one crying eye

Cold walks

There’s something rather wonderful about wrapping up warm for a winter walk. This is particularly true if the wrapping achieves a satisfactory level of warmth. Today was successful on that count.

My core has to be completely layered: padded out and swaddled. Several layers of thin clothing are required, at least one of which needs to have a close-fitting high neck in a soft material. Maybe a woolly jumper or thicker fleece can go just below my coat, if there’s room.

I find that the tops of my arms are particularly critical and if they have insufficient coverage, I will be shivery whatever I do. A thin scarf wrapped loosely around my shoulders before putting on my outer garment is usually best, regardless of how many other layers I’m already wearing.

My quilted jacket (showing its age this year although it’s only its third winter I think) plus a simple but good quality waterproof were donned with great difficulty in zipping because of the fat yellow scarf I have recently acquired and which is a devil to tuck in. I fashioned a clever collar arrangement with the scarf today which allowed me to zip the waterproof up nice and high, which in turn kept my hood in place.

In fact, my outfit was initially topped off with a most ridiculous fleece cap – owned for about 15 years I reckon – with earflaps and a peak which I am usually embarrassed to wear in my street in case someone sees me (and they always do). But today was so cold that I needed the waterproof hood up too, against the biting wind, so that covered the silly hat and the combo was perfectly warm.

My feet, below the double-clad legs (woolly tights plus denim jeans), boasted two pairs of socks (one thin, one chunky walking) and of course my trusty hiking boots which have been doing service for nearly 20 years now. My hands, perhaps the most vulnerable part, were stuck firmly in my ski gloves. (Aside – I have only been skiing once in my life, before I had children. My older child has just reached 28. Can these really be the same gloves I purchased in C&A all those years ago? I don’t remember buying ski gloves more recently, and the labels inside are completely worn out. A quick Google search uncovers a couple of pairs of identical gloves for sale on eBay – one in Italy and one in Russia. Only €10. Can’t be antique then, but who knows. They are brilliantly warm – I used to wear them on my walk to work even when there was no snow. Don’t care if they looked daft.)

The ensemble rendered me several sizes wider than usual and very slightly restricted in upper-body movement, but I was completely ready for action! Off to Richmond Park to stomp out a few calories and take in some nature to cleanse the soul.

Today’s sky was very grey, and for most of the time a ‘tiny’ snow was falling – none of those juicy fat flakes here, just juvenile crystal clumps with irregular shapes blowing in the wind (I caught some to check – they were definitely not the lush and pretty doily variety that people like to paint).

For once, I shunned the podcasts, audiobooks and Spotify playlists and left my headphones at home. I would instead listen to the world. Well, I mostly listened to the rustling of my hood and the brushing of my waterproofed arms against my sides – and in one place near Robin Hood Gate, the dual-carriageway A3 rushing past – but there was also the underfoot crunching of icy puddles, the guttural grunts and occasional roars of deer who seemed not to care about the cold but just wanted a fight a bit, and the endless screech of parakeets which still seems incongruous in winter.

There were few people out today. I navigated around a small bunch of intrepid sledge-wielding children trying desperately to believe that the slopes had more snow than they actually had, while their mothers stood several metres apart with their phones and hot chocolates.

At Pen Ponds there was brown ice where the path should be, but the Ponds themselves had not frozen over, much to the relief of the geese and swans. I spied a young man in shorts with bright red legs (so red I didn’t even need to stare at them to notice, honest!) leaning exhaustedly over one of the bird identification boards – a veritable redshank himself. He gave me a cheery smile as I passed, clearly deranged, and later huffed and puffed past me.

Other humankind, aside from a few other jogging bare-leggers, were dressed rather similarly to myself, and mostly trailed dogs or occasionally a walking partner a few feet apart, clearly grabbing the opportunity for some clandestine, but necessary, company in these lockdown days. The statement bobble hat is big this year, and there was a fair selection on view, but most people had gone the full Arctic and either sported double layer headgear like me or – in a few impressive cases – trapper fur flaps!

The view was bleak, not romantic or glorious like the deeper snow blanket a couple of weeks ago. But there was a feeling of contentment as I marched around in all my wrappings, exposed to but protected from the elements.

My stupid eye was crying the whole way though! I guess it just hadn’t got the cheeriness memo.

And you’ll notice I’ve only given you a photo of Pen Ponds and not of me or my outfit. So you’ll just have to imagine that for yourself. Can’t be any more ludicrous (or comfy) than the real thing.

Sunday excitements vs irritations

(1) Our washing machine has lost its bearings – or some such ailment which makes it ridiculously noisy when spinning. After consulting an engineer, we have determined that the costs of repair outweigh the benefit and we are best advised to buy a new one. Irritating because that will be expensive, but exciting because we will have a new machine to play with (and anything to distract us in our currently restricted lives is exciting – perhaps that’s a bit sad).

I spent more than an hour researching what replacement model to buy. Not at all exciting, and completely irritating because they all have very slightly different dimensions and plus/minus points. Gave up in the end, and will no doubt only renew my efforts when the current machine gives up the ghost entirely. Irritated with myself for this, of course.

(2) We expected snow again today, and sure enough mid-morning there was a first flurry and an immediate ping from the neighbourhood WhatsApp group as someone spotted it. Exciting! But nearly two hours later, the pathetic swirls of tiny flakes continue to wet the ground and serve only to keep us indoors – how irritating even though we should be pleased not to have the disruption a massive dump of snow would undoubtedly entail.

(3) I thought it was lunchtime. My stomach told me it was hours since breakfast. There’s a Scotch Egg in the fridge that needs eating. Exciting. Then I looked at my clock and discovered I still had more than half an hour before I could legitimately accept the time could be described as ‘lunch’. Irritating in the extreme – and had to fill that time with writing this stupid post.

Things to do in a mask

I have previously written about things not to do whilst wearing a mask – running for a train, and crying. Generally speaking, whilst I certainly feel safer doing my supermarket shop in a mask, most things are a bit of a pain whilst masked-up, especially when wearing glasses and in the cold.

However, this week I have finally found something which I believe is improved by the wearing of a mandatory face-covering.

The routine mammogram!

I didn’t want to go, of course, but I reckoned I would be in and out of there pretty quickly and I might as well get it over with, particularly as they had called me up and twisted my arm (more of that at the appointment – aargh!).

The instructions insisted I should not enter the building until five minutes before my appointment start time. Having practically galloped the 1.9 miles from home (inevitably, I had left too late), I was glowing on arrival and glad of a few moments to calm down (and notice with satisfaction that there were, indeed, no parking spaces to be had so my evangelical non-driving habit was vindicated) before donning my mask, removing my glasses to avoid fogging, and climbing the stairs to the poorly signposted room. And no, I don’t think it was my lack of spectacles that meant I couldn’t see the signs – but who knows.

I peered through the glass. Just two NHS staff inside. I ventured in and stood right back against the door to answer the usual questions about who I am and where I live etc. At least here I was not shouting my personal details to a room of random other people, as in the chemist’s a few weeks ago.

With no further mucking about, I was immediately ushered into the room with the dreaded tit-squeezing machine and instructed to remove my top half. And it was here that I realised the benefit of wearing the mask. It removes some lower peripheral vision. This conveniently meant that I had no visual prompt that I was naked: no glimpsed awareness of my bare-chestedness. (In fairness, my frontal assets have always been pretty hard to spot at the best of times, even when I had twenty-twenty vision, but let’s not go there.)

There followed the usual nurse-patient grappling dance, with actual physical arm-twisting to get me to assume the correct position at the boob-squasher – four times, one for each X-ray, with no apparent learning on my part from one to the next. I am quite sure that my inability to see what was going on below my nose was an advantage. Out of sight, out of mind? I don’t normally look, but there is usually an awareness at the edge of vision of what is going on – and this time, there wasn’t. It’s not really an option to close one’s eyes – standing up with eyes closed is a step too far. It would feel a bit weird and probably result in falling over. (Just imagine, passing out and being suspended by a mammary stuck tight in the machine!)

Anyway, as a result of the restricted view, I was more than usually willing to just give up trying to work out what the hell the nice lady was trying to get me to do with my upper torso, and allow her to nudge me around until I was in the right place.

All whilst talking about something completely different, of course.

I was out of there in less than 15 minutes.

I was at least half a mile away on my way home and on a busy footpath beside the river before I remembered to check, now I was no longer wearing a mask, that I had correctly dressed my upper half whilst semi-blind!

Slow days

This week seems very long and it is only Wednesday – at least, I think it’s Wednesday because it’s bin day. It’s definitely bin day – I heard one of the collections earlier. A highlight of course.

My excitement at featuring on a BBC podcast was short-lived. Superseded briefly by achieving more than 3000 views of a comment I made on Twitter, even a smattering of ‘Likes’. There is clearly a knack to doing these things: a formula to follow. But it is all also somehow meaningless. I suspect that any serious Twitter fame would come with an enormous downside to match.

This won’t stop me from setting myself targets related to this Blog, or to Twitter and podcasts, but this is largely to ensure I do something – anything at all – to fill my days with writing of some sort or another whilst I can’t get out to explore a bit more. I am completely tired of trudging the streets, although it helps when I have a delivery to make because that gives a purpose, and walking in the Park at the moment is a very muddy affair.

This year it will be the sixtieth birthdays of many of my friends. I still have a large group of friends from my university days and it is wonderful that we have remained in touch over the forty plus years since we first met. We have an age range of about four years, and a few have already clocked up the big six-oh, but 2021 is the biggest group. I suddenly remembered one such birthday at the end of last week (a non-Facebooker, so had to rely on my memory – well done me, good at trivia), and pinged off an appropriately abusive text. As a result, we arranged a phone catch up today and it was great to catch up on a year of each other’s very different lives. It has made me think that I really should arrange similar one-to-one chats with others. We’re not really into Zoom as a group (we thought about it and decided we have to do enough of those for our day jobs – haha most of them still working) and it’s easier to speak with just one person at a time.

Interesting that I’ve heard in the media recently that this is a trend – to go back to the old-fashioned telephone call. I’m just SO on-message these days.

(Or boring? Never!)

We also jumped on the latest Netflix film release The Dig last night, which seems to be what everyone else is doing, but it seemed relevant here because Mr J grew up near Sutton Hoo and was particularly keen to test Mr Fiennes’ Suffolk accent (he passed with flying colours and some of the turns of phrase elicited actual chuckles of approval). Apparently there had been a flurry of activity on Mr J’s old Suffolk friends’ WA chat group about the location shots for the film and where each group member had done what in their teens. As someone who hails from the west of England myself, I was slightly horrified at some of the tales from these East Anglian savages, but hey – it was another example of friendship and bonding in these troubled times I suppose.

So, I have now proved that despite the slowness of the days, there are some interesting ways to pass the time.

Now it’s back to trying to decide what to do with the rest of yet another rainy day. I have a supermarket trip next. The excitement is immense.

Nearly there

I am so close to finishing the article I’ve been writing for the last many months.

In celebration, I’ve been distracting myself yet further by attempting to write a sea shanty. Why not join the millions of others who are jumping on this particular bandwagon? I’ve already declared to my singing group that I haven’t written anything new for our virtual pub session tomorrow, so I have no idea why I’m even trying. Maybe the relentless rain has something to do with it. Or just the usual procrastination over my article. That’s usually the way anything else gets done – when I was originally determined to do thing one, I’ll get things seven, eight and fifty-five done instead.

I am slightly worried that another reason for sea-shanty writing may be that I feel I have set a precedent for writing original (and mildly humorous) material for these sessions and I am letting myself down by not doing so again. So why didn’t I start a month ago when we were given the theme for this month’s session? No idea. And really, who will care – apart from me – that there is no Jillings special this time? No-one.

It may also be that I can’t settle to anything sensible because I’m currently feeling all skittish with small success. I seem to have got myself quoted on the BBC again: this time on Kermode and Mayo’s Film Review podcast (here if you’re interested). In fact, my contribution riffs off a Facebook post of my husband’s two years ago so it’s more of a family affair really, but that’s quite nice in a way.

Ho hum. I guess it’s good to achieve something though, however small or insignificant that might be in the greater scheme of things, it somehow proves I still exist.

A confusion of snow

A Sunday morning is suddenly confounded by the gentle falling of snow in the suburbs.

It was forecast, and therefore not unexpected. It was also preceded by a spectacular sunrise (not witnessed myself but shared online by more larkish neighbours) and then an ominous grey. We could now confidently and wisely predict the imminent arrival of the white stuff.

Sure enough, as I finished the washing up and made my second cup of coffee, down came the first large flakes. Now an hour or so later, we have full coverage. Even the stubborn wet patio has succumbed to a blanket, at least until the precipitation stops or turns to rain.

There is something magical about snow. Even now, I get a feeling of excitement when it arrives. I don’t know why, exactly. I can absolutely remember the aching cold as a child, when we ventured up the nearby hill on the very edge of the Cotswolds with our makeshift sledges to join with everyone else in throwing ourselves down the best slopes for brief thrills until, as rapidly as our best descent, our inadequate wool mittens and lack of thermal socks forced us back home, whingeing loudly.

Even as an adult in more recent years, I have hoofed it over to Richmond Park to perform snow angels and then regretted not wearing a fully waterproof coat. Despite the vast improvements in outer- (and under-) wear thermal technology over the years, mistakes can still be made and I’m sure my hands are more sensitive now anyway.

Yet, despite the clear memories of cold and bone-ache and damp, I still become over-excited. Running around the house, taking pictures from each window as I expect it will stop and all disappear very quickly. I am going to have to go outside soon too. Ridiculous.

There is quite a silence when I poke my nose outside. Just the occasional siren (we live very near to the hospital so this is normal, although somehow more worrying in these Covid times) and some cheery toddler chuckles as people walk past on their way to the Park, no doubt.

One thought though – I am glad my next-door neighbour got her Coronavirus jab yesterday rather than having to venture out either on foot or in the car on the no-doubt treacherous roads. There will be many others with appointments today. Sigh. There’s always a negative somewhere isn’t there?

But it’s still beautiful, so I will enjoy it while I can.

Endless prevarication

Months ago, I began writing an article about monologues. Yesterday I found myself once again mucking about with it, adding more content (well, in the intervening months there have been several additional experiences to recount), reorganising the few pieces I liked from what was already there, rewriting bits I no longer liked, deleting items which were distracting, then writing extra material which is probably also going to end up on the ‘not relevant’ cutting pile – or maybe once again change the direction of the piece.

I just can’t seem to decide what is the angle. But more importantly, I just can’t finish it. As soon as I get somewhere with it, I congratulate myself with another cup of coffee, or a long walk, or even – when desperate – with reading a book for half an hour before it becomes time to cook supper again. And that’s just when I’m engaged with it at all. In those intervening months, I’ve managed to write several songs, watch more plays and TV shows (only in the evenings – I am very strict on this), read more books than ever before, respond to Twitter items about writing (so it seems we’re all as bad as each other in this respect – so, how exactly has that helped?)

In fact, I’ve just taken a break to pop along to collect something from a neighbour, then read the Introduction to a new book (which I’m aiming to make part of my next writing effort – like, that’s going to happen!), emptied the washing machine and checked my connection for an upcoming webinar.

And then completely forgot to post this.

So, now I’m another day further along the line with no appreciable progress – unless you count progress as learning about Sea Shanties on TikTok (and why they’re mostly not shanties at all) and scribbling several more ideas for blog posts in a notebook I can’t currently locate – sigh.

There’s no hiding place

Even as I mostly cower indoors in this continuing lockdown, it seems there is no hiding place.

Shortly after Christmas I received a letter inviting me for a mammogram as part of the standard NHS programme. The letter confirmed that appointments were going ahead despite the overloading of other parts of the health service and encouraged me to phone or book online. Well, despite this most definitely not being my favourite type of appointment, I was comforted that I am on their radar and – once I had finished all the Christmas leftovers and run out of other distractions – I resolved to book myself in.

On one of the many recent cold and wet mornings, I tried to use the suggested website and partially completed their form. Always keen to tick two health boxes with one expedition, I chose a Health Centre location for my check-up which would give me a good walk there and back and thus achieve my daily exercise target. Smug! I added that I couldn’t attend on Mondays nor could I get there before 11am on any day. No need to put myself out unnecessarily – I’m a slow starter.

But then I gave up part-way through the form because it appeared to be geared more towards cancelling and rebooking an existing appointment and I became unsure that it would work. No matter though, I thought, I don’t really want to go right now and will ensure to book a little later in the year when lockdown eases or at least when local Covid cases have dropped. I had briefly visited the same Health Centre to drop off some scrubs last week, and I really didn’t fancy sitting in their waiting room right now for any longer than is absolutely necessary with such high levels of infection around.

So, I promptly moved on to other matters and thought no more of it.

‘Other matters’ included excitedly contacting Hotel Chocolat to see if I could persuade them to donate some of their surplus stock to our latest local initiative to send support packages to hospital staff. I’ve used Hotel Chocolat to send various calorific treats over the past few months so I’m on their circulation lists, and one of their marketing emails had led me to notice some of their heavily discounted boxes which would be perfect for our cause. I found a phone number and was eventually answered by the personable Paul.

I explained what I was after and Paul made all the right sorts of noises. He then asked me a few questions about who I was – but strangely did not seem to be waiting long enough to write down or type in the answers. I often speak extremely quickly – quite deliberately – if I don’t actually want the person to write down my particulars (if, for example, I fear some sort of scam) even though here he wasn’t asking me for my birthdate or my bank account! To my surprise, he then announced that I’d passed the security check, which I didn’t even know he’d been conducting. He had clearly immediately known who I was just from my phone number from their customer list! Interesting. This slightly freaked me out, but on the other hand encouraged me to think that maybe I had special status rather than being a total cold caller, and perhaps my request was more likely to succeed. At time of writing, I still don’t know the answer to that.

Shortly after, I received a phone call from an unknown caller. This turned out to be the NHS, chasing me about my mammogram appointment. I sighed, but politely explained that I didn’t feel ready to brave the waiting rooms just yet. The kindly lady seemed to understand and said she’d like to book me in for February then. When would I like? I mentioned that I didn’t want a Monday, nor could I get there before 11am (a lie, but I couldn’t really just say I’m lazy). “No, no, of course not,” she replied, which seemed somehow odd, as the clinic is open every day from 9am. She gave me a suggested date and time which I accepted. She told me I’d receive a letter shortly to confirm and just as she was about to hang up I remembered that there was a choice of location and she hadn’t mentioned this. Where would the appointment be, please? She sounded surprised and told me the name of my preferred Health Centre.

It was as though she already knew my answers. Had I perhaps submitted the form after all? I don’t think so. Was the information somehow visible anyway? Shouldn’t be. Most likely that my chosen location is the default one for my home (actually, I’ve since noticed that my letter offered several options but this one was the primary one), and I suppose she was just being polite regarding my preferences. Made me feel a Big Brotherish nevertheless.

I think this feeling of being under surveillance is most likely enhanced by the day-to-day inability to leave my house without being seen. I am increasingly varying my departure route to avoid walking past some of the neighbours, just in case anyone thinks I’m going out more often than is sanctioned by HMG.

Yesterday I set off to the chemist’s to pick up my latest prescription and passed a front garden just along the road from me where more activity was taking place to assemble the latest package donations for hospital staff. I exchanged greetings before marching on to join the nervous little queue in the pharmacy.

Here, to add to my sharing-discomfort, we each have to shout out our full names and our birthdates (yes, our ACTUAL BIRTHDATES, in front of the three other customers permitted inside at the same time – ‘Good lord, how old is that? Ancient! – Actually, she looks even older with that wild grey hair and drippy eyes above the ragged mask’), and also our addresses. They stop short at asking for bank account details, but no doubt there’s a way of scanning the card in my pocket without me knowing… although, on current form, they’ll have all my financial details to hand already and these are probably flashing up on a screen outside for all the world to see.

Calm down. Once I’m outside and can stop my efforts at indoor breathing-without-actually-breathing, my rational brain kicks back in (and I can’t see anyone’s personal financial details flashing anywhere).

Nevertheless, I took a long diversion to return to my house, thus neatly avoiding another check-in with the ladies in their front garden, thus ensuring I could sneak straight back out again for a proper walk.

You can never be too careful.

How to lose a day, or several, in the suburbs

I’ve been wandering around Ancestry.com. Other platforms are no doubt available. However, this is the one to which I have been paying a not-insignificant subscription for several years now and periodically I feel the need to get my money’s worth. The problem is, once I start looking at the two family trees I have created – one for my family and one for my husband’s – I become completely engrossed and the hours pass with little awareness.

The lockdown and the cold weather – and most probably the promise to myself to do more serious writing! – have combined to push me back onto this website and resulted in the discovery that the electoral roll data is available for large parts of the first half of the twentieth century. I spent several hours happily tracking down those of my relatives, and my husband’s, who were adults in the nineteen twenties and thirties in these registers. Once I had found the addresses, I could then look on Google Earth and find images of the properties as they are now. In the case of some of my husband’s relatives, there were some quite large and impressive properties, in fact, in South and South West London.

Not like my own family who largely avoided the capital until I chose to move here in 1983. In comparison, even the houses built by one of my mother’s uncles in Cheltenham (which we rather thought was pretty smart when I was a girl) seemed very humble.

Strangely, when I wasn’t glued to my laptop gawping at possible ancestral properties, I was marching around Surbiton for want of anything better to do (actually, more on this another time) and encountering a few rather similar properties, most certainly from the same era.

And when I wasn’t able to march around because of the cold and wet, and I’d exhausted my patience for logging electoral rolls, I was reading a book set in mid eighteenth century London (The Foundling, by Stacey Halls) which clearly evoked the feel of what we now think of as central London and the city. The suburbs just weren’t in existence then, and it was odd to see reference to Fulham as the countryside – ‘four miles from Covent Garden but it might as well have been four hundred’.

So, whether online, in a book, in my walking boots, in the past, in fiction or in the cold-weather reality of the present day, I’ve been all over the place recently.

No wonder I don’t know what day of the week it is today.

Overthinking the rules?

This lockdown is already getting to me. Despite not being entirely squeaky clean on the Covid law-abiding front (no halo polishing here and in fact quite a lot of self-disappointment), I do want to adhere to all the rules right now in order to do my bit. I am finding it a little confusing though and think I may be overreacting.

We must stay at home and not go out unless it is for an essential reason. One of those reasons is to shop for food – straightforward and clear, and I am trying to go as infrequently as possible. Once a week is quite easy to achieve for us. All good.

Another reason is to take exercise. This has to be local. I reckon if I am going on foot then I am local, right? But I have some nervousness (paranoia?) that the police will not believe me when I am on the far side of the Park and tell them I have walked from home. Mind you, maybe they’ll take one look at my knackered footwear and mud-spattered trousers and agree. And honestly, are the police really going to swoop on Richmond Park and ‘raid’ us middle-class leafy-borough-dwellers? Common sense says no, but there are so many celebs in the northern part of the Park I guess it would make a fantastic hunting ground to expose one of them. Or maybe that would be too much like courting social-media outrage when a much-loved star is outed for driving just that little bit too far to take their exercise.

I met a friend in the Park the other day. I walked to our meeting point (well, in fact, I almost ran because I left it just a tiny bit late to set off – good for the calorie burning I suppose even if it was inadvertent) and she cycled. She bought us coffees from a kiosk and we walked side by side (not close) chatting for about an hour before going our separate ways home. I later saw a news feature about two women being fined for doing something similar in the Peak District. Perhaps the fact they had driven there was the key difference, but it made me nervous that I had contravened some nuance of the rules. Maybe the coffee was indeed a picnic? Overthinking now, for sure!

Incidentally, whilst on our walk, we shared our amusement that people miss hugging. We are both ladies for whom the requirement not to greet others with a hug or kiss or similar has simply brought a reassuring release from the need to decide what exactly to do on approaching a friend. A curt nod and a bit of a smile? Fine by us, thanks. Always a silver lining!

New Year positivity

I read an article in the Sunday papers (Matt Rudd in the Sunday Times magazine) about self-help gurus. Most of the books sampled for the article focus on how to be more positive, or happy, or resilient (or maybe just clean and tidy, it seems*). This got me thinking how I could – without bothering to read any of these myself – somehow turn my usual January grumpiness into something more upbeat.

Returning cold and wet from an ill-timed walk in the park yesterday, I realised (after I’d warmed up a bit and had a shower) that I should challenge myself to see the positives in otherwise negative situations. After all, part of the point of this blog is to see the funny side when at least part of me is weeping.

Here’s my first attempt.

(1) My coldness and wetness after the walk – in fact, I had seen the brightest rainbow I can ever remember whilst in the park. So actually, the walk had been splendid after all.

And here’s proof

(2) My chronic inability to get up early in the morning – on the plus side, this meant that when we had a localised power cut at the weekend, rather than struggling to get water boiled on the gas hob in an unsuitable container (like others in the street, according to WhatsApp) or fretting about the potential spoilage of Christmas leftovers in the freezer, I gently snoozed through all the fuss while my electric alarm clock flashed helplessly (and silently) beside me and awoke to a fully-restored power system.

(3) My dreadful overspending online in the run up to Christmas – this has in fact benefitted me because I have finally learned the long number on my credit card (after it has been the same for more than three years). This means that for all the many purchases I am likely to make in the coming indoor months, I won’t have to gallop up- or down-stairs to retrieve the stupid card.

(4) My inability to remember the right word at the right time – I have decided that I will just have to roll with this and try and find it amusing. Genuinely the other day I was trying to find the word ‘hypochondriac’ but the first word that came out was ‘autobiography!’ followed (slightly more logically, at least in terms of sound) by ‘pyromaniac’ and then ‘insomniac’. I truly don’t know what this says about me. My own ‘autobiography’ may lead me to the early signs of dementia. I honestly can’t remember why I wanted to use the word anyway.

That’s enough. I have sufficiently raised my spirits now because I have also achieved a blog post out of all this nonsense. Although, in so doing I have failed to take enough exercise. Perhaps I’ll make a spur-of-the-moment online purchase right now and use a DIFFERENT credit card…

…runs upstairs…

* Mrs Hinch and Marie Kondo. In small doses, I can appreciate their teachings (although have only really see them third hand via Twitter etc).

2021 vision

Last year I determined to make more blog posts. I achieved an increase, but not the weekly number I had intended, despite being grounded for much of the time. Must do better – although this year I think I’ll focus on getting more readers rather than simply increasing my output.

I also want to write more generally and create something with greater lasting value. I will no doubt need a competition or specific third-party challenge to spur me on. Any suggestions welcome.

Additionally, I aim to write a review, however short, of each book or theatrical event I experience and share these on this onecryingeye.com website. I have been keeping notes privately of everything I read and watch for a while now, so this should not be too difficult.

I suppose the above are New Year resolutions of a sort. I don’t really believe in making such resolutions – it all seems a little artificial and destined for failure. On the other hand, this is as good a time as any to try and up my game, and a convenient point from which to monitor success. As I’ve mentioned before, I love statistics and a good spreadsheet, so there will be some enjoyment in measuring how I am doing.

And – what else is there to do right now? One of the reasons for retiring early was to travel the world whilst I still have the energy and, when not doing that, experience more theatre and other entertainments. So, whilst I absolutely do not claim any hardship from this pandemic – after all, I have been able to read far more, walk more in Richmond Park, enjoy my garden, devour more box-sets and even remarkably do some decorating, and thus far have retained my health – there is quite a frustration at being stuck at home, and I would like to counteract that with some achievement or other this year. Whether this is helpful to anyone else apart from myself remains to be seen. I will perhaps quietly take on something else less ‘self-regarding’ if the opportunity arises.

So, my vision 2021 is clear (really? We thought 2020 vision was clear and how wrong we were!) – well, if not clear then at least written down.

Knuckle down and produce some work of which I can be proud.

Get a grip and get on with it.

Right, now I’m off for a walk in the New Year’s drizzle and mist to congratulate myself on my clarity of thought.

Hmm.

Chocolate mountain? What chocolate mountain?

Hahaha – in my last post I thought I had over-stocked on chocolate for our reduced-attendance Christmas period. I have never been so wrong.

The three large tins of branded chocs were finished by Boxing Day. And each of us received our own little pressies of chocolate-based products too.

New Year will no doubt include the challenge of counteracting such indulgence. Ah well, I suppose that will be an extra excuse for getting outside for those all-important walks.

More rules

Never have I agonised so much over whether to break the rules…

This is a no-win Christmas now – damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

Either way, I am sure we have vast amounts of surplus food in the house, not least a veritable chocolate mountain.

Rules

I mentioned in a recent post that I mostly have to set my own rules so that I can make the choice to follow them.

I might not have a terribly good rule about housework…currently I’m working on the basis that I’ll have to clean absolutely everything before anyone visits at Christmas, so what’s the point of doing it right now and having to re-do it in a week’s time?

More theatre – guilty pleasure

Whilst several of my neighbours worked together under small gazebos in front of someone’s house, putting together a huge number of donated Christmas presents for local care home staff and isolated residents, I scurried past to the station and took myself up to London (again) for a theatre experience.

Feeling more than a little guilty, and quite trepidatious in these days of apparently rampant new variants of the wretched virus, I travelled in an almost empty carriage and noticed the looming black clouds. Indeed, once I had begun my walk from Waterloo along the Thames to Tower Bridge, the rain started. Nostalgia fulfilled completely. This was very reminiscent of my old walk to work – few people out and about, drizzly rain, wet feet and grey skies. Miserable huh? But of course not, because I did not have to work when I got to the end of my walk. In fact I met Mr J outside the theatre for this ‘experience’.

It is strange to turn up at a theatre at midday and expect to see a show. Particularly in this case because there were just three other people called forward in our group for a briefing on ‘Flight’. The five of us were then taken through a door not usually accessible to the punters, down a corridor which was clearly part of a shared area with other organisations in the block and which looked like the featureless underground concrete warren of any large newish office/retail building. But for a theatre freak (me!) who loves to see how things are done and what it is actually like for the actors and production teams, this was gold. We walked past an entrance to the auditorium and I had a sneaky peak in at the set for the play I saw there just last week. I think I over-romanticise all this, but I’ve not got a lot else to do, frankly.

We were seated, one by one, in the dark at a circular installation and advised to don headphones which had just been sanitised for us. The story of two migrant children attempting to get to the UK across Europe then played out in front of us on a slowly rotating wall with small boxes, lit up in order to coincide with the story in our ears, filled with tiny models and scenery. Each viewer saw and heard the presentation at a different time – ie when the boxes passed in front of each one of us. A fascinating idea and it seemed to work perfectly. The boxes appeared at random heights and were different shapes and sizes, to avoid any repetitiousness. It perhaps turned twice or maybe three times round in the 45 minute presentation, lighting different boxes on each rotation.

I didn’t find the story particularly original – the inevitable abuse of the younger child, the well-documented dangers of people-smuggling, the frustrations and awfulness of refugee life – but it was affectingly presented and probably being alone in the dark added to this. The portrayal of the French as braying seagulls was an interesting twist – I knew as I watched it that this would appeal to Mr J in the next booth! He would have seen everything just a couple of minutes after I did – and this realisation was quite an interesting extra layer to factor into the watching.

When it was all over and we had swapped initial views, I walked back to Waterloo in the rain again – avoiding at least one mode of transport. Mr J was on his motorcycle. This split transportation seems to suit us both best.

After another fairly empty train ride I walked the last 100 metres home – again scurrying past my neighbours who were still working away at wrapping presents and writing cards in the front garden. So busy, in fact, that when I wandered past again later to go to the post-box – willingly glancing in to see if they would leap on me to help, and resigned to agreeing if so – they did not even look up. (I had already told them I would not wrap anything, given that my attempts would be worse than a child’s, but I had vaguely offered to write cards and certainly to make deliveries)

You can sense my guilt at going out and enjoying myself whilst others toil away. Sometimes it just works out like that and I am not going to beat myself up for long.

Now we have been told that the inevitable move into Tier 3 has been accelerated, I am in fact quite glad to have escaped a bit. Immeasurably sad for hospitality and theatres though – shutting down even earlier than they expected.

Choices and small decisions

Had a bad day yesterday. Everything I touched or tried to do seemed to go wrong. We all have days like that, I guess, but I always fear the worst: that this is the beginning of my dementia-fuelled end.

As I rushed to the post-box just before afternoon collection time, I had a few moments to collect my thoughts. I realised that, despite earlier feeling that I could not trust myself to go outside without falling over (yes, there had been an episode of slipping on the front path whilst chasing a delivery driver – enough of that for now), I had made the small and almost insignificant decision that I could get out to post my cards.

As I deposited my cards in the postbox (successfully before last collection time – small positive victory!), I also realised I was so miserable I did not want to go carol-singing in the evening with one of my singing groups. I knew it would be difficult – that my glasses would steam up whilst trying to sing through a mask; that we would not have any coherent plan; and that others would get too close together for my liking – but I also knew that singing ‘live’ in a group would potentially be uplifting.

Of course, I did go. I had said I would go, and I rarely go back on my word. Two out of the three difficulties did indeed arise – and the steamed-up glasses was an absolute pain – but our reasonably-distanced singing did indeed eventually cheer me up.

I wonder at what point I will stop making these small decisions to override my immediate feelings and stop pushing myself outside my restricted comfort zone. There are many small choices like this to make in any normal day, most of which we don’t notice at all. It is only when I stand outside of myself I can see that sometimes I need to make a conscious decision and make something happen. So far, I have actually been good at this, but I can see the slippery slope beckoning. I could easily become a recluse*.

Often I make the decisions because I have somehow committed to someone or have an obligation in some way. Thus I dragged myself to work for years with migraine on the majority of mornings rather than giving up – I suspect because I simply did not see giving up as an option. I worked around it, tried not to schedule early meetings, did the easiest admin whilst my medication did its work, avoided making my condition an issue for colleagues to know about (although inevitably some were aware in my closest teams but perhaps not quite the extent).

It is harder to see the choices and make the right decisions now that I mostly have to set my own rules, but I think that’s how I do it on the bad days. I can’t simply stay in the house – it isn’t an option. Hmm – I suppose it is this ability to make the rules, or at least to make suitable rules, and to remember them, that will decline.

In any case, I’m immeasurably cheered up today, due to the announced impending arrival of the rest of a large beer order which we thought had been lost/stolen when only 2 bottles out of 38 arrived yesterday with no explanation apart from an email which said the delivery was complete (one of the many problems contributing to the mood yesterday). So, yay!

*Actually, with my recent feline bereavement, I don’t currently have enough cats for the stereotypical mad-old-bat-in-a-cluttered-house. And that’s not a hint for a furry Christmas present.

Brexitcast fame

I have been a fan of the BBC’s Brexitcast/Newscast for more than a year now. I listen to almost every episode as part of my walking habit. I find that their in-depth treatment of issues is less sensationalist than much of the news and also reveals the workings behind the scenes of being a newscaster (last year’s election coverage via this medium was particularly interesting).

This week I had a rare foray onto Twitter on Monday, announcing to the presenters of said Brexitcast that I had awoken that morning with an ear-worm of their presenter Katya Adler saying ‘Ursula von der Leyen’. I noticed that a few people had seen the Tweet, but not many. Must try harder. Fair enough.

So imagine my surprise when I tuned into the latest episode of Brexitcast on Tuesday (recorded on Monday evening) as I set off for my daily stomp around the neighbourhood and heard my name, followed by the full text of the Tweet read out by Adam Fleming. I was pleased to hear that it raised a laugh from the other presenters (Chris Mason and Katya Adler) and that Katya gave me a special rendition of Ursula on air. I was only a few steps away from my house by this time and simply had to rush home and play it to Mr J, who is a less avid fan but has followed the weekly TV versions of this podcast on and off.

I am, of course, pleased at the fame and recognition (haha). Slightly worried too, that I was Tweeting the truth, rather than for amusing effect – although of course I was pleased to practice my comedy writing by coincidence.

Here is the episode – I’m at 45 seconds from the beginning.

Going early

I am horrified. Never in my life have I put up Christmas decorations in the first week of December. If possible, I flee the country at this time of year in order, amongst other very good reasons, to put off the Christmas preparations. This time last year I was tipsy (and then freezing) in Hamburg.

This year, of course, is different. I cannot go overseas and, until a few days ago, I couldn’t really go anywhere else either. I’m worried about mixing, and keep getting those pings from the NHS App which tell me I’ve been near someone who’s tested positive for COVID (and then the – ‘but don’t worry this time’ message – so far, anyway).

So I thought I might do a bit of slightly earlier online shopping. But decorating? No way, I’ll wait for my daughter to come home (if that’s still allowed by Christmas week) and she can do most of it. She is much better than I am, and also that is a much better time of year. My mother’s birthday was 21st December and that is about the time when I feel it is permissible to get all Christmassy. Or the last weekend before 25th December, if that is earlier.

I have been thwarted though. Our road WhatsApp group decided that we should all put lights outside or in the front windows of our houses and have a big switching on ceremony with Santa visiting the small children etc. This was such a nice idea – and a great opportunity to gather outdoors – socially distanced of course (it is a wide road!) – and have a chat.

I could have maintained an ostrich or Scrooge approach and opted out, but I don’t have the moral energy right now. And in fact I would rather sacrifice a few old principles and build the neighbourhood morale and friendship.

My outdoor lights are almost a first for us. Although somewhat amateurish, they are still quite pretty. And the artificial tree which I have erected temporarily and bedecked with the more garish of our lights, is actually rather sweet. My daughter will still have the honour of decorating the much larger real tree we intend to buy … soon.

Mind you – I drew the line at leaving all the empty fairy light boxes around the house which is what usually seems to happen over Christmas. A whole month of that is simply not acceptable. So it’s done me a favour really, and I cleared them into a corner of one room for the duration. No doubt I’ll forget where they are by January…

I’d share a picture, but technology is having a hissy fit today and I can only seem to work WordPress from my Macbook – which in turn will not allow access to my latest photos. So, you’ll just have to imagine the twinkliness of the lights etc. Or make do with this rather blurry image. You get the general drift.

Don’t cry in my mask? I’m crying everywhere now

After my last post, relating to crying on the pavement outside the vet’s whilst wearing my mask, I have sadly had occasion to repeat the experience. This time with Mr J alongside me as we had to make the heart-wrenching decision to have our lovely cat put to sleep.

We have spent the last few weeks, since she was diagnosed with a tumour in her gut, feeding her the loveliest food she has had in her entire life and administering steroids and gentle cat-laxative. Which had seemed to have encouraging results, and she had mostly been quite a happy lady. I had convinced myself that she was actually putting on a little weight (she wasn’t) and that she was not in pain (we think I was right on this score at least), but she didn’t have much energy. We had hoped our children would see her again at Christmas at least.

She still managed to climb up the trellis onto our garden shed, so she could survey the nearby gardens. She would still hassle me for the fish or chicken I now miraculously prepared for her.

But on Monday, she stayed in her basket at breakfast time. When she came out eventually to find me, I was rehearsing on Zoom with my singing group. I scooped her onto my lap and petted her whilst singing. She purred a lot. She would normally not have stayed long, but she clearly didn’t have the energy to climb off.

We realised she could not eat. She licked some fishy water from around the sides of my latest offering of coley. (Her brother thought it was his birthday as he wolfed what was left.) She could only walk a few steps at a time, and looked a little confused despite her purring. I called the vet – could we bring her checkup forward? We discussed options over the phone. Fear of internal rupture. I was able to discuss with Mr J and we hugged that poor old cat in the knowledge that we would probably not be able to do it again. On the very short drive to the vet surgery, the cat didn’t cry. That was a first – she hated car journeys and always gave us a running commentary.

The vet was great and gave us options, but also gentle advice. All of it out on the street, with our masks on and other pet-owners in a queue behind us. We made the right decision and came home with our lovely cat wrapped in a shroud in her carry-basket.

We were not allowed into the surgery while the vet did the deed. Having experienced this before inside the consulting room, I am in two minds as to whether this was better or worse.

Once the mask was off at home, I cried for the rest of the evening apart from a half-hour when I dragged myself out for a walk. Strange – it is normally out on the walk that the eyes get watering…

So, now we are a one-cat family.