ganching

Happy St Stephen's Day

Today I was abandoned by my family.  As you can see from above this was probably for the best.

In this part of Ireland Boxing Day, or rather St Stephen's Day, as it is known here is also Wren's Day.

The Kerry branch of the ganching family decided that they would be fully participating this year.  I decided not to and was quite happy to have a day to myself.

Before leaving the house my sister said, under no circumstances, was I allowed to take the dogs for a walk.  I was also told I had to put the hens in before it got dark...oh and not to burn the house down.

A few years ago I went for a walk with Holly, a much loved Jack Russell and only one of us came back. That's all I want to say on the subject.

They had hardly been gone for five minutes when the dogs started barking indicating they wanted to be let out.  After ten minutes one of them came back.  The other one didn't.  I spent half an hour rushing round frantically screaming for the dog.  Eventually I got hold of my brother in law who told me to wise up and that dog was out for day visiting and would come home when it was good and ready.

I set off for my walk an hour later than I meant to.  It was raining quite heavily.  I trudged up the road trying to tell myself I was enjoying it when suddenly round the corner I came upon a car which had skidded and was sitting at a right angle across the road completely blocking it. Three women in pyjamas were standing round looking perplexed while a man dressed normally tried to get the car out of the stone wall that its nose was stuck in.  The only way I could get past was by hopping into a water filled ditch. On Wren's Day women out and about and dressed in pjs are two a penny.

I walked on.  The rain got heavier.  I came to the bit of the walk where you have to climb over a barbed wire fence.  The farmer on whose land I was walking had mended the fence making it impossible for me to cross it and as a consequence making me very cross so I had to retrace my steps.  On the road I met a horse going for a walk by itself. I am a bit afraid of horses.  

The walk was slightly more dramatic than I expected it to be. I then had great difficulty getting the chickens to go into the hen house.  This was stressful as I was imagining the carnage that would ensue if they refused to go in.  (A mink has already killed two of them so far this week.)

It took me three attempts to light the fire but I am happy to report that I haven't burnt the house down.....so far.

After all of that I slumped in the sofa for the rest of the day only moving to get some more food out of the kitchen and/or forage for more chocolate.  I hope you had a good boxing day and none of you had to go out looking like this. 

Happy Christmas

Scruffy and Macy and everyone else here back west wish you all a very merry Christmas.

 

Tears Of Salt

This is what I should have been doing last night, sitting at home, drinking tea and eating mince pies.  What I was actually doing was sitting on a hard seat at the airport waiting to check in for a 7 30 am flight. It really was the longest night of the year.

The morning got off to a bad start.  I caught the bus to the station.  As it drew up, but before the doors opened, I could see the bus driver  sitting in the driving seat with his mouth wide open.  It seemed somehow wrong.  I boarded the bus and realised the driver was singing.  I should have known what was going on.

I sat down next to a happy, smiling woman who was swaying slightly in her seat.  I could tell that she wanted to clap.

At the top of his voice the bus driver was singing a hymn - a hymn about Jesus, the cross, the grave and how, if only all sinners were to accept Christ into their lives, the fires of hell could be avoided for ever.  There was no mention of Baby Jesus, shepherds, mangers or sleigh bells.  To be fair he had quite a decent voice and knew how to perform.  There were many flourishes and, as his voice resonated throughout the top and lower deck,  he seemed to gain confidence as we lurched down the road towards New Cross.

"Jesus our Lord, yeah, yeaaah, Jes_US, JESUS, JESUS!......oh yeah, YEAH! come into my HEA-RRRTTTTT!"

The lady beside, who looked like she normally wore a hat, grinned even more widely and joined in with her own interjections.  Most people looked nonplussed.  I had a face on me that would have soured milk.

When I got into work I made a formal complaint to Tfl.

This morning when my brother-in-law picked me up I told him about it and he told me off. He said I should learn to live and let live.  I pointed out that he hadn't grown up in the bible belt of Northern Ireland and had been forced to listen to this kind of shit ever since he was a kid without being able to do anything about it.

If the bus driver had been an Islamic fundamentalist who abused his position to preach at passengers on the bus he would probably be under arrest already for being a suspected terrorist.

Having said all this I now feel a bit guilty for having made the complaint and am worried the guy will get into trouble.  Not helped by my b-i-l trying to persuade me that the man, no doubt a father and a local pastor, is probably going to lose his job just before Christmas.

If there is any repeat of this I'm going to have to take more direct action.  I think it's time the good people of south east London had a chance to hear about Satanism especially when they are on the 136 bus heading towards Peckham.

 

Silent Night

At this time of year it's hard not to think occasionally about religion.  Yesterday morning I heard, as I almost always do,  the Sunday morning service on R4.  It was from Methody College in Belfast and thankfully was mainly hymns with minimal preaching.  I felt a real pang listening to Silent Night as it made me think of my parents who probably listened to or sang that hymn every Christmas from the time when they were tiny children.  

This is my first Christmas without my mother and it is painful; the first year since I was 10 when I didn't have to buy her a present (although have not forgotten what it felt like last year trying to find something suitable for someone who had weeks to live).  Christmas is all about families and this year my family has changed for ever. The irony is that my mother didn't like Christmas very much -  too much botheration and often not enough money.  

I still like going to church at Christmas although not every religious experience is uplifting.

One night last week, after a long day at work, I had to wait ages and ages for a bus.  It was a freezing night and there were lots of people at the bus stop.  I was standing next to a woman and her young son.  The boy was about 8 and he was so cold he was nuzzling into his mother. Eventually they decided to give up and start walking away from the bus stop.  They had only gone a few meters when the bus came round the corner.  I shouted at them and they came running back - just in time to see the bus make a sudden turn into a side road.   We burst out laughing because what else could we do - it was better than swearing and, in any event another bus was just behind it.  It was one of those little encounters that makes you believe that the world is not such a bad place after all.  

I got on the bus which seemed really crowded but I managed to get a seat.  There was a woman standing in the space where the pushchairs go, a woman in her 50s, and I thought it was odd that she wasn't sitting down  when there were available seats.  A Muslim woman who had a child with her sat next to me. The standing woman suddenly started shouting.  She had a West African accent and a sort of high-pitched, shrieky voice and she wanted to tell us all about Jesus.  I felt slightly ashamed on behalf of all of us who had been brought up as Christians.  My bus journey lasted for about 10 minutes and the evangelist never once drew breath.  It was clear that everyone on the bus was really pissed off with her.  I got up before my stop and stood beside her.  Uncharacteristically for me, I spoke to her.

"You realise you are really irritating every single person on the bus?"

I might as well have been speaking in tongues for all the attention she paid to me.

I imagine if I had said to her "I am ready to accept Jesus Christ as my personal saviour - what should I do now?" she would have ignored me just the same.

Apparently preaching on the bus  is really common now and some bus drivers stop the bus if anyone starts up.  I am thinking of writing to TfL to encourage them in this policy.  Commuting is difficult enough without being subjected to that kind of carry on.

The preaching woman was rude and selfish and lacking in empathy, in fact the complete opposite of the woman at the bus stop with the little boy.  God save us from those who are saved.

And there ends today's lesson.

 

Christmas Cheer

OK, Christmas we're friends again.

 I have recovered some of my Christmas spirit. Yesterday TB and I went to Brockley Market to collect my Christmas tree. It was exactly like that scene in Love Story where Ryan O'Neal and Ali McGraw choose their Christmas tree except that it wasn't snowing and it was in London not Boston and TB and I are not madly in love but apart from that it was exactly the same and I WAS wearing coloured tights.  Our market is so middle-class we now have a string quartet who play there every Saturday morning.

I had already reserved my tree and when we collected it I was surprised how small it was.  It was in netting so I assumed when I got it home it would seem bigger.  I spent ten minutes looking for the scissors and, when I finally found them, I slit open the netting expecting the tree to spring out into its bushy glory (which is not a euphemism in case anyone thinks it is).  It didn't.  I have managed to buy the slenderest tree ever.  As I don't have that much space I guess it doesn't matter.

Last night SF and I went down to TB's for a drink and an exchange of presents.  I got TB a lovely pair of Cath Kidston oven gloves and matching apron*  which I wrapped in brown paper which I'd decorated with some stars and a Cath Kidston ribbon.  He seems strangely ungrateful when I gave it to him and muttered something about the parcel not looking like "book tokens from the LRB bookshop".

Today I am meeting London Sister in John Lewis for an exchange of gifts.  I think Oxford Street might be a bit crowded.

*Not really.

 

Christmas Gloom

Right, that's enough.  I have reached that point in the run up to Christmas when it all seems a bloody great chore.  Last night was "Black Friday" when apparently 97% of the adult population of Britain get so drunk they either sing/vomit and/or end up in A&E.  As one of the sober 3% I found it very tedious.

Yesterday we had one of those cold, damp December nights when the rain can't decide whether it should turn itself into sleet or not.  We had our office Christmas outing.  I went to a restaurant somewhere near Upper Street and paid for drinks for people I'd never met before and ate indifferent food and failed to hear what lots of people were saying.  On the plus side most of the people  were really interesting and I was very reassured to discover many of them were watching The Killing and some of them like sub-titled films.

I left as early as I could without seeming rude and walked as fast as I could toward the tube through hordes of conga-dancing teams and grown men (straight grown men)  holding hands in order to help each other stay upright.

I was glad to get home, even if my flat was freezing and I had to huddle under a rug on the sofa while eating little bars of Green and Black chocolate and watching the Review Show. Roll on February.

 

Sunday Night

Sunday night and I am feeling whatever the opposite is to rested.  I have started waking up round six thirty or seven every morning apart from Monday when I could easily sleep until ten.  It doesn't matter what time I go to bed at I still wake up stupidly early.  This means I average about 6 hours sleep on weekend nights.

I have had a busy weekend involving cooking, shopping and intensive museum visiting.  I have been to the Imperial War Museum, the Natural History Museum and the V and A.  The reason for all the museum visiting it that my brother and his partner have been in London for the weekend.  For some unaccountable reason they have been staying in outer North London with London Sister so I have been meeting them during the day.  They all came here for dinner on Saturday night which I had to find time to cook in amongst museum visiting.  Traybake joined us for dinner and then when I asked him to do one or two small tasks, like pouring wine and lighting the odd candle, complained bitterly that I was treating him like a servant.  He flatly refused to wash the dishes.

The best thing about cooking dinner for other people is having the leftovers for dinner the next night. I have been slobbing on the sofa all evening.  I haven't even been up to watching the next two episodes of The Killing as I wouldn't be able to concentrate.

Only 8 more days at work before I go on holidays and can sleep in every day.

 

 

A Cold Coming

Winter has arrived in London.  This morning when I woke up, just as it started getting light, I could see frost on the slates on the houses opposite and the cars in the street had windscreens which were completely white.  

I like this time of year when Christmas is round the corner but there still seems plenty of time to do whatever needs doing.  On Sunday I had my first slice of  Christmas cake.  My friend Ms M is spending Christmas overseas as she would say, so she called round for a cup of tea and an early exchange of presents.  It seemed appropriate to have christmas cake with our tea.

Yesterday at work someone brought in mince pies which she had bought in Dunn's bakery in Crouch End.  I used to frequent Dunn's a lot.  When I first lived in London our Saturday treat was cream scones from Dunn's.   This was a huge novelty as scones were never served with cream at home or anywhere else in Ireland, as far as I know.  

Yesterday I went to the Post Office and queued for 20 minutes as I had a parcel to post and cards for my Australian aunts. While a Christmas tradition this was not very enjoyable.

I have ordered a Christmas tree from the market round the corner but failed to persuade Traybake to buy one too.  

Right now I am full of the Christmas spirit.  This maybe because I breathed very deeply when I splashed brandy onto the cake I baked tonight to bring to my sister's house.  Nigella advises that one should do this and who am I to argue even if it was a Nigel rather than a Nigella cake. This is now as close as I get to actually drinking alcohol.

It is very cold tonight.

"A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.”

The Lady Poetess Class

My lady poetess class is almost finished for this term and I have enjoyed it very much.

 I was quite nervous about signing up for it.  Like many people I wrote screeds of poetry when I was a teenager.  Some of this poetry was actually published in the school magazine.  As I recall topics that interested me were war, racism (I had not at that stage of my life  either met or spoken to a black person), world hunger and doomed love affairs.  As soon as I hit my 20s and gained a modicum of self-awareness I understood that I knew little or nothing about any of these topics and I ceased writing immediately.

Over the last few years I have found myself reading more poetry and also realised that I really like writing flash fiction, that is stories with very few words - typically somewhere between 100 and 250 words.  Less is more and all that jazz.  So I decided to take the plunge and sign up for the class.  Part of my nervousness about it was because a few years ago I met a man who was, in all respects, a complete freak, and he was at the time I met him attending the same course.

I always imagine it must be lovely to teach an evening class, full of people who have elected to be there and who are really interested marred only by the attendance of a smattering of nutters.  The reality was that my class was the usual mix of ladies of a certain age, bright young things, some slightly odd men and two or three really young women.  Most of them were only moderately nutty.

One of the things that soon become apparent in the class was the disparity about what people had read and their level of general knowledge.   We were discussing modernism at the last class and I said something about how when anyone mentions Ezra Pound the first thing I think is antisemite.  The person sitting next to me asked what antisemitism meant.  

We were encouraged to write a poem every week although not everyone did this.  One woman wrote only about the breakup of her marriage (surprisingly she was one of my favourites in the class).  Another wrote only in rhymning couplets (one of my least favourites).  And me? Well, when I review I what I wrote I was stylistically varied and wrote on the following topics:

Murders

Suicide

Finn McCool

The 0utbreak of the second world war.

Cancer

A doomed love affair

 

I've come along way since I was a teenager.