Last week I moved my big old armchair next to the French windows and I have taken to sitting, looking out at my tiny ugly garden, drinking my morning coffee as I listen to Pop Master. Today the world outside is bright and white as the weak sun reflects off a light covering of snow. What should be an enjoyable break between jobs, sometimes brings on the miseries, as all of the things that really need doing poke me in the eyes. There are many dollops of carroty dog poo scattered across the lawn and lying in clusters along the path. I should really arm myself with poo bags and venture out to scoop it up while it’s frozen.
And then there is my David Austen rose bush which cost a fortune, but has failed to live up to promises. Last year it grew leggy and produced only very droopy headed roses, and those were few and far between. New shoots are just beginning to appear, which is apparently a sign that it is time to prune, to encourage plentiful blooms in the coming months. I must admit that last year, I missed the window, but I am determined to get it right this time, and hope that I haven’t buggered it completely with my negligence during its early years. With children, early years are arguably the most important, let’s hope the same doesn’t apply to Lady Emma Hamilton and that she manages to recover her early beauty.
The secateurs for trimming the rose bush are in the greenhouse, which I still worry might be a playground for rats, so I tend to avoid it between October and March, just in case. I might ask one of the kids to fetch them, or just leave the pruning for another day. My intentions are good, it’s just the rest of me…..
I sit in my armchair and wish for a ton of snow to cover up the carroty dog poo, Lady Emma Hamilton, and all of the other neglected objects which make my garden resemble Steptoe’s Yard, to save me from the guilt, and because it is the only way my garden will ever look truly beautiful.
February is one of my favourite months, and whereas many people find it unbearable, for me, it has always been a time of celebration, containing as it does not two, but (usually) three of my favourite days – Valentine’s, pancake and birth.
My love for Valentine’s Day, which I’m sure I have blogged about before, began when aged 13, 14 and 15, I received anonymous cards from the same boy. I didn’t discover who had sent them until February 14th 2002, when I was waiting for a bus. A boy who had been my friend at Middle School came and sat next to me and said ‘how funny that I should bump into you today. Do you remember when I used to send you a Valentine’s card every year?’ and the mystery was solved. I always suspected it was my mum or sister playing tricks, so it was very touching to find that they came from a real person – albeit one who was 6 inches shorter than me.
Every year, I would buy Valentine’s cards for my children and the husband of the moment. And every year, I would regret my efforts and vow never again to buy a card for these ingrates. I have been happy this year to hand over the Valentine’s reins, as all bar one now has a partner, who will undoubtedly be appreciated for making the effort. And for the poor little soul who doesn’t have a Valentine, I enrolled the services of a funky pigeon. She received an early card in the post today, and when I said she should perhaps not open it until Valentine’s Day, she was so affronted and patronised by the insult in an envelope. It’s at times like this that I plan the wording on my headstone. With a nod to Spike Milligan’s ‘I told you I was ill’, mine will read ‘I knew you’d miss me when I’m dead!’
This Lockdown is long and hard (I am so forlorn that even this opportunity for ‘how I like my men’ jokes is being disregarded). Family time in my house is worse than ever, and I am hoping that they have hidden the axe. If they haven't, the time is NOW. I have tried all possible variations, from lunch in solitary, to sittings according to age, gender and alphabetical order, but nothing works. I am not exaggerating for comic effect; the struggle is real. To illustrate the oft recounted breakdown of civilisation at mealtimes in my household, the following account is based entirely on actual events;
Today my children are all sitting around the table eating lunch together like a proper happy family. Outside it is beginning to snow.
T: ‘Don’t you think it’s weird that snowflakes are actual snowflake shaped?’
I shush her but it’s too late, the other two have heard and immediately pounce.
H: ‘This is the same person who thought that Wallace was the dog and Gromit was the man,’
My youngest daughter L laughs and he continues.
H: ‘And also asked the question ‘who would ever name their child Einstein?’
A family lunch has turned into a convention for the apes. But there’s more….
T: ‘Well mum thought that a sloth was a monkey, and that’s even worse.’
And then they all bring up stupid things each other has done, and throw me under the bus a few times too, while they are at it. It ends badly with extreme swearing, cutting insults, storming off and the slamming of doors echoing throughout the land. And I try to remember when they were sweet small children who loved each other and me. But I can’t remember because it never happened; it has always been this way, and evermore shall be. Thankfully their vocabulary was more limited when they were little, but I thought the wars were just a phase, and would some day be replaced by intellectual discussions and witty repartee. A long bloody phase is all I can say.
In preparation for the Valentine’s Disco and also my birthday cocktail party in a couple of weeks, I have acquired a new disco light, which throws bright blue, red and green patterns across the walls and ceiling in my kitchen. It is a brilliant replacement for the disco bulb, which was not such a great buy. It had the wrong fitting for every single light in the entire house, with the exception of the one in the tiny inner hallway at the bottom of the stairs, where there is barely room for two people to pass, especially if one of them is me doing the splits and spinning around (à la Kylie).
I have also had changed the internet to Sky, which is amazing and lets us all go online at the same time. And most importantly of all, the many Alexas are now up and running, and do as they are asked. So they remind me of what I need to add to the online shop, and sound an alarm when it is time for PopMaster, or when the chicken is cooked; I am up to date with the latest Covid news, I know the weather forecast and most importantly, I can ask the Alexas to play Disco and they always oblige. I am also being introduced to some of their other features. For example, this evening we were entertained by a spectrum of farts, from triumphant to cheek wobbler. Mr C was more than a little shocked at the lack of decorum.
An old friend Loz, recently told me that she has lost all of her photographs from the early 1990’s, when we shared a house as students. I had taken hundreds of pictures, of the student houses where we lived in Crewe, and of my friends during nights out in the local pubs and at the College disco, which was often the highlight of the week. And the parties, of which there were many because Crewe had no nightclubs, and we needed somewhere to go after the pubs shut. After talking to Loz, I began to sort through my collection, and started to send stuff to her on WhatsApp. It seemed a pity to have pictures of so many people and not to share them, so I tracked down a few more old friends, and sent a few more photos, and from that came the idea of a group where we could all share our memories. I asked a friend Liam if he knew how we could achieve this, and within five minutes, I received an invitation to join our own private group. I uploaded my pictures and we began to invite people to join, and they invited their friends and so on. And a few weeks later, we have almost 120 members who were all in the same place at the same time over thirty years ago, and who are now talking about a reunion.
Sadly, we have lost a few precious souls along the way, and there have been a few others who seem determined not to be found, but who may turn up in time. It has been a mind-blowing experience, as most of these people lived on, unchanged in my head, suspended in the early 90's. Some of them were very good friends of mine, others were just people who went to the same parties, or who we saw most days across a bacon sandwich in the refectory. And what has been really lovely has been having a couple of close friends to message as new photos popped up – ‘was that the guy that used to fancy you’, or ‘was he the bloke who looked like Jon Bon Jovi?’
I have laughed so much at the memories, many of which have been recovered with the help of other people adding little bits until the whole picture is revealed, but also it has left me a little sad at how much has happened and how much my life has changed. I can no longer sink a pint in under ten seconds (or at all in fact) or survive on less than eight hours sleep a night.
I was so confident back then, ambitious and totally unafraid of everything. I got to choose which career to pursue, which men to marry, which houses to buy, and where to live. I made a few wrong decisions, although some cracking ones too. I’m not sure I would choose to be a teacher if I had my time again. And I wish I had lived abroad (maybe France) for a year or two. And then settled by the sea. And taken up running in my early twenties instead of my fifties.
I find it quite alarming that I have probably left it too late now to drastically change the course of my life; although I am largely happy with my lot (warring factions aside). I am resigned to the fact that where I am and what I’ve got is unlikely to change too much. But every so often I wish I lived in a house by the sea and spoke fluent french, and could perform open heart surgery or discover new planets. A few ships have definitely sailed; it appears (according to Google) that I am now too old to join the police force or emigrate to Australia, unless I marry an Australian next time. Neither of these options were previously on my to do list, but knowing that they are now out of reach makes me want to do them both. My life seems to be speeding by at an alarming rate, which makes me wonder whether I should be wasting it sitting in an armchair staring out of the window and listening to Radio 2. Maybe it is time to get back on the bus and begin a new adventure before everything seizes up completely. If it wasn’t for this damned global pandemic…..
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