From Paris to Penguins

Recently I had a most enjoyable weekend celebrating my birthday.  Strangely, after many years when birthdays seemed largely irrelevant, and even slightly embarrassing, it now seems good to have made it through another year.  Because I planned the weekend instead of waiting for someone else to suggest doing something, I spent it with people I wanted to see and spoke to others who were further away.  It felt really good to have fun and celebrate lasting relationships.

However, there was a grim backdrop to the festivities - the dreadful carnage and terror in Paris, a city close to home where we spent Easter Weekend, a familiar place, now on the list of atrocities carried out by a group of people known by several names.  I've been trying to work out what to call them, listening to broadcasters and politicians. Islamic State, Isis and Isil all seem to carry some suggestion of legality, of statehood.  Apparently, Daesh is disliked by the terrorists.  An Arabic acronym, it can also be an insult which can mean 'to trample and crush' or 'a bigot who imposes his views on others'. This name has been used by Hollande and Obama since the Paris attacks.  Today, I kept hearing the term caliphate used, with pictures of troops marching in Raqqa.

I still don't know what to call them, or what should be done.  As a child born into post-war austerity, I grew up with bomb sites, railings cut down to stumps for munitions and an awareness of what a terrible time it had been for my parents.  Later, I learned about the first world war, and how lucky both my grandfathers had been to survive it.  As a teenager, I became aware of the threat of nuclear war, with talks at school about how to build a shelter under the stairs, then the Cuban missile crisis and that day when we thought the world might end.  I joined CND (I'm still a member) and have consistently opposed all the wars to which the UK has sent troops.  I feel the same this time - although an enemy which defies identification and strikes where least expected is almost impossible to engage with.  It has young people willing to die in suicide vests.  Bombing will inevitably result in civilian deaths.  I've just been listening to Emile Zola's Blood, Sex and Money  (BBC radio adaptation of his novels) in which ordinary people try to bring about social change through fighting.  It always ends in death and tears.

 I suppose getting older and having lived through decades of history, several things happen.  You know you don't want to wear or furnish your home with anything 'retro' or 'vintage'.  You realise that no-one learns from history and that most things that happen have happened before.  I feel my world has shrunk a little.  I am very unlikely to travel to India or South America, primarily because of health issues, although holidays in the Canaries and Seattle are planned for 2016.  I spend my time doing things that make me happy (art classes, knitting, shopping. and drumming) and being with my family and close friends.  Of course I still care about what goes in the wider world and do what I can to help.

As well as CND, I'm a member of Amnesty and support several charities, I sign petitions, vote in elections and read the The Guardian and The Observer.  I listen to news and discussion on the radio. But what I love most is to be in the moment, with my little grandson, seeing the world through his eyes.  The moon is a thing of wonder to him just now, as he sees it change shape as the days pass. I'm glad he's not old enough to have seen and understood  John Lewis' Christmas advert about the man on the moon.  Last year's penguin one was so much better.  This year I bought myself a Christmas jumper (a new departure).  It has penguins on it.

From Paris to Penguins

Recently I had a most enjoyable weekend celebrating my birthday.  Strangely, after many years when birthdays seemed largely irrelevant, and even slightly embarrassing, it now seems good to have made it through another year.  Because I planned the weekend instead of waiting for someone else to suggest doing something, I spent it with people I wanted to see and spoke to others who were further away.  It felt really good to have fun and celebrate lasting relationships.

However, there was a grim backdrop to the festivities - the dreadful carnage and terror in Paris, a city close to home where we spent Easter Weekend, a familiar place, now on the list of atrocities carried out by a group of people known by several names.  I've been trying to work out what to call them, listening to broadcasters and politicians. Islamic State, Isis and Isil all seem to carry some suggestion of legality, of statehood.  Apparently, Daesh is disliked by the terrorists.  An Arabic acronym, it can also be an insult which can mean 'to trample and crush' or 'a bigot who imposes his views on others'. This name has been used by Hollande and Obama since the Paris attacks.  Today, I kept hearing the term caliphate used, with pictures of troops marching in Raqqa.

I still don't know what to call them, or what should be done.  As a child born into post-war austerity, I grew up with bomb sites, railings cut down to stumps for munitions and an awareness of what a terrible time it had been for my parents.  Later, I learned about the first world war, and how lucky both my grandfathers had been to survive it.  As a teenager, I became aware of the threat of nuclear war, with talks at school about how to build a shelter under the stairs, then the Cuban missile crisis and that day when we thought the world might end.  I joined CND (I'm still a member) and have consistently opposed all the wars to which the UK has sent troops.  I feel the same this time - although an enemy which defies identification and strikes where least expected is almost impossible to engage with.  It has young people willing to die in suicide vests.  Bombing will inevitably result in civilian deaths.  I've just been listening to Emile Zola's Blood, Sex and Money  (BBC radio adaptation of his novels) in which ordinary people try to bring about social change through fighting.  It always ends in death and tears.

 I suppose getting older and having lived through decades of history, several things happen.  You know you don't want to wear or furnish your home with anything 'retro' or 'vintage'.  You realise that no-one learns from history and that most things that happen have happened before.  I feel my world has shrunk a little.  I am very unlikely to travel to India or South America, primarily because of health issues, although holidays in the Canaries and Seattle are planned for 2016.  I spend my time doing things that make me happy (art classes, knitting, shopping. and drumming) and being with my family and close friends.  Of course I still care about what goes in the wider world and do what I can to help.

As well as CND, I'm a member of Amnesty and support several charities, I sign petitions, vote in elections and read the The Guardian and The Observer.  I listen to news and discussion on the radio. But what I love most is to be in the moment, with my little grandson, seeing the world through his eyes.  The moon is a thing of wonder to him just now, as he sees it change shape as the days pass. I'm glad he's not old enough to have seen and understood  John Lewis' Christmas advert about the man on the moon.  Last year's penguin one was so much better.  This year I bought myself a Christmas jumper (a new departure).  It has penguins on it.

Memento Mori

When I was training as a dramatherapist in the 90's,  and studying Carl Jung's work on symbols, I became interested in Tarot.  Using the first 22 cards, the Major Arcana, representing the journey of life, starting with The Fool and culminating in The World, I studied the images as a means of reflecting on my life. From time to time I still draw a card as a way of exploring my current situation and my feelings about it. This week's is Death, portrayed as a dancing skeleton. Beneath the bony feet, in the moving sea of transition, are green shoots of new growth. Rather than depicting the end of life, it shows the start of a new cycle.  It can represent change, a move from one life stage to another. That's the way I usually interpret it, but this time, death itself seems to be on my mind.  I read obituaries, check the ages - my age, younger?

My generation, baby-boomers, fans of the Who ('hope I die before I get old') saw ourselves as ageless. Now we are old, with a finite lifespan.   More years lived than still to live.   As Terry Pratchett said, So much universe, and so little time. A close friend will turn 70 soon.  Together we've been through having children, major life events, loss of parents. We live in different continents but keep in touch, planning another visit....thinking now we shouldn't put it off. Looking back at old photos, I can't believe 20, 30, 40 years have passed so quickly. 

The other day I came across this website (sponsored by Sun Life)  www.myperfectsendoff.co.uk  It’s a questionnaire in which you answer questions about funeral choices.  I found it made me think about my own death in quite a positive way. I plan to complete it (or something like it) and make sure my family know about it.  I heard a beautiful Scottish tune the other night, The Gentle Air that Wakes me, and added it to my ultimate playlist along with Bob Dylan's Forever Young.

Perhaps I will have many years beyond my approaching three score and ten, in which case there is no pressing need for my detailed plan, but it is good to be prepared. I like this line from Pratchett's Good Omens:

DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING, says Death, JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH.

If life is a social function which one attends for a while, mine has featured fun with friends from different parts of my life, good food, nice wine, doing quite a few party pieces (singing, acting), enjoying being with the people I love.  Being aware of death makes life more significant.  The moments that make up our days are special, however trivial. My little grandson's latest word, 'lorry', his first haircut, a really good cup of coffee, the last flowers in the garden, putting on my slippers, some liquorice allsorts for later, are some of today's small pleasures.   

What do you think? Should we think more about our inevitable deaths and plan accordingly? Can ageing be a positive experience? Share your thoughts by emailing me directly or leave a comment in the box below.

 

Memento Mori

When I was training as a dramatherapist in the 90's,  and studying Carl Jung's work on symbols, I became interested in Tarot.  Using the first 22 cards, the Major Arcana, representing the journey of life, starting with The Fool and culminating in The World, I studied the images as a means of reflecting on my life. From time to time I still draw a card as a way of exploring my current situation and my feelings about it. This week's is Death, portrayed as a dancing skeleton. Beneath the bony feet, in the moving sea of transition, are green shoots of new growth. Rather than depicting the end of life, it shows the start of a new cycle.  It can represent change, a move from one life stage to another. That's the way I usually interpret it, but this time, death itself seems to be on my mind.  I read obituaries, check the ages - my age, younger?

My generation, baby-boomers, fans of the Who ('hope I die before I get old') saw ourselves as ageless. Now we are old, with a finite lifespan.   More years lived than still to live.   As Terry Pratchett said, So much universe, and so little time. A close friend will turn 70 soon.  Together we've been through having children, major life events, loss of parents. We live in different continents but keep in touch, planning another visit....thinking now we shouldn't put it off. Looking back at old photos, I can't believe 20, 30, 40 years have passed so quickly. 

The other day I came across this website (sponsored by Sun Life)  www.myperfectsendoff.co.uk  It’s a questionnaire in which you answer questions about funeral choices.  I found it made me think about my own death in quite a positive way. I plan to complete it (or something like it) and make sure my family know about it.  I heard a beautiful Scottish tune the other night, The Gentle Air that Wakes me, and added it to my ultimate playlist along with Bob Dylan's Forever Young.

Perhaps I will have many years beyond my approaching three score and ten, in which case there is no pressing need for my detailed plan, but it is good to be prepared. I like this line from Pratchett's Good Omens:

DON'T THINK OF IT AS DYING, says Death, JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH.

If life is a social function which one attends for a while, mine has featured fun with friends from different parts of my life, good food, nice wine, doing quite a few party pieces (singing, acting), enjoying being with the people I love.  Being aware of death makes life more significant.  The moments that make up our days are special, however trivial. My little grandson's latest word, 'lorry', his first haircut, a really good cup of coffee, the last flowers in the garden, putting on my slippers, some liquorice allsorts for later, are some of today's small pleasures.   

What do you think? Should we think more about our inevitable deaths and plan accordingly? Can ageing be a positive experience? Share your thoughts by emailing me directly or leave a comment in the box below.

 

Skipping through the Leaves

Today the streets were full of people in summer clothes - sleeveless dresses, shorts, t-shirts with every sort of sandal and flip-flop.  I was hot in my lightweight jumper, denim jacket, scarf and jeans with socks and trainers, having dressed appropriately for the slightly chilly autumn morning.  That's the trouble with autumn;  you think it has arrived, time to put the heating on and switch the duvets to a higher tog level.  I have even put my sandals and summer shoes away to make way for my boots.  I love boots - buying them, wearing them, stroking them (just weird, mother, according to elder daughter) and admiring them when I stretch my legs out in front of me.  This year I began my boot research early, probably at the end of July.  Magazines have been leading us towards Autumn/Winter for a while and shops have been filling their displays with boots of every kind.  This is good, because some years there are gaps - no ankle boots, no knee boots, no casual boots.  My research suggested that the knee boot was definitely in (I wrote about my first fruitless attempt at boot shopping in Having a Nice Day, 1st September) and that became my focus.  I really like boots - from my white Courreges style ankle boots in the 60's through black patent lace-up platforms when 7 months pregnant to a fabulous red calf-length pair with heels, worn when I danced on a table in a London cafe at an age when I should have known better.  This is my current collection, missing only my Converse Hollis and silver Nike hi-tops, my Ecco walking boots and my navy and white striped wellies.  That's 10 pairs.  Is that a lot? I don't know.  I do wear them all.

my boot collection (new pair third from left)

This season's had to be leather, black and flat, comfortable and practical.  I have to admit here to buying, on impulse a few years back, a beautiful pair of long purple suede boots with a wedge heel and lovely patterned fabric lining.  I couldn't walk in them and they needed a whole 'look' to be created around them.  I kept them on the top shelf of the wardrobe, occasionally taking them out to feel, admire and feel guilty about.  I did think about selling them on ebay but didn't get round to it.  I could have taken them to a charity shop, but I didn't really want anyone else to have them.  In the end, my husband was looking for footwear to take to some event for a good cause, so I said, 'Take them, I won't wear them again.'  They were apparently being sent abroad.  I hope someone, somewhere is enjoying them. Of course, once they were gone, I could allow myself to consider buying a new pair.  Which I have done.  They are lovely soft black leather with nice fabric linings and sensible soles.

www.partydelights.co.uk

As far as I am concerned, summer is over.  It's getting dark at 7pm, the swallows have gone, I've heard some migrating geese and I've swapped my bare legs for thick black tights, meaning  I can stop getting up 5 minutes early to put on the fake tan.  I like the idea of cosy nights in front of the fire, the final cut of the grass and even Hallowe'en, now we have a grandchild to dress up. There is, I understand, a pumpkin costume. Shops are full of spooky themed decorations and sweets.  I've just looked on-line and there is so much you can buy - from really horrible 'bloody body parts' to 'skeleton hand lawn stakes' (glow in the dark)  which would terrify me any time I went outside.   I quite fancy a rather tasteful 'bat string' or some 'family friendly' pumpkin decorations.

Blebo apples

 By then, it will be winter and these Indian summer days will be over.  Till then, I'll enjoy skipping and scuffing through leaves in my new boots, going back to my weekly art class, picking the last of our tomatoes, cooking apples from a friend's trees and getting back to my knitting, like a proper grandma.  Currently I'm finishing off a baby hat, having given up on a patchwork blanket knitted on very small needles in sock wool after my friends pointed out that I'd be 90 by the time I finished it!

http://www.shellykang.com/all-about-the-blankie

Skipping through the Leaves

Today the streets were full of people in summer clothes - sleeveless dresses, shorts, t-shirts with every sort of sandal and flip-flop.  I was hot in my lightweight jumper, denim jacket, scarf and jeans with socks and trainers, having dressed appropriately for the slightly chilly autumn morning.  That's the trouble with autumn;  you think it has arrived, time to put the heating on and switch the duvets to a higher tog level.  I have even put my sandals and summer shoes away to make way for my boots.  I love boots - buying them, wearing them, stroking them (just weird, mother, according to elder daughter) and admiring them when I stretch my legs out in front of me.  This year I began my boot research early, probably at the end of July.  Magazines have been leading us towards Autumn/Winter for a while and shops have been filling their displays with boots of every kind.  This is good, because some years there are gaps - no ankle boots, no knee boots, no casual boots.  My research suggested that the knee boot was definitely in (I wrote about my first fruitless attempt at boot shopping in Having a Nice Day, 1st September) and that became my focus.  I really like boots - from my white Courreges style ankle boots in the 60's through black patent lace-up platforms when 7 months pregnant to a fabulous red calf-length pair with heels, worn when I danced on a table in a London cafe at an age when I should have known better.  This is my current collection, missing only my Converse Hollis and silver Nike hi-tops, my Ecco walking boots and my navy and white striped wellies.  That's 10 pairs.  Is that a lot? I don't know.  I do wear them all.

my boot collection (new pair third from left)

This season's had to be leather, black and flat, comfortable and practical.  I have to admit here to buying, on impulse a few years back, a beautiful pair of long purple suede boots with a wedge heel and lovely patterned fabric lining.  I couldn't walk in them and they needed a whole 'look' to be created around them.  I kept them on the top shelf of the wardrobe, occasionally taking them out to feel, admire and feel guilty about.  I did think about selling them on ebay but didn't get round to it.  I could have taken them to a charity shop, but I didn't really want anyone else to have them.  In the end, my husband was looking for footwear to take to some event for a good cause, so I said, 'Take them, I won't wear them again.'  They were apparently being sent abroad.  I hope someone, somewhere is enjoying them. Of course, once they were gone, I could allow myself to consider buying a new pair.  Which I have done.  They are lovely soft black leather with nice fabric linings and sensible soles.

www.partydelights.co.uk

As far as I am concerned, summer is over.  It's getting dark at 7pm, the swallows have gone, I've heard some migrating geese and I've swapped my bare legs for thick black tights, meaning  I can stop getting up 5 minutes early to put on the fake tan.  I like the idea of cosy nights in front of the fire, the final cut of the grass and even Hallowe'en, now we have a grandchild to dress up. There is, I understand, a pumpkin costume. Shops are full of spooky themed decorations and sweets.  I've just looked on-line and there is so much you can buy - from really horrible 'bloody body parts' to 'skeleton hand lawn stakes' (glow in the dark)  which would terrify me any time I went outside.   I quite fancy a rather tasteful 'bat string' or some 'family friendly' pumpkin decorations.

Blebo apples

 By then, it will be winter and these Indian summer days will be over.  Till then, I'll enjoy skipping and scuffing through leaves in my new boots, going back to my weekly art class, picking the last of our tomatoes, cooking apples from a friend's trees and getting back to my knitting, like a proper grandma.  Currently I'm finishing off a baby hat, having given up on a patchwork blanket knitted on very small needles in sock wool after my friends pointed out that I'd be 90 by the time I finished it!

http://www.shellykang.com/all-about-the-blankie

The Open Road

My first encounters with caravanning were through books like The Wind in the Willows and Five Go Off in a Caravan.  Toad proudly shows off his latest acquisition, a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.

'There's real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! Mole is more interested in the inside, which is compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks—a little table that folded up against the wall—a cooking-stove, lockers, bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and kettles of every size and variety. 

Enid Blyton's characters have a similar reaction on first sight of their holiday caravan.

'Bunks along one side — is that where we sleep?  How gorgeous!'
'Look at this little sink — we can really wash up. And golly, water comes out of these taps!'

'There's a proper stove to cook on — but I vote we cook out of doors on a camp-fire. I say, look at the bright frying-pans — and all the cups and saucers hanging up!' 

I fantasised about staying in a caravan and its pleasurable compactness of design, so, aged 7, couldn't believe my luck when a Saturday family outing turned out to involve the purchase of a caravan - green and shiny, with bunks, a cooker, even a tiny toilet.  My mother made curtains and covers for the seats, my sister and I chose favourite books to fit into our allotted shelf space, finally setting off on a three day journey to the North East of Scotland for the first of many holidays.  My husband also had good memories of his family's caravan holidays - being outside, the smell of the countryside, the cosiness on a wet day.  I associate wet days with steamed up windows, my dad's pipe and damp dog.

We decided to hire a campervan for a few days, finding it surprisingly difficult to find something at short notice, settling for a 'motorhome' available about 30 miles away.

Although I knew it slept up to 6, I was still taken aback by the size and bulk of our new vehicle.  We were introduced to its many features:  king size bed above the cab, gas fridge and cooker, cupboards with racks to hold the crockery in place, a combined toilet, sink and shower compartment and a flatscreen television. Outside we had to learn features behind locked panels:  mains electricity hook-up, fresh water inlet, orange cassette for loo waste (!), as well as plastic wedges for levelling the van.  My husband drove (he drives minibuses) - I decided I couldn't cope with the sheer size, but quite enjoyed being perched up high in the passenger seat.  Next we had to pack, so came home to load up.  There was nowhere to park in our narrow street so made four journeys each from house to van.  We finally managed to secure the bikes on the back and set off with a real sense of adventure.  Where would we go? Initially, we had liked the concept of finding an off-road track, leading to a clearing in the forest. Not the easiest thing to find without detailed maps and careful planning.  We had neither.  I was also affected by watching horror films where a couple drive up an unmarked road and get lost, pursued by sinister noises and lights.

It was early evening when we got underway, with darkness coming soon, so we settled for a pitch at Strathclyde Country Park.  Having got successfully connected to electricity, we were able to heat our microwave dinners and close all the blinds. Watching television required one of us to stand by the open wardrobe, turning the roof aerial until a picture appeared. We decided not to bother and just head to bed.  Easier said than done.  Access to our eye-level mattress was via a ladder.  I needed a serious boost from below to propel me onto the bed, with very little headroom.  Reading in bed proved impossible, and any thoughts of needing the loo in the middle of the night had to be swiftly quashed.

Next morning, feeling like seasoned motorhomers, we headed for Dumfries, where we were faced with another challenge.  Your average car park, e.g. Morrisons, has average car spaces.  Twice round the one way system we realised we needed a bus or lorry park.  Fortunately we found one.  We did think, briefly, of staying the night, but it was just a bit public.  That night we headed towards the Solway Firth and found a well-maintained site with everything from Bingo to Karaoke (not that these were features which appealed).   We were given a pitch number, but just as my husband reversed, we realised there was a three inch metal bolt sticking up from the asphalt.  Abandoning that pitch, he moved to the next one, where we got set up for the night.  Unfortunately, our jazzy little control board indicated no mains power.  We tried standard disconnect, reconnect.  No joy.  Time to refer to the multiple manuals of instructions, eventually concluding that we had no power.  This took a while. I'd noticed that the post with the connection was at an angle, probably from someone reversing into it, making it likely that it was broken.  We packed up and secured everything again and moved to a third pitch, where (hurrah!) we had a working connection.  Ready for food, we checked out the options and settled for takeway scampi (him) and chips (me).

 
We stayed another night, visiting Wigtown, with its idiosyncratic bookshops and cycling round the paths of our campsite.  I know, not proper grown-up cycling, but I hadn't been on a bike since falling off a Boris bike in Hyde Park last year.  I have to confess I wheeled mine up the not very steep hills.  As we had to return the van by mid-morning, emptied and cleaned, we decided to spend our last night on a site 5 miles from home.  It gave us a new view of our own coastline.  Fortunately, no-one asked where we were from.

Did we enjoy our motorhoming?  Yes, but - I felt the one we had was too big for the two of us and hard to park and manoevre.   I had imagined something more like a VW campervan. I didn't like the claustrophobic bed (coffin dreams!) and extras like the shower and the tv we'd happily have done without.  The freedom of just being able to go off anywhere and be self-sufficient is very compelling, although for what it cost we could have had several nights in up-market b&b, driving our own comfortable car.  It has let us know what it's like - it might be a good option for our next holiday in the USA.  Any comments, suggestions, advice welcomed!

The Open Road

My first encounters with caravanning were through books like The Wind in the Willows and Five Go Off in a Caravan.  Toad proudly shows off his latest acquisition, a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.

'There's real life for you, embodied in that little cart. The open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs! Camps, villages, towns, cities! Here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow! Mole is more interested in the inside, which is compact and comfortable. Little sleeping bunks—a little table that folded up against the wall—a cooking-stove, lockers, bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and kettles of every size and variety. 

Enid Blyton's characters have a similar reaction on first sight of their holiday caravan.

'Bunks along one side — is that where we sleep?  How gorgeous!'
'Look at this little sink — we can really wash up. And golly, water comes out of these taps!'

'There's a proper stove to cook on — but I vote we cook out of doors on a camp-fire. I say, look at the bright frying-pans — and all the cups and saucers hanging up!' 

I fantasised about staying in a caravan and its pleasurable compactness of design, so, aged 7, couldn't believe my luck when a Saturday family outing turned out to involve the purchase of a caravan - green and shiny, with bunks, a cooker, even a tiny toilet.  My mother made curtains and covers for the seats, my sister and I chose favourite books to fit into our allotted shelf space, finally setting off on a three day journey to the North East of Scotland for the first of many holidays.  My husband also had good memories of his family's caravan holidays - being outside, the smell of the countryside, the cosiness on a wet day.  I associate wet days with steamed up windows, my dad's pipe and damp dog.

We decided to hire a campervan for a few days, finding it surprisingly difficult to find something at short notice, settling for a 'motorhome' available about 30 miles away.

Although I knew it slept up to 6, I was still taken aback by the size and bulk of our new vehicle.  We were introduced to its many features:  king size bed above the cab, gas fridge and cooker, cupboards with racks to hold the crockery in place, a combined toilet, sink and shower compartment and a flatscreen television. Outside we had to learn features behind locked panels:  mains electricity hook-up, fresh water inlet, orange cassette for loo waste (!), as well as plastic wedges for levelling the van.  My husband drove (he drives minibuses) - I decided I couldn't cope with the sheer size, but quite enjoyed being perched up high in the passenger seat.  Next we had to pack, so came home to load up.  There was nowhere to park in our narrow street so made four journeys each from house to van.  We finally managed to secure the bikes on the back and set off with a real sense of adventure.  Where would we go? Initially, we had liked the concept of finding an off-road track, leading to a clearing in the forest. Not the easiest thing to find without detailed maps and careful planning.  We had neither.  I was also affected by watching horror films where a couple drive up an unmarked road and get lost, pursued by sinister noises and lights.

It was early evening when we got underway, with darkness coming soon, so we settled for a pitch at Strathclyde Country Park.  Having got successfully connected to electricity, we were able to heat our microwave dinners and close all the blinds. Watching television required one of us to stand by the open wardrobe, turning the roof aerial until a picture appeared. We decided not to bother and just head to bed.  Easier said than done.  Access to our eye-level mattress was via a ladder.  I needed a serious boost from below to propel me onto the bed, with very little headroom.  Reading in bed proved impossible, and any thoughts of needing the loo in the middle of the night had to be swiftly quashed.

Next morning, feeling like seasoned motorhomers, we headed for Dumfries, where we were faced with another challenge.  Your average car park, e.g. Morrisons, has average car spaces.  Twice round the one way system we realised we needed a bus or lorry park.  Fortunately we found one.  We did think, briefly, of staying the night, but it was just a bit public.  That night we headed towards the Solway Firth and found a well-maintained site with everything from Bingo to Karaoke (not that these were features which appealed).   We were given a pitch number, but just as my husband reversed, we realised there was a three inch metal bolt sticking up from the asphalt.  Abandoning that pitch, he moved to the next one, where we got set up for the night.  Unfortunately, our jazzy little control board indicated no mains power.  We tried standard disconnect, reconnect.  No joy.  Time to refer to the multiple manuals of instructions, eventually concluding that we had no power.  This took a while. I'd noticed that the post with the connection was at an angle, probably from someone reversing into it, making it likely that it was broken.  We packed up and secured everything again and moved to a third pitch, where (hurrah!) we had a working connection.  Ready for food, we checked out the options and settled for takeway scampi (him) and chips (me).

 
We stayed another night, visiting Wigtown, with its idiosyncratic bookshops and cycling round the paths of our campsite.  I know, not proper grown-up cycling, but I hadn't been on a bike since falling off a Boris bike in Hyde Park last year.  I have to confess I wheeled mine up the not very steep hills.  As we had to return the van by mid-morning, emptied and cleaned, we decided to spend our last night on a site 5 miles from home.  It gave us a new view of our own coastline.  Fortunately, no-one asked where we were from.

Did we enjoy our motorhoming?  Yes, but - I felt the one we had was too big for the two of us and hard to park and manoevre.   I had imagined something more like a VW campervan. I didn't like the claustrophobic bed (coffin dreams!) and extras like the shower and the tv we'd happily have done without.  The freedom of just being able to go off anywhere and be self-sufficient is very compelling, although for what it cost we could have had several nights in up-market b&b, driving our own comfortable car.  It has let us know what it's like - it might be a good option for our next holiday in the USA.  Any comments, suggestions, advice welcomed!

Having a Nice Day.......

Curmudgeon.  That's my word for today.  Definition: an old person often in a bad mood, a surly bad-tempered person.  It began with the garage first thing this morning.  A gum chewing child with a beautifully painted rose-red cupid's bow looked up from her keyboard to stare blankly at me.  I've brought the car in for servicing, I explained.  She reached behind her and brought out a form.  Just sign that, she said.  I scanned the sheet and noticed that I had to answer Yes or No to the question, Have you been offered a free pre-service inspection? I needed some guidance.  Have I? I asked.  She stared blankly, still chewing.  Just put yes, she said.  So you just offered me it? I checked.  Just put yes, she said, so I did.  She asked for a contact number. I'd already had a text reminding me about the service so I said I thought they had it already.  It'll be in the computer, she said.  I gave her my mobile number.

After walking into town, I had a little browse around the shops.  Noticing that winter boots were starting to appear, I had a look in one of the shoe shops.  No sooner had I stepped inside when a gnome-like middle-aged man with a desperately cheery manner bounced into my personal space and said he liked my shoes.  Yes, I had bought them there some time ago.  I expressed a wish to browse, but he followed me across to the boot display.  There was a pair - knee-high, black leather, which I liked, so I asked to try them in my size.  He sent his pale teenage assistant off to find them in the recesses of the shop while engaging me in light conversation about the store's new look.  I hadn't really noticed, except that most of the seating had been removed.  I sat down in a rather cramped corner to try on the boots.  Mr Cheery knelt down beside me, looking encouraging, leaving me momentarily to pick up a money off voucher, which was thrust into my hand.  Meantime, I was having trouble with the boots.  They fitted my feet, but the inside calf zip wouldn't do up. Let me try, he cried, forcing the fastener up, catching my flesh.  Please, no, I said. They don't fit.  Ah, he said, I see what the problem is, studying the buckled straps on the outside of the legs, These are too tight. And handed one to the pale girl while he struggled with the other boot. This made no difference.  I said I would just leave it for now, but he tried another tack.  Maybe I needed a bigger size?  I had slipped the voucher into my bag just in case he asked for it back.  I put my shoes back on and started for the door, the air heavy with disappointment, theirs, not mine. It's early days for boots; I'll keep looking, but maybe not there. (Actually, I have to confess to owning quite a lot of boots, including my favourite red Fly pair in my profile picture.)

And how is your day going? chirps the robotic smiling girl in the coffee shop before taking my order. I am so bad at responding to that kind of greeting, generally mumbling (as I did today) that it's all right.....On ordering a chocolate tiffin bar and an Americano, she congratulates me on my choice and says they are just what I need to get my day off to a good start.  I mutter that my day started hours ago and move to the area where other customers are collecting coffees.  Not there, says another less robotic girl, stay where you are.  So I did.

I don't think shopping and using various services used to be such a minefield of etiquette.  In California, yes, I got used to:  How are YOU today? and Have a nice day! But here in Scotland, I'm used to being treated in a less personal, but maybe more genuine way.   I like being able to browse in shops without being questioned about my buying intentions as soon as I walk inside.  Maybe it is a generational thing.  But then there is so much I love about NOW.  On-line shopping.  Shopping malls that stay open till 10 at night.  All the stuff you can buy in a supermarket, from light bulbs to socks.

Anyone else feeling curmudgeonly?  Isn't it a great word!  Just to balance things out a bit, the car was ready on time, freshly washed AND they sent a video of the mechanic talking us through the up on the ramp inspection.  Brilliant!

Having a Nice Day.......

Curmudgeon.  That's my word for today.  Definition: an old person often in a bad mood, a surly bad-tempered person.  It began with the garage first thing this morning.  A gum chewing child with a beautifully painted rose-red cupid's bow looked up from her keyboard to stare blankly at me.  I've brought the car in for servicing, I explained.  She reached behind her and brought out a form.  Just sign that, she said.  I scanned the sheet and noticed that I had to answer Yes or No to the question, Have you been offered a free pre-service inspection? I needed some guidance.  Have I? I asked.  She stared blankly, still chewing.  Just put yes, she said.  So you just offered me it? I checked.  Just put yes, she said, so I did.  She asked for a contact number. I'd already had a text reminding me about the service so I said I thought they had it already.  It'll be in the computer, she said.  I gave her my mobile number.

After walking into town, I had a little browse around the shops.  Noticing that winter boots were starting to appear, I had a look in one of the shoe shops.  No sooner had I stepped inside when a gnome-like middle-aged man with a desperately cheery manner bounced into my personal space and said he liked my shoes.  Yes, I had bought them there some time ago.  I expressed a wish to browse, but he followed me across to the boot display.  There was a pair - knee-high, black leather, which I liked, so I asked to try them in my size.  He sent his pale teenage assistant off to find them in the recesses of the shop while engaging me in light conversation about the store's new look.  I hadn't really noticed, except that most of the seating had been removed.  I sat down in a rather cramped corner to try on the boots.  Mr Cheery knelt down beside me, looking encouraging, leaving me momentarily to pick up a money off voucher, which was thrust into my hand.  Meantime, I was having trouble with the boots.  They fitted my feet, but the inside calf zip wouldn't do up. Let me try, he cried, forcing the fastener up, catching my flesh.  Please, no, I said. They don't fit.  Ah, he said, I see what the problem is, studying the buckled straps on the outside of the legs, These are too tight. And handed one to the pale girl while he struggled with the other boot. This made no difference.  I said I would just leave it for now, but he tried another tack.  Maybe I needed a bigger size?  I had slipped the voucher into my bag just in case he asked for it back.  I put my shoes back on and started for the door, the air heavy with disappointment, theirs, not mine. It's early days for boots; I'll keep looking, but maybe not there. (Actually, I have to confess to owning quite a lot of boots, including my favourite red Fly pair in my profile picture.)

And how is your day going? chirps the robotic smiling girl in the coffee shop before taking my order. I am so bad at responding to that kind of greeting, generally mumbling (as I did today) that it's all right.....On ordering a chocolate tiffin bar and an Americano, she congratulates me on my choice and says they are just what I need to get my day off to a good start.  I mutter that my day started hours ago and move to the area where other customers are collecting coffees.  Not there, says another less robotic girl, stay where you are.  So I did.

I don't think shopping and using various services used to be such a minefield of etiquette.  In California, yes, I got used to:  How are YOU today? and Have a nice day! But here in Scotland, I'm used to being treated in a less personal, but maybe more genuine way.   I like being able to browse in shops without being questioned about my buying intentions as soon as I walk inside.  Maybe it is a generational thing.  But then there is so much I love about NOW.  On-line shopping.  Shopping malls that stay open till 10 at night.  All the stuff you can buy in a supermarket, from light bulbs to socks.

Anyone else feeling curmudgeonly?  Isn't it a great word!  Just to balance things out a bit, the car was ready on time, freshly washed AND they sent a video of the mechanic talking us through the up on the ramp inspection.  Brilliant!

Music and Silence

Djembes and Dun-duns

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

Aldous Huxley

Daphne Oxenford, Listen with Mother presenter

Some of my earliest memories are of music.  My mother was a singer and had a song for every occasion: The sun has got his hat on, Oh what a beautiful morning, I've got a little list. She sang in the local operatic society, so as soon as the new production was decided, we all learned the songs;  Three little maids from school, When a merry maiden marries, A wandering minstrel I. In the years before television, the wireless was almost always on - Listen with mother had Eileen Browne singing beautiful RP arrangements of traditional nursery rhymes like I had a little nut tree and Three Little Kittens (I still remember all the words); Children's Favourites on a Saturday morning had songs like The Laughing policeman, The Runaway Train and, best of all, Sparky's Magic Piano.  I loved the concept of just running my fingers over the keys and producing wonderful melodies.  My mother and my younger sister played the piano and I had lessons for a while but somehow didn't make the commitment to practise.  I have had several shots at learning as an adult, but I seem to have a lot of hang-ups about it.

Tommy Steele

I found a ukeleIe in the house with an instruction book from the 1930s, bought strings and taught myself to play a few chords. Aged nine, I would do my impersonation of Tommy Steele Singing' the Blues to anyone who would listen. Later I acquired a guitar and played well enough to entertain small children when I ran a playgroup, and had a brief flirtation with the harmonica, inflicting it on my husband on a holiday in rural France.  I greatly admire a friend my age who has taken up the violin in retirement;  she practises diligently, goes to lessons and plays in two traditional music groups. Having been told by my mother that I wasn't a singer, I took up choral singing in 1996 and really struggled at first with sight reading, especially as the first piece I tackled was Bach's B Minor Mass, as a second soprano.  My musical sister made me tapes of my part for practice and I got there in the end.  I now sing in our local choir and find that singing drives out other concerns and makes me feel good.

Still looking for the right instrument, I remembered I had bought a djembe from my African teacher, taking masterclasses at a drumming festival in Foix years ago. Unplayed and neglected, its goatskin had split. A Google search found a drumming group in a nearby town.  The teacher fitted a new skin to my drum and

I've been playing since January. I love it!  No music to read, the rhythm and sound of the drums is all-embracing and it's great to make music in a supportive group. I'm also loving singing to my toddler grandson, taking him along to a Bookbugs session at the library where we're learning new songs and rhymes.

Music and Silence

Djembes and Dun-duns

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

Aldous Huxley

Daphne Oxenford, Listen with Mother presenter

Some of my earliest memories are of music.  My mother was a singer and had a song for every occasion: The sun has got his hat on, Oh what a beautiful morning, I've got a little list. She sang in the local operatic society, so as soon as the new production was decided, we all learned the songs;  Three little maids from school, When a merry maiden marries, A wandering minstrel I. In the years before television, the wireless was almost always on - Listen with mother had Eileen Browne singing beautiful RP arrangements of traditional nursery rhymes like I had a little nut tree and Three Little Kittens (I still remember all the words); Children's Favourites on a Saturday morning had songs like The Laughing policeman, The Runaway Train and, best of all, Sparky's Magic Piano.  I loved the concept of just running my fingers over the keys and producing wonderful melodies.  My mother and my younger sister played the piano and I had lessons for a while but somehow didn't make the commitment to practise.  I have had several shots at learning as an adult, but I seem to have a lot of hang-ups about it.

Tommy Steele

I found a ukeleIe in the house with an instruction book from the 1930s, bought strings and taught myself to play a few chords. Aged nine, I would do my impersonation of Tommy Steele Singing' the Blues to anyone who would listen. Later I acquired a guitar and played well enough to entertain small children when I ran a playgroup, and had a brief flirtation with the harmonica, inflicting it on my husband on a holiday in rural France.  I greatly admire a friend my age who has taken up the violin in retirement;  she practises diligently, goes to lessons and plays in two traditional music groups. Having been told by my mother that I wasn't a singer, I took up choral singing in 1996 and really struggled at first with sight reading, especially as the first piece I tackled was Bach's B Minor Mass, as a second soprano.  My musical sister made me tapes of my part for practice and I got there in the end.  I now sing in our local choir and find that singing drives out other concerns and makes me feel good.

Still looking for the right instrument, I remembered I had bought a djembe from my African teacher, taking masterclasses at a drumming festival in Foix years ago. Unplayed and neglected, its goatskin had split. A Google search found a drumming group in a nearby town.  The teacher fitted a new skin to my drum and

I've been playing since January. I love it!  No music to read, the rhythm and sound of the drums is all-embracing and it's great to make music in a supportive group. I'm also loving singing to my toddler grandson, taking him along to a Bookbugs session at the library where we're learning new songs and rhymes.

A Country Wedding

Like a scene from Thomas Hardy, green hills and fields all around, sitting on straw bales, we wait for the bride to arrive.­­­ The guest sitting next to me reveals that he has seventeen umbrellas in the boot of his car. Most of us have wellies as alternative footwear, but the sun is shining and the sky is reliably blue.  The Beatles’ All you need is love plays and we turn to see a little group in fuchsia pink, violet and shimmery turquoise, flowers in their hair and in their hands, tripping through the newly mown grass – the bride, bridesmaids and three little flower girls, with the farmer (the bride’s father) in shorts, followed by an excited collie.



The ceremony is simple and moving. We all sing Annie’s Song, bringing tears to my eyes, and the bride’s six year old daughter reads her own poem, another emotional moment.

The groom wears a kilt and Doc Martens; his four year old son, a mini-version of his dad, proudly produces the rings from his sporran. The registrar explains that this marriage had to wait until the children came along and were old enough to take part.  It makes complete sense – the relationship tried and tested, a home established.  The wedding guests are mostly families with young children and babies, playing in the farmhouse garden outside the marquee.  It is a group celebration of love and friendship, informal and spontaneous.

The bride gives a dramatic Address to the Cake, the little girls sing and dance.  Later, the groom’s band play and we all dance till late.  We need rituals to mark important times in our lives and this one was perfectly staged to suit this family. (I couldn't help contrasting it with the BBC series Don’t Tell the Bride, where the groom plans what he thinks will be the bride’s dream day, often looking more like a nightmare!)  As we leave the lights behind to search for our car in the dense blackness of the country night, I feel a new optimism for the future and a belief (or at least a suspension of disbelief) in love and marriage.

   

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