Seasonal Blues

Autumn is here and we have had some exceptionally lovely weather. The sun has been generous, the temperatures, although cooler, have been mild and October has never been more colourful and beautiful yet I’m feeling like I want to hide and never come back up for air. I know what it is and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it until I can work out how to get out of the mire I’m currently wading in. Right now it’s dealing with the feeling low and down in the dumps – this is the mild form. I have manifested some much worse traits as a result of this seasonal affective disorder and that varies from extreme anger to absolute apathy. You can bet your bottom dollar that I’ll be forgetting my birthday too. I have never been as unexcited about any milestone in my life as I have this particular birthday. Having read my friends blog recently I wonder at how much depression exists out there. I’m subject to my moods yes, but every winter is steadily getting worse and this year particularly has been stressful and tiring. The summer (my usual respite) seems to blur with work men walking in and out of my house as they plastered, painted and repaired what was literally falling apart. I felt like Gollum, spitting and hissing to leave my precious alone. But it was necessary to do what had to be done. It doesn’t make me feel any better though. I hate living like a squatter in my own home – it’s a freaking nightmare. Now things have settled somewhat but they are nowhere near finished. I haven’t yet mustered the enthusiasm to pick up a paint brush and finish the master bedroom. I’ll just stare at the plastered ceiling for the next few months and pretend it’s the latest in the Dulux range. If I feel like it I might just paint a smiley face and hope for the best.

So I’m 40 very soon...am I supposed to feel the earth move? Well, put it this way I’m more confident in my own skin and I have no illusions, expectations or insecurities. I am what I am. Honed over 40 years I am now this person of the present. Isn’t the present where we always exist? Well, here it is. All that has gone is past; don’t even think about what’s to come. No point. I’ll just get a headache and frankly, I have no patience for one of those. My solution to my birthday blues is to actually cancel it. I will simply not acknowledge it. It’s easier and expectation is neutralised. Besides, I’m in too negative a state of mind to celebrate anything. You see! Total apathy; like 60% of the electorate now whinging about the government  having  vetoed their right to vote. They couldn’t be bothered and yet they moan about the state of the country. Didn’t vote? Well you have no right to complain in my opinion, so shut up!

I have begun to enter hibernation mode. This is my body slowing down, trying to adjust to the changes occurring in the natural world and yet we still have to function as normal. No time to adjust always onwards and fuckwards. The routine continues relentlessly like a persistent bad smell and we keep going like demented chickens. I think about the harvest. My daughter celebrated the Harvest Festival with her school in church last month. That time of year when you bring in a tin of something for those less fortunate in the community who could do with an extra tin of beans, or spaghetti hoops. I always provide the tea bags and the evaporated milk. Nothing like a cup-of-tea when the going gets tough and money is scarce eh? Still, I felt like crap after that service. I thought of starving human-beings, failed harvests and general misery. “We must give thanks,” preached the headmistress, “for all that we have.” And so we should, because if I give pause on the subject of another’s misfortune I might just implode from guilt and that nagging feeling of total ineptitude. I want to do something more than just hand over tins of custard. But what?

Looking at our own lush fields the seasons are identifiable simply through the processes that occur in nature and those people who live by that law; the farmers in their tractors toiling the land collecting the harvest, leaving behind a beautiful blanket of brown earth. The trees too look like they are ready for their fancy dress party – leaves of all colours adorning the branches waiting to fall down onto the ground ready to nourish it. These are the transitory months directing creation in one form or another. Winter is death and never was it more poignant than seeing a dead fox the other day; road kill that has often left me a little uncomfortable. I have seen dead cats, squirrels, birds and all sorts of creatures foolish enough to not recognise the danger in the speeding tins that humans drive around and pride themselves on. My daughter was perturbed to see the dead animal. It was only just deceased judging from the lack of rigor in its posture lying flat out on its side. The bright orange fur was still bristling in the breeze, beautiful yet very dead. The age has begun where the existential questions are being asked.  But this morning she averted her eyes knowing the fox was still there and said nothing. Almost like mentioning it was to acknowledge its death again and she didn’t want to talk about it. We walked past the carcass in silence.

My grandmother is 91 and we think her long life is coming to a close very soon. I spoke to her briefly the other day and she tells me she is very tired: ‘It has been many years and the body is failing’ she tells me. It’s true that her heart is slowing, beating to the last of its strength it seems. We think she is not long for this world and although I am poised for the inevitable I am never prepared for death and I fear it. She is the last of that generation in my family. The top tier is making way for the next. Longevity is generous it seems with us. Not everybody has been fortunate enough to have had that.  So we celebrate the sheer luck of having got this far. My aunt and mother told me that she reported seeing beautiful lights shimmering above a framed photograph of me in her bedroom. In the past, upon occasion she has been known to witness unexplained things and lights and auras is her speciality it seems. I’m not one for believing a great deal in psychic ability (cynical old me) but my grandmother it seems has a gift of sorts which she never really thinks of as extraordinary. To her it’s normal and nothing unusual. She comes from an era that accepts this kind of thing as fact. No questions needed. It’s all about faith and acceptance. In all my questioning and faith in science perhaps I have lost my sense of wonder in a way. We view things so clinically sometimes that we lose our soul to the black and white world of facts and material gratification. Have I sunk so low?

Let me enjoy the autumn before the winter of my discontent begins in earnest.  The sun still shines, the earth still spins, and the spiral of life goes on. Perhaps I can learn to be more gracious in my 40’s? Time to think and give something back to this wonderful world I live in. It’s not about selfish old me anymore.

Rabbit rabbit and the case for a pain in the neck!

Travel - such a commonplace thing considering most of us do this in some form or other over the course of our lives. I was with the family awaiting departure from Kings Cross for the long journey towards Edinburgh, making ourselves comfortable having found our seats straight away because hubby is a stickler for organisation and had reserved our seats ahead of the journey, when I felt the familiar pain in the back of my neck.  The pain in my neck has been building over time. It’s one of those things you can only blame a walrus for. Not husbands/wives, boyfriends/girlfriends, evil pillows or killer mattresses – walrus! And there were plenty of those on the train: people faffing around with bags lamenting the lack of seats (because they never thought to book ahead even though it’s free of charge) digging around for their sandwiches (the French contingent were obviously hungry) instead of sitting down to allow other passengers through, persons of dubious intelligence (mostly speaking babelfish) leaning over you shoving their groins into your face as they placed their Tesco bags, jackets and various other luggage items over in the storage area above your head and looking benignly at those of us seated travellers like we were from another planet. Overhead compartments are a design fault with the potential to cause international incidents in my opinion. Then there is the scramble for spare seats, that moment when the train sets off and the panic sets in; that poignant moment where you are rudely reminded that had you organised your trip ahead of the allotted day this ludicrous game of musical chairs wouldn’t have happened. One would think that these people’s only experience of rail travel was with Thomas the Tank Engine.

Isn’t it amazing the random thoughts that flit into your mind when you stare out of the window of a moving train? Ignoring the kerfuffle on board I got to thinking about stuff: career, life, DIY, sandwiches, sex...erm...

Anyway, the pain in my neck was a genuine physical problem aside from the travelling zombies in my midst who were really getting on my nerves. The grumpy woman within was in full mode.  I woke up feeling out of sorts and I’m a cranky old soul when pain gets in the way of normal routine.  I am finally convinced that I need the sadistic ministrations of an osteopath. I have been putting it off for a while and it’s high time I took the advice I used to give all my clients and had a series of treatments to align my spine and get my muscles and ligaments back in order. I am done with the prissy massages that only serve to de-stress and relax you. I need a full blown, scream- out- loud session of the most excruciating twisting and bending of muscles and bone that even a contortionist would wince at. As a massage therapist myself I know what I’m talking about. I may not practice at the moment but I did for several years prior to motherhood. I’m a bone-fide qualified aromatherapist.  

My first experience of massage therapy outside of my own practice was with a chiropractor during my pregnancy. The chiropractor was brilliant, using the right amount of pressure and manipulation over six sessions to get my pelvis and sciatic nerve properly aligned and out of trouble. The commute was doing its evils by the time I was about six months gone – trains again – and I would usually pause for several minutes when I got off just before the pain subsided and I could hobble off to my blessed employment.  For any disbelieving souls out there who think this treatment is nothing more than mumbo-jumbo let me tell you, that I was a cured person after being pulled in all directions. It may have simulated a similar effect as the rack ever did during the dark ages - I was quite prepared to sell my mother after a few sessions - but in the end I was healed. All those evangelists had nothing on me. I was healed! I could feel my leg again – praise the lord!

My second experience with a chiropractor was frustrating at best. The same practice, only this time another was in the place of my original lady. So to go through the whole process of a case history again I went through the usual questions and got to stand semi naked in front of this man to see how my posture quite literally stood up. Then the ever so gentle hands started kneading and prodding the muscles. After about ten minutes of this prissy handling I wanted to shout at him to get cracking (literally) and start doing the job PROPERLY. I wasn’t looking for a bloody beauty treatment I was looking for therapy. I was asked to lie on the couch (sounds sordid doesn’t it? Believe me it’s the worst foreplay imaginable) and then my neck was twisted and pulled ever so gently. Not only was I beginning to realise my money was about to be badly spent but this guy just wouldn’t shut-up during the session. I was face down, praying he would iron out my taut muscles and work my ligaments. Not treat my ears to his inane drivel about Scandinavian berserkers and Spanish bull-runs, with comments thrown in about how Spaniards ‘sure like their meat’...I simply told him that I was a vegetarian just to wind him up and he then went into some other  boring subject I forgot to listen to.  I did give him a second and third opportunity and I admit the final crack on my spine after the sessions were over did verify he had been doing his job. But my poor ears couldn’t handle his incessant chatter. I could never work out if that was his way of putting me at ease. I didn’t need it as my view is quite clinical when it comes to treating people. By that I mean we do not look at you sexually. I may have disappointed one or two clients in the past, but that is the crux of it. We are not there to judge, compare or discriminate. We are there to treat you as holisticly as possible, or at least that is the way I was taught and the way my philosophy works. Suffice to say, I never went back. He wasn’t the therapist for me. He wasn't a bad chiropractor or negative in any way. He just wasn't for me. I always say to people that aside from a qualified therapist, they must choose somebody they feel totally comfortable and confident with. We all require different things and sometimes we are not suited to all treatments or therapists. Go with your instincts and choose what fits your needs the most.

The train pulled in at Waverley Station after a four hour journey.  Once again the passengers, having woken up from their lethargy after stuffing their faces with enough crisps and sandwiches to feed several school coach parties, began with the fidgeting and overhead faffing. Bottoms and groins were again dangerously close to my head, only this time my nose was twitching with distaste - thoughts of showers and baths foremost in my mind. The mad dash to the doors was as much a relief to me as an irritation. I am always amused at the pushy nature of human-beings when they want something as though being first is going to earn them a golden ticket to nirvana. Everybody else is just perfunctory to their agenda.

             
         And so the pain in my neck persists. All the stress of DIY, repairs and restoration have taken their toll in the last few weeks and then Edinburgh...what a haven. A Scottish jewel of a city, so full of character I was afraid to blink for fear of missing something extraordinary.  Putting up with the travel zombies was worth it just to experience Edinburgh. I have every intention of returning in future. As for that Scottish lilt when the Scots speak (think Sean Connery), I think I felt my knees give way when that accent was directed my way. If it wasn’t for the weather I think I could quite happily reside there. It has everything I could possibly hope for in a city. I feasted upon it and it quelled my hunger:  history in abundance, vibrant and beautiful.  I would hope that Edinburgh would welcome my wee Sassenach frame, complete with twisted neck and commuting snobbery, back into its embracing warmth with a whiskey in hand and a lone piper’s lilting refrain as his kilt catches the breeze and airs his Grey Friars bobby for all to see.

Growing pains...

This morning after dropping off my young lady in the school playground I took note of how eagerly she just grabbed her bags and ran towards her class queue. No kiss goodbye, no clinging to my legs and no backward glance. 'So long and thanks for all the fish' mum...

Always independent and never one to mourn my absence throughout nursery and now school, it struck me just how grown up she is for a child who has only been in this world for five years. The whole process of letting go of the baby is very much evident amongst the parents too. It seems the school has been training us parents to let go as well. Whereas Reception Class was very much about parental involvement, the next stage, Year1, is about parents and children separating in what can only be a process of teaching independence and responsibility. At first I was rather put out by being dictated to in this subtle process, but I can appreciate the reasoning behind it. This is preparation for the future. As a parent your job is for life but that unique bond that exists initially between you and your baby evolves and gives way to time and maturity. Part of you is relieved but the other is a little reluctant of letting go. Sure enough, my daughter hasn’t hesitated in embracing her individuality and doing her own thing. I am pleased for her as much as for myself. I’m not sure handling a clingy child is my forte. As much as I give love, comfort and support I don’t believe in mollycoddling a child and allowing for every whim. I have seen parents struggling with such children only to suffer in the long term from frayed nerves and exhaustion. If that were me I would probably head for the nearest airport sans brat. I often get comments on how well behaved my kid is. Aside from luck, I’d like to think we as parents have managed to instil this in her. I firmly believe children are as much a product of you as you are of your parents. We need to be conscious of how we guide them.

For a parent I have a meagre supply of patience. It’s not an automatic thing that you gain once you have a child. If it isn’t there to start with you’re going to have to learn it pretty pronto. I have tolerant days and days where I hold my head in my hands and scream inwardly. Recently the school uniform looks like it’s been to hell and back, I cannot decipher what foodstuffs or substances have been thrown at it, wiped on it or melted into it, but the laundry basket has kept me busy. Then the P.E kit is lost, buried in some classroom jungle or other. Be sure to have a substantial school budget set aside for such eventualities. You can label things all you like; they will still get lost...and what is it with kids and that sour smell they seem to absorb when at school. I do not exaggerate when I say it’s not dissimilar to a wet doggy smell. The bathroom is our best friend!

Every milestone brings with it a new set of things to get used to. When you have a chattering monkey constantly bending your ear morning, noon and night then it takes much to keep me sane. I feel my age too. Her youth and exuberance makes me feel like a third rate donkey after years of hard labour. Then again, she floors me with some of the most hilarious comments and grown-up observations for someone so young. Today I asked her if she had behaved in school. She looked at me and said in her matter-of-fact way:

“Mummy, you cannot always be 100% good. Being naughty sometimes is allowed.”

After mincing over the comment I realised she was telling me that she misbehaved today. When pushed for the reason she eventually revealed that she wasn’t very nice to Adam because he was ‘snotty and annoying’ and wouldn’t leave her alone. I noticed that she stands well clear of this particular young man when in the class queue. If looks could kill then I’d have to blame myself. She’s inherited that from her bad tempered dragon of a mother. Not so long ago she complained about another boy with a similar snotty nose, wiping it on his sleeve much to her distaste and shouting ‘croissant’ in the playground ‘like it was meant to be funny mummy’.  I suggested to her she tells him to use a tissue or gives him one. But she roundly told me that it was his mummy’s job and the teacher’s job, not hers. I was speechless! Fruit of my loins she most certainly is with comments like that. I have a discerning child!

She’s also been obsessed with ‘interrupting’ volcanoes.  She had a nightmare the other night about being stuck and being surrounded by lava. She came into my room on Sunday morning (really early) to whisper in my ear about this godforsaken volcano. For a moment I thought I was dreaming and then bang went my lie-in. Blurry eyed and croaky I half listened to the dream volcano and then just got her tucked into bed with me trying to get her to sleep some more only to be met with fidgeting and tickling. Then it was a swift transfer over to her dad: “Bother him,” I whispered.

I really must stop watching BBC documentaries about the Human body. Although informative and wonderfully presented I find myself weeping for my biology. Our sole purpose in life apparently is to have sex (great), perpetuate our genes as the only way to achieve immortality and eventually die (not so great). We will have fulfilled our biological function and are superfluous to purpose after that.  Well, I’d like to think that I’m more than just the sum of my parts thank you very much. Evolution is such an impersonal process.  Did you know that aside from Pilot whales we are the only species on earth to go through the menopause? How depressing is that! Another milestone to overcome and then it’s osteoporosis, and all manner of issues. Men are fertile to the end of their lives. Women, on the other hand, are subject (to choose but a mere few) sagging breasts, bat wings, cellulite and beards. Yes, beards!!! Our sex hormones diminish and so does our freaking femininity by the sounds of it. Put us outside and we could pass for bearded, garden gnomes. Of all the ignoble things; is it a wonder the beauty industry is a multi-million pound corporation given this physical obsession we have about ourselves? I don’t know any woman who has never complained about some aspect of her body. Never! Although I try to be sensible and pretend I don’t care, I most certainly do. I still have nightmares about the bearded lady who used to come into the library. As for men....most of you will bald. Do yourselves a favour and shave it all off when it happens. Don’t comb over the little that is left, it’s hideous and hugely unattractive. Be bold and go bald. There’s a price to pay for all that testosterone and we have to make the most of our physical lot. Oh, and be sure to watch for ear and nasal hair. Apparently testosterone has no problems fuelling that growth. Let’s hope we chose our parents well. It’s all in the genes.

Ultimately I hope that my moaning about how make-up no longer sits on my face the way it used to because my skin is losing its elasticity and questioning a bar of chocolate because of how fat my arse will look after eating it, will just be an occasional gripe. I will most likely never stop whinging about it as I think that even with the best intentions I’m still a little insecure at heart, even after all these years. I think we all are to an extent about different things. People who tell you they don’t care are telling big fat fibs. Either that or they’re fooling themselves into believing the lie. As much as we laugh at Arabella Weir’s famous catchphrase: does my bum look big in this, it is indeed something we can all relate to in some form or other, hence the propensity for laughing at the comment. It’s true that confidence grows with time and I often wish that my confidence now was more evident when I was younger and had everything going for me. Youth is most certainly wasted on the young.  Now I have my middle age to look forward to and I had better do it with grace, because nothing is going to stop the process. Tempus fugit and before you know it we’re contemplating our demise. I do it now, I’m that morbid. I have woken up anxious and in dread fear of death. I have issues obviously.  I need to get out more! The thing is when I’m in that mood I’m likely to be a little rebellious and not 100% good.  What was it my daughter said....?

“Being naughty sometimes is allowed.” Yes it is, and I may be taking a page out of her book doing just that before long. All these constraints and rules make for a dull life sometimes. I don’t want to face the grim reaper when my time comes with regret in my heart.  Perhaps a game of chess with the personification of death might buy me some time to get used to the idea?

A gargoyle in my sanctuary

Meet my friend the gargoyle. Technically he is really a chimera, but I call him Quasi in homage to Victor Hugo’s Quasimodo. He’s not exactly the most attractive of creatures but he is endearing for those of us who see past the grotesque features. He has a toothy grin that welcomes you into his abode – Rochester Cathedral - and a curious stare that seems to assess your intentions. I took this photo when I visited the cathedral a few weeks ago. Most people went abroad for a break. We just hung around the neighbourhood to see what we had in our backyard: a castle, a cathedral, some Dickensian charm and a whole lot of history. It’s not the first time we have visited, but it was high time we retraced our steps and had a proper look this time round. The glorious weather bestowed to us desperate sun-seeking humans was a boon. It would seem a benevolent weather front took pity on the normally dreary United Kingdom.

 I’m not particularly religious in any sense whatsoever, but I am a spiritual person who appreciates the beauty of something, whatever its purpose. Cathedrals and churches have always attracted my aesthetic sensibility. They are beautiful buildings that you can’t help but admire. Architectural delights, immense and grand in their scope, detailing the past in the stones that make them up; a history so detailed you can almost see the shadows of centuries past as you touch them and feel their cold surety. I don’t feel like I’m trespassing as often (for me) worship is irrelevant here. The sanctity of the building lies in its history. The blood, sweat and tears that surely went into its construction - the human creative fire that forged it.

The cathedral was quiet and very nearly deserted when we went in. Hardly a soul was there with exception the three of us and the odd random tourist. The clergy were absent and there was no sign of a guide or anyone of that ilk. Just how I like it! It’s rather refreshing to know that your every move isn’t being monitored. In some cathedrals and churches (not all I might add) I get the distinct impression that I'm perceived to be a potential delinquent, ready to pilfer the golden crucifix and the priests wine goblets perhaps wearing a dark cowl and walking out of the nave to the strains of Ave Satani as I ransack the holy objects. For those not familiar with Ave Satani, it’s the theme music to the film ‘The Omen’ composed by the wonderful Jerry Goldsmith. I have it in mind to go round in said cowl, just before closing time, and glide alongside the pillars just to see what visitors would make of it, even if it isn't Halloween. 

*Sorry I’ve watched too many supernatural thrillers.*

So here is a building - a haven and sanctuary as it was constructed to be. A place simple and almost introvert in its decor, unlike the odd other cathedral that bombards you with iconography at every turn. Rochester cathedral is the epitome of austerity. A restrained place of worship that doesn’t make you feel out of place like a heathen holding a portrait of Christ. I didn’t feel compelled to douse myself in holy water and genuflect before the alter as taught to me growing up. For one thing Rochester Cathedral is Anglican and not steeped in such strange Catholic practices. I always felt like such a fake doing that. I never felt comfortable adhering to such behaviours shrouded in ritual and what I often thought as supernatural. I respect other people’s devotion to what they believe in, but I take a rather acerbic view of religion and all its do’s/don’ts, pomp and drama. I remember my first ever confession a week before my First Holy Communion (a Catholic sacrament). We had a very nice bushy-haired young priest named Fr. Nolan who explained all the necessary procedure and what it all meant. To this day I know not what it all means. All I remember is that I needed to find myself a sin to be able to confess on the allotted day. As far as I knew I hadn’t committed any felonies or sinful deeds, but for the sake of the confessional I needed to confess an impressive sin. What is the worst thing an 8 year old could do to incur the wrath of God? Not sure...stealing money out of the coffers, stealing all the wafers, drinking the ‘holy’ wine and getting drunk in the process; perhaps hiding all of the bibles? I eventually settled for lies. In my ultimate cunning plan I decided that I would lie to the priest about having lied to my parents. It was all one big colossal lie. I didn’t like my mother’s stew and lied about the fact that I did. Not only was I an ungrateful child I was a disgraceful lier. I was told to say one Our Father and 5 Hail Mary’s for my terrible sin. Do you know how terrified I was of that confessional box? It was like the Catholic tardis with a very scary Dr Priest inside of it. I would have probably fared better confronting the Daleks. The Spanish inquisition would have been a walk in the park compared to what I felt that day. In my bladder induced weakness I also forgot my prayers, I think my mind went blank half-way through the Our Father and instead I was filled with visions of avenging angels and sadistic nuns waving the cane at me. I always wondered why some nuns, or at least those I encountered, were always such miserable and strict creatures. As human-beings they certainly did their best to try and be rather inhumane at times. I often wondered if they were suited to certain doctrines, some of which I felt occasionally seemed to be in conflict with their humanity. Then again, there were other sisters who were perfectly comfortable integrating their beliefs into their earthly existence and were very content. I do not wish to insult or belittle those beliefs, but you have to question the absurdity of it all at times. In the words of Mike Leigh, the film director:

“Life is both profound and absurd.”

Rochester Cathedral boasts an impressive organ (not something I say very often) which is fairly modern in its current incarnation having undergone some rebuilding and a few upgrades over the last century or two. The oldest pipes I believe date back to the 18th century when the instrument was considerably smaller than it is today. It is a thing of complex beauty. We were fortunate to have been introduced to some of its beautiful notes as (I assume) it was being warmed up for a service later on in the day. The organ notes reverberate off the stone walls and resonate within your cells reminding them of just how alive they are. It’s an assault so divine you almost want to lie prostrated on the floor and melt into it: a series of notes that breathe into your ears permeating your body in a harmonious vibration; haunting, forbidden and powerful. It was a delightful medley of notes that made me quake in my shoes. I have always believed that music is the one thing that all of humanity has in common, no matter what kind you prefer. It’s as though musical notes define themselves within our living cells. To listen to music and be able to feel it is to be alive and is a way of expressing divinity, in that it’s as close as we can possibly get to the soul. To be able to resonate on a musical level is the closest we’ll get to spiritual ecstasy, something cathedral organs do well, whether one is religious or not.

One of the things that struck me most about the cathedral was the light reflecting off the stone, beaming through the beautiful stained glass windows. When the sun shines through undisturbed by clouds and obstacles you can see the warmth in the stone. Depending on the glass, they may even appear to be glowing like an aurora borealis: a beautiful fusion of light and colour. Touch the stone and you feel the solidness, the staid and loyal fixture that holds the edifice up. The stone reflects mood, saturated with centuries of spiritual and meditative devotion, it is palpable. It’s all quite wondrous, for me at least. I see life within stone and appreciate its strength and age. I cannot help but admire such beautiful arches and sculptures chiselled and put together by stone masons of old, no doubt a dying breed. Such craftsmanship is sadly very much a rare skill now.

Like Quasimodo I have needed sanctuary in the last few weeks. Not only has the winter been long and soul destroying, but now with the beautiful spring weather after those arduous months, the media has infiltrated once again and saturated our minds with stories and world events that, quite frankly, have switched me off: terrorists, politics, and wars. The human propensity to live in a dystopian and cynical world has given me the just excuse to simply go and find my sanctuary. Anything that doesn’t involve TV’s, radios, newspapers, the internet and all sensory enemies. Quasimodo went to find some friendly gargoyles and sought them out in a place called Rochester. They are there to drive away the demons. That’s what gargoyles are – demon repellents. If they can drive away all that media crap and human foolishness then I’ll seek them out with frequency. I’ll sit in the cloistered garden and look at Rochester castle over the cathedral wall and imagine I’m listening to tales written in stone. The stones have witnessed much and to their credit will remain until such time as erosion and natural forces reclaim them back into the earth. As will we and our history.

Seeing is believing...

I was in the bank this morning with my daughter waiting in a queue, when all of a sudden a chap in front of us started shouting into his mobile phone like a madman. The argument went something like this:

“DON’T EFFING HANG UP ON ME! If you do I’m coming round your ‘ouse and I’ll smash it up. DO YOU ‘EAR ME! *expletives ad nauseum*”

He was told by a bank official to stop ranting into the phone, which he totally ignored of course, and continued round the corner after our wrathful stares were beginning to bore holes into him. If the stocks were still an accepted measure of punishment I have no doubt the rotten tomatoes aimed into his gob would have been many. I would have relished throwing a series of suitably rotten beef tomatoes at the cretin, if anything it may have toned down his bad language. He is one of many hapless individuals that is short on intelligence around here.  Just from his attire – dirty track suit hanging half way down his backside, trainers and general unhealthy demeanour – I made an assumption.  I judged and was correct in my judgment. I didn’t want to be so petty and typical but this guy lived up to the stereotype unfortunately. I have come to the conclusion that there is a fine line between decorum and all out anarchy. It doesn’t take much to incur our base primal instincts. This guy certainly felt those instincts.

I have been mindful this past week of paying attention as I walk around town going about my business. We all have business, however trivial or important we deem it to be and so we go about blindly doing our thing: paying bills, shopping, going to work, housework, kids, fulfilling duties and projects - whatever it may be it is rare we give such things anything more than a passing thought.  We never really notice those others (like us) who are doing more or less the same thing we are. They’re pretty much invisible. The eyes overlook the commonality of everyday living.  We stick to our own tribal communes, the rest of humanity we regard as superfluous, and therefore choose to ignore with little ado. Always on automatic we keep our rotas moving along week-by-week and make sure we keep the hamster-wheel turning without a glitch, certainly if it’s within our control. We stick to our comfort zones.

 I have tried to gag my mind because it’s figuratively blinding me and this perhaps has precipitated some strange notions with regard to what I see.  I am trying to look at things with a renewed perspective, much like children and artists do. It’s all about sight, something we take for granted. We don’t consciously realise how much our eyes command our thoughts with regard to instant impressions and on the spot judgments. For instance, how many times do we make a quick assessment of an individual based on what we see? We pass judgment on the physical appearance: clothing, looks, health and general demeanour. The other senses don’t come into play until our eyes have had their fill and formed an instant appraisal.

The power of sight is, in my opinion, sovereign above all other senses. It predisposes us to judgements and instant emotive conclusions, certainly with regard to other human-beings, purely on what we see before us. I never really thought about it until I started reading “Blindness” by Jose Saramago. Although many have described this book as allegorical due to its universal, timeless nature, it is a story about ordinary people suddenly struck blind whilst going about their lives and being confined by the government and army into empty buildings to try and contain the contagion, much like lepers. Subsequently as more and more afflicted people are confined a breakdown of their ‘micro-society’ slowly begins and the moral degradation that ensues leads to some terrible consequences, it encompasses the world at large and doesn’t discriminate. To quote a review I read: “...it shows how fragile our civilisation is, and how always close society is to collapse.”The very idea that primal fear can strip us off our accepted humanity questions our interpretation of what it is to be human. Perhaps Saramago’s philosophical discourse throughout the narrative is preachy, but so what. He’s one of those authors that make you think. Something that Sartre and Camus did for me in my late teens.

On one particular day last week I encountered the Vampire-Slayer. Now you may be thinking to yourselves that I have pretty much lost my marbles, but no, I have to say this individual really looks like a man that would give Van Helsing a run for his money.  I am in awe of his appearance because it’s so uniquely out of place and not afforded his real name (adding to his mystery) I think of him as the nameless one. He is a man in his late fifties, early sixties according to my judgmental estimations. He’s tall and well built; has long grey/silver straight hair (nicely kept) down his back and a well groomed beard. Not quite a druid or a wizard he wears a long leather coat, beaten up Doc Martins and sometimes  in  cold weather,  leather gloves to match. He is what you might describe as a sophisticated Hell’s Angel minus the bike. I have only ever seen him on foot. But when I do see him I always have to look back when he walks past me just to make sure I have seen what I think I have. He doesn’t just walk he glides past you with an easy gait, almost like he owns the air around him; such an intrinsic confidence that makes me envious. There are people in the world who have incredible auras about them and I think this guy, perhaps because he stands out, has one such aura, perhaps unbeknownst to him. My vivid imagination can just about see him wielding a crossbow and a couple of stakes in slow CGI motion with one or two kung-fu kicks thrown in for good measure, dealing punishment where it’s warranted. Maybe it’s wishful thinking on my part but I rather hope he instils fear in the good for nothing layabouts who have nothing better to do than drink cans of special brew and speak in the universal  language of the lazy commoner not interested in bettering themselves, a language laced in colourful metaphors : eff-this and eff-that.  Believe me the stereotype is alive and kicking and what’s worse is that these people are happy with the hand-outs and the purposeless lives they lead.  They give you surly looks and involve you (whether you want to or not) in their gormless mobile phone arguments. They don’t care about anyone else and what’s it to them if they happen to disturb the peace? Oh yes, Mr half-way pants from this morning comes to mind.

I may pluck up the courage to ask the Vampire-Slayer for the time some day, but I am really fearful that what my eyes have perceived – elevating him onto a pedestal of my own making – is not what the reality is. What if he speaks like a smurf? What if he’s not as ‘cool’ as I think he is? Then again, maybe I can employ his services in ridding the town of all the social vampires that need a good kick up the backside to get their lives into order.

Civilisation? A fine line. A fine line indeed!

Gardening with Space Shuttles inside a library!

Now that spring has more or less made its tentative 2011 debut, my unruly garden is in need of attention. Like a dishevelled teenager it’s in sore need of a haircut, the weeds have made the most of my absence during the last few months. Unfortunately for them the grim reaper bearing garden tools is about to make their ruthless take-over a temporary reign. They creep all over the garden unbidden and without mercy. Then again they’re actually native flora, even if unwelcome most of the time. I think we forget this in our bid to have fancy gardens, though mine can hardly be described as such. Nature’s switch is on and there’s only so much I can do to keep the weeds at bay. Tools in hand I try to make a start.

The other half doesn’t garden at all – the last couple of times he attempted to tackle the greenery he managed to mow the lawn-mower cable and rendered it useless. On a previous occasion he killed the trimmer in similar fashion. Somehow he just kept missing the green bits despite their abundance. How he didn’t electrocute himself is a miracle and as a result he is now banned from using the tools. Fried husband, keeled over nice and easy isn’t something I want to have to deal with in future. The only time hubby goes into the garden these days is when he likes to treat the neighbours to a firework display on Bonfire Night. I usually hide indoors for fear I get to witness a repeat of the Armageddon of two years ago. He bought a ‘cake’, something that was meant to release little rockets up one-by-one, all very well. What we didn’t expect was the Blitz. The whole damn thing shot up in one go and created a colossal explosion.  I ran into the house hoping the roof hadn’t caved in. As it happens – divine intervention perhaps – it wasn’t. Subsequently he’s been banned from those too. Now it’s nice little fountains and catherine wheels. NO rockets! I’m convinced it was a ploy to blow up next door’s shed in revenge for a comment the old codger made once, but so far Mr C is winning the war, despite the near perfect attempt to demolish his vegetable patch. Rockets were strewn all over his plants, with little harm done. His cranky old eyes squint at us in disdain at times. Did I tell you he has a perfect garden? Our garden is a jungle compared to his, sacrilege in his books. No snail moves without him knowing about it. If he spies a weed out comes the weed-killer; he keeps it within reach and squirts it with relish looking for intruders - so much for our green attempts at keeping the wildlife happy.  I don’t think the hedgehogs like him much. They hang out in our garden, snuffling and snorting. No toxic snails and slugs at our place, it’s a veritable feast! Even the foxes leave a plop or two in appreciation of our wild garden. Take that Mr C! I suspect he has traps laid out all over his pristine garden. The creatures take refuge in ours. They know!

The garden is a symbol of renewal and change, the seasons come and go and time toils away leaving us scratching our heads wondering where it’s all going. I am acutely aware of the passing of time: time’s relentless waltz and the things that come and go. The people you leave behind, take with you or are yet to meet; the challenges that we are presented with good and bad; the personal history that we create as we move forever forwards; and the history we are witness to in the wider world whether it affects us personally or not. Spectators or creators we are all a part of this universal dance and we only get a very short time to participate within it. In the words of Carl Sagan:

“We are like butterflies who flutter for a day and think it’s forever.”

When you measure our time frame to that of the cosmos you’ll know what he means, and yet this last few weeks have been challenging. Despite Sagan’s philosophical and scientific truth, I can’t help my meagre human self from feeling the disquiet of change; change that has caused some sadness, some anger and much disappointment. What I thought was a respected profession appears to no longer be so.

The future of libraries looks bleak. There is much furore about the cuts and attempted closures of this public service, but for me it’s the human cost that grates the hardest. It’s not life and death, and it’s not such a big deal in the greater scheme of things but that shouldn’t render it any less important than anything else. Forget the politics, the monetary problems and the arguments for and against if you will, but think on this: how much is a human-being worth these days? It seems to me the governments/corporations of this world treat us, the ordinary folk, like weeds in a garden. We are dispensable and easy to cut down. All it takes is the loss of your livelihood and it can change your life irrevocably. Those resourceful enough will be fine and I do not worry for the future of my evicted colleagues. I have every confidence they’ll do very well, but it’s not right that some of my colleagues (to use a metaphor) have been put out to pasture and left to chew the cud of rejection after years of service and loyalty. The axe swung at them and executed their vocation. To have a profession so altered that it no longer resembles a respectable and proud one leaves me seething. To deplete our stock to nothing more than a handful of cloned bestsellers filling our once abundant shelves and losing our readers on a daily basis leaves me cold. Such a proud institution becoming so derelict and unwanted.

I feel a little bereft. People I have come to view as friends and in some ways my work family, have left a void that can never be filled. Not meaning to be derogatory, our libraries were once like zoos filled with a myriad of human specimens, both staff and public. All so different, all so fascinating – some we loved and some we disliked - but generally there was always an unspoken respect or ambivalence. We were all in this profession together doing our jobs. Now I worry for those of us left behind. We’re left with the memories and the nostalgia and the writing is still on the wall. If something doesn’t alter soon the future of the public library is dire, ultimately extinct. It is what change brings sometimes.  

History is often a personal odyssey. We create our own personal histories through life and call it experience. We bear witness to the events outside our personal spheres and watch as things come and go. On a lighter note I have been watching the Space Shuttle programme with interest. So far in our lifetime we have witnessed the Berlin Wall come down, Nelson Mandela becoming president of South Africa and the end of apartheid, the coming and going of Concorde to name just a handful of events (the more positive events). And now the end of a thirty year Space programme. I find the whole thing rather compelling, watching a 4 ½ million pound (approximately 2000 tons) machine soar into the heavens like a shooting star defying gravity. Maybe it’s just me but that’s a beautiful sight. It’s not perfect and it’s risky (think back to the Challenger and Columbia accidents) but it’s a hell of an achievement. The Hubble telescope the Galileo probe, missions to the International Space Station, if only we could always try to be altruistic and wise. Ok so Reagan had one or two nefarious ideas, but still, the Space Shuttle is the most complex machine ever built. A beautiful example of humankind’s achievements and ingenuity and once again I am sad to see the end of an era. The Space age has given us a perspective of this beautiful Earth unsurpassed by nothing else. We live on magnificence and a miracle.

And so....

Where to next? What happens now? Do we sit back and let things happen or do we get out there and make some history? We’re mostly weeds you know. But always remember the hardy weed is defiant and will always come back to give the gardener a headache. As I prepare to make short work with my shears I allow myself to enjoy the sun and allow the breeze to sweep away the gloom. Mr C has just squirted his arm. I suspect the aphid population have nestled on his scrawny limb in true kamikaze defiance.

 “We are legion” they whisper.

Beware the almighty temper!    

I have been out of sorts all week. Yesterday I couldn’t even think about anything without some vile temperamental feeling overshadowing my thoughts. I’m unfocused and forgetful: umbrellas in fridge, teabags in washing machine, putting things away and then forgetting where, keys lost and found, that kind of amnesia. The brain holes act like a sieve, with all matter sprinkling through leaving me blank. And then I get cheesed off, frantically trying to fit all the pieces together with the clock mocking me. A bad mood subsequently ensues.

No guys it’s not hormonal! Or at least it doesn’t fit into any kind of timetable. What the hell do I know about the mysteries of chemistry?

Women are often accused of imbalance (even though there are times when it’s true). I’m guessing it’s those mafioso clouds giving us the crap weather that are partially to blame. They’ve monopolised the sky and I can’t even blame Rupert Murdoch for this one. Good old British weather, always guaranteed to fart in your face. Last week we had glorious spring weather, this week it’s been all wintry again. I’m still wearing gloves! I’ve just about had it with this six month winter. Prolonged bad weather leaves me chomping at the bit. My teeth are going to keep my dentist busy. The last one I had (years ago) bought a Ferrari and retired to Marbella. I had better keep the chomping to a minimum, though I’m pretty sure it wasn’t just billing me that allowed for such a lavish retirement. The fact is - I need that yellow star like I need air to breathe. We all do! Other than that a lot of negative things have occurred: everything from natural disasters and wars to colleagues being made redundant and retiring due to the cuts. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, the media vultures are always guaranteed to keep us sensationalised, and political muppets love to keep us in check. It’s a gradual accumulation of sub-conscious negativity that eventually seeps out into the open when least expected. I’m such a sensitive soul *snort*.

If I’ve discovered anything about myself it’s my lack of tolerance where foolishness and injustice are concerned. Present me with stupidity and I’m likely to twitch uncomfortably in response. My hackles are worse than a porcupine’s erectile spines. For example, a newspaper that makes Kate Moss’ return to the catwalk front page news is not worth reading in my opinion. Who freaking cares! I also hate feeling helpless and at the mercy of what’s out there. The Japan tsunami (as with all disasters) was a low point. Then again, in a week’s time the media flies will have flown onto the next juicy cowpat of disaster. They will milk the story dry and leave an invisible residue when all is done and dusted. The media - ghouls of negative press - will be racing off looking for other stories to fill News 24. They’ll be hoping for a scoop somewhere. They’ll be praying something will happen so that they can delight in vomiting all the gory details at us.

And so a dragon is born, or, according to my other half, a Klingon (a warrior race of beings in the Star Trek universe with VERY bad tempers). I’ve just about lost all sensibility and patience.

First act of the day, after the school run, was to go and burn off some calories and any detritus floating around my mind. I had to go visit my deceased spectators and run the equivalent of something like 1200 metres round the cemetery. Those of you who have read previous blogs will be familiar with my running space up by the cemetery. It’s a calming activity and usually works off any stress or anger I may be feeling. So far so good and yet as I run my way up the hill to get there I find myself avoiding the mounds of dog dirt that inconsiderate dog owners choose to leave for the rest of us to contend with. It’s enough to make a horse jealous. What the hell do people feed these animals?  How many cans of Pedigree Chum does it take to produce this amount of poop? I start to feel my mood blacken. The vile thoughts are back. I imagine corks being shoved up certain canine orifices and the brainless human owner being slapped round the head with my ‘happy hand’ to try and instil some sense and respect into their thick skulls. Clean up after your dog, you disgusting cretins! There are bins provided. I don’t want my child running into dog sh*t, anytime we leave the house to go anywhere. Is this too much to ask? Understandably an animal will do its business where it will but we’re supposed to be civilised and thinking beings. Have a little consideration. It’s not really the animals I’m blaming but the bipeds. Alas, I live amongst neanderthals and idiots, what could possibly be expected?  Just wait for the rest...you may need a fall-out shelter.

So I’m set up for the day. This grumpy woman has just about had it. End of the week and I’m in no mood for funny business. I come back from my run and encounter a man with his two dogs. One animal has just cocked its leg and is peeing with gusto up against somebody’s doorstep. WHAT AM I SEEING? I’m indignant! Probably even releasing the proverbial fire and brimstone through my nostrils, but friends... it’s been a funny old week, this ends now:

“Excuse me, is that your house?” I ask.

The man looks at me, all puffed out and beetroot red from my running exertions.

“No.”

“Really, I thought it might be seeing as you’re quite happy to allow your dog to empty his bladder contents all over the doorstep. Do you allow your pets to excrete all over your house?”

He looks at me blankly and wonders who the hell I am. Perhaps trying to make sense of what I’m asking. I can almost picture him scratching his head trying to figure out what ‘excrete’ means. The blank face pretty much reveals a lack of connection between my words and their meaning. I just glare at him waiting for an answer.

“Erm... no... They’re dogs!”

 “Yes, well they certainly don’t look like cats. Do they p*ss and poop in and around your house?” I’m hoping the vernacular will trigger his comprehension.

“No”

So he’s monosyllabic. Perhaps a lecture wouldn’t be wise as I’m sure it wouldn’t register with this individual. I simply look at him and say:

“Next time I suggest you think first before allowing your dogs to do what that one’s just done. Alternatively, let it p*ss all over your doorstep instead, or better still all over you.”

It’s out of my mouth before I realise. I’m shocked at my insanity. Did I just say that? That was wrong on so many levels. I stand my ground even though my knees are about to buckle under the weight of my reckless words. Oh crap, I’m doggy fodder! My insolence is going to turn me into Pedigree Chum. I don’t feel quite so brave now but I try to quickly blab my way out of that last sentence with bravado.

“Please don’t allow that in future. Other people live here and it’s unpleasant. Do you understand? There are laws against this kind of thing, OK?”

What’s my name: Police Constable lunatic? I’m digging myself a bottomless pit. I back off and make to leave. I run in fact. A sure way to get yourself into serious doo-doo is to do what I had just done. I’m not sure what the guy shouted at me as I ran off; perhaps some suitable expletive telling me where to go. Who knows? All I know is that I was out of control and yet, was it not my right to comment on something I felt was wrong? Why do we allow these things to go on in our society and turn a blind eye: the lack of manners, respect and community, it’s quite literally non-existent. If you stand by your moral code you’re likely to get hurt, which is why this incident could have turned into a nasty encounter. Luckily for me, I ran before my legs were turned into doggy munching toys. I couldn’t take one more intolerable act. I am saturated with negatives.  Canine bowel/bladder waste just about edged me over the cliff.

I am inclined to put a sign up on my door:

Here be dragons. Beware!

I think I have reached the age of intolerance. Doesn’t every generation have gripes about the next? What did our elders think of our times (in my case the 70’s and 80’s)? I bet the Sex Pistols were like Beelzebub’s servants to a few. Still, here we are and my mood has lifted. The power of blogging eh?

The big M!

I was asked the other day by a rather nosey mother when I was planning on having my second child. Now, if I were to tell you this is not the first time I’ve been asked this question, but rather the millionth time, would you hold it against me if suddenly this rather nice person (aka Dragonwyck) were to death-glare this unsuspecting parent? I decide this would be inappropriate in the school playground. I couldn’t do it for my kid’s sake: “Poor child, she has such a bitch for a mother.” Besides, how does this mother know she happens to be only one of many asking me this 6 million dollar question? She doesn’t; it’s a perfectly innocuous question.

A very nice taxi driver once lectured me on how it’s healthy to have more than one child. He has four! His wife is a stay-at-home mum and according to him absolutely loves it. I’d like to ask her myself. I never take a man’s word for it, especially where childbirth is involved. So Mr So-and-So when was the last time you passed a watermelon through your penis? Failing that, any scars on your abdomen where the scalpel aided in birthing your child? I guess I’m being unfair, but I bristle like a frayed brush whenever I get lectured about only having the one child. It’s rude quite frankly and advice I’m not interested in hearing. He probably thought he was giving me wise counsel and I do not hold it against him. It’s a common thing to think that what is good for the goose is good for the gander. It’s so easy to impose your values on others’ - we all have our own way of living life. But do not lecture me on motherhood and how many children you think I should produce!

What is this obsession with the 2.1 kids anyway? Is it so abnormal to just have the one? Perhaps I’ll grow a horrible beard if I do not adhere to the biological urge to breed further. I did it once (and grew a rather modest moustache). Does this not suffice? I have had the usual: “But it’s selfish to just have one (child – not beard). What about when you grow old and she’s all by herself in the world?” Response:

I would hope she is able to create a life for herself without clinging to my apron strings or anybody else’s. What’s to say she’ll like her siblings and that they’ll get on? I myself have had a pretty volatile relationship with my own siblings and I have to say, as much as I love them (sometimes), we have very little in common. I also happen to have many friends and acquaintances who are ‘only’ children, and they turned out fine overall. Besides, she’ll inherit all the money, the house, the clothes and jewellery (ha), most likely my smelly old trainers and my last Rollo. Stop with the guilt trips already! What about those women who for one reason or another cannot have children or choose not to have any? Are they biological failures and lesser women? I hark back to Henry VIII and his obsession with siring a son to inherit the throne of England upon his death. He went through wives like a ferret through a tunnel, discarding them when they failed to produce the desired objective. Saying this there were other factors too, of course. I’m generalising and being simplistic just to make a point. But it’s not surprising that in some cultures women are indeed looked upon as breeding mares.

I am happy with the one child and my husband (which equates to two children really). I do not need to flaunt my fecund womb to all and sundry yet again (that branch of Tesco’s will never forget THAT day). Especially not to myself! 43 hours labour and post natal depression has seen to that. My daughter was so comfortable lying within my accommodating hips she didn’t want to come out; the effects of which I still feel to this day. I would have to be mentally deranged to have another. I have thought about it and we have discussed it. I’m not anti second child, just that for us it’s wouldn’t be the right thing to do. I do not judge anybody else’s choice in having more than one. Good for you if you can, if not, it’s no big deal either.

Motherhood is a very serious venture. I do not think it’s for everybody and it’s not something one should embark upon lightly. If you’re having kids because you want to keep up with the Jones’s then you’re an idiot. It’s tough; it’s about sacrifices and losing yourself somewhat in the nurturing and upbringing of another. Suddenly you cannot drop everything and indulge a whim, be that a holiday, a night out, a new car. This demanding little creature is the centre of your world and will be for a big chunk of your future. It will change your life! This is no cabbage patch dolly we’re talking about here.

I think back to the horrendous commuting when I went back to work 6 months after giving birth. For 18 months with child in tow I travelled in the cold, the heat, through crowds; the battles on the trains and buses, the unsympathetic stares and mutterings; the fatigue, the despair, the tearing my hair out in sheer desperation at having to live this insane routine. I was lucky to get 5 hours sleep a night. The stress was intense. I had just about got to grips with the practicalities of motherhood – everything having to be planned with military precision – when all of a sudden I was forced to practice my fortitude in an altogether different situation. I had to adapt quickly. It was literally sink or swim. And sinking was always close to the periphery. I nearly lost my mind!

On the plus side, aside from those crappy days where ibuprofen is your best friend and awful moments of despair have made me want to just scream out loud, the joy of watching my child grow and develop into the little lady she is today has all been worth it. There is nothing more rewarding than a child who affectionately puts their arms around you and tells you how much they love you. It’s unconditional and genuine... at least for now. She exacerbates me at times, tests my patience, pushes the wrong buttons to test the boundaries, but she is a joy to have around and lights our world. To see the world through a child’s eyes is a revelation and I have had to take stock and force myself to hold back my sometimes selfish inclinations and remember to be a mother. I have also learned to leave any kind of guilt behind when the need for some space is all the difference between me and my sanity. My daughter would not benefit from a grumpy malcontent in the house. We have a workable understanding. As well as being mummy I am Dragonwyck. And Dragonwyck needs to come out now and again. It’s either that or the broomstick makes an appearance. All mothers need time-out! Dad’s too sometimes.

When I whinge about how old I feel (her boundless energy puts me to shame) she’ll proclaim:

“Mummy you’re not old! You don’t look like a granny; they have wrinkles and no teeth!”

Yes, honey, your mummy will forever be grateful for that marvellous insight. May she continue to flame my lacklustre vanity. The ego is such a fragile thing.

So in answer to the 6 million dollar question and for the umpteenth time...No, I have no plans to have another child. I am content with the one (for this I shall be punished no doubt).

If that should raise an eyebrow or two then so be it. Ask me about it again and I might be a little cryptic in my answer. Better still, a resounding: “mind your own business” might do the trick. I sure as hell wouldn’t miss going to kiddies tea parties, where the topics of conversation make you want to seek out hard drugs, just to numb the banality of it all. Oops how un-motherly of me! How to lose friends and alienate people....oh dear....

Running with mortality

Would it be strange to say that the biggest part of my running routine takes place round the cemetery? I happen to do this for practical reasons. It is one of the few places in town where the ground is flat and the cemetery is large enough to serve as a track. Running up hills and down hills is all very well, but a runner knows the impact this can have on knee and ankle joints. I am of an age now where I need to watch my ligaments and be aware of my physical limitations. Going round with a limp and a grimace on my face is not an option. I wouldn’t have any recovery time given my routine. Life is not usually that simple. Leisure time is a small window in my world. So busting my knee isn’t a good idea.

So I run up the hill not listening to Kate Bush on the iPod (ha ha). I like to keep my senses sharp - no music. And by the time I get to the top ready to enter the realm of the deceased my muscles burn, my lungs are about ready to explode and my heart is close to bursting. I have to question my masochistic choice in exercise, why put myself through this torture? Is losing a few pounds worth all this strife? I guess it is. I always feel better for it and infinitely less guilty having put my body through its paces. We were not built to sit around doing nothing. Discipline and will power are not exclusive you just have to work hard at it. I’m so ‘yes I can’ Mr Obama might want to consider employing me.

The big black gate welcomes me and I enter the cemetery as a grateful mortal. Here is respite (quite literally), here is peace and quiet. No traffic, no noise, just silence. I’m careful to keep to the walkways. The grassed areas are not for the pounding of feet, I consider it desecration. I wouldn’t want my coffin rattled by some over-zealous runner, so why should the deceased? They wouldn’t care as they’re beyond such things, but I care.

At this point I slow down to a leisurely jog taking in my surroundings – call it a form of meditation – and I focus on breathing. How often do we take the time to still our minds and actually notice what’s around us? I know I tend to allow my chattering mind to take over all else on a daily basis and making it shut-up is near enough impossible. The cemetery does something quite incredible for me. It jolts my mind into paying attention and takes away all the nonsense, for here is extinction. Here is where we all ultimately end up. Here you will find your mortal reckoning.

The graves (certainly the newer ones) are usually beautifully kept: marble tombstones with personal inscriptions from loved ones, sculptures, flowers, even windmills, teddy bears and decorative vases. The children’s graves are particularly poignant as here we have lives that were short-lived and never given the chance to thrive. I dwell upon these the most, my emotions challenged and I remember to be grateful for every living cell in my body; for every breath that my own child takes as she enjoys running around the park in sheer joy. I am thankful for what I have, for what I have been given. It is so easy to forget how small we really are in the greater scheme of things and yet I do sometimes forget and stress out about the most innocuous and unimportant things. This is my wake-up call!

The older part of the cemetery has a lot of dilapidated graves. Stone angels eroded by wind and rain, very much resembling faceless sphinxes with wings spread over the tomb guarding the mortal remains of one whose name can no longer be read on the tombstone. These graves are neglected on the most part. Their close relatives probably passed on themselves in days past and the later generations not much interested in paying those ancestors their respects. Some of the stone tops have cracked and sunk down by a foot or two. I have no idea what’s left of the deceased under there as I rarely have the courage to look inside. My morbid fascination is often negated by a certain squeamishness. This is as close as I want to get to my own mortality. The grave attendants are usually attentive if there is anything ‘untoward’ exposed. They carefully make sure that all remains buried, even if not all that aesthetically. Still, it’s sobering to note that even after death and all the pomp and circumstance that goes with burials the years will roll by and your memory is likely to disappear into the ether along with the crumbling stones. Worst case scenario – your grave spot will be usurped by some other hapless deceased person in 20 or so years; maybe less. Worse still, a block of flats will encroach on the space. Land is highly coveted and space for the dead is fast running out. I think I’ll opt for cremation.

So I’m jogging around the oval cemetery and note how wonderfully alive the place is. The paradox is significant – life goes on. Eternity is here in the continuous ebb and flow of life and death. There are birds singing, squirrels scurrying around and trees and flowers making life a potent source to cling on to. I’m running and wondering if the dead should mind my doing so on their territory. Is it like flaunting my life at them? My feet pound the ground as I run the third lap and yet the dead, inert and silent as they are, focus my attention. The jibber-jabber in my head has been conquered for now. They don’t have to say anything. I know they’re there. They have my respect and my reverence. They are somewhere I have not traversed yet but will inevitably come to one day. It is with fear and awe that I come across a freshly dug hole in the ground, subtly covered over with a green lawn sheet. The cemetery attendants are preparing the ground for the next occupant; another whose life has come to an end and is ready to rest in the earth.

I cannot begin to fathom this moment when life ceases to be. I have no religious belief and am not really acquainted with God. We don’t speak, though the buried catholic part of me still pretends to hold onto something, particularly when I’m about to take off on a plane and God is all I have between land and sky. To be floating around up there, despite the laws of physics and engineering ingenuity making it possible, is beyond my comprehension. Anxiety causes me to latch onto the only deity I have been indoctrinated to know – God. Faith in something allows us to cope with the fear. Perhaps I’m a hypocrite, but I think it’s more about old habits and past religious rituals. Unless I am struck by lightning on the road to Damascus and a disembodied voice should speak to me proclaiming their omnipotence, I doubt I’ll be convinced the supernatural exists. A Yoda thought: with age comes much cynicism.

 I don’t believe in an afterlife and hold fast to the fact that when we die that is it. Extinction! I will have fulfilled my evolutionary imperative in having lived. I do not remember before I was born, therefore I will not remember after I die.

I finally reach the exit gate and jog back towards the road, its traffic and noise and reacquaint myself with my chattering mind. I suppressed it momentarily through the cemetery tour but it rears its ugly head again. I run I run I run. I will run from death for as long as possible. As times wheel relentlessly pushes on and nothing intervenes between now and the future I’ll keep watching my face in the mirror and note the wrinkles as they deepen with age. I think about my own relatives as they move onto the great beyond generation by generation, leaving us the memories and the legacy of life until it’s our time to follow them. I cannot cheat death but I owe ‘life’ my eternal gratitude and from here on I will try to fill my days with good things, to be kind to others where possible and to love with abandon. We can at least aspire to these little things even when presented with the menial and the trivial. Oh how we love to get bogged down in our own self-importance: money, beauty, perfection, fame. Don’t speak to me of material things. It won’t go underground with you when you die.

Next time you feel jaded or besieged by your selfish thoughts go visit the cemetery and take the time to read the inscriptions on the tombstones. Not only will it wake you up from a living sleep, it will make you think and appreciate that which is all around you. Celebrate what has come and gone. More importantly love your life and enjoy it. Alternatively, go for a long run and feel the blood pumping in your veins and the sun shining on your face. Life is indeed beautiful!

A commuters tale

You know things are bad when you hear train announcements in your dreams:

*Bing-Bong*

“The next station is Bromley South,” and so the cheerful disembodied voice continues in perfect BBC English “this is the train to (takes a moment to think about it) Ramsgate and Dover Priory. The train will divide at (again momentary pause) Faversham....this is coach number 5 of 8.”

Really? And there’s me thinking I was home already. It isn’t enough that I live routine and rote when I’m awake; it seems the daily commute is now invading my sub-conscious and wilfully pissing me off. The last thing I want to be reminded of is my routine travel to and from London on the ninky-nonk train. I would have liked my grey matter to have dreamt up something a little more adventurous than mediocrity – instead I’m rewarded a dull REM trip into the realms of British Transport.

The trip to London isn’t so bad – travel off peak and you’re rewarded with a seat that will ensure your osteopath is funded for his next exotic holiday to the Seychelles; the usual exorbitant fare is only slightly less painful on the wallet, something akin to a dull toothache that comes and goes, and your fellow commuters look slightly less feral than the rush hour variety. And so you take your place in amongst the inane monkey chatter that goes on into mobile phones, the exacerbating crap music blaring out of somebody’s iPod and the odd passenger with the persistent need to visit the bog of eternal stench and failing to find the toilet paper – one of whom (upon exiting said bog) leans towards me conspiratorially and informs me:

“Hello love just to let you know, there’s no toilet paper.” Do I look like the loo roll replenisher? Remind me not to sit anywhere near the toilets again.

So, I read my book and usually have an uneventful trip into the London metropolis. I have achy bones and sore muscles but that’s just old age creeping in - a bit of a stretch, touch my toes, bend from side to side and ignore the amused looks from other passengers. Obviously not seasoned commuters like myself. You people live my life for a month and tell me you won’t try to yoga your way off the train next time!

RUSH HOUR:

This is an experience worthy of a television show. “It’s a knockout” comes to mind when I think about the obstacle course most of us embark upon during the rush hours when all and sundry want to get home and don’t care who they push, shove and elbow out of the way to do so. If I could inject myself with a good dose of serotonin this would be the time. I so want the happy hormone to bliss me out of this chaos as the sea of people heaves before me and the battle ensues. Have I ever expressed how I feel about the Circle Line? Tourettes usually goes hand in hand with that expression. To say I know what fish must feel when they’re corralled into those huge fisherman’s seine nets, is close to what the Circle Line is like during rush hour. Having your nose pressed up against the glass doors and having some one’s unwashed arm-pit in your face is not my idea of fun. Why the hell does the damn thing always stop in between High St Ken and Gloucester Rd? Please spare me the extra 10 minutes under the stinking arm-pits and the dumb-fuck tourist rucksacks shoved in my face.

Once you’ve exited the tube and launched yourself into a sprint to get out of there as fast as your legs can carry you just to breathe some fresh, polluted city air (infinitely preferable to arm-pits) there is the next obstacle. On the National Rail platforms you will encounter the urban Serengeti. The feral commuters are congregated here staring absently at the indicator boards. They start off looking passive, meek and mild-mannered - these are the Wildebeest, unfortunate lottery failures who cannot afford to live in London, and condemned to make exhausting trips in-and-out of London on a daily basis - but the stampede is imminent. This is a Darwinian experiment about to be enacted.

The platform is announced and the Wildebeest run for their lives. A lady in clippety-clop high heels pigeon steps quickly towards the train. How can anyone have normal ankles wearing a pair of those? Inevitably like a reed she sways from side-to side and almost loses balance. The evil part of me smirks in derision – ‘serves you right for wearing stupid, impractical shoes’. Mr overweight storms past, arms swinging like a Baboon, intent on securing his double seat (not that he’s paid for two). And here is where the darker-side of my character surfaces.

I’m impatient, inconsiderate and insulting. Right now I hate these people! They’re all turnips who couldn’t care less about anyone else. They push and shove and evil-eye you and try to mow you down. Survival of the fittest! Hell I’m in a war here and they’re the enemy. No forgiveness, no sympathy. This is the jungle!

Once the stampede has died down and people have found their habitual seats and their standing positions by the train doors I have no choice but to sit next to the Baboon. He resentfully allows me half a seat as his legs (spread-wide) cannot possibly tuck in any further. What is it with some men and their sitting with legs wide open like their testicles really are so large they need the extra space? Please don’t get me started on that one!

“This is the Ramsgate/Dover Priory train...”

The metallic caterpillar pushes its way out of the station taking all of us knackered, grumpy and selfish commuters home. To my left Joe Bloggs begins his nasal concerto and begins leaning sideways, drooling in the process. He’s in la-la land and as I look around me I note all the tired, listless, worn unhappy faces of all the people sharing my carriage. Given the opportunity most of them would give up this life at a moment’s notice. The rat race has never looked so appalling to me. That our lives could come to this sad indictment of what modern times mean for a lot of human-beings. I get a migraine just thinking about it. And we’re the lucky ones....

I notice the Gatwick Express to my right and longingly wish I was on that train instead. I close my eyes and dream what I should be dreaming about: a beach holiday with plenty of sunshine. Perhaps my dreams tonight will be a little more interesting – if not, a shrink may be in order.