Six random things

The above image comes courtesy of Ruth and is an uplifting one which I need today. An ill wind has been blowing over Flowerpot House recently and I shall be glad when it passes.

I have been tagged by maggie to list six random things, and as I did this not long ago so here is a mostly animal version:-

My first cat, Minnie, was a wonderful tortoiseshell who we met when visiting a friend’s farm. This kitten had been abandoned by her mum and was driving everyone crazy, winding herself round everyone’s ankles. She was brought up by a labrador and a goat so she had some peculiar characteristics including sitting in the stream purring.

My next cat, Cyd (named after Cyd Charisse, because she had lovely legs), belonged by my mate Sandra initially. She decided to go to Australia when Cyd was 8 and no one else would look after her until I stepped in. Having said she would be away for 6 months, Sandra actually went for 18 monthsw, and by the time she came back, Cyd was Not Amused. Sandra came over to discuss parenting rights and Cyd bit her. After that she stayed with me and we moved – oh I don’t know how many times. She fell in love with Himself (thankfully) and lived until she was 19.

We had a miserable six days after poor Cyd had to be put down, then the receptionist at work said she’d found two kittens who’d been abandoned over Christmas. They were at the vet’s in Tuckingmill and did I want one of them? Did I hell. We took our lunch hour at 10am and drove over to get them, left them with Himself at the workshop (thereby ensuring no work was done) and by the time I came home from work, Bussie had the run of the place.

Mollie came about as a cure for depression. It worked – at the time. There are hiccups of course, like the one we are struggling through at the moment, but that’s life. Mollie is a joy and keeps me sane. And Bussie? well, he's still Top Cat.

I’d actually like lots of cats and dogs, but living in a one bedroom flat with only a small yard means it’s not practical. Anyway I think Bussie might leave home.

All my cats have lived until they were at least 18. I hope Bussie does the same.

As a last item, which has nothing to do with animals, I hear that the great and talented Beryl Cook died yesterday. The world will be a poorer place without her paintings. I wish I’d met her – I bet she was such fun.

RIP Beryl.

That Old Weepy....

Yesterday afternoon we sobbed our way through The Sound of Music for the umpteenth time. That’s both of us. Himself is just as soppy as I am when it comes to this film.

But having seen it so many times, I only recently started thinking what it was all about. Climbing your mountain until you find your dream. Climbing that mountain for as long as it takes. And when things are really lousy, you have to remember, as she did, that, “when He closes a door he opens a window”. Something I must remember, as a writer, when I go through a really lousy stage.

With every film there has to be Good and Evil, and in this instance the Catholic Church is portrayed as a very powerful good force – remember the wedding scene, and the way she walks up the vast aisle? Then the camera pans to the bishop, up and up throughout the church, up to the mountains. God is very much in those mountains at the beginning, running around with Maria (or vice versa). And of course later the mountains are her way of escape, with her new family.

The Nazis are the evil force. As Gretel, the youngest girl so aptly says, “the man with the black spider makes everyone nervous.” You bet he does.

And of course, put a bunch of nuns against a bunch of Nazis and we all know who wins. The nuns prove they’re good at car maintenance as well as praying.

I suppose most of us can identify with the characters – Maria is brave, honest, funny, true and not afraid to stand up for herself, or for what she believes. Captain Von Trapp admires her courage, her honesty and her love for his children that shows him how to love them as well as her.

What is most important to the Captain is his patriotism. (His children at first come second, but they resume their rightful importance later.) It is his love of Austria that runs through the film, and his realisation that Austria is no longer what it was, despite the Germans insisting that, “We will show to the world that Austria is the same”.

And I love the Captain for that. For his refusal to compromise, to give in. As Maria says, “I can’t ask him to be less of a man than he is.”

At the end we blew our noses and had a cuddle. “I don’t know why it’s so emotional,” Himself said, wiping his eyes. “I suppose because Austria had gone and I can identify with that. We’ve lost something too – Britain isn’t what it was.”

Driving through town this morning to walk Mollie, I looked at the American shake bar, the Italian restaurant, the Italian olive shop, the tapas bar and so on. And I realised he’s right.

Ups and Downs

Warning – this post is for those of a strong constitution. Take the last few quotes as they are meant, with a pinch of salt.

Yesterday was a real rollercoaster of a day. Starting with the Bad News from Himself’s tooth, at least he made an appointment to see the dentist on Tuesday and he’s decided that if he can find the crown, he will ask Mark to fix it temporarily until he can get a plate made, and will then play with that.

‘I was talking to another musician on Sunday and he glues his plate in so he can play,’ he said. I wasn’t sure of that but felt it best to keep quiet. Any glimmer of hope on the horizon is worth gold dust in this household.

I then saw a cryptic note on the kitchen table.

‘What’s this?’ I said trying to make sense of the note.

‘Oh,’ he said vaguely. ‘C rang. She sounded rather upset. I wasn’t quite sure what it was about so I said you’d ring her back.’

(You can see why most of the really good secretaries/PAs are women.)

I did and found that the poor thing, who’s had a terrible time recently as her father was beaten up, had received a threatening phone call the previous night. The police were less than helpful and don’t appear to be able to do much. No comment.

She was off to see the police so I asked her to call later as I had a meeting in Truro. Set off, deeply worried by – well, everything really.

The Good News is that the meeting I had with a magazine editor went very well and I got many more commissions than I expected. And no deadlines, so I can work on the novel as well without chaining myself to the computer.

I rushed out of the building, trying to ring Himself with the good news only to find he was nowhere to be found (and his phone’s run out of money). Went on to another writing meeting where we spilled our news of the last few weeks, words tumbling out over bowls of coffee and cake in Waterstone’s café. There’s nothing like exchanging writing news with people who can really share what you’re going through, and somehow every minute was too short, and an hour and a half sped by with still not enough time.

I left there and when I finally spoke to Himself his voice was flat. ‘Well done, Pop. I’m really proud of you,’ he said, misery etched into his words. I could tell the cornet practice had gone really badly so when I got home I reiterated the offer of Plan B. ‘I don’t think we’ll need that, Pop,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait and see if I can get the crown back – if I’ve swallowed it, it’s got to come out. How long does it take to digest things?’

‘About a day,’ I said, wrinkling my nose at the thought of the forthcoming investigations. ‘Maybe 2 depending on what you’ve eaten.’

To cut a long story short, that evening we saw our friend who’d received the horrible phone call, had a glass of wine with her and her partner and sent them off with sleeping pills.

After walking Moll this morning we dashed back and Himself headed towards the smallest room in the house. Minutes later he disappeared into the yard with a bucket and started hosing things down. If you get my drift.

Then I heard a mighty ‘Hey!!!!’ and he stood there grinning, holding the tiny bit of crown aloof, like an Olympic medal. ‘And don’t you blog about it!’ he said. Some chance.

He came into the bedroom later (my “office”) and stared thoughtfully out of the window.

‘I wonder what else is in there?’ he said. ‘Can I sell it?’

Oh, no...

And it just has got worse.

Himself and I both woke up at 5.30am and he said, 'The crown's come out, and I must have swallowed it in my sleep.'

The dentist only put it back in yesterday....

And he said, 'I'll have to cancel the rehearsal. I can't play without the tooth.' (It's all to do with the embouchure, which I won't go into now but it's long and complicated, takes months to get the embouchure right in order to play.)

My mind started racing, thinking about what we could do. 'Ring the dentist,' I said. 'See if they can put it back in again.'

'They can't,' he said, his voice flat with weary disappointment. 'They have to order a bit of tooth from the dental technician before they can put it in.'

I foresaw weeks of no rehearsals. Of the gig in August being cancelled. Of Himself becoming not only bitterly disappointed, but deeply depressed. He lives for his jazz - having relinquished boating he needs another love in his life (apart from me and Moll of course).

'They'll have that on file,' I said. 'If you ask today perhaps they can get it for next week.' Anything to save missing another rehearsal.

So that's the plan. I could feel the heavy disappointment radiating from his body, but we will ring the dentist at 9am.

If they can't do anything soon, I have a Plan B. See if the fearfully expensive but very good private dentist I had to go do will be able to see him. It'll cost me, but it'll be worth it. And I know he'd do the same for me.

The unjustness of life

Sometimes, no matter how hard you try, life can conspire against you.

In this instance, I’m talking about Himself’s efforts to play the cornet, something he has managed with a good deal of success in the past.

Imagine then, how devastated you would be if when you picked up the instrument, your mouth dried up and felt as if it was full of sand. And when you tried to play, you kept fluffing notes, when before your notes were perfectly in tune. The intense disappointment, for having given up sailing, the major love of your life, and fallen in love with another fickle nymph called Jazz, this one is eluding you too?

Give him his due, if there’s a problem he will go all out to try and fix it. He’s spent hours of research on the matter and thought it might be a yeast allergy. So for the last 3 weeks he’s eliminated all yeast from his diet.

Before last week’s rehearsal he really felt better, but was horrified and dismayed when the practice was no better. After all that effort! And the gig is in August and he has to be in tip top condition by then which means months of practice.

‘So what is it exactly?’ I asked. ‘Do you feel like this when you practice at the workshop?’

‘No, he said. ‘No, the dry mouth started just before we started rehearsing.’

‘Perhaps it’s nerves,’ I said.

He looked at me askance. ‘I’ve never had nerves before, Pop,’ he said, as if nerves were a form of STD.

Since then he’s done hours more research and found that yes, it might be nerves. The research also revealed that betablockers can help, if taken for a short time only. So he went to the docs who said that actually he’d helped an opera singer for the same thing and they worked for her.

He came back delighted clutching his prescription. ‘I should be all right for this week’s rehearsal, Pop,’ he said. And his face fell. ‘I hope,’ he added.

Later on we were eating our meal – mince in his case – and what happened? The crown on his front tooth dropped out.

For those of you that don’t, like me, play a wind instrument, this means you’re unable to play because the blow is all wrong (to use layman’s terms).

Thankfully, he’s at the dentist now having it repaired. Let’s just hope nothing else goes wrong…

Comings and Goings

Today our little flat has been a whirlwind of activity since 6am when I got up to feed the animals. Shelagh, my sister in law was up (as she usually is) and packing as she is starting her long journey back to Vermont today.

By 8am we’d all breakfasted, the washing machine was doing its last very noisy spin cycle and Shelagh was checking her emails – anything to delay that awful half hour before she had to leave to get the train. Then Steve, the scaffolding fellow, arrived to give us a quote for scaffolding as the house needs repainting and bits are falling off the top flat and the TV aerials need moving and the flat upstairs needs new windows. Phew.

Steve dealt with the inside mayhem very well – Mollie barking frantically at this change in routine (and where’s my walk Mum?) – Shelagh dashing for a last minute pee, me trying to put the washing out.

At 8.30 her lift arrived to take her to the station and we looked at each other. I realised with a terrible drop in my stomach that it would be another 2 years before I see her. Two years? And I thought of the last 3 weeks – how come they went so quickly?

For the last six weeks I’ve been very short of sleep and this has made me exhausted, so unlike my normal hyper self. I haven't been able to take her places because I've been zonked. Last night I said, ‘we haven’t done half the things we meant to.’

‘No,’ she said with a smile. ‘But we’ve done other things.’

This morning we hugged on the pavement and I tried to stifle the gaping sense of loss. Hoping the journey back will go without a hitch. Realising that we’re all getting older and that travelling and – well, just living – takes more out of us.

As she hugged me she said, ‘Butterfly! That’s the clue.’

I quizzed her but all she said was, ‘like The Purloined Letter.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘Who?’

‘By Edgar Allen Poe.’

I groaned. ‘I haven’t read that.’

‘You’ll just have to look,’ she said. ‘See ya!’

We waved her off and rushed inside like children to scour the living room. Finally, on the mantelpiece, I saw a beautiful paper butterfly with a note attached.

Below the butterfly find a contribution to the Frivolity Fund. Love, Shelagh and thank you for another super holiday. Xxx to you both.

What more can I say? Thank you Shelagh.

Life Through a Lens

The other night I went to see Life Through a Lens, a documentary about the photographer Annie Liebowitz. For those of you not familiar with her work, she hit the headlines last year when the Queen apparently snapped at her during a photo shoot. This was subsequently denied. Name a celebrity and she's probably taken a picture of them, including the naked and pregnant Demi Moore. She took that famous picture of a naked John Lennon wrapped round Yoko Ono, little knowing that five hours later he would be dead.

Annie Liebowitz first started taking pictures of the Rolling Stones for Rolling Stone magazine in the early 1970s. She toured with them and took some incredible pictures. She has an ability to capture a moment that reveals something about the person or persons, that makes you think, or laugh, or cry. She has worked incredibly hard all her life, worked for Tina Brown at Vanity Fair, then at Vogue, specialising in celebrity pictures.

Following her relationship with the writer Susan Sontag, she was inspired to do better, and went to Sarajevo where she took stark pictures of war and the damages that can be inflicted on its victims. Her pictures didn’t skirt the truth, but looked it straight in the eye, unflinchingly.

When Susan Sontag died she similarly took pictures that were heartbreaking in their portrayal of death. Once again she put her work first, perhaps gaining solace from it.

She now has children and said that they made her world round where previously it had been flat. She obviously adores these children and somehow manages to be a hands-on mum and keep her career going at the same time.

This documentary is fascinating and shows just how hard anyone has to work in order to succeed. Annie Liebowitz has sensitivity, is compassionate and caring, loving and has a great sense of fun. She is also incredibly professional, a very hard taskmaster and produces incredible results.

What struck me, as a writer, is how similar the two arts are. In photography, as in writing, a good picture or scene is all about capturing the moment. It’s about the story behind the story. It’s about humour and empathy and the rawness of truth.

If this documentary comes to anywhere near you, go and see it. She is a true inspiration.