An Old Naked Guy in a Curtain

Haven’t forgotten about cat/Halloween posts. Naked Guy just – appeared to me in a vision – or something.

saint jerome

Well, my sister, the one who was recently widowed, rang me from Canada. As part of her recovery she has signed on for an art degree course made up of a series of modules. Currently she is engaged upon a compulsory ‘painting’ module; something she had been dreading all summer.

Apparently, when the weekly project was announced – to copy an old master entitled Saint Jerome and the Angel by someone called Remi, there were grimaces all round. I’d have grimaced too. However, she completed it and, apart from getting his right leg a trifle too short in my opinion (I didn’t tell her) she made a really good job of it. I was going to try to insert her painting in here, but then I thought it wouldn’t be fair as I hadn’t asked her, and it might accidentally ‘identify’ her. Her angel a wee bit more spikey and etherial. We agreed the Remi angel was a bit of a porker. Maybe it’s just the draperies.

Anyway, we spent an hour or so on the phone discussing the Remi painting. I found it on my Fire after several false starts. No, not that one… it’s an old naked guy in a red curtain! But they were all old naked guys in red curtains. Everybody in the world seemed to have done their version of him. He’s got a leg, that pokes out… The same leg that’s a bit too short in her version.

I’m not sure what I’m going to do about the other leg. He doesn’t seem to have another leg…

We perused the painting together, and located it. It’s just a heel and part of a foot, really, and it looks for all the world like part of that improbable red drapery, but it is where a foot would be, given a knee where it is, beneath the book.

Sister and I tend to look at things differently. She looks at pictures like blocks of colour, and shade, and artistic stuff. I, not being gifted in that direction, look at them like stories. I want to know why stuff is there at all.

What’s that little pot? I asked. Next to the skull (why the skull?) there is a little black pot. Thinking about it, we decided it was an ink pot, which would go with the scrawny little feather in his right hand, which must be a quill.

Why is he reading?

We realised he was not reading. He was writing stuff down. In those days, presumably, paper or parchment would be bound into ‘books’ or ledgers.

What is he writing down?

Whatever the angel is telling him. Look – their eyes are locked, they are in rapt concentration on one another. She is teaching him something – look at her hands, she is making a series of points, enumerating them.

I don’t particularly like the painting. Why is her hair swept back by some invisible wind, whilst his beard isn’t being swept forward? Why does that left foot look so much like a piece of red curtain? He’s got the ‘flabby’ aspect of the ancient St Jerome right, but then why are his ancient arms and shoulders so magnificently muscled? Why is he naked in any case? Who sits about in a curtain? Why are her wings that dingy grey? What’s the point of having an angel if she’s – depressing?

This morning, out of curiosity, I decided to find out a bit more about Saint Jerome. He seems to have led a rather muddled real life but has a correspondingly vivid legendary life. He was the one who translated the Bible from Greek into Latin, producing what is now known as the Vulgate Bible. He also wrote a string of Commentaries on books of the Bible, and it is these that the angel is helping him with.

(He’s also the saint who, legendarily, removed the thorn from that poor lion’s paw. I love him for that, even though he only did it legendarily. Being a cat-person, if I came across a lion with a thorn in its poor old paw I would feel irresistibly drawn to try to help it. And no doubt the lion would eat me. )

st jerome lion

I like enjoy this painting much more than Old Naked Guy. Look at that lion! Oh, my poor paw! its face is saying. I love it. I suspect a real lion would be bigger than that in relation to a human being, but maybe not.

Further research. Like many saints, Jerome tends to be depicted with  a number of iconic objects, among them red garments (explains the curtain), a book and writing implements. Later – not in this painting – there were also eyeglasses. This is because in his Commentary to Ezechiel he complains that:

I am quite unable to go through the Hebrew books with such light as I have at night, for even in the full light of day they are hidden from my eyes owing to the smallness of the letters.

This made me smile. Suddenly I liked Old Naked Guy a lot better. Whilst researching for my previous post (the one about Cat’s Cradle) I had to get out the dreaded magnifying glass to read the tiny index. An admission of defeat. I am catching up with Old Guy. Short sighted, I was always comforted that I could read even tiny stuff if I took off my ‘eyeglasses’. Those days are definitely gone.

Addendum: Many, many decades ago I bought a postcard in the souvenir shop a posh London art gallery. I couldn’t afford to buy anything else. It was lurking around for ages, but then, like most of my possessions, it got lost. I loved Dürer – still do – and liked the look of the quiet old gentleman, with his casually sleeping lion and sleeping dog. How quiet it all looked. I so wanted to be in that sunlit room, sitting on one of those wooden benches. And it’s just dawned on me – that was St Jerome too.

durer 4.jpg

 

Talk, Talk…

Someone introduced me to somebody else recently. Now, who was it? Oh yes, my village friend (I am trying to resist using quotation marks here). We were up at the hospital, drinking that particularly sour brand of coffee perpetrated by the elderly ladies in the Volunteer Shop, whilst waiting for the basement canteen to open for business.

This friend of hers came up – friends of hers are always coming up – and my ‘friend’  introduced me. I did what I thought was the perfectly usual smile and the Hi there! and my ‘friend’ said “Don’t mind her, she’s Quiet”. In what sense, I wondered, did she imagine I was quiet?

It is true that I spend days – sometimes weeks – on my own, in my house with no one to talk to apart from the cats and the radio. After twenty-three years or so, I am used to silence. Sometimes I sing, but it comes out flat. Sometimes I recite poetry to myself. If I am angry about something or other I can have heated arguments with myself, out loud, playing both the parts. But mostly I am silent. In my head, long conversations continue – academic debates; love letters to those long lost, or not so long lost; chats with God, or the Universe or whatever might be Out There. Sometimes I get a word or a phrase stuck in my head and play it over and over to myself, like music. Sometimes, in silence, and without aid of pencil and paper, I write.

I had a great aunt once – Auntie Daisy. Auntie Daisy was stick thin, wore black, had once been a teacher. She was what people then called an Old Maid. It amused her to sign herself Tante Marguerite in birthday cards, which mystified us all since we hadn’t yet started learning French. Coughed up juicy five shilling postal orders every Christmas. I was a greedy child.

And I was a silent child. I had this trick – I could make myself invisible to adults. I would sit there with my hands neatly clasped in my lap, earnestly studying the pattern on the curtain or a tiny speck on the skirting-board, waiting for them to forget I was there. Then I listened in. I learned quite a lot of things that way. I learned, for example, that once Auntie Daisy started talking you Couldn’t Get A Word In Edgewise. I also learned that Once She Got Her Feet Under Your Table There Was No Getting Rid Of Her.

Poor Auntie Daisy. She lived on her own, like I do, and she suffered from the same syndrome – Intermittent Motormouth or Spinster’s Gabble, ie she had no one to talk to most of the time, but occasionally, unpredictably, finding herself in company and with an audience, started talking and simply could not stop.

Daisy could talk for England and so, when the mood comes upon me, can I. People tend to laugh – perhaps because they expect me to be po-faced and miserable and suddenly here I am, cracking jokes, telling endless long-winded stories, forgetting what I was saying, remembering, starting up again…

But it must be so tiring to be on the receiving end of. I can hear myself talking when I get like that, and it exhausts me. I am sending out a silent SOS – Please Shut Me Up Now. But nobody ever does. Eventually I run down of my own accord, like a clockwork robot.

I have had a whole couple of days like that. Yesterday I met English Sister at the Home and we travelled up in the stinky old lift to visit Mum. The smell in that place just hits you. Mum doesn’t speak, really, any more, just looks at us, kind of puzzled. Her white hair – always so short and carefully permed – has long since grown out and grown long. Now they gather a little wispy bunch of it up on top of her head to keep it out of her eyes. She looks like a ninety year old schoolchild. So, we sat there with her, but talked amongst ourselves. The Manageress came in. She says she thinks Mum must still know we are something to do with her – vaguely familiar, otherwise she would have attacked us, violently. Good to know.

Afterwards we drove off in our separate cars, to meet up again at the garden centre café for coffee and more chat. By this time I was in full flow. My sister, I happened to know, voted for the other side in the 2016 referendum. She and her whole family are quite passionate, politically, about the thing I voted against. I assumed she must know that, since our Canadian Sister tends to tell everyone absolutely everything. Unfortunately it began to be obvious from what she was saying that she didn’t. Oh God, I thought, now we are going to have That Conversation. So I took a deep breath and told her how I had voted.

You did WHAT!! she shrieked. How COULD you? The café was quite crowded but it suddenly went quite quiet.

Don’t hate me, I whispered. She has only just re-adopted me.

But anyway, we managed it. We dipped our toes into You Know What. We disagreed, but politely. We wandered off towards something we could agree on – the utter ghastliness of President Trump. We wandered back to the scary muddle the Government had made of the whole Brexit process – something else we could agree on – and our worries about rationing. Unexpectedly, we found ourselves disagreeing about Boris Johnson, so veered off in the direction of climate change. She said she was glad she would not now have grandchildren, her son being gay and her daughter being too frail to risk a pregnancy. Maybe, she said, the world would hold together long enough for them to be all right, but beyond that… For the first time I thought, maybe it was a good thing I couldn’t have children. Maybe in my infertility I was being kind of prescient and noble, unwittingly.

And so the horror of our radically opposed political views was diluted – as Godmother summed it up today (oh, and that was another long, exhausting motormouth session). My sister and I, both passionately convinced, both furious – she with my unbelievably stupid friends and I with her unbelievably stupid family – did at least agree on our fury. We agreed that we could both bear to listen to it no longer, and turned off the radio the minute the subject came up. She said her children did too. I said I had taken to listening to music all day rather than turn on the news.

It does seem to me that that is what we will have to do, all of us, afterwards. We will have to shriek in horror at the betrayal each of us has perpetrated upon the other; we will have to whisper in supplication. And then will have to sit around for hours in cafés and talk, preferably whilst eating half-melted chocolate eclairs and getting sugar all round our mouths, and so much chocolate on our fingers that it is beyond licking off politely. We will have to talk about it, fishing delicately around for the few items we can agree on, diluting the pain and the awkwardness with mugs of tea . Try and see the funny side.

I think I may need to lie down for the rest of the weekend.

How not to make an origami crane

I just discovered that I have been folding my origami cranes wrong all this time. Oh woe, and did I not include one of the mutant creature in my crafty Canadian sister’s birthday card thinking There, that’ll show her. I can do it too! She politely didn’t say much about it in her next telephone call. Now I know why.

I was just folding my nine-hundred-and-seventy-second (well, seems like) origami crane. The light was going and I was squinting at the instructions – yes, I need the book open in front of me even now – and spotted a tiny arrow around the bottom of the bird. Why would there be an arrow there? You didn’t need to turn it.

Or did you? Frantically I leafed through the book squinting at every single photo of an origami bird within it – still not turning the light on – and realised all this time I had been making the wings into the head and tail and vice versa. No wonder it had been so difficult to fold that head and tail down. No wonder they looked so mutant. They were mutant, and how could I not have seen that?

My only consolation is that others have failed the origami crane test too. This is Chelsea Cain writing in “The Hippie Handbook”.

WHAT YOU NEED

  • A square of paper (a different color on each side)
  • Approximately 20 hours

It pains me to even see the word origami. As a child I spent days on end holed up in my room trying to fold tiny pieces of colored paper into so-called peace cranes…

Oh, I am mortified, especially as apparently Japanese children learn to fold these tiny creatures in school. When I think of my craft efforts at school – the loathsome papier maché ball that went brown because all the poster paint just kind of mingled into one – the painfully stretched piece of cross-stitch – that awful thing with the cardboard igloos and the cotton-wool snow – telling my needlework teacher I couldn’t thread the needle of the sewing machine because I was left-handed, and it turning out that she was left-handed too…

However, I must try to look on the bright side since, according to the BBC news app, it is a Scientific Fact that cheery souls tend to live longer. Looking on the bright side, therefore, I have just made my first anatomically correct origami crane. I wondered what to do with all the mutants and have discovered – cheerily again – that the cats rather like them. They don’t get outside to massacre real birds so a paper one is a treat.

Cranes have very long life spans. In legends it is said that they can live for a hundred, or even a thousand years. There is an old tradition in Japan, of folding a thousand paper cranes and presenting them to someone to convey sincere wishes for health and long life. They are given as get-well or wedding gifts, often strung together so that they can be suspended from the ceiling.

In my origami book (A Thousand Cranes: Origami Projects for Peace and Happiness) Florence Temko tells the story of a little girl called Sadako. She was born on January 7, 1943. When she was two years old the atom bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, which was only a mile away from Sadako’s home. The house she and her family lived in was burned down and they had to move to another district.

Sadako grew up healthy and energetic, but when she was twelve she fell sick and was diagnosed with leukemia, a result of the radiation from the atom bomb. In hospital, she and a group of her fellow patients began to fold cranes. Within a month she had folded her thousand, but she did not stop. She carried on folding paper cranes until she died.

Nowadays there is a statue of Sadako in the Peace Park in Hiroshima, holding a crane above her head. Children from Japan and other countries send paper cranes to Hiroshima every year and they are heaped around the statue as a kind of prayer for peace.

So, I am encouraged to keep on folding, one or two a day. And now with their wings and their tails the right way round.

peace monument

 

3: Send in the clowns

Continued from 2: Supping with the Devil (technically, posted on 6/7 – you might need to use the Search box)

It should have been funny, and it kind of was, looking back. Looking back, I can recall the struggles and contradictions of that afternoon as Mum and I listened to these two monolithic men droning on at one another about politics or whatever, beneath the ’70s artex ceiling and ghastly pine wall-covering, giant mugs of tea at the ready: exhilaration, a rather spiteful kind of satisfaction, sadness, anxiety and loss. Part of me knew that Ex had got to win, another part couldn’t bear for Dad to lose. Ridiculously, now, I am reminded of battling silverback gorillas and David Attenborough. (Who can picture a gorilla without David, whispering reverentially close by?) And I recall that last scene in The Railway Children – Daddy, my Daddy!

After twenty-three years or so I screwed up the courage to tell Ex I was leaving. He seemed unmoved, relieved as much as anything. Not long after that the lady I usually refer to as My Replacement came along – well, she’d been ‘along’ for quite some time, I just hadn’t really realised. That was probably the most painful bit.

On one particularly memorable occasion , which I now think of as my Send In The Clowns moment, I had driven across to the small town where Ex still lived. I had an appointment to get my hair cut at my old hairdressers. I had not anticipated that there would be a carnival procession going on, and so had to park some way out of town and walk back in. As I was walking along the road I realised that he – and she – were walking towards me in the far distance, hand in hand. I suppose they must have been out watching the carnival. There was no convenient side-road or alleyway to swerve into, and in any case they had already seen me. I just had to pin on a gruesome attempt at a smile and keep walking forwards on the pavement, one foot in front of the other – and so did they, of course. I found myself feeling sorry for them at the same time as I was feeling sorry for me. It seemed to take years, and he couldn’t exactly drop her hand. I can’t remember another thing about that day. That one memory was enough to last me for ever!

Although most of me knows that leaving, even in middle age, was the right decision, some disconsolate little remnant continues to prowl around my house on sleepless nights mewling Where are you? Why did you stop looking after me? Why didn’t you come and find me?  Didn’t you love me? And I realise it is not just the lost wife crying, but the lost child looking for her father.

daddy

 

In the 1980s Canadian Sister, also ADD-ish, married a man who looked not so very different from Dad. He was very definite in his opinions, very clever, very competent, would brook no arguments, etc., etc., but they remained married until his death earlier this year. Now she rages at him, in his urn on the mantelpiece. He was supposed to be her shield and protector, and in return she knew she must do what she was told and never argue; she went where he wanted to go, watched whatever he wanted to watch on TV; pretended not to be embarrassed when he was rude to shopkeepers and Indian waiters, resisting the urge to apologise on his behalf. That was the clear bargain struck on a cold May day in a black old Northern church all those years ago, and he reneged on it by going and getting cancer.

I have been wondering what conclusion to draw, what ‘advice’, with the benefit of hindsight, I would give to my parents, or any new parents of an unconventional child. Of course I have no right to advise. If I had been able to have children or my own I’m sure I’d have got it just as wrong, and probably more so.

The fashionable motto is that all you really need to be is a Good Enough parent. I would extend that a bit – I think you can be a pretty bad parent and your child will still stand a chance or surviving, more or less, if only she can get what she needs from alternative sources. Which is an argument for old-fashioned rural communal parenting as opposed to the nuclear family, in which any evils are concentrated, hidden and likely to be perpetuated.

I was saved by Nan and Grandad who, by the most enormous stroke of luck, lived at the other end of our street. Nan walked along to see Mum most days, and I spent every Sunday from about the age of three along with Nan and Grandad. To start with this was because Mum and Dad were engaged in building their own house, with Grandad’s help, whilst expecting my sister at any moment. After that it just became a tradition.

Nan and Grandad had a huge garden with a cherry blossom tree, a swing suspended from an apple tree, a lawn full of daisies and buttercups, and all sorts of flowers and vegetables. They also had a smelly old golden Labrador, a roaring fire in winter, stacks of Woman’s Weekly and Carpenter & Joiner magazines, a bookcase full of pre-War hardback books, an etymological dictionary (my favourite) and a tiny black and white TV set.

Nan cooked great Sunday dinners. She washed my hair and I sat in front of the fire to dry it. I was included in whatever she was doing. We put down newspaper and polished a mountain of brass with Brasso and blackening yellow dusters; we picked mint for the mint sauce – she chopped it fine then I stirred it in a little pot with sugar and vinegar. We sat on the back step shelling peas into an enamel bowl whilst staring up at the sky.

Over the course of the years she told me about the recent War, and the War before that. She told me about my Great Grandmother Sarah and her own many sisters. She told me the facts of life, taught me how to darn a sock and sew on a button. She chatted to me unselfconsciously as if I was just another grown-up, or she was just another child. On those Sundays with Nan I was a relaxed, ‘normal’ human being, but as soon as I returned to the other end of the road I became once again the freaky “Prima Donna” or “You Little Bitch”.

In writing this it has occurred to me that Nan had the advantage of having finished bringing up Mum – who had many of the same traits as me – considerably more pronounced, some of them – less than six years before, since Mum married at nineteen. Mum hadn’t had that advantage.

See 4: Imagine

1: A house divided

It’s been a long time since I wrote something the low-tech way, ie sat down at a desk with a potful of sharpened pencils and made marks on paper. My usual technique – since I become more distracted and impatient with every day that passes – is to ‘splurge’, suddenly and electronically. I get a wisp of an idea, a little ghostly thought-ette or two, log in to WordPress and permit some primitive part of my brain, in conjunction with my touch-typist’s – though now somewhat stiffening – hands, to do their thing. Then I publish it, fondly believing I have proof-read it. Then I spend the next three years spotting all the mistakes.

I am writing ‘old-fashioned’ in this case because I have pages of notes that just wouldn’t stop coming to me yesterday evening, and the end result is likely to be at least three separate posts. I can’t hold a train of thought over multiple posts – I have to write it, edit it and subdivide it. Bah! So tedious!

When I get to read back what the hands/primitive-part-of-the-brain combo has typed I am often surprised – amazed, even – to discover what I must have been thinking, and what I appear to believe, sometimes quite passionately. I get to meet me in these posts, and the me in these posts seems to have some sort of recognisable personality. WordPress is our rendezvous point: without it the inside of my head would be a kind of darkish soup, with kind of floating bits, the odd, unidentifiable streak of this and that, peered into in vain.

I could not express any of the years of passing thoughts, ideas and reminiscences to be found in Latourabolie (transl: The Ruined Tower, in case anyone is still trying to fathom it out) to anybody face to face. I either say very little – to the many people I don’t like – or ramble joyously and incomprehensibly – to the few people I love or feel at ease with. Occasionally these serendipitous excursions into word-salad and verbal diarrhoea seem to amuse my friends. Sometimes they even laugh out loud in the course of one of my epic, multi-digressionary stories or reminiscences, at least parts of which may be true.

Often they laugh at bits I didn’t realise were funny – or at least not that funny. Maybe they are less amused by the tale itself than the sight of me struggling to bring it to a sensible conclusion, hauling myself back from digression after digression, to just stop. Where would we be without friends?

So, to the subject of this little run of posts – ADD or Attention Deficit Disorder. I leave the ‘H’ out because that stands for Hyperactive or Hyperactivity, and I definitely don’t have that bit. I was never one of those mind-bogglingly annoying little boys who jiggle their feet, jump up and down and cannot remain seated for more than two seconds. My cousin was one of those. Boy was that little boy annoying! He was absolutely unbearable to be around. You just wanted to bellow at him – keep still, you little tyke! You couldn’t, of course, because he was a cousin, and a visitor. I believe he is now a somewhat successful almost-retired something-in-electronics, and owns his own company. The last time I saw him was at English Sister’s wedding. English Sister was the same age as him. He was trying to chat her up, despite the bridal gown and her being his first cousin.

I would guess my type is the ‘inattentive’ type, which tends to manifest more in girls. I did consider the possibility that I was somewhere on the autistic spectrum, preferably at the ‘high functioning’ end. We’d all like to think of ourselves as an Alan Turing manqué, wouldn’t we? I have, in the past, had the occasional full-blown meltdown when things got too much – usually, and appallingly, at work. I do have the dislike of interruptions to my ordered routine, and, to an extent, the obsessive interests – but it’s not enough I think, after exhaustive research, to make me properly autistic.

In any case, it is one of my ‘hunches’ that autism and ADD are  basically one and the same, which is why a lot of people diagnosed as autistic also appear to ‘suffer from’ ADD or ADHD. Much suffering is certainly involved, but these are not illnesses, or disorders. There is nothing wrong with us, we are simply not at all like you.  I predict that ADD will eventually be found to be an alternative manifestation of the same comprehensively different brain wiring that results in autism, the other side of the coin. Or – think of autism/ADD/ADHD as a giant pink cake, liberally sprinkled with ‘hundreds and thousands’ because, after all, it is a statistical kind of cake. ADD, ADHD and autism, both high-functioning and low-functioning, would be slices cut from different parts of the same cake, and sometimes somebody would happen to get two adjacent slices. If you think of it as circular rather than a stack of parallel lines, or spectra, it works better.

I have never been diagnosed and am never likely to be. A formal diagnosis would interest and cheer me immensely in that it would prove me right (See – told you so!) but it would do nothing to heal the distressing bits in my past. It wouldn’t provide me with thousands of pounds to sort out my bank account, make me young again or save me from my eventual fate, whatever that might be – so there’s not much point.

And I do believe – reluctantly – that limited diagnostic resources should be concentrated on children. Not that I like children all that much but they are the future, whether we like them or not. And a diagnosis could help a child make more of its life than I – old, undiagnosed and woefully misunderstood – have been able to do.

So, I have worked out from simple observation – may be wrong, of course – that ADD and  its annoying-little-boy variant, ADHD, both run in my family thus:

The ones in bold are or may be the ‘sufferers’, that awful word:

Maternal side:

Nan : Grandad

Air Force Uncle → annoying boy cousin plus two girl cousins

Mum : Dad

→ Me, Canadian Sister and English Sister

Paternal Side

Grandma: Grampa

Devon Aunt, one baby boy (deceased), Dad

I can’t exactly remember from school all that Mendelian stuff with the sweet peas and the colour combinations, but does this look like a possible pattern, geneticists? Quite probably, no geneticists read my blog.

This unseen (except by me), unrecognised (ditto) fault line in my family has been the cause of no end of problems.

See 2: Supping with the Devil

Who’d a thunk it?

Firstly, I have realised something about my fridge-freezer. It isn’t. I bought it thinking the bottom half was a freezer because, after all, top or bottom, one half of a fridge-freezer is always a freezer, isn’t it?

I suppose I did vaguely wonder, over the eight months or so that this great white monster, larger than any fridge I ever owned before, purchased in a fit of post Brexit/Apocalyptic prepping, was not actually making the many loaves of cheap sliced bread I stored in it rock hard. I had a vague memory of having to defrost frozen bread before eating but this – this was just a bit on the parky side. Half an hour in the fridge proper and Bob’ yer Uncle.

Yesterday, the on which the British Heat Record of 2003 was broken – the hottest day in Britain ever – I staggered out to the garage in search of my acrylic heart-shaped ice-cube moulds. Why they were in the garage is a long story. To do with ill-fated soap-making. I filled all the wobbly moulds with tap water and wobbled them back across the kitchen to the “freezer”, spilling quite a bit. I left them in the “freezer” and forgot about them.

The hottest day has come and gone. Canadian Sis rang up and, after an hour of (once again) advising her how to deal with her intrusive, borderline bullying next-door-neighbour and (once again) explaining that negotiating with, defending against or manoeuvring around Other People is not a generic Man’s/Husband’s Job, but something that, male of female, we all need to set our minds to sooner or later. She is so angry at her deceased husband for leaving her with all these unsuspected complications that she actually berates his Ashes, in their Urn on the mantel piece, in passing. How could you go and get cancer and leave me to deal with all this… stuff? You weren’t supposed to do that! Anyway, after that hour, I peeled the landline phone from my left cheek to find it – the phone, that is – running with sweat. No wonder it crackles.

After an appalling night spread-eagled naked on top of the bed (not as exciting as it sounds) which had somehow been wheeled into some sort of nightmarish oven full of itchy, hot cats, aching heads, lightning flashes and distant thunder, waking at fifteen minute intervals to drink lukewarm water from a row of plastic bottles, and then at thirty minute intervals to totter out to the loo to spend a penny – after which my face still looks like some puffy, puce balloon – I staggered to my “freezer”, remembering my “ice cubes”. Which of course were still unfrozen. A bit colder, perhaps, than they would have been in the fridge but definitely still liquid.

I can’t say I understand, but I think the best and cheapest option is a change of nomenclature: my fridge freezer is, henceforward, the fridge-and-ever-so-slightly-colder.

Secondly, we have a new Prime Minister. I doubt if anybody is very hopeful. Pity us poor Brits, all hope has been leached out of us – leached, I say. How could the Government have stuffed things up so very badly? How can we possibly escape from this dreadful mire? All is lost. We might once have hoped for greatness from Boris, and maybe we still do, secretly, in a dull, dispirited sort of way. However, he is if nothing else telling us to lighten up. He is standing at the Dispatch Box, waving his arms about, laughing, joking, and assuring us that everything is going to be all right. Better than all right, in fact. Fantastic! Somehow. And it’s the greatest relief. Not the extravagant promises, not the fractional likelihood of success, not the grim political odds against him, not the likelihood of this brilliant but careless man making some gaffe or blunder and thereby ruining it for himself, but the humour. Humour is our national medicine, like grass to cats. It’s the way we cope. It’s that Monty Python thing. It’s our weird, homegrown kind of courage and it’s the glue that holds us together. Irreverence, bad jokes, the refusal to take our opponents, however formidable, at all seriously; wild, wonderful laughter – is perhaps, right now, our only faint hope of a cure.

And finally, the Meaning Of Life. Never say I don’t end with a biggie. Many years ago when I was still, if precariously, living with Ex, I was driving home from work one day and fell into a kind of reverie, and out of the blue it came to me: The Meaning Of Life. Which was (wait for it) The Two Worlds Are One. I remember being overjoyed as I drove down this long, twisty country lane across the Marsh, avoiding deep ditches on either side, that The Meaning Of Life had miraculously been vouchsafed to me.

The next day, although I could remember that The Two Worlds Were One, I couldn’t for the life of me remember what that meant – or what I had thought it meant during my Road to Damascus moment. I suspect I am not the only person that has happened to.

Every since, at intervals, I have wondered whether The Two Worlds Are One meant anything at all. I mean, how likely was it that a mediocre legal secretary would intuit something that people like Einstein had been unable to tell us? But finally, cheeringly – today I opened a book called “You Are The Universe” by Deepak Chopra. It had just come through the door. I stripped off the Amazon cardboard, took a sip of coffee and opened it randomly at page 232, and there was this (subtly ungrammatical) paragraph:

“The great pause can be found in the words of a scientist, including Heisenberg and Schrödinger, who suddenly sees, quite clearly, that there is only one reality, not two. There is no inner and outer, no me and you, no mind and matter, each half guarding its own marked off territory. The realisation is like a pause because the mind has stopped conceiving of reality and now starts living it.”

Ta da!

Thank God For Cup-A-Soup

It’s a long time since I wrote anything and the bit of WordPress that I can see when I type stuff seems to have turned a loathsome shade of magenta-cum-chestnut. Nothing stays the same, does it? Turn your back and…

I only retuned the TV at Christmas, in readiness for Canadian Sister’s visit. Retuning a TV is a Man Job as far as I’m concerned, but since there was no Man I was forced to puzzle it out. Well, I thought – that’s that sorted for another few years, but no. This week my Freeview channels have started vanishing again. Already! So I had to detach the instructions I taped to the back of the TV last time. My eyes seem to have gone to pieces in the last few weeks. I can’t read any writing on the TV now from the sofa, but, I think, if I stagger forward and perch on the coffee table

On the coffee table I make the unwelcome discovery that things are equally out of focus from there, merely larger. I settle for larger and, squinting, start to follow my own instruction. I had to cancel my optician’s appointment because of the chest infection my Sister gave me. Not even an exotic Canadian chest infection but something she picked up in Stockport.

So her visit, much looked forward to, did not go entirely to plan. My sister’s visits never go entirely to plan but this time, since so much has happened in between, and she has lost her husband in the meantime, I suppose I was fondly imagining that everything would be back to normal, ie back to the way it was when we were teenagers, not that either of us were exactly normal then. But of course, it wasn’t. Much water under the bridge.

I mustn’t catch this, I was thinking, in between trips to the fridge to find her ice-cold yoghurts or trips to the kettle to make her honey and lemon drinks. I simply mustn’t allow myself catch this, I thought, as I marvelled again at how giant shreds of damp and germy paper tissue could have spread themselves over such a wide area of carpet and sofa, in spite of the Tesco bag supplied for their depositing. The Tesco bag kept disappearing. It went upstairs every few hours and then did not come back down again. But of course I catch everything nowadays, and once I’ve got it I can’t get rid of it. By the Wednesday evening I had the Throat.

There wasn’t much we could do, what with her being sick and me being sick and my friend from down the village – who had scared us both with a long hypothetical and never-to-actually-be-disclosed list of activities, all of which would involve her – being sick as well. So we sat at home and watched TV.

Poor Sister. What they don’t tell you is now cruel a dying spouse can be. Apparently, among other things, he told her that all she had ever done was sit at home and watch TV. I wonder why dying people need to be so brutal, however frightened they are of death, knowing that their words will echo on down the years until all that people will remember is not forty years of Who You Were but two weeks of What You Said.

So we watched TV. Turns out we both ‘fans’ (possibly not the right word) of Whiny Lady, who has long, perfectly coiffed red hair and lives on a cowboy ranch. Day after day, separated by the Atlantic Ocean, we had been tuning in to Whiny Lady, learning how she prepares Yummy Meals months in advance and saves them all in Tupperware containers in her vast freezer, and how she loves to cook up vast plates of Mexican style meat from all the huge, handsome cowboy men and beautiful, healthy cowboy children in her life, and how she loves her Mom, and her Mom in law, and her Father in law, and how she cooks up huge, wonderful chocolate Thingys for them…

As we watched, and choked and sneezed, and the soggy remnants of paper tissue rained down upon my sofa and living room carpet and cats, we tried to analyse what exactly was the fascination here. Sister has been somewhat more adventurous in the kitchen than I – when permitted in the kitchen, which wasn’t often – but not necessarily more successful. My cookery is more like Do I Have Anything That Might Fit Between Two Pieces Of Bread? Hers is more of an ongoing scientific experiment. At least now she can conjure up slightly wonky Buddha candles in her kitchen – something that also used to be on the verboten list.

We analysed what it was about our daily doses Whiny Woman that absorbed our attention. Sister decided it was lifestyle porn, ie we didn’t so much want to be able to cook like her but to have all those wonderful husbands and check-shirted sons and daughters and supportive relatives, and a great big kitchen separate from the Ranch in its own Lodge, and the bunch of flowers on the ledge and all those tops. Whiny Woman wears a different wonderful top over her cowgirl jeans to cook in every day. Does she store them a walk-in wardrobe the size of Texas? Does she throw them away after a single use? Are they supplied to her by manufacturers of wonderful tops? How does she fry up all that pork and beef and chicken and grits (grits?) and never attract a spot of grease?

I narrowed it down to Implement Envy. I do not want to cook like Whiny
Woman and I know perfectly well that I’d be as miserable as sin on a cowboy ranch and couldn’t possibly cope with all that sincere and syrupy wonderfulness with relatives, but…

Oh look, she’s got a pale blue saucepan that exactly matches her top…. and that frying pay – sorry, skillet – yesterday – so heavy, so perfectly designed, so lusciously expensive and – it matched her top! And a special shiny silvery thing for draining cauliflower.

So now Sister is gone, returned with some difficulty, first on the train to Stockport via London, and then to Canada. And here I have been, at death’s door, ever since, sleeping upright in a corner of the sofa for a week and a half, night turning into day, a curious pall of unreality covering everything. You only know you’ve got a Respiratory Tract when you get an Infection of some kind. It’s the bit (apart from your head) that hurts so much when you cough that you hope to fall asleep so as not to be forced to cough for a while. It’s the bit the penicillin doesn’t seem to make any difference whatsoever to. Thank goodness for Cup-A-Soup.