Two Out Of Three Ain’t* Bad

(* well, it might be actually)

I can’t say that I am fan of the phrase ‘bad luck comes in threes’. It brings a feeling of unease when you are on misfortune episode two, awaiting the final triplet of doom. Said triplet might be a little tardy in arriving, or the impact of unnecessary worry might result in a momentary lack of attention which brings about the final act of disaster.

Failing that, you could convince yourself that you only noticed two incidents, and if you really put your mind to it, you will find another example in the recent past, thereby condemning yourself to be an unfortunate at the hands of fate.

Recently, one of my closest relatives passed away unexpectedly. She was nearly ninety but in apparent good health, recovering from a second hip-replacement operation, and looking forward to returning to pastimes such as gardening and walking. She also craved being able to drive again. The surgeon who completed the first operation described her as “spritely“. It was a keen observation. She was also my mother’s closest companion, and seven years her junior. They lived close to each other and spoke at least twice a day. They also saw each other on average six times a week. They had very different views on how to organise a kitchen, or prune a hydrangea, but the sisterly love was there.

They were also a hilarious and/or frustrating double act. I used to call them “Can’t hear and won’t listen“. I’m not saying which was which (for now).

This sad family event has been closely followed by my husband’s illness getting worse, culminating in vomiting blood (I now know that this is measured in “mugs” by some members of the medical profession) and a fall in which he injured his back He is currently in hospital.

It might sound callous, but I am enjoying the brief break from home-nursing – well I would be if it wasn’t for banging my head against bureaucracy and poor admin whilst trying to arrange support for him after he is discharged and a timely discharge. I should point out that this is not an NHS issue (they have been wonderful despite the pressures on them). I believe that the problem lies the “social care system” (my opinions on this can wait for another day).

So, now I await the third ponyman of the semi-apocalypse. Or has he already visited? I did find water coming into the conservatory this morning; followed by a medium sized slug this evening. I hope that there’s not going be a plague of them.

Lord, is that the time? Better get some sleep and gather my strength for the coming days.

Nighty night.

Min6

x

The Joybringer and Lost Treasure

Ok. A slight cheat here, but yesterday was a bit chocka for even a quick blog.

The two prompts for days 4 and 5 are (respectively):

• What is a TREASURE THAT’S BEEN LOST?
• what brings you joy in life?

I intend to combine these two prompts in reverse order. Firstly, a couple of definitions:

Joy : a feeling of great pleasure and happiness

(Oxford languages)

Treasure : something of great worth or value

(Merriam-Webster)

The thing in life that can change my mood, almost in an instant, is music. It can evoke feelings of great sadness but also sheer happiness, or joy.

For as long as I can remember I have loved music. My initial exposure was through Ed “Stewpot” Stewart and his Saturday morning “Junior Choice” show on BBC Radio. There was a wide range of sounds from light pop (Bay City Rollers, The Osmonds, David Cassidy) to folk favourites (“All Around My Hat”, “Scarborough Fair”) and novelty offerings (“Sparky’s Magic Piano”, “My Boomerang Won’t Come Back”). Even the Goons made an appearance.

I soon learned to love rock and roll, glam rock, disco, pop. I wanted it all. When visiting a friend’s house, I started to play the piano. Just simple stuff, but it was clear that there was some aptitude. Between then and now I have had piano and singing lessons, been a member of several choirs (including at church), performed a charity events, taught myself bass guitar and played in a band.

In my youth, I was obsessed with listening to the chart run down on a Sunday evening. This obsession lasted for over 10 years, and has proved useful when trying to guess 80s and 70s Heardle clips in two seconds.

I cannot imagine a world without music, be it listening or performing. I am, however, a lover of silence. There have been times when I have craved it so much I have been close to tears. Interruptions to my peace and quiet have felt like personal attacks, even though they were not intended to harm. Being audio-sensitive, I can find it difficult to concentrate with even low levels of noise if there is a “hook”, be it speech, a car driving past, a television in the next room.

In the last few years I have also started to experience tinnitus. It would appear that my hearing is still extremely good, so it might not be relate to hearing loss. But it is always there in some form. Usually a high pitched whine at a low volume which increases if I am tired, stressed or dehydrated.

It’s initial appearance was as a low rumbling. For several months I could swear that there was a local “hum” that was louder in some parts of the house. This has morphed into the whine which I hear. Now. As I type.

As such, I no longer experience silence. I would love to be able to stand outside and hear nothing for a short while, but I don’t think that I ever will. I can lose the tinnitus in other noises, and when I’m really concentrating on something else it usually doesn’t bother me.

But the privilege of pure silence is a long lost treasure.

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 3 : Earliest Childhood Memory

_{excerpt of photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash}

When I was a young child, probably about 6 or 7 years old, I used to head out “exploring” with a group of older children, including my brother. He would have been 8 or 9 at the time. If my memory serves me right, the others were between 8 and 12. The composition of the group would vary depending upon commitments (music lessons, sports events etc.), but there would usually be about half a dozen of us meeting up and riding out to various local haunts.

One favourite spot was disused piece of ground about 5 minutes away by bicycle. We would lift our bikes over the half-hearted attempt of a barrier (supposedly designed to keep trespassers out). Once we had stowed our transport out of sight of the road, we would explore the grounds of a demolished house.

I cannot remember a great deal about what remained there, apart from a long-disused driveway. The house itself had long since gone. All that remained was the curving driveway and a few broken bricks here and there. We had no idea why the house had been taken down, but created our own version of history:

“A sudden fire with the tragic loss of a child”

“The heart-broken parents left the area“

“No! They took their own lives”

“If you visit after dark…..“

(we never did, of course)

The recollection of one visit still bothers me.

It would have been a Saturday morning in early spring. We arrived and hid our bikes as usual. As we moved towards where the house had stood, I noticed that some small flowers had appeared in the broken driveway. I crouched down to take a look. They seemed too gentle to have pushed through, but somehow they had.

I remained there for a while, the others having gone ahead; then someone came back to me. Catherine, the eldest of our little gang, stood very close. It felt like she was towering over me as she asked. “What on earth are you looking at?”

“Um…. these flowers. They’re so pretty…. I don’t know what they are….. do you?”

“Nope.” And with that she wrenched the stems out of the ground and threw them down in front of me.

I wanted to ask her why she did it, but I was scared to. Scared, but sad and angry at the same time. Why do that?

In a blur of tears I picked up the flowers and ran. Out through the barrier, down the street and back home, crying most of the way. I didn’t even collect my bike, much to my brother’s annoyance as he had to walk it back with his. Looking back he was probably doubly annoyed because he was supposed to look out for me, and I had slipped the net.

This memory has stayed with me so vividly because of the sheer destructive nature of that action. It wasn’t much in the grand scale of things, but I felt pain witnessing it. Almost as if I’d been punched by Catherine. Whether it partly shaped my attitude towards wanton violence and innocent victims I don’t know, but almost fifty years later it still unnerves me.

I took a look on google maps to see what had become of the “scene of the crime”. I was expecting a development of townhouses or retirement apartments, but no. The abandoned patch is still there. The old perimeter wall has been replaced, and the gateway bricked up, but here it is, reclaimed somewhat by nature:

Don’t visit after dark!

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary Day 2 : Brave? Me?

Today’s prompt is

How are you brave?

brave (adjective)
“ready to face and endure danger or pain; showing courage”

“having or showing mental or moral strength to face danger, fear, or difficulty“

“showing no fear of dangerous or difficult things”

Let’s just set some context here. I am a middle-aged woman, living in a pleasant part of North West England, with little call to stray into “rough” areas. I had a comfortable upbringing, loving parents and supportive teachers. I was a well behaved child and teenager. Opportunities to be brave did not present themselves on a regular basis. They still don’t. This is generally a good thing, but I often feel that this might have made me soft. Lacking grit. Stuck in the comfort zone.

I have previously sought situations that put me outside that comfort zone:

• rock climbing in my twenties;
• learning to play bass guitar and gigging with a band in my thirties;
• changing career just before turning forty;
• opting for early retirement (although I did not realise how uncomfortable this would be at the time).

I suppose that these required some degree of bravery, but how about now? Do I rationalise a less daring existence as self-preservation? These days I certainly wouldn’t jump at the chance to scale Derbyshire grit outcrops, or play to a paying audience.

Have I made my final big lifestyle leap? Will I tread water until I am no more?

It’s interesting to consider the paradox of life vs. death. Surely, it is only by knowing that we have a finite time on earth that makes us feel alive, and drives us to really live. And does that imply that we need to be brave to achieve our best life?

But I digress.

Of the definitions above, I favour the second. It is broader than the others, recognising that bravery requires inner strength, and that it is not necessary to be demonstrative to be brave.

Being brave can be a very private matter, with no need for a badge or t-shirt. And this probably encompasses my preferred approach to bravery these days. Quiet perseverance in difficult times, rather than shouting “Tally ho!” as I enter the lion’s den.

So, that’s how I am brave.

More later,

Min.

Bloganuary 2023

And so this is 2023, already nearly one day old (at time of writing). With a new year is a new challenge. We have “bloganuary“. Take a prompt a day and blog away to your heart’s content.

I will be using this challenge to get those creative writing juices flowing, if they haven’t dried up completely.

Since I last published an entry, I have retired. This is not entirely going to plan, but that’s another story. In theory I should have more time to commit to my hobbies, including pushing a stream of consciousness into the ether.

Today’s prompt is

What is something you want to achieve this year?

At this point, I’ll be happy to get to the end of this challenge.

The simple answer is that I don’t have a great plan. I should have, but the months following retirement in June did not go as expected. Not in any way shape or form. From illness of loved ones, a nasty dose of Covid-19 and coordinating several repairs at my mother’s house, I seemed to be smacked in the face by fate every time I thought I could enjoy my new free time.

Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to be retired, and count my blessings to be able to do this whilst in good health. If you asked me what I have achieved in the last seven months, I would probably say gaining several pounds in weight and developing an unhealthy fear of attempting to take control. To be honest, I haven’t been good at setting boundaries, and I didn’t plan how I would spend my first few months of retirement. Going from a manic work schedule to a full stop didn’t help. No easing into it. It was such a shock to the system.

So, I’ll settle for:

• complete this challenge;
• build upon my very basic wordpress knowledge / skills;
• work out what else I want to achieve and how.

Lord, I hope that I can come up with a better blog entry tomorrow!!

More later,

Min.

Quick Drop Off

Charity Book shelf

Hope you find it xx

Secret Messages

I’ve been reading ‘Big Magic’ by Elizabeth Gilbert. It’s a book about living a creative life. Something that I have neglected over the past three years or so.

I could put it down to the pressure of a more senior role, additional responsibilities at home, low mood or just slowing down (I’m at a difficult age, but aren’t we all?). The truth is I haven’t recently enjoyed good creative pastimes. It’s been too long.

Gilbert writes about just doing what you can. And what you want to do. Right now I’m not sure, so I looked for the closest things to hand and found my tile set and colouring pencils.

For now I’m going to indulge myself with some low effort and basic art. I mean really basic. I was advised not to take art in my junior school and I can’t say that my drawing skills have improved since…

But what do I do with the finished article? Pin it on the wall? Give it to a friend or family member?

Remember, I’m doing what I want. I don’t feel the need to adorn my walls with my masterpieces. I don’t want to witness the disappointment on the face of a loved one at the thought of yet another hand-made card.

I want to pass this onto a stranger. They can keep it for fun for as long as they like. They can pass it on. They can throw it in the bin. But they will see it. However briefly.

With this in mind my first tile (and possibly many more) will be left within the pages of a book in a charity shop.

I had a song playing in head at the time.

And here it is. In all it’s childish glory:

“Ambition and love wearing boxing gloves and singing hearts and flowers” Somewhere In My Heart (Aztec Camera)

For now this will do. I can return to the dressmaking, silk painting, piano playing, song writing, etc soon enough.

I’ve added my wordpress page link since taking the photos. If you find it, please let me know.

MinG

This way please…

Cartmel, Cumbria, UK.

A response to the Weekly Photo Challenge, Trio

 

MinG

Story That Teachs You A Lot

I am usually wary about titles like this, but please read on. I have heard this story before. It is worth telling again.

Back on Track

In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Happy Place.”

I am blessed to live in an area criss-crossed with public footpaths and bridleways.

Perfect for that week-end recharge.

Here are three instagram edited snapshots taken close to home. Not masterpieces but they sum up some of my happy places.

MinG

Which Way Now

Towards The Light

A Bright Spot On A Cloudy Day