit.

I have also never been more keen to spend time at choir practices (even if I have to keep my coat on for the one in the church) and Pilates in the pub, although I have slightly regretted leaving on at least one too many base layers on more than one such occasion. I can empathise now with the generations of old who sewed themselves into their winter undergarments until the arrival of Spring. I don’t much fancy the goose-grease or whale oil with which they were often smeared though. I need to try and remain at least outwardly civilised! (Opinions on whether I am achieving this may differ.) Not sure the rising f*** count in my vocabulary is helping with the façade of gentility…

On Saturday, next-door’s five- and three-year-old children turn up at our front door in high-vis vests and with a clip-board and pen. They are here for inspection of the building site and the elder one (Boy) takes it all extremely seriously. Where he has learned the impressively builder-like sucking of teeth I do not know, but he has it down pat. He strides around the devastation, scribbling as he goes, and eventually pronounces that we have failed the inspection and must do better. His mother hastily shepherds him away, along with his only-ever-so-slightly muddied sister.

It may have been a mistake to send a report to this effect to the builders. Unsure if they will return on Monday now.

Week 3

We experience a new low on the swearing front as an existing RSJ is somehow raised 6 inches, into the underfloor space of my currently inaccessible first-floor office. In fact, there is a burst of blood-curdling screams followed by the best-yet stream of effing and blinding, such that both Mr J and I emerge at speed from our respective hiding places in anticipation of calling an ambulance pronto. However, by the time we have reached the scene, the decibel level of f*cks has lowered and there is even a resumption of the random snatches of song which we are growing to expect as light relief from the invective.

We retreat quietly to our respective heater and blankets.

Our old kitchen and breakfast room are now unrecognisable and mostly carted away in a skip. A new patio area is being built up, and bricks for a decorative garden wall have been delivered. We are cheered to see the progress and jump around a bit in excitement (actually, largely to warm up).

Week 4

We have arranged a final planning meeting with the kitchen company who will supply our units. I have had a change of heart about the style of the cupboards after one of the builders comment that the handles are those which the kitchen company always fit to ‘council hahzes’. Hmm. I had honestly already felt unsure about the handles although for a different reason, and I nervously ask the nice kitchen lady if we can change the style to a handle-less alternative range. I expect this to affect the price in an upwardly direction from our original quote, but it seems that, taken together with other small changes we are making, the new quote is a little bit lower. Aside from looking better in the mock-up pictures, I can revel in the slight easing of the stressful number-crunching on my project spreadsheet.

Yes, I’m back in the land of project-management and spreadsheet nirvana. Just like the old days, but with less commuting and fewer foreign trips (or none ever again if my budget spreadsheet is currently to be believed! Ah well…)

In an idle moment, I wonder briefly if I could institute a swear-box on-site? Would this perhaps go some way to offsetting the enormous amounts I am transferring to the builders’ bank account each week? “Don’t you f***ing believe it Missus!”

Week 5

Having reduced our two old rooms to one chilly shell, opened up the far end and raised the roof, bricked up a superfluous window and created a new doorway in a new position, the builders are starting to focus on electrics and plumbing. The most exciting bit of this is the installation of a new boiler by their mate Ian the plumber early on Saturday morning. More tea-making ensues, but this time the pay-off is more immediate and we are warmer again in the main part of the house. Hurrah!

I have gradually decreased the energy I expend on daily cleaning. Initially, and to be fair in the most dusty days, I waited no more than a couple of minutes after the team had gone before plugging in my trusty Miele and bashing around the ground floor, first floor and stairs to minimise the grinding in of particles. I now brush or vacuum the hallway most days, but have largely ceased to expect to see any shiny surfaces and have reduced the time spent on this thankless task to the bare minimum. How quickly standards fall.

The chaps now have endless questions about where we need lights, powerpoints, switches etc. And what height are those doors really supposed to be? And where is the fridge-freezer going? After detailed consultation with Mr J, I draw up a printed document and a colour-coded diagram based on an old copy of the kitchen company’s floorplan. I carefully, and in clear blue felt pen, amend the plan to reflect the final changes we have made in our order. I am quietly proud of this.

Within 5 minutes, the swearier of the builders has not only tea-stained my lovely diagram, but rubbished it by seemingly being entirely unable to notice my bold amendments and simply following the old design which has the fridge-freezer and larder switched, the sink in the wrong place, and the worktops the wrong depth etc. No amount of vociferous arguing on my part seems to help.

Builder “You need to give us the most up-to-date effing plans!”

Client (cowering) “Yes, I know, but we only have this one and I’ve made it really clear what changes there are.”

Builder “So, this is the effing fridge?”

Client (bewildered) “No, look I’ve scribbled that out and written in capitals ‘LARDER’. The fridge is here.”

Builder “So, with the fridge there, what the eff is this supposed to be?”

Client (tetchy) “That’s NOT where the fridge goes. I just showed you. And wrote it clearly on the diagram. And that bit there hasn’t changed at all – it’s the oven stack.”

Builder “So the effing fridge is next to the effing ovens, right?”

Client (having lost the plot completely – it is still not yet 9am!) “Oh FFS! No. You’re taking the p*** now right?”

And I honestly cannot tell if he is or not. I retreat to a safe (and now warm) space and await the next onslaught.

Subsequent inspection of where they have placed powerpoints etc seems to indicate that either I have made my point in the end, or the non-sweary one has quietly been absorbing the necessary information – and CAN READ AN EFFING DIAGRAM!

My apologies. It has been a long week. And I can no longer find a way to upload photographs to this blog to prove I’ve not made up all of the above. (Sticks upgrading WordPress and/or laptop onto the already creakingly long to-do list.)

I’m off to the shop to buy more tea-bags.

Powerless

It’s dark. Darker than it should be.

My alarm hasn’t woken me, but I somehow struggle to consciousness and notice that it is precisely nothing-o’clock. My bedside timepiece is black. Faceless.

The world has clearly ended. I might as well go back to sleee…

Aha! Brain begins to engage. Power cut.

Prompted by a timeless curiosity, I stagger to the far corner of the bedroom to retrieve my phone. Eleventy hundred WhatsApp messages from my entire street who have variously suffered, or not suffered, the same fate as Jillings Towers, and are variously offering each other hot drinks, links to the UK Power Net website, moral support and general life-saving advice. And have been doing so for fully two hours whilst I have blissfully – and in this case, completely appropriately – slept through the drama thus far.

Not so Daughter J. Beneath my peaceful haven, all merry hell is let loose. Not for many years have we witnessed such tantrumming – quite unnerving so early in the day. Any thoughts I may have of descending the stairs are quickly placed on hold as I await a gap in audible remonstrations before I whizz past and on down to where Mr J sits at the breakfast table, bereft of his porridge but proudly drinking coffee brewed using water boiled in his camping kettle on our gas hob lit by an olde-worlde match and casually reading his book to the light of every man’s best gadget, an uber-stylish head-torch.

I am, of course, glad of the kettle. Less so the head-torch which somehow taunts me from the far end of the table. My iPad is, fortuitously, fully charged and using my phone as a hotspot (oh, how tech savvy I truly am!) I am able to devour the news headlines whilst trying to avoid the occasional nodding strobe-effect across the penumbral expanse of newspapers and wood.

Later, as the lights flicker back on, there are whoops of veritable joy to be heard above, where loud singing has replaced the swearing. Daughter J’s busy day, when she absolutely cannot be seen with dirty, wet or frizzy hair (apparently it frizzes uncontrollably if not dried and straightened – news to me, who spent almost a decade of commuter morning half-hours in a train-carriage corner with wet hair, trusting in the personal invisibility of middle age) could now begin.

I venture upstairs and commiserate briefly, possibly not (with hindsight) helping enormously by agreeing that current hair-styling does indeed resemble the cat. Also, my suggestion that hair could have been dried at a kind neighbour’s house meets with a withering look such as would fell an oak.

I am about to leave the house – late myself by this stage – when the glorious return to power abruptly comes to an end.

In no time at all, the WhatsApping neighbours – should they be able to tear themselves away from their devices – could observe a wildly cantering and mercifully dry- and straight-haired woman, escaping the screams emanating from the mid-reaches of Jillings Towers and trusting that Mr J will be safe enough hiding under the table (as long as he remembers to extinguish the flipping head-torch).

Post script. Apparently the power was restored once more in the nick of time and the world did not have to experience the affront of scuzzy locks or sweary mouths. At least, not on our account.

Post post script. This was a delightful start to an otherwise dodgy week which subsequently

lurched through the coldest ever outdoor fuel-voucher issuance (how can it be right that volunteers sit in hundreds of layers of thermal clothing at a too-small table in a howling icy gale, trying to prevent the paper vouchers flying away by careful shuffling beneath weighty literary tomes grabbed at the last minute as paperweights (thank goodness for that forethought), writing names on said vouchers with freezing fingers and pens that keep failing due to the cold, running down the batteries in iPads and phones to zero again due to the freezing temperature and prompting the summoning of power-packs from home, whilst the legs of the plastic bucket seats borrowed from the foodbank sink relentlessly into the sucking mud? I am not a political person, but there must be a better way than this. And if you think I am exaggerating – well, really, you could not actually make this up. Ok, apart from the ‘hundreds of layers’ bit – full-disclosure, I was only wearing nine.)
succumbed to persuasion from a friend to undertake a ‘compare and contrast’ exercise between versions of the St John Passion – a line by line musical notation ‘spot the difference’ which, whilst somehow soothing, was strangely time-consuming and seemed to result in aches and a slight fever, particularly when painstakingly and cross-eye-makingly completing the reporting spreadsheet for submission to our conductorly oracle
resulted in the eventual realisation that the aches and fever were not of Bach’s making, but more prosaically a bout of Covid.

Post post post script. Im on the mend now and we hope the power cuts are ended, but there is worryingly still a hole in the road with the power company logo on it.

Christmas 2023

In the blink of an eye, the panic of this most recent Yule recedes and the relative austerity of January looms outside in the miserable wintry murk.

The last of the guests depart from a blustery Heathrow, and a previous departee lands on some windswept island in the Indian ocean – both events causing me huge travel-envy, and propelling me onto tourist websites and into my Europe by Rail (Christmas gift) book before I can even think of tackling the much-needed housework.

In fact, I wonder how long I can make this “The world/my family owe me a complete rest” vibe last? Until the weekend? Until the end of the month/year? Twelfth night? – might be pushing it a bit there!

In fact, after wondering for a short time, and wandering for a slightly longer time in the park, I determine that I would rather relax in a clean and tidy house, and set to with the vacuum cleaner and the mop. At least an hour of domestic whirlwind-ing passes, resulting in fewer crumbs and glittery bits around the place, a much more hygienic kitchen and dining table, and a wonderful feeling of entitlement…entitlement to replace those skivvy-expended calories with a few (ok, more than a few!) of the festive cheese and mincemeat varieties.

After an enormous plateful of cheese and crackers, and my third mince pie, I am almost unable to move, but take to pondering this year’s Christmas highlights.

Mother Christmas and her tiny helper – after a disastrous substitute Santa last year, we were informed by our 11-year-old niece that there was no need to ask Father Christmas to call with his large sack during the daytime, as has been his wont, but that perhaps Cousin K (confusingly known as Daughter J elsewhere in my meanderings) would like to play the role of Mother Christmas with Niece H helping to hand out the pressies (which were already amassing around the tree and encroaching dangerously ever further across the floor) to the assembled family members. And so it came to pass that, as we contemplated a second go at the Mimosas (I later found that this is simply the American name for Bucks Fizz and I feel cheated), a cheesy grin and a flash of red-and-white appeared at the front room window, presaging the arrival not of wise men but of two intrepid women of the J tribe, gloriously accoutred and (hilariously) bewailing that they had come to bring us presents but had somehow forgotten to pack any or even to bring a sack at all! Although lacking in double-entendre opportunity this year (Santa’s sac having almost always reduced the supposedly adult members of the family to veritable chuckle-jelly), the appearance of a normally responsible 28-year-old businesswoman in an oversized Santa suit alongside her young cousin also in red but with reindeer hair bunches and shuffling on her knees on an old pair of gardening shoes provoked much merriment.
Where’s yer sack Santa?
Of course, there were the usual suggestions of locking them outside to parade up and down the street, but despite their apparent lack of presents, we wanted their help in dismantling the living room parcel mountain before the cat beat us to it.
The aforementioned Santa suit has more than proved to be money well spent. It has previously been modelled by ALL Daughter J’s immediate family members at different times – a rite of passage for each, perhaps, although Mr J is showing worrying signs of attachment to it, having once again this year been co-opted to dress up and hand out presents to neighbouring children, this time at the local refugee hotel. A highlight I missed by contriving to be in a pub drinking wine and eating pizza with Pilates friends.
Panto!!!
Splendidly ugly sisters
Oh no it wasn’t! But, oh yes it was, and possibly the best one for a few years. We think it was our sixth visit to the Yvonne Arnaud Theatre in Guildford en extended famille and this year’s Cinderella was just the right mix of traditional story and format, Guildford panto regular features, and good quality singing and dancing. And pump-action water pistols. (We would have asked for our money back if the Twelve Days of Christmas custard-pie and water fest had been missing, but I made sure to seat myself well away from the aisle – a definite benefit of repeat attendances)
A veritable farmyard of pigs in blankets. Apparently Daughter J had eaten 35 pigs in blankets on her last shift before Christmas. This was a worry, as I only had 42 in the freezer, but as she pointed out, that was still sufficient for each of the other Christmas diners to have at least one.
Homemade Christmas pudding – another advance worry, as we had forgotten to eat the ‘test’ one so had no idea whether this might be a dismal failure. At the last minute, after over an hour of steaming, Mr J stuffed a coin into the pudding for one of us to find, only for it to pop out as soon as I cut the first slice. I needn’t have fretted; it was every bit as good as a Waitrose one and had only taken 10 hours or so to produce.
A perfectly decent lunch! There was to be no grilling of things that should have been roasted (a past faux pas), nor annihilation-grade boiling of sprouts,
A surplus sprout
nor leaving of vital elements of the meal in the microwave to be discovered on Boxing Day. Somehow everything fell into place just fine. Not the best result from a blog-posting point of view – ahem, must try harder next year.
The Boxing Day walk. This year, it was decided we should visit an ornate chapel in deepest Surrey and then drive to Leith Hill for a brisk walk up to the Tower where a lovely little café would reward us with cake (as if we didn’t have enough of the sweet stuff at home). The chapel was closed. The Tower café was closed. Rellies now suing under the Trades Description Act (does that still exist? apparently so, at least in part).
A clear lack of cake here

I see no cake!!!
We pointed out that the ‘walk’ part of the deal had been achieved as planned – but somehow this was not enough. Until we provided cake at home, at which point all was forgiven (we think).

Daughter J has been back at work for days now. Her brother is safely ensconced in The Maldives, also working (so he says). I’m already half-way through the washing of bed-linen and we are confident that all surplus calories will have been consumed before the final stroke of midnight on NYE.

All of the above pales into insignificance however on hearing that Mr J’s longest-standing friend, whose mother served alongside Mr J’s own mother in Suffolk’s National Childbirth Trust when their boys were tiny together, died unexpectedly two days before Christmas. The news didn’t reach us until our guests were leaving. To say this is a shock doesn’t begin to cover it.

As a result of this dreadful information, the highlights of our Christmas do not feel guilty or hollow now, but richer and more gratefully recorded.

RIP Oliver.