You heard it here last

David Beckham is to be paid $50,000,000 a year to play football in America.

I read this on the front of a newspaper when I was in Sainsburys last night. When I reported it, in a suitably shocked and dramatic manner, to Husband he said, 'It's been all over the news for the last two days; where have you been?'

I don't blame Beckham (I've got a soft spot for him), but it is ridiculous. When you think what a small charity could do with one week's pay ...

Who can need so much money? Who could use it? There must come a time when you can't spend any more.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday when I was in work Younger Son MSN-ed me. 'The men are here doing the windows.'
'Cleaning them?'
'No, doing them.'

Back in the summer we got Wayne the Windows to come and measure up. Some of our replacement windows needed replacing as the seal had gone and moisture was getting in, and our kitchen and small bedroom windows hadn't been done originally, and now the wood was rotten.

I was pleased they were finally doing them but I wished they'd warned me. 'Where are they now?' I asked Younger Son.
'Your bedroom.'
'Oh dear. Did you notice: was there 'anything' on the floor?'
'Didn't notice.'

There was only a bra. Not too bad. At least it wasn't dirty knickers. Even the phrase is embarrassing.

It was only this morning when I realised that they'd done the window in the spare bedroom as well. The bedroom that houses the dirty clothes basket - that I'd emptied and sorted into piles and left all over the floor. 'Twill teach me not to be a slut. (Except it won't.)

* * * * * * * * * * *

We have told YS that we will lend him money to buy a car (so that he won't have to drive my Betty to work). Husband and YS are now engaged in a disagreement over what car to look for. Husband has suggested a Corsa as it's reasonably priced and practical for what he needs; YS says it's a girly gay car and he doesn't want to be seen driving one. I will let you know what is resolved.

Receiving not giving

I went to Zac's Place this week for the first time since before Christmas. With it being a new year we're looking at rebirth for a couple of weeks.

Sean asked how peoples' lives had changed since becoming a Christian. Several people had very dramatic turnrounds to tell about. Their lives had been extreme before so I suppose it was likely that the change would be extreme. Me, I can't really say that my life changed much. Indeed I am very aware when I do something totally unChristian how bad an example I am showing Husband.

I know God loves me; I know I am forgiven. But there is a big gap between knowing in my head and knowing in my heart. It's that gap that keeps me quiet, makes me wonder. And I don't know how to bridge it.

Someone said that everyone's experience is different; someone else said that it's a journey we're taking. I have turned round and I'm on the right path, but I have a very long way to go.

I started going to Zac's because I thought I could give support. I find I am more screwed-up than most of the regulars, and I'm the one who is receiving not giving. I am grateful.

So many questions

I'm supposed to be writing about occasion cakes from round the world but I can't think of any so I'm blogging instead.

Part of me is wondering how Harvey can go so long without a wee. Must be 24 hours at least.

I've just found the answer: he didn't. Although Harvey seems as puzzled as I am.

Another part of me is wondering why there was a yellow spot on my arm when I got up this morning. I wonder if I've been marked out by aliens for abduction like Mr. Wladyslaw.

Yet another part of my brain is occupied with the question: why is the back of my neck so itchy? Do I have a rash or nits?

So many questions.

And for lunch today

It's very windy today but that hasn't stopped a few determined individuals from visiting the bird feeder.

Squirrel is finding it harder to chew his way through our new all-metal feeder but it doesn't stop him trying.

Meanwhile Little Tit (or Blue or Coal or Greater) is clinging on for all he's worth.

The very first crocus has just appeared!

Don't leave it until tomorrow

On her blog today, Welshcakes writes of the death of a cousin with whom she had lost touch. Her attempts to find him had come to nothing and it is only long after his death that she hears of it from another cousin.

I grew up without a father. He and my mother weren't married and, to my knowledge, I never met him during my childhood. As I grew older I began to wonder more about him but my interest waxed and waned with the moon.

In the 1980s I discovered that he had moved to the Carmarthen area and was probably still living there, although he had been ill.

At the end of the 90s I began a Masters course in Trinity College, Carmarthen. Out of curiosity I looked him up in the phonebook and found he was still listed. Every time I drove to college I passed his house.

I wondered what to do: should I sit outside and see if anyone appeared? Phone and pretend to be a researcher of some sort in order to find out more about his situation. I would never make a private eye; I am far too honest and easily embarrassed. I didn't know how much he knew about me and whether, if she was still alive, his wife knew about me. The last thing I wanted to do was to cause any trouble. I did nothing.

Then a few years ago I had the opportunity through a BBC programme about family history, Who Do You Think You Are?, to make a digital film. As a result of this Husband became interested in genealogy.

With the right software and the internet, he has been able to trace different branches of my and his families back to the 16th century. He discovered that my father's family history had already been well-documented by someone. According to that he had a wife and daughter - but there was no mention of me, unsurprisingly.

Making the film had aroused my interest again; I wanted to know more about where I came from, who I am. After I'd dithered for a bit we emailed the lady who had done his family tree. After she'd asked some questions, she said that my father was dead but that his wife still lived in the same house and that they did indeed have a daughter who was called Sarah. She, the genealogist, offered to act as an intermediary if I wanted to make contact as she knew the family well.

After dithering again I said yes, please, I would be grateful if she found out what she could.

She soon came back to me.

My father's wife (whom he married some years after my birth) knew about me but wasn't willing to meet me; she had now told her daughter (my younger half-sister) about me but she didn't want to know me either.

My father died in 2001. If I'd acted when I was in college I might have been able to meet with him. I don't know whether he'd have agreed or whether his health would have allowed but I missed that chance.

I thought hard about posting this but understanding Welshcakes' regret, I wanted to urge anyone who's lost contact, or never had contact, with a relative to take the chance if it comes along. You might do it and regret it but at least you'll know.

My theory ©

It's been on the news again today about global warming and cutting down our carbon dioxide emissions. However it's not only CO2 that is to blame. There are other gases involved, the major one being methane.

The reasons for the increase in CO2 are well-documented; however I believe a significant factor affecting global warming has been ignored.

Consider, if you will, what a majority of women (and a number of men) in this country - and probably the Western world - are doing at this very moment: dieting.

With the exception of Atkins, diets urge you to eat more fruit and veg; indeed, the government tells us to eat at least 5 portions a day. And everyone knows what fibre does in the digestive system: it creates methane. This in turn has to be released - or escapes. QED

Dieters, for the sake of the environment, nay, of our world, eat more chocolate!

P.S. Curiously enough the Lib Dems are thinking along these lines but more from inside the box. Last week their Environment Spokesman called on farmers to change the diet of their cattle to reduce the amount of methane they produce. Dieters, remember, you heard it here first.

P.P.S Kangaroos don't produce methane.

To be added to the list

... of places we can't take Harvey any more: anywhere that is excessively muddy. And in Swansea in January that means most places.

I thought we'd go to the river today. Crossing the field leading to the path down to the river, Harvey slipped and couldn't get up again without help. The river path no longer seemed a sensible option.

We walked back over the tip instead.

The tip, the valley and its hillsides were once our most regular walk place. Until about 22 years ago the tip was still being used to accommodate Swansea's rubbish; now nature has reclaimed its own. As well as wild roses, foxes, tadpoles and woodpeckers, we've even seen a heron there.

Here Harvs is just admiring the scenery.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The good news is that the baking website owners liked my article and are commissioning me to do more. This very morning I have described how to make the Perfect Carrot Cake (don't tell me, I know it's not as good as yours!) and this afternoon I'm going to be looking at Classic Cakes (whatever they may be). Writing and getting paid for it: heaven!

breakfast time

Messrs Robin and Blue Tit meet for morning peanuts.

Blogpower

I have, on the side of my blog, a Blogpower logo and list of blogs. I signed up for this just before Christmas but I have realised I am dreadfully out of place there.

Blogpower has lots and lots of very intelligent people commenting on politics, the media, the news and PR; I comment on cars breaking down, dogs poohing, chocolate over-indulgence and rugby-players's thighs.

Perhaps I should start my own blogroll for people with similar interests.

Browsing through them a little while ago, I did notice that I had been tagged on Shades of Grey with the '5 things about me' meme. He picked my blog at random, you understand, not because of my outstanding intellect, but I still got very excited.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

There was an article in last Friday's Independent about Andrea Camilleri and his creation, Salvo Montalbano. Now, you see, I wouldn't have read the article if it hadn't been titled 'Once upon a time in Sicily', and I hadn't been learning about Sicily through Welshcakes's blog. I will say it again: blogging is good for your education.

The books about the 'food-mad sleuth' sound good. Has anyone read or can anyone recommend them?

WARNING

It's reported that you can now sign up for emails from MI5 updating the daily terrorist threat level. They're talking about doing it by text as well. That sounds better: they could just text, 'DUCK!'

In the news

Fancy owning your own country? If you have money to spare (in the eight-figure bracket) you might consider making an offer for the Principality of Sealand.

With Prince Roy of Sealand now in his eighties and his son, Prince Michael, having his own business interests in the UK, the family has decided to sell their country.

Sealand was originally a military base, Roughs Tower, situated slightly north of the estuary region of the Thames River, in the international waters of the North Sea. On 2 September 1967, former English major Paddy Roy Bates formally occupied the island, settled there with his family, and proclaimed the island his own state, with its own flag, national anthem, stamps and passports.

Prince Michael, when interviewed on radio 4, described Sealand as 'far from pretty', but mentioned that it would be attractive to some as it had its own laws, and certain activities that could not be undertaken elsewhere, such as online gaming or certain forms of banking, were legal in his country.

Sealand has already proved to be popular with some people. In 1978, a group of German businessmen tried, unsuccessfully, to take over the island for their own use.

Prince Michael also said that although the title of Head of State was not up for sale, he was sure that, if it were important to the purchaser, a title of some form could be agreed upon.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Why is there about to begin an inquest into the deaths of Diana and Dodi? Haven't we already had one? Plus any number of inquiries, post mortems, law suits, goodness knows what.

And apparently the lady judge is both assistant royal coroner and coroner for Surrey. If she dispenses with a jury, she will need to act as coroner for Surrey. (I think it's something like that.) The thing is, as royal coroner, she will have to ask herself, as Surrey coroner, to take on the case.

* * * * * * * * * * *

There has been some criticism in the media today of Ruth Kelly, government Minister, for deciding to send her special needs child to a private school for two years. She was advised by professionals that this was the best course of action for her child.

And which of us wouldn't do the same in her position? Governments come and go; policies change - look at New/Old Labour. Her child has one life. Let Ruth Kelly do what is best for that life, and ignore those critics on her own backbenches.

I shouldn't have done that

I just sent a query email to a magazine. As is my wont I recorded it on my work diary. Then I looked back over the lat year. I really shouldn't have done that.

Out of 25 queries or submissions, I had 8 'No reply', 16 rejections and 1 'yes'.

What can I learn from this?

Either give up trying or - and this is what I intend to do - try harder!

Wowee! I have had an instant reply, asking for more details, from the magazine I just approached! It's a start ...

I've done it!

Written my sample article and sent it off. Now all I have to do is wait for the response.

In the meantime, here, according to its own blurb, is the premier online repository for pictures of dogs in bee costumes.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Harvey isn't speaking to me.



See? He's sulking ...yes, you are ... it's no good humpfhing at me. He's sulking because I made him go out this morning.

Or, more accurately, I threw him out.

In the rain.

He wanted to go out ... yes, you did. He hadn't been out since some time yesterday evening and he'd eaten his breakfast and drunk his water since then. The trouble was, not only was there the problem of the step to negotiate, it was also raining.

Now, normally, I'd go outside and help him gently down the step - when I told a friend Harvey'd lost his confidence, she burst out laughing, and asked if he needed counselling - but it was raining, I was in my slippers and he'd been barking almost non-stop since I'd got up, incluing when I was in the shower. So I sort of threw him out. Insofar as a weak and feeble woman can throw anything weighing 35 kg that doesn't want to be thrown.

So he hasn't spoken to me since.

It's quite a pleasant change.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Linden Church Sunday meetings start at 11.00 am LST (Linden Standard Time - at least 15 minutes later than BST); yesterday it started at 11.00 am BST. This meant there were only about 8 people there, including the musicians. Even I wasn't there and I was supposed to be on welcoming duty.

I grumbled to Janet, one of the leaders. 'If you're going to start at 11 you should warn people.'
Her answer that everyone knows meetings start at 11 doesn't really hold water when you're working in different time zones.

The leaders occasionally take it into their heads that we should start starting on time. I am confident it won't last.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Chris, who was speaking yesterday, has a new - first - grandson, Evan. He was born prematurely and now weighs 5½ lbs. As Chris said, 'That is less than some people put on over Christmas.'

And another thing ...

When he tagged me, Dr Stu described me as the effable Liz Hinds. I had to look that up. It means capable of being described. I'm not sure that is entirely complimentary. Still what should I expect from the man who said he was surprised to learn I am a graduate!

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Now this is my last blog for today. Or for a little while at least. I have a writing assignment!

Daughter has been commissioned to write articles for a baking website and she suggested that, as they want a lot, I should share the work.

I have to do my first sample article this morning: I am very scared.

It is a long time since I have done anything like this. What if they don't like me? Or my writing? Why does that pile of ironing look so tempting?

So I'm going now. Definitely. I'll just make a cup of tea and then I'll start. If you see me here later, tell me to go back to work.

I wonder if I should just clean the toilet first.

Tagging you, tagging me, aha

Dr Stu has reminded me that I am supposed to tag five others with the 'Five things you (probably) don't know about me' meme, so I will tag:

1. Joy
2. Steve G
(I am having to think hard now as it wasn't so long ago that I tagged people with the 'weird about me' meme.)
(But now I come to think of it, it was dogs I tagged.)
3. Welshcakes
4. Eifion
5. Dave L

Stripped

Not only are the walls stripped but a large part of wall is painted in damp paint - or I suppose it is anti-damp paint - and it stinks!

The windows are open, and the heating is off. I hope the fumes have gone by bedtime. I do not want to wake up dead.

Five things you (probably) don't know about me

I was tagged for this by Dr Stuart Savory, the cleverest person I know. I emailed him my reply and he said I was supposed to put it on my blog so here it is. I have changed one of the things I told him but this one is more interesting, I think.

1. I’ve had tea with the Queen (garden party at Buck House)

2. I’ve never bought a Lottery ticket

3. I cannot appreciate poetry. Lord knows I’ve tried but I must have a bit of brain missing as I can’t even tell if it’s good or bad

4. I have Bachelor of Science and Master of Arts degrees (one of each) – (I know: you would never have guessed!)

5. In another life I would like to have been a stand-up comedian, having discovered, through my writing, the pleasure in making people laugh.

We might paint the bedroom after all

We couldn't find any paper to agree on.

But I brought several samples home with me including this one.

I wouldn't want it on my bedroom wall but I wanted to work out what it said.

Scattered over various bits of the design I found words spoken by Cicero when he was giving an oration against the corrupt Roman senator Cataline: “Quousque, tandem, abutere, Catalina, patientia nostra?” Cicero is wondering how much longer Cataline will abuse our (the senate/people's) patience.

Now the question is: did the designer of the wallpaper know what it meant?

Did he/she choose it because artistically it has shape and definition? Or is it a subversive comment on the political situation in Britain today?

I like to think it's the latter.

I was wondering ...

... do pragmatists wish they were more imaginative? Or does being pragmatic mean that such a thought would never enter their heads?

* * * * * * * * * * * *

I was planning on painting our bedroom.
Husband said, 'No, we need to paper to cover the imperfections.' (I wonder if papering me would have a similar result?)

I was going to do the ironing.
Husband said, 'No, go and look for wallpaper.'

I brought home some samples.
Husband said, 'No, they're too bland.'

I said, '_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ ' (Fill in appropriate comment.)

We're going together to look at wallpaper this afternoon.

Calling Welshcakes!

I have tried and tried to post on your blog - and Harvey has tried too - but with no success. Unless you're not approving any of our comments!

I just wanted to let you know.

I've had my first phone call!

On my mobile!

I've just come back from Sainsburys and was reading blog comments, while waiting for the kettle to boil, when a strange sound started. At first I thought Welshcakes - as it was her comment I was reading - had managed to attach music to her comment, and I was very impressed, but then I noticed it was coming from behind me. From my handbag in fact.

After staring at it for a moment I realised it was probably my phone!

I got it out and continued my impression of a goldfish. Okay, it was definitely the phone ringing but what did I do now? Green usually means go so I pressed that and said, tentatively, 'Hello?'
'Hello, mum, what do you want?' It was Younger Son.
'What do I want? I don't want anything; you phoned me.'
'Because you just phoned me.'
'No, I didn't.'
He sighed. 'You haven't got the key lock on, have you?'
'How do I do that?'
I don't know without looking at your phone.'
'Okay. I'll come up now.'
'Where are you?'
'Downstairs.'

For some reason this made Younger Son and his friends, who were with him, laugh even more.

I wonder who else I've phoned unknowingly.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Back on the Christmas card front, we had a card again this year, with love and prayers, from Jack and Betty. They don't seem to mind that I don't send them one.

If I knew who they were, I would.

In which I am puzzled

We didn't have Christmas cards from a number of people this year.

The Queen, Posh and Becks, Tony and Cherie.

As we don't usually have cards from them I'm not too bothered; it's more the people from whom we can normally expect a card that concern me.

Have I inadvertently done something to upset them? Did I walk past them in the street? Forget their birthday? Send them a Happy 40th Birthday card when they're only 39? Or, more worryingly, are they dead? This is less frivolous a question than you might assume when several of them are elderly aunties (who aren't actually aunties but friends of the family whose existence I only remember at Christmastime).

Oh, well, never mind.

I am currently munching my way single-mouthedly through an 800 g bucket of Maltesers. I LOVE Maltesers. Husband just came in and asked if I was going to share them with him; I said no. He said, 'Good, I can tell everyone that you had a huge bucket of Maltesers and you didn't give me one.'

I don't care. Nothing comes between me and my Maltesers.

Good news

Younger Son has got a job!

The process has taken the eight months since he dropped out of university. Eight months of: applying and getting no reply; being interviewed and hearing no more, not even a no-thank-you letter; being told 'we'll be in touch'; being rejected; having hopes raised and dashed; increasingly low self-esteem.

But now he's got a job and he starts next Wednesday. He is thrilled and so are we.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Husband has started stripping.

Lying in bed last night he said, 'I'll strip this bedroom tomorrow.'

'Okay,' I said. He's been saying it for the last two years so I wasn't unduly perturbed.

Of course what he actually meant was that - before he stripped - we'd have to move everything out, and I'd have to find homes for things, answer questions like, 'what's this?' 'where does this go?' 'what do you want this for?' and other typical-man queries.

Still I did find £16 of Marks and Spencers vouchers in an old handbag I'd stuffed down the side of the chest of drawers.

I'm not really a handbag person. I have one bag that I use for everything and several that I keep down the side etc just in case of something. That reminds me that Serena did a handbag inventory in her post recently.

I don't have a knife in my bag but I do have:

an empty carrier bag; a bag of Skittles (so old the use-by date has worn off); a spare sanitary pad; a 2006 diary; a Christmas shopping list; a pocket-pack of tissues; a hairbrush; paracetamol; a plastic bag with a broken powder pot and torn face puff; 5 pens; old receipts; a cotton-wool ball; a drawing pin; a gold-coloured pebble; purse; my glasses in a plastic bag as I can't find the case; mobile phone; and in the separate little zipped compartment, my driving licence, office keys and a memory stick.

That's not too bad; I am quite impressed. I think I might take to carrying a knife, just to make my 'what I have in my handbag' list more interesting.

This is my prayer-pebble.

At a prayer day some time last year, or maybe the year before, pray-ers were encouraged to take one away with them. It's a little memory-prod to remind me of something or someone I might want to talk to God about or to be grateful for. And I have a lot to be thankful for!

I have a great affection for stones. Look in any of my coat pockets and you're likely to find a stone. Maybe a prettily-coloured or beautifully-shaped one that I've picked up just because I like it. But they have another purpose too. If your hand is cold, you can take a cold stone out of your pocket, hold it in your hand and both your hand and the stone will warm up. I'm sure there's a scientific reason for this but I like to think of it as magic.

We had a small farewell gathering this week in work for a young couple who're off travelling the world. We'd bought them a framed photo for their return but I gave them pebbles from the beach they could carry with them, something to remind them of home.

I explained to Dave about the hand-warming qualities of stones. He said if his hands were cold, he'd wear gloves.

The Brangwyn Panels (II)

From the demure

to the exotic

They are sometimes called the Empire Panels but I never knew America was part of the empire!

They are an awesome achievement. The style, on the grand scale, is naive, I think (that is an arty term I have heard and it seems to describe this well although I don't know if an expert would agree.) I still wouldn't want to hang one on my wall but I would happily have one of the sketches.

By special request, the Brangwyn Panels (I)

Within Swansea's Guildhall is the Brangwyn Hall, named after Sir Frank Brangwyn who painted the panels that decorate its walls.

Originally he was commissioned to paint them for the Palace of Westminster (Houses of Parliament) but in 1930, following the death of two of the peers who had supported his commission, he was forced to show the five panels he had completed. They caused controversy and were declined for being too colourful and lively.

In 1934 the panels were secured for Swansea's newly-built Guildhall.

The Guildhall was the setting for my school speech days and my university graduation, as well as concerts from Victor Borge and the Dunvant Male Voice Choir, and official banquets, so I've had plenty of opportunities to study the panels.

I have to admit that I've never been very taken with them. The colours are both garish and washed-out, and the canvases are jam-packed. It goes without saying - I hope you can tell from the first photo - that they're huge. And to my eye, they look almost amateur at times.

Dr Stu suggested that I did a personal view of them, so this lunchtime, accompanied by my snappy camera, that's just what I did. Bear in mind that I am neither a photographer nor an artist. Views expressed are not necessarily the views of the management.

My first impression, forming as I walked the corridor into the hall where are hung preliminary drawings, was that this was an enormously talented artist. The sketches were incredibly realistic and detailed.

My next impression as I really looked - rather than simply glancing - at one of the panels was how much attention had gone into the detail. From a caterpillar being watched by a frog to a rabbit being crept upon by an alligator.

And as for the happy cow!

This morning

It's quarter past eight in the cold morning. I am outside the front door in my dressing-gown. I am crouching down, tapping the floor, trying to persuade Harvey that he can get out, that it's not too huge a step for him.

He hasn't been out for a wee since yesterday lunchtime. He might have a bladder the size of Lake Windermere but he MUST need to go now.

In the end I lift his front paws down. I am reluctant to do this as he tends to panic and his back end collapses with all sorts of results. This time though we are successful.

He comes in through the back door. Encouraged by his walk round the garden he manages to get up the step - carefully avoiding the ramp - with only a little hesitation and much cheering-on.

He is standing by me as I write this, grumbling if I stop scratching him for the seconds I need two hands to hold down two keys to do a capital letter. He wants his breakfast. Time to go.

A Skee Roll

That's what it was!

Yo ho ho and a bottle of ... coke

"A British teen became the youngest person to sail solo across the Atlantic Ocean, completing a 3,500-mile voyage Wednesday when he reached the Caribbean island of Antigua. Mike Perham, 14, waved his fist triumphantly to a small crowd of Antiguan officials and supporters as he docked his 28-foot sailboat outside St. John's on the southeastern side of the island."

An absolutely amazing feat.

Mike's official welcome from local dignitaries included being given a basket of fruit. The traditional gift for long-distance sailors is a bottle of rum; they gave that to his father. Seems like a rum deal to me. (I have been reading too much of Dr Stu!)

What's Keira Knightley got ...

that I haven't?

She's tall, slim, gorgeous, English, young and a talented actress, okay, but apart from that? How come she gets to snog Orlando Bloom AND Johnny Depp? Right time, right place, who you know, I guess.

Spot the difference, go on ...





And how come it isn't illegal to sell chocolate, shortbread biscuits and other seasonal goodies at reduced-price after Christmas?
a) why don't they do that before Christmas?
b) how can I not buy when they're practically giving it away (1/4 price!)?

Do I come here often?

I don't know what day it is.

I normally work on a Tuesday but as Husband is off until tomorrow, I swapped and will go in tomorrow instead. That is contributing to the confusion already brought on by Christmas, holidays, children, old age, Tony Blair and any other number of factors.

I hope the effect it's having on my memory is only temporary. Each time I walked out of one room today I forgot where I was going and why. I normally manage to make it into the right room before looking around puzzled.

We took our decorations down today. Normally I wait until Twelfth Night but Husband suggested that, as he was here today, it would be a good idea. Not that he contributes overly. I tend to get a bit maudling when the tree comes down, insisting on having one last night/look before it goes, so doing it spontaneously at least eliminated that.

And one benefit of the post-Christmas clean-up, is finding chocolates under the sofa.

Husband is sitting alongside me as I write this. He is drinking bacardi and coke and reading our Christmas cards - he doesn't usually - aloud. Who's that? he asks. What does this say? Do you still hear from them? I can't read this one. And so on.

He has spent 90% of his Christmas hols doing genealogy. No fantastically interesting discoveries this time although he has determined that I have, on my maternal grandfather's side, an ancestor called Burket Spettigrew (circa 1680).

He did manage to construct a ramp to the back door for Harvs. Who is totally unimpressed and refuses to use it. He now stands next to his ramp and barks to be helped in. Still it's early days; he may get used to it.

Here he's being tempted - unsuccessfully - down the ramp with a treat.

Blogger is doing strange things with the paragraph spacing when I put photos in. Anyone else having that problem?

Some fresh air

Husband returns to work tomorrow so we made the most of today by taking Harvey to another one of his old haunts. This is one that's a ten-minute drive away and as I can't get him in the car any more we depend on Husband being around to get us there and back.

Mumbles Hill, a designated Local Nature Reserve, is at the southwest corner of Swansea Bay and the southeast corner of Gower. The hill would run down straight to the beach and the lighthouse if a road hadn't been built around the edge of it some time before I was born. If you have good eyesight you may be able to see on the map, just below where it says Mumbles, two little dots off the headland: the lighthouse is situated on the outer one.

There was a cool breeze blowing in from the sea and the sun was low in the sky. You can see, from this photo, the effect of the prevailing wind on this side of the hill.

As I had the camera with me, I got a bit snap-happy!

As a little girl - and teenager - I spent a lot of time on Mumbles Pier. My grandfather, after he retired, worked in the ticket booth there and I would walk down to visit him. An uncle also worked on the skittles. (That's the only word that comes to mind but it wasn't skittles as played in a bar. The balls had to be rolled up a ramp and into one of the rings to score, the central ring having the highest value).

Now that's what I call a cake!

Thanks to Robyn - here's the link and the photo of the cake I mention in the previous post:

http://littlemisshomepage.blogspot.com/

Nicole is one very talented lady!

Out with the old

A very happy New Year to everyone!

With the bug's effects receding, we were all able to enjoy the celebrations. Husband was toying with a bad tum but, a braveheart till the end, he manfully beat it back with felafels and wine.

He and I visited Daughter and Son-in-law in Silverton, Devon. Elder Son and Fiancee stayed in the cottage with them so we bedded down at the local hostelry, The Three Tuns (actually one of the small village's three pubs). A Grade II listed coaching inn dating from 1496, the accommodation was built on at the back and lacked the charm of old age and tradition, but was clean and comfy.

The main reason that I'm mentioning it is that it smelled of my cousin's house.

My cousin, Sue, has been dead now for - gosh, I can't remember - a good many years and I have rarely been inside her house since she died. (Her husband still lives there in case you think I'm knocking on the door of strange people and asking to be let in.) I wondered if the same polish had been used but our room was furnished with white melamine; alternatively it could have been - I don't know what. It wasn't unpleasant, just very distinctive. Not a disinfectant or cleanser or room freshener smell. 'Shake and vac?' Husband suggested. I don't think so.

But it reminded me again how evocative a scent can be.

Husband's sense of smell isn't particularly good; mine makes up for my poor hearing (who said that?). An aroma can transport me anywhere. Mostly back in my memory I suppose. Days long gone. People also long gone.

That makes me sound ancient! I'm not, honest, but yesterday, in the car travelling to Devon, I was contemplating - as one is wont to do at this time of the year - times gone past.

I lived, as a child, with my mother, grandparents and great-grandmother. She, Maggie, had eight children who all, with their offspring, gathered at Christmas and new year at our home, Albert House. Pubs in those days opened on Christmas Day and in the evening the grown-ups would go to the Park Inn before returning for supper, when the women would cook and serve the meal to the men before sitting down themselves to eat. When the table had been cleared, the fun would start. Or rather the singing would begin.

Uncle Woodie sang with Dunvant Male Voice Choir; my gran had a beautiful contralto voice; Sue was a trained soprano. And those were just the acknowledged voices. Everyone else crowded in the small living-room joined in too.

Except me. I tried my best to blend into the wall.

The cousins had their own groupings. I was in the middle group that consisted of Sue, Spencer, Howard, Lynne (all older than me by months or a couple of years) and John (younger). That's Howard and me in the photo.

Sue was old enough to go to the pub; Spencer and Howard were brought along later; Lynne, John and I were put to bed in Albert House and then got up again when everyone returned from the pub. I would rather have stayed in bed.

Better that than the ritual of saying goodnight. Being passed around, let's say, merry, uncles and aunties, to kiss good-night and be told 'what a lovely girl she is'. And knowing - okay, believing - that they didn't really mean it but that they much preferred my six-month-older-than-me cousin Lynne.

And yet I look back on those days with fondness and a wish to recreate them, even though I know it's impossible. Most of aunties and uncles are long dead as are Sue, Spencer and Howard (all three, much too young, to vile cancer).

I suppose it's that dream of the ideal, the one that could never be true, not really true or real, but that seems so desirable and allusive.

When I look at photos today of Uncle Bun (real name Hobart Pasha Honey) I think he looked a lot like a short Clark Gable. He's on the right with Auntie Eva and their children, Carol and Peter.

Uncle Bun enjoyed parties. He liked a drink; he liked to sing; he like to tell stories. He didn't like to go home. He was married to Auntie Eva. Much as she enjoyed all the same things she knew when it was time to go home. That was when she'd try to get Uncle Bun's coat on.

Now Uncle Bun was the only person who'd drink my mum's home-made carrot whiskey. He'd drink anything else as well and Uncle Horace, who loved to tease, would make sure he always had a full glass in his hand, particularly when Auntie Eva was trying to get him into his coat.

'Horace, you bugger!' That's Eva.

'It's just one for the road.'

'You are a gentleman, Horace.' That's Bun.

Eva takes the drink out of her husband's hand and sticks his right arm into the sleeve of his coat. Bun picks the drink up in his other hand.

Eva takes it off him and slips his left arm into his sleeve. Meanwhile Bun takes his right arm out of his sleeve and picks up his drink again.

Eva goes back round to his right side and prepares to start again. As she takes the drink away from her husband, she says, 'Will some bugger help me here?'

But everyone is enjoying the performance too much. Round and round like jolly little Christmas spinning tops they go.

And here are some of the family doing what they do best (singing, though drinking was another possibility) in the Park Inn under the watchful eye of the publican, Ronnie Jenkins.

Mixed memories.

Also in the car yesterday it suddenly struck me that one day I would be as old as old people in old people's homes. I've always disassociated old people from anything else. I've grown older with people I know who are now in their eighties so I don't think of them in the same way, not strictly as being old, even though I know they are. And one day I will be. I said to Husband, 'What will we have to tell our grandchildren about? Grandma (his mum) was a chorus-girl; grandad (his dad) was shot at by Germans. What interesting things will we have to tell our grandchildren?'

I began to panic. 'Don't worry,' Husband said. 'we can make something up.'

I raised the topic again yesterday evening. 'What have I done with my life that could be considered useful?'

Elder Son coughed and patted himself.

'Oh, yes, I've brought up - with a lot of help from Husband - three lovely children. Thank you for reminding me.'

I am so glad that they - our children - consider that a valuable use of a life. I do love them so.

And before I go, (yes, I am going, don't worry)you may remember the New Year cake that I mentioned a post or so ago. The Bug stopped me doing anything on it until New Year's Eve morning - just before we left for Devon - so this was the best I could come up with: 'Happy Birthday to 07'

Blog-browsing the other day I came across a site - and I cannot for the life of me remember whose it was - and the owner had created the most fantastic wedding cake for friends. It was three-tier and based on a beach theme with waves and fish and all very glorious. If I could remember I would link to it but it's probably just as well that I don't, having just shown you my cake-decorating skills.

Now I'm off to watch the last-ever episode of The Vicar of Dibley. A young friend is taking romantic advice from me and the Vicar of Dibley. With such an infallible pairing I can already hear the wedding bells.

Photo hunt

Black Marble (continued)

Don’t you get cold, Tom asks. No, I say, I take a blanket to sit on and if it’s been raining I take a Sainsburys bag to put underneath. And the stone is never cold, it has its own warmth. As if it’s still fed by the earth. Black marble. Shining and bright and sparkling with atoms of life. Not like white marble. White should be the living colour, shouldn’t it? White and light and life. But it’s not, it’s flat and dead and ugly. Not like the black. I told Tom, I said, when I die will you bury me, not burn me, and make sure I have a headstone made of the finest black marble. He looked at me as if I were mad. I said, promise, will you promise, I don’t want white. He said, you’re spending too much time in the cemetery, it’s turning your mind. I said, no, you should come with me, it’s beautiful, so peaceful. Some of us have got jobs to go to, he said. Then he started on at me again about getting another job. He said we won’t be able to afford the mortgage on this place if you don’t get a job soon. I told him I’d tried.
It caused our first big row me losing my job. He said I should go to a tribunal, they can’t just sack you for no reason. They had a reason I said, they didn’t want me anymore. He said that wasn’t enough of a reason, I should fight it, get compensation. I wouldn’t because I knew I couldn’t. I understood why. He didn’t because I didn’t tell him. Papa, don’t preach, I said. He just looked at me.
That was one time I did talk to the angel. My stone is next to a huge square white tomb. Twice as big as any other and always with fresh flowers, whatever time of year it is. Sometimes I break off one head of a flower and hold it as I sit and think. I don’t think the dead would mind and I’m careful that I don’t spoil the arrangement. Rabaiotti, that’s the family name. Carlo and Maria and then Antonio, their son. They still run the ice cream parlour on the seafront.
At the head of the tomb is a tall angel with flowing hair and robes and wings, quite small wings. The angel isn’t doing anything, just looking up to heaven. I told her that I’d lost my job and that she would be seeing a lot more of me. I thought I saw a tear running down her face but when I looked closer I saw it was only bird poo. She didn’t tell me I should go to a tribunal. She just sang. She sings all the time. Madonna songs. She knows all of them but she has her favourites. She likes to sing Hanky Panky. I tell her she shouldn’t. I think perhaps she doesn’t know what it’s about and the fuss there was about it. I say, shhh, people will hear you and it’s not what you’d expect of an angel. But I join in when she sings Like a Prayer. Talking to the angel is the closest I come to praying.
There is one gravestone in the whole of the cemetery that faces the wrong direction. I asked one of the gardeners why. He said Samuel Roberts had killed himself and wasn’t allowed to be buried on hallowed ground but I don’t know if that was true. It seems unfair if it is. He must have been very sad to kill himself.
The gardeners all know me. They used to ask if I was all right but now they just ignore me. There’s one, younger than the rest, he chats to me sometimes but I close my eyes until he goes away. Only once they made me move. That was when there was a funeral. A grave was dug up near me and the man’s wife was buried with him. What if they never really got on, I wanted to say. Did anyone ask them if they wanted to be buried together? Or did their daughters just assume things. People make assumptions all the time. I assumed that the women at the graveside were the daughters of the dead woman because they cried most. Hanging onto their husbands (another assumption) they wept for their deceased mother. People assume that because I come to the cemetery I must be sad.
I watched the funeral from behind one of the yew trees. The cemetery lies along the bed of a valley that rises to a height at the far end. There is a path up the middle lined by yew trees all shaped into fir cones. When you stand at the gate, and stare straight ahead, you can’t see the graves only the path leading to heaven. A clean white path leading slightly uphill. A bit of an effort.
Some people walk their dogs here. Sometimes the dogs pee on the gravestones. One little dog, a spaniel, always comes and says hello to me. I don’t mind but his owner, a middle-aged woman in a waterproof jacket, calls her away. Come away from the lady, Sally, she says. Not, don’t bother the lady, but, come away, as if she might catch something.
Then there are joggers I see regularly. Two men and a girl. The men run together and talk as they run but the girl always listens to headphones. I wonder why she doesn’t listen to the angels singing. You have to listen to hear them. There are lots of angels in the cemetery because it’s a very old cemetery and it seems people in the past liked angels more. One of them only sings in Welsh, another sings Italian opera but I like mine best. She senses my mood and knows what to sing without me saying anything. Today she’s singing Cherish. You have to listen carefully, if you want to hear her.
Tom said, don’t you get bored sitting in the cemetery? I said, of course not, you should come with me. I know he won’t or I wouldn’t ask him. Grace Williams, her life a beautiful memory, her absence a silent grief. Is that how you’d feel about me, I asked him. You’re not a memory, he said, you’re here. He has no imagination, that’s his trouble.
I started coming here before I finished work. Sometimes in the office, my life was becoming not beautiful. I didn’t want it to be ugly, but my boss would shout in his stupid loud voice and I didn’t want to listen to him so I’d go away and listen to the angel.
I don’t sit here all the time. Sometimes I walk around and read the words on the tombs. Some of them are so sad I cry. Babies no more than two weeks old dying. Now where’s the point of that? And young husbands or wives. And soldiers. The lucky ones whose bodies were found and brought home. Welsh battalions going into battle. There’s even one old rugby player. It says he was famous but I’ve never heard of him. Memories don’t last long.
An old gentleman walked past me yesterday. He was carrying a large bunch of chrysanthemums. He raised his hat and said, good afternoon. He was wearing a fawn overcoat and his shoes were like shiny chestnuts. I watched him. He made his way to a grave not far from mine. It had a black marble stone. He bent over and plucked out the dead flowers. He lay them on the grass beside the grave then he picked up the vase and emptied out the remains of the water. He walked over to one of the taps near the wall around the cemetery and rinsed out the vase, before refilling it. He returned to the grave and replaced the vase in its holder, then he unwrapped the flowers he had brought with him and arranged them in the vase. When he’d finished he wrapped the dead flowers in the paper and stood up. He took off his hat and bowed his head for a few moments. Then he put his hat back on, picked up the dead flowers and started back along the path. I waited until I was sure that he had gone then I walked across to the grave he had visited. It said, In loving memory of Katherine Wallace, 1933-1982, wife of Edward, and their beloved daughter, Jennifer, 1957-1984. Peace, perfect peace. For whom, I wondered. For them maybe. Not for him. They’d left him. And he’d raised his hat to me. That wasn’t fair. My eyes ached. I picked out the chrysanths he’d arranged and took them back to my stone and pushed them in the vase. Richard and Mary never have flowers. I should get them more. Lots of the graves never have flowers on them. On the edge of the path is a rubbish tip where people can throw dead flowers but sometimes, I’ve noticed the flowers aren’t properly dead. I walked over to the tip and collected the best of the flowers. They were mostly chrysanthemums and some roses that had sharp thorns and I shared them out between some empty graves.
When I got home last night Tom had his dinner on a tray. I bought a curry on my way home, he said, I knew you wouldn’t have cooked anything. I was going to, I said. He was watching a sports quiz on television. There’s some left, he waved his fork at the kitchen. I’m not hungry, I think I’ll have a bath. Tom said, just a minute, did you go and see the doctor today? I forgot, I said. You promised, he said. I know, I’m sorry, I’ll go tomorrow. He looked at me and sighed, I’ve arranged to meet the lads down the pub later. That’s fine, I said. But you will go tomorrow, won’t you? Tom said, I really think you need to talk to someone. I nodded.
He had gone to work by the time I woke up this morning. He had left a note by the side of the bed. He’d written down the doctor’s telephone number. Ring him, the note screamed. It added to the rest of the noise in my head, such a lot of noise, a drilling and shrieking and howling noise all mixed up. I was thirsty but there wasn’t a clean cup so I used my hands to splash my face, then I came here. To escape the noise. It stayed with me until I passed the chapel, I thought it was going to go on for ever but it stopped as I came through the gate and began to walk up the path to my grave.
xx