Some time ago we had a clothes sale at Zac's, you may remember. Afterwards we decided to try and sell a couple of designer label items on social media. Last week when I was on holiday we finally had an offer on a pair of Doc Marten's shoes. I wrote back saying I was away but would sort it out this week.
The buyer contacted me again this week to find out when she could pick them up. As they were still in Zac's I asked her to wait until I was there to pick them up - last night.
The room that the clothes are kept in is crowded to begin with. A few weeks' neglect when bags of donations are thrown in makes it worse. The result being I couldn't find the shoes.
Went back in this morning, spent nearly an hour scrambling around, coughing and sweating, and was on the point of giving up when I found them!
That long and boring story was just to explain how I happened to be in town and walking into Tesco's when the door alarm went off! I nearly had a little accident.
Everyone turned to look at me, and I in turn waited for a hand on my shoulder.
It's a good job I don't have a dodgy heart.
But back to last night.
Jan, the homeless nurse, gave a talk to volunteers at Zac's about the current drugs situation in Swansea. She is an amazing woman, sensible and no-nonsense but very obviously loving the people she deals with. In case you're interested, crack cocaine is the drug of choice on the streets at the moment.
The drug team had just about worked out a system for dealing with heroin when, in the course of about three months, it changed to crack cocaine. Horrendous. And while it is possible to wean users off heroin the only thing for cocaine users is to give it up. Full stop.
Some people use little canisters of nitrous oxide to get high. These are the canisters that are used in cans of squirty cream to make them squirty. I don't know, given the choice of inhaling the gas or having the cream I know what I'd choose.
Our finally-finished dining-room.
While pottering I was thinking about anxiety. I was supposed to be leading the bible study tonight - but I'm doing it next week instead - in Zac's on the bit in Philippians where it says, "Do not be anxious about anything."
First thoughts, "Great, I know about anxiety"; second thoughts, but not how to deal with it in a Christian way i.e. give it to God and you'll find peace. That has happened on occasion but I struggle to let go of it completely hence the need for medication. And while I'm happy to say this, and encourage others to see the doctor, say it's not letting God down to accept human/chemical help, I have said it all before.
Now the problem is that the study group is largely male, and previously when I've admitted something like this and asked if anyone else has ever felt the same, I've been greeted with a deadly silence.
I don't know if that means men don't think the way women do, or they don't want to admit it if they do, or they've all got it sussed. Now I'm wondering if I should prepare a different study, not the one that would come naturally to me, sharing about my own struggles etc, because I don't think that would necessarily help the majority of men there. Maybe a more theoretical, theological approach. Maybe it would help me too.
We have one regular and I could tell you almost word for word what he will say as he's said it so many times before: I don't think he thinks much of my study leading. I shall have to do some research, see what I can come up with.
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I began watching Harry and Meghan yesterday afternoon. I thought it was one episode. Then two. I've just finished episode four and five is waiting. There can't be many more! It's a bit repetitive and long-winded but they seem honest enough - but then I've always been gullible. But I really can't imagine they would tell complete lies. Then again I suppose we all have our own version of the truth.
P.S. Have ordered Spare from the library. Am 52nd on the waiting list.
On Anvilcloud's blog he is talking about disappointing chips/fries. I find these days that the smell and anticipation of fish and chips are better than the experience. It's very rare to get the perfect chip. Or the right quantity at the right price.
And I was going to continue on that theme but was boring myself - Anvilcloud is much more interesting - so I'll talk about the film I watched yesterday afternoon.
Being under the weather means I get to watch films I think Husband wouldn't be keen on. Yesterday's offering was Here's to you Leo Grande, starring Emma Thompson. To say it was a bit out of my comfort zone was putting it mildly.
Emma Thompson is a middle-aged widow who rents a sex worker, and the film is much more charming than you might think from that bald statement. Although the talk is blunt you don't get to 'see anything' - until the end, which of course was the point at which Husband walked in and said, "What are you watching?" Or possibly, "What are you watching?"
We find out about her anxiety, her insecurities, and her unfulfilling marriage and motherhood, as well as the boy's unhappy story. Yes, he is a boy, in his twenties I guess, but a boy who, to all intents and purposes, enjoys his work. No deep investigation as to how far that is true or any judgement but a rather sweet film.
Bookwise, Husband collected Lessons in Chemistry for me from the library. I've had it on order for ages and it has very good reviews, including from the librarian who served Husband. I shall finish The Lost Notebook - haven't made up my mind about it yet and look forward to starting my chemistry lessons. I had to sit my Chemistry GCE three times so I hope the book is better than my teacher was.
The phone didn't even ring.
It was simply a text message, which I only saw as I happened to be looking at the time.
That's me done for then. I won't even know come the end of the world. And, actually, I only switched the sound on my phone because I was curious. Husband is always getting annoyed with me because the sound is switched off and he can't contact me.
So no hope for me I guess.
But my bit of the garden will look nice as I've ordered another rose bush.
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Seeing Boud's mention of an old family dictionary reminded me of the two-volume set of Webster's dictionary we acquired during my childhood. I seem to remember it belonged to my mum's boss and he was getting rid of it so she brought it home.
As a child I was fascinated by it. It seems to be the 1864 edition and I am amazed by the amount of detail that can be shown in tiny black and white illustrations.
At 3.00 pm today all smartphones across the UK will receive an emergency alert. For months there've been warnings on social media for victims of abuse who may have a secret phone hidden to make sure they have the phone turned off.
It's a test of the warning system, which according to official sources will be used to warn of flooding or storms etc. But we all know it's in case of nuclear war.
But do we want to know that a warhead is headed for us? Actually, yes, because you'd probably want to either rush out and whitewash your windows and position the table for hiding, or just go out and welcome it as a preferable alternative to post-apocalypse life.
Talking of apocalyptic moments, I can only assume that the architects of motorway service station rest-rooms, base their designs on the 'where's Wally?' books.
If you're going to have automated facilities at least make it all or nothing. Otherwise a person could look very silly standing with her hands under a soap dispenser for several minutes just waiting for it oblige.
And that's before I even start on hand driers. Hours can pass while you search for where they've been hidden this time.
Still, they do have exceptionally good cakes in French services.
And this is my Mother's Day present from Italy. A Granny gnome complete with pens and books.
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| View over the bay from our apartment - up the hill |
when you haven't done anything wrong.
Coming through passport control on our way home the English female officer started chatting to me as she waited for our passports to be verified. (I assume.)
"Where've you been? How long were you there for? Was it a holiday? etc"
At first I thought she was just being friendly - she said it all in a casual way - but then I began to worry that she was trying to catch me out.
"Don't be silly," I tell myself, "there's nothing she can catch you out on. You haven't done anything."
But false guilt can strike the most innocent and make them panic. It was the same when we used to go through Customs. Anything to Declare? No. But what if I am inadvertently smuggling cocaine?
Or when they swipe the car steering wheel, presumably for traces of explosive, there's a tense few moments waiting for an all clear even though I know neither Husband nor I have ever so much as touched explosives.
Or when you go through the machines that scan your bags and your body.
I always breathe a sigh of relief when I get through to the other side.
I could never do anything against the law because I'd probably own up as soon as they looked at me.
So if anyone knows how not to feel guilty when you've done nothing wrong please let me know the secret.
Meanwhile I feel even worse today. If I'd been swimming in English seas I would put it down to the s**t the water companies are allowed to pour in but the Med seemed fine.
A visit to Italy isn't complete without a trip to our favourite ice cream parlour. This time for me it was a nutella sundae.
The Sunday after Easter there was a grand blessing of tractors ceremony in Roccaforte. It's only a small village but there must have been at least fifty tractors assembled in the square waiting for mass to finish and the parade to begin.
There was every sort of tractor you can imagine there from tiny home-made looking things to old well-worn machines to huge shiny monsters with wheels taller than me.
While Husband was busy putting up gates I plucked up my courage and drove to the Mercato all on my own!
This was after I'd collected some horse poo from the track and put it round the roses.
As I said driving is easy in this part of Italy; I might have been less keen to drive around Rome. But having arrived there safely I set about gathering the things I needed: I'd decided to make some brownies as a farewell treat.
Everything went well until I looked for brown sugar. I trawled all the food aisles and obvious - you'd think - places several times but the only sugar I could find was icing. I decided I'd have to ask someone and plucked up my courage again. The asking was easy: I had it all planned. It was the reply I was worried about. This was Italy; the reply would not be a grunt and an "aisle 6". And it wasn't.
"Italian Italian Italian surgele, Italian Italian Italian," accompanied by waving of arms and pointing.
"Grazie."
I headed in the direction indicated and towards the freezers at the far end of the shop. Where I found the sugar next to the fizzy drinks. I suppose there is logic in that.
Buoyed up by this success I started a conversation with a woman in the queue. That is, I nudged her, pointed at her purple hair and said, "Bella." She and the shop assistant did the rest. I nodded and smiled. I drove back home very proud of myself.
To try and help out a bit I did some cooking but my plan to do a French-style Boeuf Bourgignon was nearly scuppered by my inability to open the wine.
The only corkscrew I could find - yes, corkscrew! Who uses corks these days?! - was a weeing boy. And it came off in my hand!
All these posts and no photos of my babies.
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| She's electrifying. |
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| My beautiful boy. |
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| After an Italian lunch out i.e. numerous courses. |
Speaking of strength, over the holidays Husband has been reading the New Scientist special issue all about health and fitness. It seems Boud was ahead of her time doing her weight training. Definite benefits of all sorts so I shall be ordering some wrist weights for exercise class. It doesn't matter if you use heavy weights for a short time or light weights for long time; what matters is that you should be worn out at the end. Apparently.
Husband also pointed out that I am fat in the wrong places. Can you be fat in the right places?
Starting at the end, we brought home souvenirs of our trip.
Husband brought melon liqueur and I brought a sockful of stones and sea glass. Each to his own. (I suppose I should confess to the giant Easter egg that accompanied us as well. What can I say: it was reduced! From 27 euros to 11.)
It's not as big as it looks. It's mostly packaging . . .
Our journey home over two days was mostly uneventful - oh, apart from a car coming down the wrong the side of the motorway driving straight at us. And the problem with the boarding boards at Eurotunnel.
We were booked to travel on the 12.20 pm. We sat and waited in the lounge keeping a close eye on the boarding calls. 'Boarding imminent.' 'Boarding imminent.'
Time was getting on but still the board showed 'Boarding imminent.' Then suddenly it changed. To 'Boarding finished.'
"What?!"
Sudden stampede of waiting travellers back to their cars. "They must know there's been a problem. The train won't go without us."
It did.
Leaving us to sit in the car in the boarding area for another hour. Not amused. Importantly it meant we hit rush hour traffic from Newport, Cardiff westwards. as we sat in yet another traffic jam I couldn't help reflecting that Italy has a lot going for it.
The area in which Younger Son and Nuora (Italian for daughter-in-law) live is very rural and the roads are all pleasantly quiet. Driving is a pleasure - if you like driving that is. Italy also has sunshine. Our trip was a little earlier than in previous years and they'd been experiencing a cold spell of weather so evenings were particularly chilly, but days, on the whole, were lovely. Not that you'd have thought so to see the locals all wrapped up in coats, scarves and boots.
Italy also has mountains.
Goodbye Italy.
Or, The Tale of Two Gateposts.
Younger Son's dog has a habit of chasing deer. This makes him/them unpopular with the locals so Lobo has to spend his days tied up. An area around the house has been fenced in but another area needs to be gated. Has needed to be gated since last summer.
Gates have been acquired; all that remains is for them to be installed. And therein lies the tale.
It was to be Husband's job this holiday. ( Don't feel sorry for him. He prefers manual labour to keeping children amused.) But . . . the gateposts Younger Son bought do not come up to Husband's standards.
"They're too thin," he insists. " They're only 9 cm when they should be 12 at least, preferably 15. "
"The people in the shop said they were fine," says Younger Son.
" Pah," says Husband. Or words to that effect.
It turns out that nobody in Italy sells 15cm gateposts. And believe me we've tried. For the last 9 days Nuora has patiently been calling all the wood merchants Husband can google to no avail. In spite of the fact that there are two tree chopping places literally down the road.
Today with a sorrowful droop to his shoulders Husband accepted the inevitable: he would have to work with what he had. So he needed concrete. "That can't be hard to find," I said. " Even in Italy. "
Husband gave me an 'oh yeah?' sort of look.
We spent the next two hours driving around. To be fair the second place we tried had concrete but they then gave us an address for a place that might have gateposts.
It might have been poor communication - remember we don't speak Italian and Husband relies on the translator on his phone - but we ended up in the middle of nowhere. Fortunately a very pretty nowhere surrounded by snow-capped mountains but still.
But what about the turkey I hear you ask.
To get from the house to the main road we have to follow a dirt track and there in the middle was an enormous turkey. He obviously had no intention of moving so I hopped out to take a photo - and very quickly hopped back in when I saw the malevolent look in his eyes.
Husband eased the car forward. "Can you see him? Is he in the way?"
"No, yes, no, STOP!"
Tempting though the thought of roast turkey was I knew he belonged to one of the neighbours, possibly the same one who complained about Lobo, so we had to be patient and wait until we could edge past and then make a run for it.
"He's chasing us!"
My poorliness and lack of energy has meant I am missing my holiday ration of ice creams. This must be put right and soon.
I am feeling more human each day but my nights see a recurrence of coughing. Most annoying. I am a very bad patient.
Mostly not stopping me from playing with children but by evening when I would be story-reading to them I am dry and anticipating a bad night. Oh phooey, enough of my moaning.
It is beautiful here in the foothills of the Alps. The weather is mostly sunny though ends of the day are chilly. The difference between Italians and us two foreigners is acute. While we wear shorts and t-shirts, admittedly with a woolly to hand, they are in long trousers, jumpers, hoodies, and boots. As Younger Son says, "This is summer to the Welsh. " And English of course.
Italian school children don't have an Easter holiday as such - they have two/three months off in the heat of summer - so the grandchildren are back in school today. I am taking the opportunity to lie in and write this. (Still no idea how to add photos. My tablet is Amazon and hates Google.)
Husband meanwhile spends his mornings digging the 'vegetable patch.' It slopes down the side of the hill and is filled with old tree roots. His afternoons are spent acquiring a tan. He can just lie in the sun for ages while I get bored and wriggly after five minutes.
Holiday reading so far:
Daisy Jones and the Six, interesting for the way it's written as a documentary, and also, is based on the story of Fleetwood Mac I believe. 4*
Counterfeit. Two old school friends get involved in the game designer handbag industry. 4*
A Very Private Eye. Barbara Pym's story told through her diaries and letters. More of a flick through sort of book otherwise it gets a bit repetitive. Not at all as I imagined she'd be. 3*
The Keeper of Stories. Lovely, wonderful holiday reading. 4.5*
A Most Unusual Demise. It seems to get a book published by this publisher it needs to be very inclusive. Not just inclusive but should contain as many variations of people as they are characters. And unnecessary sub-plot. That said once I got over the irritation not a bad yarn. 3*,
Current reading is The Man in the Queue by Josephine Tey. One of a vintage series with a very different style but rather entertaining.
One does believe that our hero, Inspector Grant, would definitely disapprove of the Met police shenanigans today. Or the London CID as it was then.
Also peeking into 52 Ways to Walk. It's all in the gait y'know.
P.S. Thank goodness for the internet and kindle. Unusually for me I didn't load up with lots of real books thinking I wouldn't have that much reading time.
I wrote this on Saturday. Today, Monday, I am feeling more human - and was yesterday too - but my impatience to get back fully to what I do best - playing with children - keeps setting me back a bit. I wrote this primarily for the Zac's Facebook page. Read on!
It's a beautiful Easter Saturday and I'm on holiday visiting my grandchildren in Italy. I should be having a wonderful time but, after trying to ignore it for three days, I'm in bed with the worst cough/cold/throat infection I have had for years. I am impatient to be well and to play with my grandchildren. It's not fair!
So lying here feeling sorry for myself I started thinking about the first Easter Saturday.
I imagine the disciples were also thinking it's not fair. The man they'd put their trust in, the man they'd given up everything to follow, hadn't led the rebellion they'd been expecting. Instead he'd been hung on a cross to die. Their future, their hopes all dying with him. How did they feel?
Angry, sorrowful, disappointed, hurt, frightened, lost, uncertain, wondering what it had all been for. I can imagine Peter wandering around punching walls in a mix of pain and confusion.
And what about the women followers? Surely broken-hearted grief. It was love that saw them kneeling at the foot of the cross when the men had run away, it was love that hurried them to the tomb to prepare his body for the spices. And it was obedience to the laws of the Sabbath that meant they had to leave him for a day before returning on the Sunday morning to apply the spices.
How black, how awful must that day have been. Compelled to rest, worship God - question him in their hearts - why, God, why? - and wait. Not even able to do what they wanted, what was right, they just had to wait.
They didn't know what joy would be awaiting them on Sunday; all they had to cling on to was what Jesus had told them, words he'd said, promises he had made them. But now he'd gone, they were alone, and they had to wait to perform their last service for him.
Maybe sometimes that's what God calls us to do. Wait for an answer to prayer, wait for a soul to be saved, a life to be changed, an illness to take its course, wait.
I'm not good at waiting. It's something I need to practise and maybe Easter Saturday is a good time to do it.
Well,we're here. And I've worked out how to write a blog post away from home!
A long drive to Folkestone followed by a short trip under the sea and another long drive to what we've come to call our usual hotel in France. Another even longer journey the next day and we arrived at the Italian home of Younger Son and family.
Two days later we were all on the train heading for the coast for a few days in the 'did I book it or not?' apartment.
I had and it was lovely - except for the million steps. The town of Camogli, like others along that coast, is built on the side of a mountain. The council has even provided lifts for the first two tiers but we were another two up - and a couple of times the lift was broken.
Now we're back in the foothills of the Alps and I am poorly! Would you believe it? I haven't been ill for ages. Husband blames it on a snotty-nosed granddaughter; Younger Son blames it on my sea swimming. (I say swimming: it was a quick dip.)
So now I'm going to lie down and feel sorry for myself - and try not to feel guilty about not being at my best for grandchildren.
I have no idea how to get photos from my phone to my tablet and to my blog so all those pleasures await you. It's mainly ice creams so don't get too excited.
