Mindless destruction and rules for living

Last night we met up with RT and ET from next door and the friend who’s about to embark on a PhD in September as a mature student. Exciting but scary. We went to the same café as last week’s girls’ night – except that last night Himself graced us with his presence – and had a lovely evening. Lots of natter, laughs, cheered the prospective student up a bit and walked home, buffetted by the high winds.

This morning we woke up to find that our car, parked at the end of the street had been keyed – scratched by a key all over the sides, roof, bonnet and back. Himself was so upset he could barely speak. Not because we are proud car owners but because of the mindless vandalism. The fact that whoever did this has no regard for others’ property. That they did this to all the cars in the street, though not as thoroughly as ours.

And also because it was my mother’s car that we bought off her a year ago, and of course she’s coming to stay this evening. The thought crossed my mind that should we need to sell the car in part exchange – as we always do need to – it’s now almost worthless.

We had a very Silent dog walk this morning. It’s best to leave Himself when he’s that upset. A cuddle is best to start off with. Then when he’s recovered, we get the language, and just what he’d like to do to whoever is responsible for such meaningless, selfish behaviour.

I get very protective of him at times like this. I can feel his frustration, anger and sadness. It bursts out like fast growing weeds, unwanted and virulent.

It made me think of an interview I did earlier this week when the wife said that they take it in turns to be strong. She asked me if we did the same.

“Yes,” I said. “We try never to have a wobbly at the same time.”

And there you have it. Our Number One rule of Living Together.

Agility Training Part One

This, by the way, is not any of the dogs this morning, as Himself forgot the camera. Not only that, but having told me that he knew EXACTLY where he was going, Himself got lost at the Redruth roundabout. Then he took the wrong turning. When we finally got there, that's when he realised that he’d forgotten the camera.

But we'd started arguing before we even got there, when I said I thought Moll should have a run before the training to run off a bit of her excess energy.

‘You’re not taking her anywhere wet or muddy, Pop,’ said Himself, getting dressed this morning. ‘I want her pristine and brushed when she gets there.’

I looked at him, wondering this husband of mine appeared to have lost any brain cells that he had when I met him (must have been the birthday that killed off the few remaining ones).

‘She’s going to be in a field,’ I said. ‘Outside.’ In case he hadn’t got the message. ‘She’ll be filthy and wet in a minute.’

Himself frowned as he pulled on his Birthday Jumper. ‘I don’t care,’ he said. ‘I want her clean when we get there.’

Sometimes you wonder, don't you?

Anyway, we finally got there without killing each other and split into two groups; in our group was another Jack called Sally, and two collies, both young and very bouncy. The first training we did was on one of those long walkway things and greedy Moll took to it brilliantly – specially the bit of sausage at the bottom, whereas the collies didn’t like the feel of the rough wood on their paws at all.

Next was the tunnel which again Mollie shot down. I was the other end with a ball on a rope and she came galloping towards me with a broad grin. So much for Himself’s gloomy protestations of her hating it.

The next thing was learning basic handling techniques which meant walking with your dog clockwise and anti-clockwise, then to the left and right, ie with the dog on the inside and then outside. The idea is to keep your dog’s interest so they look at you and watch your body language the whole time. It’s a non stop lesson in communication.

And the last exercise was in weaving – another fast technique that they all seemed to enjoy.

I hadn’t realised till we got back in the car how much concentration was needed – for both dogs and owners. Despite being full of treats, Moll is now exhausted and sleeping peacefully on the sofa.

Thinking back on this morning’s activity, it occurred to me that it’s very easy to get stuck in our own relationships – with husbands/partners, with our friends, with work.

I can’t help thinking this sort of thing would be brilliant for us humans and our relationships. Not running through tunnels and weaving, of course, but going back to basics, looking at our nearest and dearests and remembering what attracted us to them in the first place. Remembering the basic art of communication and body language. And most important of all, having FUN in the process.

Just a thought.

Absent Friends

Doom and gloom here in rainy Cornwall. Husband’s appointment to have his tooth fixed so that he can play the trumpet properly has been cancelled as our dentist is ill. Tooth can’t be fixed till Tuesday. This is Bad News for someone who’s waited two months to have it fixed; he’s itching to start playing again so that he can sit in with other bands. TLC has been administered in large doses and he has departed, slightly (but only slightly) mollified.

During a long, hot flushed night, I started thinking about a friend I met over 20 years ago in hospital. (I know where to meet people.) She’d just tried to commit suicide following the breakup of her first marriage and was talking to no one, but I must have sensed some kinship there as I said, ‘do you like cats?’ We’re talking high social skills here.
‘Yes,’ she replied. And so a friendship was born.

Sandra had trained as a nurse, then decided that she wanted to become a pilot. In order to get cheap flying lessons she had to belong to London Transport, so she took her LGV licence and became a bus driver. It wasn’t a job that she enjoyed much, and on one occasion she left the bus in the middle of the Kings Road, to the outrage of her passengers.

Still, she achieved her purpose, which was to get her Private Pilots Licence, and she then went on to get her commercial licence, and gained flying experience in such places as Papua New Guinea. This meant that her darling cat Cyd moved in with me. Initially the arrangement was for six months but as Sandra didn’t reappear for 18 months, by that time Cyd had decided she was going to stay with me and Sandra could bugger off. We had a very soulful evening discussing adoption rights.

Eventually Sandra got a job with an international airline that shall remain nameless where she got the sack. She sued them for unfair dismissal and sexual discrimination and a massive rumpus followed, court cases were flung across the globe and Sandra and her family were dogged by reporters camped out on doorsteps. Eventually they agreed to settle out of court and Sandra disappeared to America.

Being an extremely attractive woman, she was never short of admirers, but some were dodgy, to put it politely. At one point she was seeing a man in Scotland who had offered to set her up in business, had Bentleys etc., always took her to the smartest restaurants – but always declined to meet me. I saw her off at Kings Cross one lunch hour when she travelled up to Scotland to beard him in his den (she had a sniff that Something was Up) and found that he had a wife and children up there. The moral of this story, never trust a man who won’t meet your best mate.

Months – sometimes years - would go by without me seeing her, then she would ring and we’d meet up, pick up the pieces as if she’d never been away. At some point while her court case was going on, she met a lovely man in America, and they eventually married. She was determined that I go and stay with them in Florida (he worked at NASA) and rang me at work, insisting that I go for a specific date.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Because it’s the shuttle launch,’ she said casually.
Well, I had to go for that, didn’t I?

That was the last time I saw her. We kept in touch for a while but she wanted me to move out there, and I wasn’t keen on the idea. When Cyd died I sent her a postcard, and she rang up one day, from London. She was studying for more exams, she said, but I must have sounded a bit lacklustre: I had bronchitis and was feeling terrible. She never rang again.

I tried on several occasions to get in touch, by phone and letter. I even rang her Mum and asked her to pass on the message. But I never heard from Sandra again.

The other day I was sorting out my desk when I found a beermat from one birthday of mine. On it she wrote, ‘Very many Happy Returns to my Best Mate always. Lots of love Sandra.’

So what went wrong?