Not what it says on the tin

I don't know whether it's 'hats off' to Cuprinol (other garden shades are available) for being helpful or just a clever tactic on their part... ie their successful sale of fence paint to an unknowing me.  In a roundabout way I'm referring to the endless task of maintaining our home - more specifically, on this occasion, to the garden fence. Have Cuprinol been our rescuers? Please read on ...
       About 16 years ago I paid a lot to have the whole length of our garden refenced. Within a few years the weight of honeysuckle from the other side of said fence had eroded the tops and some panels had to be replaced. Since then even more have weakened but I rescued them - visually at least - by painting them - laborious panel by laborious panel - with an elegant fence paint named Cuprinol Holly. It was a dark green - it matched our garden furniture - it set off the flowering plants very nicely and looked so much better than the traditional orange freak-me-out wood stain which looked positively vile and was not easy to slap on.
        In the welcome spring sunlight I can see one or two sad panels have grown moss (now there's a shade) and they need recoating. Others are still splattered grey - cement having been hurled at them while the boys from Abergavenny replaced our old water pipes last November.They dug up most of our patio and there's more cement on the fence than between the replaced slabs. Can you imagine the scene when I tried washing the fence with soap and water? A freezing day made much worse by having my hand in cold water performing a fruitless task ie making the fence look super-important and me like something out of a back-to-back slum from the poverty-stricken 1930s.
       This week I decided to repaint the panels. We've had plenty of dry weather. Why delay?
Why delay indeed. Firstly no-one either in the flesh nor on-line had tins of Cuprinol Holly. It wasn't just our garden centre becoming shy of stocking that shade ... Even Cuprinol themselves don't have  it. Imagine my surprise when I heard back from my email to their 'helpline'. ( I didn't sign myself 'Desperate of Bath' but was trying to avoid days and days of painting our long stretches of fence with a new shade ...) The Cuprinol email was long, addressed my concerns, told me how to rescue the situation and sent me a voucher to buy a brand new tin of 'Cuprinol Garden Shades.' So pleased was I to learn that although  'Holly' was no longer made by Cuprinol two other shades mixed in a ratio of 3:2 was the new equivalent. I felt certain our fence would soon be elegant once more.
     Sadly the reality of DIY projects always makes me glad I'm not answering those questions on Desert Island Discs which begin 'If marooned do you think you could build yourself a shelter?'I planned out my strategy - what could go wrong? I had three tins :- 1) Remnants of Cuprinol Holly - the last cms of said stain on planet Earth 2) A free tin from Cuprinol called Ash and 3) Another tin from Cuprinol - paid for by me - called Sage. The lengthy email from the helpline told me that others had found three parts Ash mixed with two parts Sage = Holly. I must have looked a strange sight measuring and marking 5 cm on the side of an almost empty tin, and pouring the remnants - for colour matching - into the lid. An even stranger sight was my getting covered in Ash whilst trying to pour it into the old tin up to the 3 cm mark. Could I judge 3 cm depth of fence paint? No I couldn't. I managed to dip the end of of a tape measure in to judge the amount of stain I'd poured and found I was way over 3cm. If 3cm:2cm is the ratio 3:2 in a quantity of paint measuring 5cm depth, what the bloody hell is the same ratio for 4.75cm Ash to ...???... Sage? It took me aeons to do simple arithmetic. Eventually I poured in the almost-correct amount of Sage. The tape measure showed this time I'd added too little. And did the mixture look anything like 'Holly'? ... Of course not! Many pourings of stain and my coat, hands, hair in-a-state later I decided that was the best I could do. I tried painting the magic mixture on cement splattered panels and instead of looking a deep, rich green the effect was grey, thin and very messy. But I ( quite deterred) continued painting the fence. Even grey was better than cement encrusted panels.After half an hour of yet more pointless DIY the stain began to dry ... and looked remarkably like 'Holly'.
      I was coated in grey, green, near-black and various other shades but the desired outcome may have been  achieved. Now the old tin of Cuprinol 'Holly' contains Ash/Sage - not what it says on the tin. My hands were so covered in paint I couldn't get to a label to stick on said tin thus it still looks as if its full of anything but the newly homemade shade. It definitely isn't what it says on the tin. Bravo Cuprinol - I think - but it would have been so much easier to have bought a tin of 'Holly' - wouldn't it?? I really don't to remix tins in order to restain the whole of our long fence but ...

What's a Ford B max?

Over the last few days the good people of Devon, my husband and my friends have all shown great restraint. Why, on sunny afternoons, have I, dressed fully in black, save for a necklace of multicoloured lozenges, been seen wandering around car parks? Why have I surreptitiously positioned myself to take the best shot of the rear end of a Ford motor car? Have I suddenly become fascinated by 'Top Gear' now Clarkson's gone? Am I a sex-starved voyeur? Am I in hot pursuit of holiday makers having a quickie, before ambling through the car park to the rear entrance of Boots for their painkillers and haemorrhoid preparations? And why am I wearing a long black, warm, woollen winter coat with the sun high in the sky and temperatures well above 65 degrees?

I haven't found myself short of things to do on this early spring holiday. That's not the reason. And it has been a cold wind out there - once we've got out of our holiday cottage for down-town Beer, Branscombe, Budleigh or Sidmouth - hence the winter coat. 

No the reason for this odd photograph-taking behaviour is this: There being a shortage of Ford B max motor cars on the road I was trying to take a piccie of one nestling between more well-known makes - thus enabling me to show our Devon-residing friends the car we're going to get. They'd never heard of the model. Since my aunts said we could have their hardly-used Ford B max, with full service,  immaculate within and without, I've been trying to see one 'for real'. There's such a poor signal here I can't google an image of said vehicle and the only other one I've seen was loaded with a family, all doors and windows open, wing-like, as if ready for take off, parked at the Donkey Sanctuary. My husband didn't want to drive round to the rear end of the car, once its inhabitants had eaten their sandwiches and locked up. He wanted to stroke wiry donkeys and talk to the poor beasts, not take photographs of a black Ford B max in a muddy, grassy field. 

Makes sense. (Although when I spotted the only other B max that I've seen on this holiday it was silver, like the one my aunts are selling us. The black one at the Donkey Sanctuary was rather smart.)

Beggars can't be choosers. 

Brand new the cheaper B max retails at £13K and we're having my aunts' silver one - two years old and only 14K on the clock. No point looking for a better deal than that - anywhere!

Now I have my piccie of a Ford B max - this one's in a royal blue finish - I'll ogle it until I can google it - and get back to receiving an internet signal. ( And I find I prefer silver or black car bodies.) 

After all the effort of wandering round car parks, suddenly darting down side streets and sitting at a pavement cafe just so I can see the traffic stop at the lights ( who me?) I have an image of said car. Ford B max. That's the one. You don't see many of them around. Why is that? They've only been available for a couple of years and the Fiesta, Focus and other models seem more plentiful. Are we buying a white elephant? No we're buying a silver Ford B max with superior upholstery and bleeping things to help with parking. Anyone seen one? What are they like? There don't seem to be many on the road ...

Time

When I woke this morning my to-do list was, amazingly, empty. I have written before about how the blissful state of being  en retraite  is nothing like how I dreamt it would be. My imaginings of having oceans of time to go to the coast, sit in the garden, read, even read the papers, travel and people-watch never became reality.

But - for once - today - I can read, catch up with the papers, even sit in the garden ... and next week I can go to the coast. Why? Because we are in a new season!

In my dreams of retirement I had forgotten something called winter - which annually eats up four months of garden-sitting and people-watching. It's too damn cold to be outside unless you're jogging. And I don't jog.

I'd also forgotten housework has to be done and no matter how long I put it off there's always ironing.
Machines wash and dry clothes and dishes but they don't press shirts, trousers, t-shirts, jeans etc.

Retirement isn't one long blissful journey to foreign shores with endless sunshine and a heavy privy purse to pay for it all. Retirement is simply not leaving the house every morning to go to a place of work in exchange for a salary cheque at the end of the month. So how have I replaced that ' going to a place of work' ?

I do clean, dig the garden, get workmen in to fix our 125 year-old-house (and pay for it handsomely.) If I didn't live in an old house would I have more money for travel? More importantly would I have the time?

If waking -  with nothing vital to tackle - as I did today - was less of a rarity maybe I would have time to wander abroad. But, I wonder, why am I so busy the rest of the time? Perhaps writing a novel has taken over where my job left off. I read far more now - as much to inform myself of the craft of writing as for enjoyment - and perhaps I'm more particular about the state of the house and garden. Maybe I'm using more of my free time on domestics than I care to reveal. After all I'd never admit that retirement has meant my cooker hardly ever looks in need of a polish. I can't imagine myself bragging to anyone about the latest vacuum cleaner and how much better my carpets are now I have time to devote to them. And I rarely tell anyone I bake my own bread - but I do. ( Just don't pass it on.)

I did dig my herbaceous borders and raised vegetable beds a few weeks ago and the miniature daffodils always look brilliant for my birthday. This year was no exception. I have to admit it, grudgingly, retirement has meant I do more around the house and garden. It doesn't sound glamorous but it makes sense that, as a result, I rarely wake with nothing on my to-do list.

But today I really am going to read-for-pleasure and loosely plan part two of my trilogy - i.e. begin making notes for my second novel. It opens in 1939, from the pov of a very young volunteer soldier - a rich field - and continues through the war to the emergence of the NHS and the end of rationing.

I have my father's diaries of his duties in an armoured car during the big campaigns of WW2. He was in the Royal Corps of Signals. To be able to use his first hand notes and experiences of battle in The Italian Campaign, in El Alamein, the D-Day landings and - even more frightful - being part of the liberation task force for Belsen - should translate vividly into a novel.

But first find his diaries. That will take days of searching. Time - there's always something to eat into it. And perhaps if I really am a writer it would explain why I don't feel as if I have left work. I haven't. I've just exchanged one modus operandi for another. My choice. No-one made me use my time in this way. And - in theory - time is what I do have. I certainly didn't when I was an employee.

March On!

The weather men tell us March 1st is the first day of spring. The spring equinox is March 21st but we don't put the clocks forward until the end of March. This is why winter seems so long here; it's too late after shortest day, December 21st, to wait for much needed extra hours of light. My iphone calendar tells me it was dark at 5.20 pm on 30th October - my husband's birthday, the night after putting the hour back. Four 'rough' months later - 1st February - it was dark at 5.30pm. Isn't that about the time we should be moving the hands of the clock forward? Early February would be roughly two months after shortest day ... October 30th is roughly two months before that date, shortest day is just about in the middle of those two dates.

Why do we have to trudge through near-darkness for almost eight weeks longer than I would deem necessary? There is a reason - something to do with the shift of the moon or the inclination of the earth. Or some other half-remembered truth.

I was a school girl when the experiment to do away with light-saving took place. The issue was that to gain longer, light evenings we had to trade this for evil, black mornings. We were dressed in flourescent arm bands as it was so dark in the mornings on our walk, yes walk, to the primary school gates. The experiment showed light evenings, ie putting the clocks forward before the end of March, was too dangerous for morning rush hour traffic. The mornings were simply too black. That's the reason we suffer long dark evenngs in February and March; to do otherwise means dangerous roads and school children at risk of accident.

Nature doesn't stop, thankfully; it believes it's spring whatever time the big hand is telling us. This weekend our miniature daffodils have bloomed and are sitting in their barrels and tubs on our front steps, welcoming visitors, postmen and passers-by. Our primulas also look beautiful and another barrel - of pulmonaria - is ready to move to the front of the house too. Spring is in the air. There was real warmth in the sun on Thursday.

I always look forward to this time of year; it's my birthday in ten days time, prunus are flowering, scattering petals confetti-like along our semi-rural road, and gardens start to look very pretty. It's still dark at 6.45pm on the fourteenth of March - not light at 8pm until we alter the clocks. I crave the light nights!! We need sunshine and daylight, especially for us, this year, as mum died so soon after we put the clocks back. It was already dark by 5.30pm the night she left us. It's been a long four months since 4th November.

Given the horrendous stories from here, the USA, Syria and many places covered by world news it's good for the soul to see spring come round again.  Since Brexit, Trumpism and the terrible underfunding of our NHS, prisons, libraries, schools, the disabled ... the news seems more miserable  as the weeks go by ...  it's important to remember the good things. Seed packets at the ready, forsythia blossoming, an array of cut flowers to be had and good company. Solid, fun friendships forged with like-minded folk equally stumped by events in the news are of the essence. My manuscript is with my editor - that's draft three of my novel - but the first time she has read the whole in one sitting. Editing and making cuts has taken me some weeks. Now to emerge from in front of the screen! Get out into the fresh air. Spring clean (!). It's March. Things are moving forward.March on!

Manuscript or how to be a ponce*

When Kylie Fitzpatrick ( 'The Ninth Stone' inter alia) agreed to edit my m/s and mentor me I found myself referring to her - in polite conversation - as 'my editor' - like the ponce, always on the phone to his editor, in the film of  'Educating Rita'. Similarly when entering the half-sleeve t-shirt-clad emporium that is The Apple Shop I found myself talking to a young chap called Ed, they're all named Ed aren't they? and telling him I needed a MacBook Air to write my novel. He looked at me as if he'd misheard and seemed unable to cope with phrases which didn't contain terms like e-mails, downloads, netflix, speed, apps and megabytes (or is it bites?). He seemed somewhat bored when he showed me Pages. Not enough challenge for him. Then again maybe he too thought I was a ponce.

The day my website went live I showed a friend how part of it was dedicated to my tutoring. She glanced at the site and my business card and muttered 'Writer and teacher?' 'Well I do write' I said, aware that she defintely thought I sounded like a ponce.
After a struggle against the events in my late mother's life, from April 2014 onwards, I do finally have a full manuscript ready to deliver to my editor. ( Well almost.)Doesn't that phrase sound like I really am a writer? In fact, this time around, I'm pleased with the copy. My editing has worked, the suggestions Kylie and other readers have made have been truly helpful and all I need do now is take out about 50,000 words - it's far too long!

I don't believe I'm too precious about my writing and even I hate long novels but I really do have to slim it down, keep the pace and lose repetitive, humdrum minutiae. I'm roughly half way through this major cutting back and I seem to be adding to the word count rather than cutting it down.
I'm hoping that by the time I get to the last third of the novel the task will become more evident and easier. The last third is only just in its second draft whereas most of the whole is in its fourth or fifth draft and is a tighter read.

It so happens I'm taking heed and doing as two GPs have advised - resting. This gives me the headspace, excuse and time I need to revise the novel. It's naturally very time-consuming but even I, an only ever once-published debut author, can see, to misquote 'Educating Rita', my manuscript could get into a pile of 'to be published' writings. This is the first time I've felt that level of confidence about my work as a writer. It's also the first time since April 2014 that I've had chance to read the whole and simply concentrate on the m/s. But the more I read the more I see how all writers have their weaknesses and my errors may well be getting fewer in number. I sense I'm crossing the rubikon from student writer to something resembling an author. I may just be getting ahead of myself, of course. Or perhaps I am just being a ponce. Either way I truly do sense that I've progressed. Reading, reading, reading that's the key. And when reading it's good to set your own work of fiction against published novels. Maybe, one day, my work truly will be seen by a wider audience. ( If that doesn't sound too much like being a ponce.) I'm already making notes for the sequel - I appear to be in for the long haul! Ponce!

* wannabe

Memorial

When I last wrote I was designing the order of service for mum's funeral. It was with some luck that she had told me her favourite hymns, tunes, songs for the choir and organ and best readings, long before she became ill. Her vicar, Rev Dave Wills, knew her well and we had a choir for mum's funeral service.The personal tributes to mum were warm and the service was, if not happy, very personal and meaningful.

The tributes we received ran to many sides of A4 and the cards, donations and support were received with heartfelt thanks. My oldest schoolfriend was an absolute brick. We had to travel to the Midlands several times before and after the funeral and we are going again this weekend for the memorial service. My friend has been so supportive throughout.

It's been a shock to me, therefore, that some so-called friends have absolutely no idea how I'm feeling, my schoolfriend does, but I have received some very self-centred comments from a couple of people I know, but now don't wish to know from hereon in. Aswell as dealing with funeral directors, family's thoughts and wishes, order of service, eulogy, flowers, donations, caterers and the funeral party I succumbed to an infection which needed three doses of antibiotics. I hardly slept for about seven weeks. My GP told me it was the shock of mum's death that had weakened my immune system. I have done as they advised - stayed in, stayed warm and hydrated, got a great deal of rest and built up my immunity by eating nutritious foods. I don't have a bad diet and during all of this illness and bereavement I was told my blood sugar, blood pressure and pulse were good.

 I explained I

wasn't exercising much as I was supposed to be resting. I take paracetamol when I need to and stay off caffeine, spicy and acidic foods.

Throughout the ten weeks since mum died I found the strain something I could endure, like anyone else in a similar position, and I managed. Until, that is, I received these remarks from people who seemed hell-bent on ignoring my needs (simply ignoring me would have been good.) I cannot understand why someone recently bereaved and on medication needs to receive unkind texts. It has made me feel really quite dismissive of them. If people can't be at least understanding they should remain quiet  -  and they are not worthy of being thought of as friends. It's quite easy to defriend someone on facebook but less easy in the real world.

Since these comments two other people I know have been bereaved and I've not noticed they have  complaints about receiving nasty remarks from people they know.

My true friends have been kind and understanding. They have advised me to keep my distance from those who are clearly so unhappy they can't even support me at a time of bereavement. I've had lunch out three times this week with good people. When my father died - back in 1993 - one of the churchwardens said to mum that she should spend time with people who make her feel good. This was excellent advice. I certainly don't intend to spend my time with self-centred miseries. I was quite upset at their unhelpful remarks but now I see it as a liberation. I don't need to spend any time on them and life is too short.

Be with people who make you feel good - that is the best advice. 2017 is a new year. Time to cut the cord. It's mum's memorial service on Sunday and ten weeks since she died. She would never have been so unkind as to make unpleasant comments after someone had been bereaved. That's a fitting memorial to her.  I've learned a lot about people since her death.

My next post will be much lighter as the full manuscript for my novel is being delivered to my editor. 

Hard work has its own reward. 

Happy new year - if it isn't a tad late in January for such sentiments! 

For mum

In my last post I wrote we were seeing mum in her nursing home, following her massive stroke in 2014, every three to four weeks. Suddenly that packing, unpacking, repacking is no more. Quite unexpectedly, at 8 pm, on Friday 4th November,  mum suffered a fatal stroke, became unconscious and died, within the space of an hour. She wouldn't have known a thing, my aunt, a retired nurse said. She had taken mum's pulse just before 8 pm and just after. By 8.10 pm the strong beat had stopped. Her long life had ended. I wasn't there but had been quite concerned about her, exactly a month before, and had been anticipating my brother's phone call. He had been talking to mum at 6.15pm that Friday evening. She'd had her evening meal then had a little sleep as he said goodbye. By the time he got into his house the nursing home were ringing. Mum's breathing was abnormally laboured; he had to go back to see her. When he got there she was already unconscious. Even if I had been there her passing was so sudden she wouldn't have known I was there.

When I last saw mum on October 4th she was more frail than I had ever seen her. Speech was an effort, as was eating. I knew, instinctively, life could not be sustained much longer. As a consultant had said, almost two year's previously, mum's body had done its work. I took comfort from those few simple words. Elegantly, practically and succinctly put.

On hearing the news from my somewhat shaken brother, my words to my husband, midst the inevitable tears, were that she was such a nice person. All the tributes we've received have used phrases like 'kind', 'gentle', 'a good Christian woman', 'wise' and 'independent.' My short letter to mum, written later that night - what I wanted her to know - reflected everyone's feelings. My brother and I have been lucky with our parents.

Dear mum,

You were a lovely mother. A mother who wanted her children and always put us first. You lived without fanfare but enjoyed the good things. You appreciated classical music, impressionist paintings, concerts, the theatre, plays by Rattingan, the anarchic humour of Peter Cook, a sherry and good conversation. You were a wit. You liked being taken out to restaurants, on holidays and day trips. And you always enjoyed all these things without moaning nor talking incessantly about yourself.

Rev Dave Wills described you as a good Christian woman. You cared about others but you were wise. Some sob story wouldn't have passed muster with you - but genuine suffering always got your sympathy. And you showed you cared by thought, word and deed, for many years working with severely handicapped young people. 

It's been a hard two and a half years since your stroke, hasn't it mum?  You were never quite as bright again. I thank God you were rarely in pain and could still enjoy your meals. I hope God is taking care of you now. 

God bless and thanks for all your kindness. Ian and I have been very lucky children.

Goodnight mum. Goodnight xxxxx