The woman in the mirror

Every now and again I catch a glimpse of a blonde tanned woman and I wonder who she is. Then I remember it's me.

I didn't deliberately go blonde: my highlights have gone rogue in the sun. And I have a tan deeper than I can remember having for a long time.

Gradually going lighter-haired will probably be the way forward as I prepare to face my grey. (Not for a long time yet though.)

In the meantime I'll enjoy the sunshine and take what it gives.

P.S. I am a very careful tanner always using sun cream and restricting my time in the sun.

More fun than it sounds

Yesterday I met a young friend for ice cream and a walk out to the lighthouse as we discussed the appalling staffing levels in the NHS (she's a newly-qualified doctor who finds herself the only doctor in charge of five wards), death, sinking dinghies and our sorrow over the death of Victoria Wood. (Our walk was a lot more fun than it sounds.)

Then I lay in the sun and finished reading Dear Mrs Bird. A lovely tale with a very real voice. Set in wartime London the narrator is a young woman who finds herself working for the ferocious and unsympathetic agony aunt (the Mrs Bird of the title) of a failing women's magazine. Because Mrs Bird has a long list of Unsuitable Subjects for publication Emmeline starts replying to the letters herself.

If I'd not read so many wonderful previews and hadn't had my sights set so high I would have given it ****. As it's very hard to live up to such extravagant praise I'll award it 3.5* But definitely recommended. 

Then it was off to Zac's where there were two extremes. One man, newly-released from prison, celebrating and praising God for being with him in the darkness, and one woman for whom life has taken a steep downward turn and who is in a desperate state.

And a reminder from Sean - and Paul writing in his letter to the Ephesians - that God's love is for everybody. That nobody is outside it and that it's not something we earn.

Cue hysterical laughter

As any statistician will tell you, statistics can be quoted to prove anything you want. Or something like that. 

Usually when I publish a post I have a quick look at my stats. After a brief period when I was getting hundreds of views regularly they've been steady within a 60 - 200 daily views range recently. Imagine my surprise then when I looked at the stats this morning (9.50 am) and read this:
Yesterday - 90
Today - 1,227.

Once I'd picked myself up off the floor and stopped laughing I looked the map: is it those Russians again? No. 

Of the 1,227 views today 1,229 originated in France. Curiouser and curiouser.

Of course if you were a fan of Yes, Minister you'll know that Britain's greatest enemy has always been France so now they're getting into the tech-war. (Taps side of her nose knowingly.)

P.S. I just looked for the relevant clip. Couldn't find it but did watch some scarily accurate forecasts about Britain's role in the EU.

I'd do-be-do

A lovely Bank Holiday weekend with weather much better than was anticipated/forecast. Lots of time with family, eating or in the sun and in the pool. 

We live not too far from the site of the music festival so we were able to enjoy some of the music in our garden. Some of it was louder than the rest or maybe they just angled the speakers differently during the day to reduce the chance of annoying locals too much.

Nothing quite like bopping in the pool to George Ezra (live). I was even able to impress the grandchildren by singing along to his songs. Maybe impressed is too big a word. Let's just say they gave me strange looks.

Of course all this enjoying myself means the pounds are creeping back on. It's very strange: if I lose two pounds I am offhand about it - 'It's only two pounds,' I say - but if I put on two pounds I am a huge flabby monstrosity.

Next weekend we have our family party but then I will have three weeks until we go away on holiday. I want to be back at my target weight by then.

I fought the martyr

Today I woke with a martyr mentality.

I'm tired, I have a slightly sore throat but I've got to do stuff. I must do stuff because I'm not worth it, not worth looking after, not worth caring about.

I'm fighting it. I remember my resolve of not so long ago to stop trying (and failing) to be perfect, to accept my limitations and myself.

That said I have just had a little clean-up in the kitchen but that actually makes me feel better and isn't too stressful. Quite simple in fact once I decide to throw away all the little things that are lying around on the work surface just in case they're important/part of something bigger/needed once every three years. Liberating.

* * * * * * * 
Twenty-six minutes ago the timer on the washing machine said it had twenty-seven minutes left to run. I just went out and checked it and it now has twenty minutes left. 

I suppose I could call 'a man' in but it works albeit in its own time zone so doesn't seem worth the bother.

* * * * * * *
The pram was collected yesterday. I am very sad to see it go.

Tim, who collected it, said it would be used by old ladies who have baby dolls. That is immeasurably sad but it's also good to know that the pram will be loved and used and of value to women who have lived long and have earned the right to be content.

I can see me being one of those women, pushing a pram around. I really loved that experience and time.

* * * * * * *
On Saturday I bought myself a cauli-based pizza thinking it might be healthier and have slightly fewer calories than a normal one and thus generally better for me. It proved to be the case.

Mainly because I ate less than half of it. 

It wasn't that it was hideous exactly. Just unappetising. I don't think the fact that I forgot to remove the polystyrene backing before cooking harmed it; in fact it probably added flavour.

* * * * * * *
The reason, in particular, for my fatigue was the Saturday sleep-over by three grandchildren. Waken at 5.30 am by three little voices saying, 'Hello, Granny,' sets you up for the day.

'Go back to bed,' Husband growled.
And they did but they were wide awake by then so at 6.00 am we four got up and the grazing began. They didn't stop eating until 11.00 am. By which time, please note, I had been up for five hours instead of my usual two.

I'm going to lie in the sun now and read my book. I fought the martyr and I won.

Once a mam

As I mentioned previously it's the radio one Biggest Weekend music festival today and tomorrow when huge crowds are anticipated. Driving in the other direction this morning I noticed lots of scantily-dressed young people presumably making their way to the event. I couldn't help it: the mam in me came out. 'I hope they've got woollies for later on when it gets colder. And a plastic bag to sit on. And, if the weather forecast is right, a mac.'

* * * * * * * * *
In the village I walked past my old family home. It was sold a few years ago and renovations have been going on. I guess the new owner - maybe developer - ran out of money as there's been no progress on it for ages and it looks so sad. Overgrown garden and derelict-looking house. Nobody to care for it or love it.

* * * * * * * * *
I am delighted to report that my pram has found a new home! It's going to a care home for residents with dementia. I'm not sure what they'll do with it - I'll ask Niki when she comes to pick it up tomorrow - but I am so pleased that it will be going to be loved again.

When I was in the car today T-Rex singing 'I love to boogie' came on. Well, I'd forgotten what a great song it is.

If you'd seen me I think I would have looked like the woman at about 1 25 into this video. If she'd been sitting down.

Passing of an age

I'm taking my pram to a charity shop. Before I decided that Husband suggested I take a photo of it and put it on Freecycle.

I went to take the photo and then I stood and stared. Husband said, 'Don't go getting upset now. Just take a photo.'

But I am upset. The pram was wonderful and pushing it was part of a very special time in my life. I am very sad to see it go but the children don't want it because it's too big and impractical for their needs/cars.

I don't want it to go on Freecycle because I think someone might take it and then sell it. Ideally I'd like to vet the person who has it but I suppose that's not really practical so a charity shop is the next best thing. At least it will be sold in a good cause.

Daughter very happy in pram thirty-eight years ago.

Falling out of trees

I've noticed that a number of bloggers I follow are posting irregularly if at all these days. I suppose life gets in the way often.

My posting is just as irregular in that I'll go for a few days without and then splurge as I did yesterday and write loads of posts. For Lent I resolved to write on my blog each day (I think. Or am I imagining it?) And I'm going to try that again. I don't know what it is. Sometimes I'll sit down with the intention of blogging and then make excuses: a typical writer in fact!

But I do enjoy blogging and finding topics - as opposed to my usual ramblings - will be a good challenge for me.

One thing puzzles me though. I called in at Stu's blog yesterday and he had written about updating his blog-roll so obviously i checked to see if I were still on it. I am. But why? All the other bloggers are intelligent, witty, politically-, scientifically-, or bike-minded, and generally not like me. I am probably a bit of fluff - in the nicest sense of the word - or light relief, in the middle.

Anyway I was going to tell you about my massage last night. 

Hannah, my fitness teacher, asked on Facebook yesterday if anyone was free and wanted a massage in the evening. I nearly fell off my seat in my rush to say, 'Yes!'

She is a student and needed someone on who she could practise. She's learning sports massage and when I arrived she asked me basic questions about health and any aches, so I told her about my shoulder. 

It's not been the same since I didn't exactly fall out of a tree (left) about eighteen months ago. Lowering myself out of the tree I discovered that the ground was a bit further away than I had anticipated so it had a jerking, pulling effect on my shoulder.

Between them Hannah and the teacher narrowed it down so that in all likelihood the muscle affected is the alterior deltoid. (Possibly. I may have that wrong.) Hannah was able to suggest exercises that would help it regain it springiness. It's stretched but if you stretch it a bit more the chances are that it will spring back further than its starting point. Does that make sense? That's the way I understood it although my terminology is a translation.

I'm definitely going to have some more massages from Hannah. Because it's a college and students are practising it's a lot cheaper than a fancy salon. But it smells as nice.

All stung up

We're a bit into nettles at the moment. 

Younger Son has done and led courses on foraging and nettles, as well as being everywhere, are a superfood, good for all sorts of things. 

So far we've had ...

nettle and wild garlic omelette and 

nettle and butternut squash risotto.

Today YS also made nettle pakoras and a healing balm. Presumably to take away the sting after you've picked your nettles. 

Dear Mrs Bird

Returned my books to the library today to discover my reserved copy of Dear Mrs Bird was in. I'd heard about this from various authors I follow on Twitter and it sounded so brilliant I couldn't wait for it to come out - they'd all had early review copies - and as soon as it did, put my name on it. I shall let you know if it lives up to the hype.

The three books I returned were: Code Name Verity by Elizabeth Wein; Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows by Balli Kaur Jaswal; and The Little Coffee Shop of Kabul by Deborah Rodriguez.

I'd probably give them all 2.5-3*. Nothing amazing but all good sunbathing/bedtime reading. The Little Coffee Shop was described on the cover as 'If Maeve Binchy had written The Kite Runner.' Now I've read Maeve Binchy and I've read The Kite Runner and I can safely this this was nothing like the latter. Could have been written by Ms Binchy but is nothing like Khaled Hosseini's story apart from being set in a Middle eastern country.

What all three books did is give a good glimpse into a different style, place or time of living that I enjoyed and all were written by people with experience or knowledge of the topic whether that be running a coffee shop in Kabul, being a female pilot during the second world war delivering broken aeroplanes for repair, or allowing women without a voice to tell the stories they wanted to read.

Royal wedding 2

The highlight of the wedding came from a most unlikely source: the address. Quite often, especially at grand royal affairs, you expect the address is to be non-provocative and slightly boring but the Presiding Bishop of the American Episcopal Church delivered it with all the flair you might expect of a black preacher. And passion. And words. Yes, it was quite long. But very worthwhile.

His message was simple: the power of love is the answer to the problems of the world. And love is from God. 

He mentioned the two commandments Jesus gave: to love God and to love your neighbour as yourself. He didn't go on to develop the neighbour bit although in the gospels Jesus did. When asked 'who is my neighbour?' he told the story of the Good Samaritan.

Precised down to basics, Jesus said to love your neighbour who is the woman down the street who gossips about you, the drunk in the gutter, the Muslim with whom you have a mutual distrust, the gay transgender who wants to marry for love, Donald Trump, the suicide bomber. You get the idea?

No-one said Christianity was an easy option.

Royal wedding 1

Royal wedding last weekend. Most of my friends on Facebook are pinky - or possibly scarlet - liberals and would have nothing to do with it but when I dared to say I was watching it a few came out of the closet and admitted they would too.

The bride looked gorgeous and so happy. The groom looked terrified. I loved Mike Tindall stroking his wife's pregnant belly. And David Beckham so jolly and smiley. Surprised to see one the York girls in crimplene. Hadn't realised it had made a comeback. The York girls. Hm, now there's a dynasty brewing that could challenge for the monarchy. Were we living a few centuries ago.

Music-wise apart from Stand By Me and Bread of Heaven it was rather drab I felt. Not quite cheery enough for a wedding. I understand a lot of it was suggested by Prince Charles. I assume the congregation was under strict instructions not to join in with Stand By Me but they could have at least jiggled. Or looked as if they were enjoying it. 

But a beautiful day for a couple who seem very happy together.

the lies they tell us

1. That women can multi-task. I left the kitchen for a moment to look at something on the computer and I burned my bacon.
Which leads to point 2. That things don't stick to (or burn on) non-stick pans.

Either a dead mouse or dog poo

We're strolling across the tip when I spot something. 'Look, a dead creature,' I say to Husband.
'Is it?' he says doubtfully.
'Yes, a mouse I think.' I look more closely. 'Or possibly a bird.'
I peer again. 'Or it might be a bit of tree. Or dog poo.'

Back in the real world the wild roses have started to bloom on the tip. I've said this before but I will say it again, 'I wish you could smell them.' Is there anything as sweet as the scent of a wild rose?

Little snippets

Daughter messages me to say they can't come to a barbecue because they're going to see unicorns.
'Unicorns?' I say.
I tell Husband. 'Oh yes,' he says knowingly.
I tell Younger Son. 'Oh yes,' he says.

How does everyone except me know about the unicorns?

Husband mentions that Amy's house suffered flooding. 'I didn't know that,' I say.
Husband says, 'Elder Son told us.'
'I must have missed that conversation. I was probably playing with children.'
'You're better at talking to children than to adults,' Husband says.

That's probably why I never know what's going on.

* * * * * * * * *
A homeless man in Zac's commented on my good tan. If a homeless man comments it must be getting good. Either that or he's just more used to my normal deathly pallor.

* * * * * * * * *
Checking the meaning of pallor (paleness) in the dictionary I came across the word, shigella. What a pretty word, I thought. Then I read the meaning. A rod-shaped bacterium in particular one that causes dysentery.

That doesn't stop it being a pretty word though. As Shakespeare said, 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.' (Okay, not entirely sure that's apt here but you get my gist.)

* * * * * * * * *

Our brief heatwave aka summer has been replaced today by grey clouds. Thunder is forecast for the weekend, which is coincidentally Radio One's Big Weekend, which brings stars including Ed Sheeran to the city. (He, Taylor Swift - who is a women despite her name - and George Ezra are the only ones I've heard of.) Fifty thousand people are attending. And it's a bank holiday giving us good reason to stock up with food and settle ourselves in the house/garden for the weekend.

She would have been 97 today

It would have been my mother's 97th birthday today. I feel I should write something but on searching my blog I find I've already written plenty. Here's a link to one post that says most of what I would say.

However it is perhaps a good moment to encourage you - it's too late for me after all - to appreciate your parents and show them how much they mean to you.

My mother died about ten days after her first stroke but for that time in hospital didn't know me. It was too late then to sit at her bedside and tell her I loved her or ask her about how she'd felt when she had me or any of the other hundreds of questions I still have.

My mum, great-gran, gran and me: four generations living in the same house.

Feeling proud

I repaired the hoover!

Perhaps that sounds as though I did a bit more than I did but, on the other hand, it wasn't working and now it is, therefore I repaired it. Yes?

It was easy once I stopped trying to emulate Husband i.e. unscrewing everything in sight, poking it, and forcing bits apart, and instead consulted the manual. And the problem? George hair of course, blocking the tube.

Whence compassion?

Bloom is part of Linden Church, run by Rachel to support asylum seekers and refugees. About once a month Bloom takes over Red Cafe, a local coffee shop, and asylum seekers prepare a meal traditional from their country. For one reason or another we've missed Syrian, Sri Lankan and Iranian meals but we finally made it to the Pakistani meal last Saturday.

For starters we had wild garlic and potato soup. This was made by the Italian chef so possibly not entirely Pakistani in origin but very nice.

Then we had a dish made up of lots of tasters: chicken, lamb, vegetables, rice and sauces.

Delicious, as you can see from my empty plate.

We also met a young woman. Let's call her Jenny. Because she's in her early twenties her case for asylum was considered separately from that of her mother and younger sibling. Her request has just been turned down resulting in instant destitution. Her money was stopped and she lost her accommodation. And she's not allowed to have paid employment or live with her mother.

I assume the idea is to make her feel as unwelcome as possible so she reaches the state where she's glad to return to her native country. From which she fled. 

Where is humanity? Where is compassion? Where is decency?

I don't know her story but I hope to find it out.

First swim of the year

 Thinking about it. Do I really want to do this? Twenty degrees sounds a lot warmer than this feels.

'Waaaaaaaaaahhhhhh!'

Okay, after swimming nine lengths I am getting used to it. Or possibly I've just gone numb.