Life is a minestrone

That was a very strange 24 hours. First of all there was the horrible drive in the dark through lightning and heavy rain and negotiating the M25 to my brother's house, then the good news that my niece had safely delivered her 9lb 1oz daughter, so bestest congratulations to Charlotte and Michael, and welcome to baby Sofia Lily. A poor night's sleep followed then we were all up bright and early to drive to my aunt A's funeral. These events are never fun, but it went as well as could be expected, and a small bird sang loudly from the silver birch at the foot of the grave as we laid her to rest, which was nice. After her wake I drove the short distance to check that my Dad's grave wasn't overgrown as it's been some time since anyone has been down in that area; I was very happy to see that it was very tidy and not at all neglected. It's hard to think it's been 25 years since he left us.

I drove very slowly past my parents' old house as I left their village, and was pleased to see that the visible changes were appropriate to a house that was appreciated; but it was difficult to drive past and not go in. When I was last there it was still Mother's home, although the sale had all been arranged and we were helping her to sort out her belongings for the move. It was a very strange feeling - not very nice.

The journey back up the A21, M25 and M40 were pretty uneventful, and just as I was heaving a sigh of relief as I approached the village a hen pheasant ran into the road. I slowed for it, but she slowed too, and then took off ... straight into the front of the car. There was a thump and a puff of feathers, but no corpse visible in the rearview mirror and an odd rhythmic flappy noise from the front. I groaned, stopped the car and got out to view the damage. I wish I'd had my camera. The car was thankfully undamaged, but the pheasant had managed to wedge her head under the dead (pun unintended) centre of the bonnet lid and was dangling directly under the KIA (how appropriate!) badge, still twitching slightly.  I knew I couldn't possibly drive all through the village like that - people would stare and point, so I had to carefully remove the corpse before I could get home and, waste not want not, prepare her for cooking.

So a very strange, stressful, tiring, emotional 24 hours. Birth, funeral and death, and memories, memories, memories.

She wouldn't have a Willy or a Sam

No pictures - I had enough to cope with, doing a journey of more than five hundred yards with a car-sick puppy to worry about a camera - but today was a satisfactorily complete day, although nothing went entirely to plan, which in itself made it just right.

Yesterday was the anniversary of the departure from this stage of existence of our friend henry, so a few of us decided to make an Expedition to his first ever geocache and visit the spot nearby where his ashes are buried. For us this involved taking a car-sick puppy on a long car journey, followed by a long walk (when she's only been allowed outside the garden for 2 days, and is limited to 15-minute walks). We delayed our departure till three hours after her breakfast, so that she got some of the benefit of it, and fair play to hre she lasted for an hour before she threw up the first time. By the time we eventually arrived at the meeting-point (Nelly, you did say meet at Tanner's Lane, I've triple-checked) she'd bee sick a few more times and was feeling very sorry for herself. So was I.

Once we'd located each other with the echoes of "Why does nothing ever fuc 'scuse me, doorbell" ringing in our ears, finding the cache went smoothly ... until we realised that the bottle of cider (of which more anon) had succumbed to the law of gravity and emptied itself downhill ... (Why does nothing etc).

Then we set about locating henry's resting place to plant a replacement tree for him, the original one having failed to thrive. For an hour we searched, first with muttered curses which gradually became more audible as the frustration levels grew. We rang his sister to double-check the location - yes, we were in the right place - and the search continued. By this time I was sitting on the ground ("Am I sitting on him?") and finally called out "Come on henry, where are you?". No more than 20 seconds later Andy cried "Victory!!" a mere four feet from where we'd been standing around for ages. If only we'd asked him sooner where he was! I bet he was chortling at us! The cider? The last few drops were sprinkled onto the tree as a libation, sending our good wishes to our friend.

I'd reside by the side of the silvery sea

When I was a little girl I lived in Budleigh Salterton (yes, a real place and not a music-hall joke); see the picture in my profile ...

mainly in this house (then called Rill cottage because of the rill that ran a few feet away).


My mother's family had lived in the area virtually since the beginning of time, and we only lost contact with the place when my great-aunts died in the early 70s; I went back at the time to help sort out their house (which, if there was any justice in the world, would still be my mother's home, but hanging on to resentment only damages my soul) but haven't been back since. My great-grandmother had the house built for her, and I'd love to live there - we even still have a lot of the original furniture. I wonder if the current owners want to sell?


So when we had a golden opportunity to visit the town again I seized the chance, despite me having a pounding headache and Ned (aka Mr Snotty) a feverish cold. We walked along the beach to the rocks at the end where, as a child, the challenge was to throw a pebble over the river onto the cliff edge and have it settle on a ledge without bouncing off into the water. As a four year old this was a feat beyond me - I was a rotten thrower anyway (father always reckoned that the safest place to be when I was throwing was beside the target) and the river seemed really, really wide.



In the near half-century since my last attempt the river seems much smaller and my aim improved somewhat and after a few abortive attempts I finally succeeded - at last I've navigated the rite of passage and my pebble sits snugly on the cliff. (I wonder why I didn't take a picture of the ledge, just for my own satisfaction. Oh well, I'll just have to go back again sometime.) And so does Ned's so that's good too; a short celebratory victory dance was performed, much to the disgust of the nearby bird-watchers and we could have our picnic with a satisfied glow in our hearts.


The beach at Budleigh is a pebbly one, but it's not like the shingle on most beaches; the pebbles are smooth and flattened and rounded and tactile, and there are some wonderful colours among them. There are so many uses for them ...

Come up and see me

I’ve been playing some of my Happy Music today. It is remarkable how soothing even very up-tempo music can be, as long as it reminds you of happy times. If I am having a meditation session, staring at a candle-flame, I like to listen to “From Genesis to Revelation”, “Demons and Wizards”, or “Relics”. Unfortunately there aren’t many opportunities to do this, because my copies of those albums are all on vinyl, so I’m limited as to where they can be played. Attempting serenity and tranquillity in the sitting-room with the rest of the household running amok all around is pointless! But given the opportunity all of those can transport me way outside my head into more colourful times, and after the first shock of the return the present seems less grey than when I left it.

Steve Harley was yesterday’s saviour. Listening to his early records (Judy Teen, the Psychomodo and the rest) instantly returns me to my teens, and doing exciting things, such as getting the train to London for the day, meeting up with schoolfriends and scouring the shops in Kensington High Street. We could easily spend the whole day in Biba – the shop was a magical place. There were the most gorgeous clothes in stunning colours, which were affordable even on our very limited funds, and it all smelt exotic. It was a beautifully sunny time when the present was easy and the future bright. The world was opening up to us, and all the paths offered glimpses of thrilling possibilities.

So despite being caught between realities, which is more than a little confusing, I must thank Steve (and the rest of Cockney Rebel) for the memories. You do indeed make me smile.

I was looking through a box of old papers the other day, and found my old school-issue termly calendars, which listed the names of everyone in the school, what sports matches were to be played and when, what films we would be shown on Saturday night (detention permitting) etc. This particular 8th March featured a Home hockey match (1st XI against HMS Fishguard), Home Cross-country (against Truro School and BRNC Dartmouth) ... and the Sixth Form Dance!

Oh, the annoyance of the annual dance! There were girls shipped in from some of the local girls' schools to partner the boys, but did they bother to ship in some likely talent for us? Not likely! We had to make do with the usual suspects we saw day in, day out for weeks on end. Of course all the 'lookers' of the boys were immediately snapped up by the alien hussies, and we were left with the spotty oiks. The ones whose Christian names you'd never got around to discovering. And of course attendance was compulsory - and so was dancing with the Herberts. Admittedly, some of them were pleasant enough lads to chat to on your way to and from classes, but that didn't mean you wanted to be clasped close to their easily-excited bodies as they wanted to smooch to "Albatross". The clattering of heels across the wooden floor of Big School as the notes of a slow-dance struck up was like a tropical rainstorm on a corrugated iron roof as we tried to escape to the sanctuary of the girls' lavatory. Where Matron was stationed to herd us out again.

Oh, the humiliation. It was a Catch-22 situation. The choice was between
a) Not dancing at all, being despised (by the boys) as a loser, and getting detention for being a killjoy, or
b) Dancing with people you didn't want to, being seen doing so by gorgeous-X, the boy you really fancied, who'd get the idea that you wanted to dance with Spotty-Y, so all your weeks of chatting him up were wasted, and by Spotty-Y thinking you fancied him and getting cross the next day when you didn't want to be his girlfriend so he'd go around telling lies about you to anyone who'd listen.

One day I'll tell you what fun could be had in detention.