Girly Weekend

We had a fabulous girls weekend, from the moment we stood on Truro platform waiting for the train – Molls shaking somewhat, as it was only her 2nd train ride. But once she'd jumped aboard the train (like a true pro), she snorted up all available crumbs and settled down at my feet.

Av met us 2 hours later, then we had a great walk at the Water Meadows at Dartington, and sorted the first part of the world out. I cooked that night (roasted vegetables with cheese), washed down with plenty of Sauvignon. Bit of a wakeful night as Molls rushed to the door everytime anyone went to the loo, but all was well.

On Saturday afternoon we went up to Dartmoor and did a circular walk around Haytor, the quarry and Saddle Tor (see pictures above) and it couldn't have been better weather – sunny, breeze and the ground is just right: dry but not too hard. I shall remember that walk for a long time.

That night we called in to say Happy 60th to my friend Annie and had a glass of wine with all of them, then up to the pub for supper. After another long walk on Sunday morning, Molls and I got on the train and came back for a rest.

What a fab weekend – really makes you realise how important good friends are. Cheers, Av! Here's to the next one.

By and large, we are both very happy with our lives, but while we walked, we discussed what we would change if we could.

So that's today's question – if your fairy godmother waved her magic wand, what would would you change about your life?

No Boat but Goings On

Himself is downcast as he hasn't won the lottery and brief flutter with fame didn't produce any publishing deals so he still can't afford a boat. Oh, me....

However, I've been away for a few days, leaving Himself at home with the animals. (I'd much rather have taken Moll with me but if I had, Himself wouldn't have stirred from the flat, other than to get beer and go to the library. Plus he'd would have missed BOTH his girls, so I left him with one. The ultimate sacrifice.)

The schedule was to meet a dear friend in Devon and go walking on Dartmoor, but the walking schedule didn't take account of the weather, which of course has been freezing but good walking weather for the past month or so.

Sunday morning dawned less cold but windy. As in gale force winds, with thick banks of rain clouds looming. I got to the station to find that the train had been cancelled “due to a fatality”. I didn't ask what, imagination being in overdrive already. Thankfully I was able to get another one and Av picked me up two hours later and we took my mum out for supper at the local pub.

Monday dawned soggy and windy. As in lashing rain and gale force winds. We decided that Dartmoor was out, but set off undeterred and had a lovely day, although we did get soaked. We walked a fair few miles, had a good old moan, a laugh, and generally sorted the world out. Who cares if you have wet feet when you're with a good friend like that?

We departed our separate ways this morning and I drove back with Mum to take her to see Balletboyz at the Hall for Cornwall in Truro this evening.

Then back to work tomorrow, when I'm researching my next two interviews – an organic farmer and a maritime pilot.

Which would you rather be?

P.S. BALLETBOYZ WERE WONDERFUL..... If ever you get a chance to see them - GO!

Bad Times and Good Times

I am surrounded by friends going through dire times.

A few days ago one friend rang up to apologise for not having been to stay recently. She’s been having problems with her 20 year old daughter who’s developed OCD. She’s now seeing a counsellor which seems to be helping, and her mother has got her hands on as many books on the subject as she can and is now an expert. But she doesn’t like to leave the daughter while she’s so wobbly.

I listened to her anguish down the phone and thought, she doesn’t deserve this. My poor friend who has one trouble after another. But as I can’t make her life any better, I just reissued the invitation and sent my love to both of them.

Another of my friends, one of my dog walking partners, has had a very poorly husband for weeks now. As I write he’s being operated on in London and I haven’t dared ring to ask how things are. She said she’d be in touch so I’m waiting – and hoping – that things are OK. They’ve both been through a lot of bad health recently and they really don’t deserve this recent bout of bad luck.

Then there’s my mate whose father is very ill. She’s dividing her time between Exeter, where her husband works, and here, where her parents are and she is now the kids are home from university on holidays. I can tell by her increasingly desperate emails and phone calls how torn she is. Everyone relies on her for everything, and I worry that she’s going to snap pretty soon.

Lastly there’s my other mate who’s been in hospital having her hip recoated. She’s home now but is being inundated with friends and family coming to Help. Unfortunately she really needs just to rest a lot and isn’t able to do so while all these people are in attendance. (She’s not very good at saying No.) I warned her daughter, who’s a nurse, that she’s supposed to rest every hour and a half and hopefully she will swing into action and get heavy. But I’d hate for the hip operation to go wrong just because she’s not getting enough rest.

So that’s some of my friends. I ring them, email them, lie in bed and worry about them and think how lucky I am.

I’ve got one vigilante husband, one extremely muddy dog from this morning’s walk, a car that we’re hoping will pass its MOT this morning, and bills to pay. But we’re healthy, and we’re happy, which is the main thing.

PS The car failed.

The Winter of Discontent

We took James out for his weekly outing on Sunday morning and could see that everything’s so much more of an effort. Talking, walking, thinking – everything has slowed down and the dear fellow looks much older all of a sudden.

Even a few weeks ago he was relaxed, laughing at his mistakes when he said the wrong thing or stumbled. Now it’s as if the winter of old age has crept up and has thrown a thick coat around him. A scarf of confusion is wrapped around his neck and he's disorientated and, I fear, frightened. That’s the worst part.

Talking is virtually impossible; he gets so muddled that the wrong words come out and it’s difficult to guess what he’s trying to say. In the car he kept saying, ‘I’d like to get some – you know – honey.’

It wasn’t honey, but I have no idea what he did mean. Then he came out with ‘trousers’ which wasn’t what he meant either.

He can’t write because he has terrible rheumatism, so communication is, at best, difficult. Throughout a process of miming, we managed to work out that he wanted to get a razor, so after coffee and shortbread at a café in town, we hit Tesco.

‘I want some – er – er - chocolate,’ he said. ‘You know, to eat in bed.’ He smiled forlornly and said, ‘I probably shouldn’t, but …’

‘Of course,’ I said and steered him firmly round the aisles where he chose three family sized slabs of chocolate, three large packs of plain chocolate digestives, a tube of toothpaste and a pack of disposable razors.

When we got back to his room, I hung up his winter coat and at the bottom of the wardrobe I noticed three tubes of toothpaste, four bottles of mouthwash and six tubes of Steradent (for his dentures).

Whenever we go out we always pay for our own drinks to save confusion. This time, when he saw us out, he gave me a big hug and managed to say, ‘Next time I’d like to pay for all of it.’

And that is what I will always remember him for. A warm and loving, generous friend.

The Visitor

We have a dear friend staying, who has fled the confines of a small Devon village to be with us for her birthday. She started to come down here on holiday ten years ago with her daughter, who was then 11, and everyone in the village was amazed because Gwen never went anywhere. (She doesn’t drive so life is a little claustrophobic, the nearest town being 7 miles away.)

The first visit was a great success despite our TV having blown up. Unlike most 11 year olds, her daughter was quite happy sitting in our front window looking out on the harbour, the boats and the fields opposite, and they spent the days walking through the town exploring the shops, and logging incoming and outgoing boats. Since then they have been down every year and with each visit, Gwen’s confidence has grown. One year she got the bus to Truro and this opened up her horizons. The next time she and her daughter took several boat trips. Soon she decided that she would come down here by train instead of one of her offspring driving her.

The next year she lost weight, had a haircut and looked a different woman. Her daughter is now 19 and has a boyfriend so holidays with Mum are Off, but Gwen is part of our family and greatly welcomed by Mollie, who can smell a sucker a mile off and welcomes any addition to our walks. We now have a very good arrangement – Gwen pleases herself in the mornings while I write, then we meet for lunch, come back and pick up Hyperactive Dog and do a different (and very long) walk each day. Yesterday we walked through the long grassed fields of the Helford area, had tea at Trebah with the twittering sparrows and walked back, dodging the half term families making the most of their holiday lets.

Durgan is a hamlet of old schoolhouses, quaint cottages and old boat sheds that have now been tarted up so that no one can live there. They provide holidays for the affluent and deprive Cornish people of homes. We had an amiable rant as we walked yesterday, dreaming up policies to stop people buying second homes. How would they feel if it was their son or daughter unable to get their foot on the first rung of the housing ladder?

End of rant. I’m to finish editing the morning’s part of the book, then this afternoon we’re walking at Carwinion possibly, Porthleven or St Mawes – the possiblities are endless.

Writing support network

On Saturday morning we had our writers' meeting, an invaluable time that is set aside each week for us to comment on each other's work. It’s uplifting to be with such stimulating company, and I find myself soothed and encouraged (whichever’s necessary) at the end of it. As writers, being solitary by nature at work, friends are so important – particularly those that understand the writing conundrum.

We all have our strengths and weaknesses - mine, good dialogue, lousy descriptions. I write fast prose, as I live my life - at top speed. Nancy writes the sort of descriptions that make you want to weep, they are so apt and picturesque, and she lives life at a much more sensible speed. She is wise and understanding, with a wonderful sense of humour. When we first met, and I explained that I couldn’t drink caffeine (I’m hyper enough without it), she looked at me and smiled. ‘I thought you were rather finely tuned,’ she said.

She is forever urging me to slow down (in writing as in life) and has nicknamed me Slasher Flowerpot – if a certain sentence or paragraph isn’t quite right, or part of it superfluous, I’m liable to slash a line right through it. ‘No, no!’ she cries. ‘Not all of it!’ So we talk it through, most of it is reinstated, and we strike a happy medium.

I've belonged to many writing groups and find that most peter out after a while: people move on, decide not to write, have other demands on their time. That doesn't matter; it's part of life. But writing friends are a different breed. We are all born with a strange gene that compels us to spend most of our days staring at a computer screen, tearing our hear out, being constantly rejected and trying to salvage what's left of our confidence. Not a job that you'd wish for your children. But I am eternally grateful for my writing friends, past and present.

What would I do without my support network?

Coffee and Cakes with an Octagenerian

We took our elderly friend, James, out this morning (Sat) for coffee. He likes going to a very Bohemian café in Penryn called Miss Peapods where they have excellent coffee and home made cakes, and despite the fact that he finds it very difficult to talk (he’s had several strokes), he loves going out and having a chat. We’ve been very worried about him because he shouldn’t be living on his own as he’s had several bad falls, so several months ago, at his request, I rang round all the residential homes in the area and we took him to see one that we all liked very much. Very pleasant staff, lovely atmosphere, good food, all the residents (18 of them) seem to love it, and a wonderful view of the sea in lovely gardens. They can come and go when they want and have friends in and take their own belongings there, and we spent several hours there with him.

After that, of course, nothing happened. James's daughter lives in London and seems to be in charge of finances, but he was worried that the home would be too expensive and she wouldn’t want to pay that money, but today he said he’s been offered a room there and has decided to accept it. He doesn’t want to go in just yet as he’d like to have the summer at home with the family (despite the fact that said daughter apparently wants to have nothing to do with him – his words). But it’s such a relief to know that he can go there whenever he wants. He was very concerned to know what we thought about his decision to go to this home, and delighted when we said we thought he'd done the right thing.

It really makes you think about Getting Older. He is very upset because, he said, 'I think my daughter's given up on me.' Apparently she puts down the phone when he rings. Why? How could she do this? And then I think - what's her story? It seems so sad when he’s such a lovely man, but there’s obviously a good reason. Makes you wonder though – he’s such a gentleman in all the best senses of the word and I feel very honoured to know him. But he finds it so frustrating when he knows what he wants to say and can’t get the words out. He can’t write things down because his arthritis is too bad to hold a pen, so we’re looking into a dictaphone for him.

So a productive morning. A good outlook for James, who was in good spirits having made his decision, and the coffee and flapjack were good. I’m afraid to say that lying in bed this morning, knackered from all these rehearsals, I wasn’t looking forward to taking James out – it can be very difficult when he’s trying to talk and can’t. Chatting with him today over coffee, I felt very Small. What’s life worth, if you can’t help someone like him?