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.
Thursday, 16 March 2017
Sunday, 5 March 2017
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!
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!
Saturday, 11 February 2017
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
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
Thursday, 19 January 2017
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
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!
Sunday, 20 November 2016
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.
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
Saturday, 29 October 2016
2010 - Life Begins
It struck me, now many of my friends are retired or semi-retired, how different our lives have become. Mine, especially, I feel. Since 2010 I have, instinctively, it seems, carved out a new life without needing direction nor too much guidance from elsewhere. I remember a friend saying to me, within hours of leaving my place of paid work for the final time, 'So I bet you feel wonderful.' I knew I should have felt wonderful but I didn't, not straight away. I felt the same as I always had. It hadn't sunk in. The pattern of my life was still ... get up before 7am, take painkillers for the inevitable headache brought on by, I now see, chronic over tiredness, hit the road about 7.15am, sit in traffic and hopefully enter the prison ... ahem... the school gates, about 8am. Then the day would truly begin. I felt I'd already been at work for two hours by the time official tasks took over. And even now, six years later, I still have to go to bed at 10pm. I'm making up for all those years of sleep deprivation. I certainly don't leave the house at 7:15am anymore and I don't have a perpetual headache, but I find I tire relatively easily. In other words I like lots of rest.
But in 2016, my daily routine is far less prescribed, yet I feel constantly busy. We have been on five holidays this year plus trips up to see mum in her nursing home every three to four weeks, so there's been a lot of packing. Beyond that it seems unbelievable that I managed 32 years of, as I say, I now see was, chronic over tiredness. Something I guess anyone working in the NHS will recognise. These days I get up before 9 am, but open the curtains earlier, so it appears we are up by 8 o'clock! Thank goodness for sleep-masks, those things you put over your eyes to block out the light. Why do I open the curtains? Well-there are many reasons. 1)We have so many deliveries it seems sensible to appear to be up in case there's a banging at the front door. 2)We have had builders, plumbers, window cleaners, fence repairers here more or less every week since the summer and they tend to arrive around 8am so it seems polite to appear to be ready for them. 3) Richard works very early one morning a week. So we are both awake. May as well open the curtains...
On Saturdays and Sundays I generally leave the curtains closed a little longer but I like to listen to Rev Richard Coles and Paddy O'Connell at 9am, on Saturday and Sunday respectively, over breakfast. Yet for all this getting up later than I did prior to July 2010, when I got an 'early retirement/ voluntary redundancy' package, I'm often in bed by 10 pm, sometimes even 9pm. Sounds crazy but I do read, reasonably rapidly, once there. I'm trying to wean myself off watching catch-up tv on the ipad as the backlighting does keep me awake. But these activities are new to me. A luxury I can afford now my life isn't reserved for going out to work.
In more sweeping ways my life is so changed I would hardly recognise myself, I feel, from the worker I was for all those years. When I first 'retired' I made myself a timetable. Can you tell I was a teacher? Did I stick to it? Did I heck? Yet I felt the need to put structure on my new-found freedom. I worked at our local Cancer Research shop as a volunterr, I did some tutoring at Kip McGrath and went away. Not on the round-the-world-cruise one is supposed to take in 'retirement' but off to Spain.
We did many private views, bought fine art from semi-famous artists and prints from more famous ones.For about two years I cleared the house and sold my wares at car-boot sales. And we had the builders in. By builders I mean: double glazing chaps, (to replace the 125 year old sash windows which rattled and steamed up by turns), electricians - a father and son who provided us with central chandeliers in our main living room, new side lights in our bedroom and my workroom, new kitchen ceiling and bathroom ceiling lights and sockets for a new electric cooker and various plug-ins in what was called 'the breakfast room'. We had new garden fences, and,very recently, new water pipe installations which required the temporary destruction of our many steps to the front door and much of the patio. One of the works I enjoyed most was turning our downstairs wetroom into exactly that-rather than the lumber room it had become. Our breakfast room is now almost a kitchen - with new work surfaces, space for a food processor, a fast-acting plug-in hob and excellent fridge-freezer. I want a new sink in there too-if we can find a plumber to do it. But enough of these building tasks. I haven't spent six years doing the house up. (Well I have and I'd still like better internal doors out to the revamped kitchen - but that may have to be put on hold. Can't get the staff.)
I was very pleased when 'my editor' said she was really engaged in my last 50,000 words. My novel seems to be doing what it should be: involving the reader. So that's a huge change for me. Am I turning into a writer at long last? I certainly read more and take note of the perfectly formed sentence. That's a huge change from my years as a paid worker. All I could manage was a Ruth Rendell murder. I was very poorly read. In the early days of retirement I went to the cinema more often than I had imagined and out for cappuccino at our favourite riverside hostelry as often as we could ( almost every day at one point). And I went swimming. But then, as now, not often enough. And now I'm making endless felt and ribbon-swathed Christmas decorations to sell at market stalls. I arrange most of Richard's art sales too. So, yes, I'm constantly busy but am doing what I choose, rather than what has to be done. I don't yet feel the need for a cruise. I'm enjoying pottering, writing, creating, cooking - yes, cooking, and, best of all, time to be me. I'm lucky I managed to leave work while still relatively young and fit. There's nothing like the freedom. I embrace it. So much to do and enjoy. My life began in 2010. Carpe diem!
But in 2016, my daily routine is far less prescribed, yet I feel constantly busy. We have been on five holidays this year plus trips up to see mum in her nursing home every three to four weeks, so there's been a lot of packing. Beyond that it seems unbelievable that I managed 32 years of, as I say, I now see was, chronic over tiredness. Something I guess anyone working in the NHS will recognise. These days I get up before 9 am, but open the curtains earlier, so it appears we are up by 8 o'clock! Thank goodness for sleep-masks, those things you put over your eyes to block out the light. Why do I open the curtains? Well-there are many reasons. 1)We have so many deliveries it seems sensible to appear to be up in case there's a banging at the front door. 2)We have had builders, plumbers, window cleaners, fence repairers here more or less every week since the summer and they tend to arrive around 8am so it seems polite to appear to be ready for them. 3) Richard works very early one morning a week. So we are both awake. May as well open the curtains...
On Saturdays and Sundays I generally leave the curtains closed a little longer but I like to listen to Rev Richard Coles and Paddy O'Connell at 9am, on Saturday and Sunday respectively, over breakfast. Yet for all this getting up later than I did prior to July 2010, when I got an 'early retirement/ voluntary redundancy' package, I'm often in bed by 10 pm, sometimes even 9pm. Sounds crazy but I do read, reasonably rapidly, once there. I'm trying to wean myself off watching catch-up tv on the ipad as the backlighting does keep me awake. But these activities are new to me. A luxury I can afford now my life isn't reserved for going out to work.
In more sweeping ways my life is so changed I would hardly recognise myself, I feel, from the worker I was for all those years. When I first 'retired' I made myself a timetable. Can you tell I was a teacher? Did I stick to it? Did I heck? Yet I felt the need to put structure on my new-found freedom. I worked at our local Cancer Research shop as a volunterr, I did some tutoring at Kip McGrath and went away. Not on the round-the-world-cruise one is supposed to take in 'retirement' but off to Spain.
We did many private views, bought fine art from semi-famous artists and prints from more famous ones.For about two years I cleared the house and sold my wares at car-boot sales. And we had the builders in. By builders I mean: double glazing chaps, (to replace the 125 year old sash windows which rattled and steamed up by turns), electricians - a father and son who provided us with central chandeliers in our main living room, new side lights in our bedroom and my workroom, new kitchen ceiling and bathroom ceiling lights and sockets for a new electric cooker and various plug-ins in what was called 'the breakfast room'. We had new garden fences, and,very recently, new water pipe installations which required the temporary destruction of our many steps to the front door and much of the patio. One of the works I enjoyed most was turning our downstairs wetroom into exactly that-rather than the lumber room it had become. Our breakfast room is now almost a kitchen - with new work surfaces, space for a food processor, a fast-acting plug-in hob and excellent fridge-freezer. I want a new sink in there too-if we can find a plumber to do it. But enough of these building tasks. I haven't spent six years doing the house up. (Well I have and I'd still like better internal doors out to the revamped kitchen - but that may have to be put on hold. Can't get the staff.)
I was very pleased when 'my editor' said she was really engaged in my last 50,000 words. My novel seems to be doing what it should be: involving the reader. So that's a huge change for me. Am I turning into a writer at long last? I certainly read more and take note of the perfectly formed sentence. That's a huge change from my years as a paid worker. All I could manage was a Ruth Rendell murder. I was very poorly read. In the early days of retirement I went to the cinema more often than I had imagined and out for cappuccino at our favourite riverside hostelry as often as we could ( almost every day at one point). And I went swimming. But then, as now, not often enough. And now I'm making endless felt and ribbon-swathed Christmas decorations to sell at market stalls. I arrange most of Richard's art sales too. So, yes, I'm constantly busy but am doing what I choose, rather than what has to be done. I don't yet feel the need for a cruise. I'm enjoying pottering, writing, creating, cooking - yes, cooking, and, best of all, time to be me. I'm lucky I managed to leave work while still relatively young and fit. There's nothing like the freedom. I embrace it. So much to do and enjoy. My life began in 2010. Carpe diem!
Sunday, 9 October 2016
Follow the crowd?
There's a line in 'Passage to India' by EM Forster - I paraphrase -
'... and it will work its way to its end...'
Elderly Mrs Moore, the voice of reason, tolerance and experience, speaks these words. During her visit to India she is horrified at the effects of The Raj; petty officials and their rudeness towards native Indians. In her visit to the fictitious Chandrapore she cannot believe how her son - the magistrate - seems so ingratiating towards the English 'rulers'. She believes he and they are treating Indians badly. Her words '... it will work its way...' refers to her son's fiancee's accusation of rape against an Indian doctor. Mrs Moore believes the 'machine' ie 'the Brits' will take the rape case '... to its end...' British justice will see the Indian punished.
In fact the young woman sees, before it's too late, that she has been buoyed up by the British establishment in bringing a charge of rape. But it won't stick. In court, under oath, she retracts her accusation.British women call her a bitch. She is alone. But the Indian is free '... without a mark on his character...'
Run with the hare or hunt with the hounds - or go your own way? Accuse folks who are 'not like us'? Is this what is happening to England and Wales as we hurtle towards Brexit? Are some folks on a kind of band wagon which suggests life outside Europe, without immigrant workers, will bring back a nation we love and feel pride in?
I don't personally understand a lack of enthusiasm for migrant workers. If people do a good job and speak English, since I speak nothing but English, pay their taxes, are law-abiding and help get things done, where is the problem? But then I was lucky. I had educated, compassionate parents who taught me not everyone had our (few) advantages.
I was brought up reading 'Spotty' and 'Ferdinand the Bull'. My father got me reading these stories when I was pre-school age. The tales celebrate difference. I couldn't have analysed the stories as such aged three or four but I felt for the 'spotty' rabbit who was different from the rest of his family. I liked Ferdinand who preferred to smell the flowers rather than go into the bullring. Spotty and Ferdinand were different. But one didn't dislike them.
When I was nine or so I befriended a girl who was 'poor'. She had no mother and was friendless. It cost me nothing to speak to her and I never cared whether I lost friends as a result. Perhaps I should have cared whether I would lose friends but I never felt allegiance to people who were unkind to others or talked about them behind their backs. I doubt whether it's because I'm a goody-goody. I never felt the need to follow the crowd. And I was brought up to value difference.
While it seems, in some quarters, migration has to be tackled - although I think there is a sickness, a fever surrounding this issue in Little Britain - it's a passing fad. It will 'work its way to its end' (I hope) and be seen as a hollow tirade. Britain cannot cope without migrant workers.
Nor can Britain cope with poor housing, a run-down social services, an over-stretched NHS nor underfunded schools. While the Tories battle on who will stop them running down a welfare state put in place to help those in need? Who will stop them underfunding services? Where is Labour?
The rhetoric about migrant or foreign workers, nastiness towards 'others' who live here, Amber Rudd, Brexit, Theresa May and infighting in both Ukip and Labour make me feel shame for our nation. Never before this year have I felt so unrepresented by those who are elected to represent us. We are the fifth largest economy in the world. Can we really not build more affordable housing or pay for our services? Migrant workers are not people we should be blaming. An unequal society is - I guess - at the root of the problem. If we are such a rich nation why are so many feeling so aggrieved? ( I know why. I want to know how it happened.)
We are living in unsettling times. The prevailing political atmosphere will work its way to its end.
Let's hope for a truly inspirational political leader some time soon. As a nation we are running on empty.
'... and it will work its way to its end...'
Elderly Mrs Moore, the voice of reason, tolerance and experience, speaks these words. During her visit to India she is horrified at the effects of The Raj; petty officials and their rudeness towards native Indians. In her visit to the fictitious Chandrapore she cannot believe how her son - the magistrate - seems so ingratiating towards the English 'rulers'. She believes he and they are treating Indians badly. Her words '... it will work its way...' refers to her son's fiancee's accusation of rape against an Indian doctor. Mrs Moore believes the 'machine' ie 'the Brits' will take the rape case '... to its end...' British justice will see the Indian punished.
In fact the young woman sees, before it's too late, that she has been buoyed up by the British establishment in bringing a charge of rape. But it won't stick. In court, under oath, she retracts her accusation.British women call her a bitch. She is alone. But the Indian is free '... without a mark on his character...'
Run with the hare or hunt with the hounds - or go your own way? Accuse folks who are 'not like us'? Is this what is happening to England and Wales as we hurtle towards Brexit? Are some folks on a kind of band wagon which suggests life outside Europe, without immigrant workers, will bring back a nation we love and feel pride in?
I don't personally understand a lack of enthusiasm for migrant workers. If people do a good job and speak English, since I speak nothing but English, pay their taxes, are law-abiding and help get things done, where is the problem? But then I was lucky. I had educated, compassionate parents who taught me not everyone had our (few) advantages.
I was brought up reading 'Spotty' and 'Ferdinand the Bull'. My father got me reading these stories when I was pre-school age. The tales celebrate difference. I couldn't have analysed the stories as such aged three or four but I felt for the 'spotty' rabbit who was different from the rest of his family. I liked Ferdinand who preferred to smell the flowers rather than go into the bullring. Spotty and Ferdinand were different. But one didn't dislike them.
When I was nine or so I befriended a girl who was 'poor'. She had no mother and was friendless. It cost me nothing to speak to her and I never cared whether I lost friends as a result. Perhaps I should have cared whether I would lose friends but I never felt allegiance to people who were unkind to others or talked about them behind their backs. I doubt whether it's because I'm a goody-goody. I never felt the need to follow the crowd. And I was brought up to value difference.
While it seems, in some quarters, migration has to be tackled - although I think there is a sickness, a fever surrounding this issue in Little Britain - it's a passing fad. It will 'work its way to its end' (I hope) and be seen as a hollow tirade. Britain cannot cope without migrant workers.
Nor can Britain cope with poor housing, a run-down social services, an over-stretched NHS nor underfunded schools. While the Tories battle on who will stop them running down a welfare state put in place to help those in need? Who will stop them underfunding services? Where is Labour?
The rhetoric about migrant or foreign workers, nastiness towards 'others' who live here, Amber Rudd, Brexit, Theresa May and infighting in both Ukip and Labour make me feel shame for our nation. Never before this year have I felt so unrepresented by those who are elected to represent us. We are the fifth largest economy in the world. Can we really not build more affordable housing or pay for our services? Migrant workers are not people we should be blaming. An unequal society is - I guess - at the root of the problem. If we are such a rich nation why are so many feeling so aggrieved? ( I know why. I want to know how it happened.)
We are living in unsettling times. The prevailing political atmosphere will work its way to its end.
Let's hope for a truly inspirational political leader some time soon. As a nation we are running on empty.
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