The mill, the Finn, the vipers and the American

Thursday 1 February 2018
6 degrees with bone chilling wind

Once upon a time there was a little mill.  A mill stream gurgled beneath its foundations.  Flowers frothed over the ancient, lichen-spattered walls.  Fish played in the ripples of the mill pond.  It was a place of tranquility.  Over the centuries the roof had caved in and the mortar crumbled and the stones lay where they fell.  An American came, with his french girlfriend and, because he was a mason, and because the place and the stones spoke to him, he rebuilt it by hand.  The girlfriend went and was replaced by the Finn who was his wife.  A magnetic woman with deep red hair and a seductive smile.  A curvaceous women with many shoes and a love of the night time and people who party.  The mill was their secret place which they shared with special friends.  The American fell ill, suddenly, and died and although the Finn continued to love the mill, her life was far away to the north and the old stones spoke of the past and not the future and she realised that she needed to pass onto other places and leave the mill to a new owner.

I spoke to the Finn on Skype and went to take photos and measure up.  It was an idyllic location but, didnt I recognise the new owners of the house next door - the house over whose land the mill owners were obliged to pass in order to enter?  Indeed.  They came over and said they were interested in buying and could they have a look.  This seemed like an excellent idea until they offered a sum which was about 40% of the one I had in my head.  I told them, regretfully, that the owner was VERY unlikely to accept that offer.  They frowned and went back to their house and I saw the woman watching me as I went back to my car.  I felt uneasy.

The mill attracted so many visit requests that I took to grouping them together on a Saturday.  The neighbours took to staring, balefully, over the rampant honeysuckle.  Then the son took to revving his motor bike.  'Cà n'est pas sympa' commented the visitor.  It wasnt.

The son took to ringing me up after each set of Saturday visits and telling me that the owner would never get the amount she was asking, and she should accept his offer.  The following Saturday, when I was closing up, the man from next door came over.  He informed me that they wished their son to buy the house and they would do everything necessary to stop me selling the house and whomsoever bought, if they bought, they would make their lives hell.  The woman came out and started shouting.  I was more shocked at the transition from the woman I had known when I had had their former house on sale, who had always been very pleasant, and this shrieking banshee.  The man finished off by saying that I would find out how 'con' he could be and that he was a 'gros con'.  He also informed me that they had just signed a reservation contract on the idyllic mill pond - a particular feature of the mill - and that they would be putting up a boundary fence.

I called the Finn on Skype and she said she would get her friend who was high up in the Mayoral structure of our departement to look into if they had the right to do this.  Further conversations showed it was probably a shared wall with the mill.  The Finn said she would be over in the Summer and they had better not try it on or she would get her biker friends over from Texas.  And they would kick ass.  She said she would also look to get a restraining order issued, and have it delivered to the neighbours at their places of work.  I admired her strategy.  We were thwarted by the French administrative system and none of the other neighbours knew where they worked.  It did transpire that they had sold the previous house because of violent fallings out with the neighbours.

A week later and a lull in the visits, thank heavens, but still no offers from anyone, I got a call from an English guy, a builder, who said he had a client who may be interested in the mill.  The builder's wife had spotted our advert on Green-Acres and had shown it to A who had showed it to his client.  An American....  I rang the American and got his wife who is English.  She babbled on for about 20 minutes about things unrelated to mills or property and then her husband managed to prise the phone off her and we arranged to meet mid week.  Hopefully the neighbours would be at work.

The sun was shining when I rolled up at the Mairie and there was the builder and the client and a tiny woman smoking a large cigarette.  Her hair reminded me of the mad cat woman on the Simpsons.  She didnt stop talking for the next two hours.  Or smoking.  We got to the gate and there was no sign of the neighbours so I hurried them across the courtyard and through the mill gate.  To my horror and then rage, a red and white ribbon had been tied across the wall (the mill wall) and a large Entrée Interdite sign was waving insultingly in its centre.  I saw the red mist and ripped it all off and stuffed it behind a bush.  The builder came up behind me;  'I reckon that has just buggered up your sale' he said.  I got the clients through the door and left them to look around.  I felt like vomiting and crying and shouting all at the same time.  The neighbours were gesticulating over the fence.  I banged the door shut and we must have spent a good hour in the property plus the piece of land which would be key to getting independent access.  I had found the owner, negotiated the price and the purchase was going through.  The neighbours could then rot in hell and the new owner would not have to go over their land.

Finally, the visit was over and we were obliged to go back to the gate.  It was being blocked by the woman.  'You will give me back my property, Madame' she barked.  'What??' 'The ribbon and the sign'.  I told them they had trespassed to put that up.  What the hell, who would buy with these crazy people next door?  I went to open the gate and the woman slapped her hand down on it.  I turned on record on my phone.  

'You will show me your carte professionelle'
'I had your house for sale, you know who I am'. 
'I dont know who you are and I am calling the police'
'go on then'
'you are a charlatan - you are not a professional!!!

Her husband dragged her off and we left.  I was so upset, I had to go down the road for a minute to calm myself.  I got back into the Range Rover with the builder and the clients and said 'I dont suppose you are interested in buying now'.

The American chewed his teeth.  'Are they trying to blackmail the owner into giving the mill away for peanuts?'
'Yes'
'Well, I am interested.  I dont like to see anyone ripped off'.  He turned to the builder and asked him for quotes and we agreed the price and that he would buy once the Finn had obtained ownership of the piece of land which would give independent access.

I rang the Finn and we both cried and then we both laughed hysterically.

She came over in the Summer and we went to the Americans house and they both signed the offer and I got things over to the notaire.  And the Finn and I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

Things started going a little bit pear shaped when the American proved reticent about providing essential information for the notaire.  And he started getting a little bit curt.  And then he became downright rude.  And then he tried to back out on the tenth day after signing the reservation contract.  Fortunately, you are not allowed to back out by email.  If he had paid proper attention he would have known this.  The agency took over, the wonderful JH, who has to handle all the txxts company wide.  She got the sale back on track and it will complete today.

It has been a long journey and for such a small amount of commission.  So much rudeness, so much abuse.  And now, that lovely mill, will become a battle ground.  The American thinks the neighbours will accept the situation and calm down.  I think the neighbours thrive on discord and it is their life's blood.  The stones will outlast them all.  And may the next owners live harmoniously with one another.

An unbearable lightness of being

Monday 22 January 2018

3 degrees, sunny spells, bitter wind

Last Tuesday, I was chatting late night to a lady from back home.  We were on FB and talking about the best ways to sell the huge range of soaps she has been making and looking at the cheapest ways of getting the toxicology reports she needed, without paying a small fortune.  It was a normal night and we signed off eventually and both, I presume, dreamed normal dreams.  I woke to a normal day.  My friend did not.  When we had been chatting about soap, a young man's body had been lying crumpled on a chilly hillside.
She sent me the following message next morning.  

Kxxxxx is dead.

All I can think is that at least he's no longer suffering...he hated being bi-polar.

I could kick his ass for not at least leaving a message or calling, first, though. His ex gf called to tell me, then I called the gendarmerie to ask if it was true, and they were just on the way to the house to come and see me. He jumped off of the telephone tower

They said it seemed he didn't suffer, as his face was peaceful. Two of his friends found him. They hadn't heard from him in a day or two, and went looking for his van. Poor kids.

His body is at xxx, and will be transferred to xxxxxxxx for an autopsy. Ha, I told them they won't find drugs or anything. I have to meet the gendarmes at his apartment in the morning, then go back and sign papers and stuff. I did ask the gendarme if they had an instruction booklet to give me for this kind of thing. They have a shitty job, sometimes.

This is going to take weeks and weeks. All the other kids are crying and want to drop everything and come home, but I told them not to.

The gendarmes said to come with a friend or someone, in the morning...but I'm going by myself. What good is it going to do to bring someone along with me, anyway.

I told my mom. I also told her to not go and have a heart attack.

It'll be just fucking great to stick my head out the door, come morning...facebook and the kids will make sure that all and sundry will be au courant.

I think I'll call (doctor) in the morning...I wouldn't want to compound the issue by going off the rails or having my own heart attack, and maybe he has some kind of magic pill that I could take to get through this.

K was the youngest of her four children and just 19 years old.  He was such a beautiful child, with thick golden hair and deep blue eyes.  So bright and loving.  So alive.  So ready to come over and give me a hug when we saw one another in town.  It utterly breaks my heart that he felt so desperate that he could not bear to carry on.  I cannot even begin to imagine how his mother will cope with this.  No mother should know their child's death day.

They have decided on a cremation - the Maire has offered to pay for it - and then a big party.  K's friends are fundraising for a huge send-off and they will wear Hawaiian shirts and it will be as joyous as possible for such a terrible occasion.  His ashes will then go to the Big Island and be scattered in a place where he was happy.

When we become parents and receive that little parcel of blood which is our blood and skin which is our skin and an assorted mix of the genes of everyone who ever contributed to the whole, only then do we become of the awe-some and awe-full responsibility we have acquired.  We are no longer an individual, separate and apart.  We are a mother.  We are a father.  And our world has changed; irrevocably and forever.

Some say that it is not our inadequacy which terrifies us but rather the fact that we are powerful beyond measure.  Did K climb the tower and then have the insight that he was a being filled with light and could fly over our town and away from his demons?  I do hope so and I hope, wherever he is and whoever he is with now, that they will surround him with love and fill him with joy.  And that he can be reborn, fresh and new, into a better life.

We won't be going there again....

Monday 8 January 2018
Sunny and clear 5 degrees

Yesterday was the most stupendously beautiful day and I was too ill to get out of bed, and watched it passing before my window.  The sea was blue and the sky the palest lemon.  So much traffic - is there no such thing as a day of rest any more?

The day before we went to pick up some Ebay finds from a town about 60 kms away.  I wont say which one it is because I do not want to harm the business of the cafe bakery which we visited, but cannot miss this opportunity to tell you about it.  This is a traditional part of the UK.  And I am married to a traditional sort of man.  One who is deeply suspicious of anything organic (possibility that you will be charged extra) or Fairtrade, and who would prefer to have his nether regions flayed in public rather than frequent a coffee chain.  I have never got him inside a Costa to this day.

The journey had taken quite a while because we had to keep on stopping whilst he popped out for a wee.  It is normal in France to see people peeing, quite flagrantly, at the side of the road, but quite something else over here in the UK.  I always take the opportunity to pomp my horn with gusto and shout 'ceci n'est pas un pissoir' as I pass, and have the pleasure of seeing them peeing on themselves as they jump.  Finally, we arrive and he has to go again.  He drags me past the Costa, thronging with happy people and into a nearly deserted place next door.  

'This looks more like it', he says, throwing down his stuff 'I'll have some of that coffee and walnut cake and a cup of tea'.  He runs off to get a paper.  The coffee and walnut cake turns out to be peanut butter and salted caramel.  I have to tell you, dear reader, that traditional men do not entertain such strange combinations so said I would wait.

Everyone in the cafe was accompanied by a dog.  There were dog pictures on the walls.  There were sandwiches shaped like bones and garishly coloured donuts.  The back wall of the cafe was created with chipboard, on which the word 'toilet' had been written in black felt pen.  The women behind the counter were very thin.  I started to suspect we had strayed into the other type of establishment to which OH has a particular aversion, and that is the veggie/vegan type.

OH rushed back in and confirmed that peanut butter and salted caramel was anathema and then rejected the large leaden cookies and the strange mound of brown stuff covered in cream.  His tea arrived and it looked like this

There was no obvious way to get the top off the tea pot in order to stir it and the glass was very hot.  The frothy stuff at the bottom of the picture is my coffee.  It was weak.  The tea was very weak.  However, effective as a diuretic so he had to go again.  He was gone a while and I watched the dogs enjoying some donuts.  He came back and gesticulated - I just had to go and check out the toilets.

The staircase down was a corkscrew one, with very narrow treads.  The walls were lined with green baize.  Downstairs, more chipboard.  It reminded me of a particularly nasty renovation carried out by a Belgian guy on what had been a lovely and innocent country property.

The whole thing was a triumph of style over substance.  Chipboard does not look nice.  It looks cheap.  Like concrete.  No one can ever convince me that concrete looks good.  It looks like a low cost solution.  No matter how much you brush it.

We left, after having been relieved of 5.50 and decided we would not be going there again.  With a dog or without.

I started feeling really ill again on the way home and went to bed early.

Grabbing your Dracula

Friday 5 January 2018

Sunny periods 6 degrees 

I really haven't chosen a good time of year to start this blog.  I have flu and consequently beggar all to write about.

The last two days I have slept fitfully, either burning up or shivering and spent most of the night wrestling with my duvet or staggering to the loo.  There is a corner cornice which is specially designed to grab an unsuspecting boob when it wobbles past at 3 am.  The house makes creaking noises and car lights periodically sweep over the ceiling.  The wind makes whale song in the chimneys.  The lights flicker over at Arnside.  I try and listen to a podcast on the murder of Thomas Beckett.  He could have compromised and had a natural end.

OH has been ordering knick-knacks to enliven our windows and shelves back in France.  Each morning, the postie staggers up the steps with enormous boxes, mummified in parcel tape and rammed full of either pieces of the Daily Mail (OH puts these away quickly, as the Editorials render me apoplectic) or styrofoam versions of cheesy wotsits.  Every day, at 10 am, neither of us is dressed.  He must think we are such slobs.  I wear my Bet Lynch spotted dressing gown bought for me by eldest son last year.  It is probably not a good look.

Today, the sun was shining and eldest son is here on a short break, so he and I head out.  I feel a hundred years old and we wander slowly along the Prom whilst he tells me about the various Eastern Europeans with whom he has worked.  The Slovaks like a shot of neat alcohol to get them going in the morning, the Romanians like poker and women, the Czechs break machinery.  He has a friend called Stan - I had lost track of which nationality he was - whose English was not brilliant until you get him on the subjects of rapping or prostitutes.  I think of all the camping families, innocently ordering their double fried chips and burgers, or steak and salad, and children's menus, and who is preparing the food on the other side of the kitchen door.  It is another world through there.  A world of 12 to 15 hour days.  Cocaine and weed and alcohol is how people keep going.  Last Summer we picked up eldest son for a break - he was terribly thin - barely 9 stone.  I was shocked and horrified.  So shocked that he has made an effort to eat more and sleep more and actually looks better, despite working 7 am to 10 pm over Christmas and New Year.  He came back and slept for nearly two days straight.  It is no life for anyone.

After getting to the far end of the prom, I felt exhausted and we went for a coffee and hot chocolate.  A lady came into the shop, and maneouvred a large pram containing an adorable baby girl.  I cooed over her and asked her age.  The lady said she was not English and held up six fingers.  I asked her nationality - Romanian.  I turned to eldest and asked him didnt he know a bit of Romanian.  His eyes bulged and he made choking noises.  We left and he admitted he did know a bit of Romanian and muttered something that sounded like grab your dracula.  And what does that mean, I enquired?  Hurry the fxxk up....  We laughed so much that I had to cross my legs (pelvic floor not good at dealing with surprises) and he then had to get my inhaler out of my bag.  

It appears that he knows a variety of Eastern European phrases, none of which can be easily inserted into polite society.  In fact, when we came to France, the boys were taught Spanish by their French teachers and had it pimped by their contemporaries. By the time we had been abroad six months, they could swear fluently in all three languages.  Job well done.

Sea and sky and convalescence

Wednesday 3 January 2018

6 degrees very wet

The story of Elenna Wren

Tuesday, 2 January 2018

Sunny at first with showers later and stormy conditions at night 6 degrees - Grange over Sands

Perusal of my work inbox shows an influx of new enquiries and oh, buggerations, they are all for gite renovations.  Do you know how many people ever buy gite properties or renovations?  For me, I have not sold a single house with gites in my nearly 14 years.  And perhaps only two or three renovations.  One of them was so derelict that the barn roof fell in between compromis and acte de vente.  Never mind, said the new owners, it saves us knocking it down.  In early December I did a study of all of the sales which had completed in the year, company wide, and discovered that no one else was selling gites either.  What do people buy, I hear you wondering?  The answer is bungalows with a hectare of land, for about 170 000 euros.  Or houses under 150 000 euros in more or less decent condition.  I only have one house under 150 000 euros with land.  And it has been for sale for absolutely years, being on a junction between two roads.  The poor owner has become a widow in the intervening period and therefore very inflexible on the price.  I suspect it will form part of her kids' inheritance.

Speaking of children, and on this day which comprised a walk in the gap between the morning showers and the late afternoon storm, I was told of the birth of a baby girl called Elenna Wren.  What a delightful name.  It made me want to write a story about her, so here it is.

The story of Elenna Wren

Once upon a time, there was a deep forest, filled with ancient trees whose names were whispered on the wind; oak and ash and chestnut and elm, birch and beech and blackthorn and elder.  Their great roots were home to many small rodents and their broad trunks were filled with insects and their leaves rustled like a whole corps de ballet.  Birds hatched and matched and, when their time came, were dispatched and became part of the mould on the forest floor.  A tiny stream gave succour to the animals of the forest and, often, whole families would come and drink together.  Leaves fell and were carried away and the music of the water was a constant in each day and night.

At the heart of the forest lay a cottage; a simple affair with thatched roof and rough planks nailed to the exterior.  Leaded windows were frowned over by  heavy lintels which were, in their turn, laughed at by the rampant rambling briar which scrambled over them and was hitching itself to the thatch.  Smoke from the chimney curled into the still air.  Under the porch, a solid oak door with polished knocker and a bright wreath of holly, jewelled with berries.  A tiny leaded window winked in the moonlight.

The door opens and a girl comes out.  She takes a log from the porch seat, gazes up at the moon and then wraps her shawl closer around her and goes back in.

It is the 1st of January.  The girl is called Elenna Wren.  She is 26 years old and she is the mistress of the cottage.  If there had been more light inside, you could have noticed her thick and wavy brown hair and her conker bright eyes; you could have seen that her smile is mischevious and reveals dimples inherited from her mother's side of the family.  Her brows are strong and her skin clear.  She is diminutive, barely five feet tall with tiny hands and feet and, tonight, she is wrapped up in many layers of clothing to protect from the cold.  Like a wren, her movements are quick.

She loosens the shawl and leans over the fire, carefully placing the new log onto the embers.  A pair of bellows are employed and soon the log catches and crackles and small yellow flames start to consume the outer layers of bark. Elenna's lips move silently and she stares into the flames.  A wish has been made.  

Outside, the clouds clear and the moon rides out into view.  Its pale rays shine through the leaded window and Elenna looks up, startled.  There is a tap at the door.  Surely it is just the briar, waving in the wind.  But no, there it is again.

Elenna peers through the leaded window.  All she can see is a bird.  She opens the door and peers out.

'Good evening' says the thrush.

'Good evening' replies Elenna, who had always been raised to be polite to strangers.

The bird shakes its feathers.  

'Terrible weather to be out and about'

'Yes indeed'

'Mind if I come in and dry off a bit?'

'Of course'

The bird hops in and perches on the edge of the range, shakes itself again and starts to preen.  Elenna sits down, takes up her cup of tea, and racks her brain for a subject of conversation.  The thrush looks at her from under a wing and winks.

There is another tap on the door.  Elenna looks at the thrush and the thrush looks at the door.  

Elenna laughs and looks through the leaded window.  Outside is a soggy looking fox.

'Good evening' says the fox, smiling at her

'Good evening'

'Terrible weather to be out and about'

'Do you want to come in and dry off a bit?'

'Don't mind if I do'.

He settles himself down on the mat and tips a nod at the thrush.

Elenna has barely had time to pick up her now cooling cup of tea when there is a third tap at the door.  She opens the door without looking and lets in a very skinny cat of doubtful parentage.

The cat smiles and settles itself down next to the fox.

'Do you not speak?' Elenna enquires of the cat

'He's not much of a one for conversation', says the thrush.

The cat starts to wash itself.

'Hairballs', said the fox 'get stuck in his throat'

'Good night' said the thrush.  'Its late' said the fox.  'Better get our heads down'.  

The cat had closed his eyes and was deep in sleep, his paws twitching slightly.

'Good night then', said Elenna and went upstairs, rubbing her eyes.

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The next morning dawned all too soon and Elenna woke on the morning of her 27th birthday.  The pale light of morning speared through the leaded panes and landed in silvery pools on the counterpane.  If she was not mistaken, she could hear birdsong.  High and clear and pure, the notes were being joyously cast on the morning air.

Elenna took up a package from her bedside table.  A gift from her godfather.  She untied the string and unwrapped the brown paper to find a thick dressing gown covered with rambling briars and roses and exotic birds.  A pair of matching slippers lay on top.  Elenna put them on and luxuriated in their newness and loveliness.  Again, the birdsong.  She lifted the latch on her bedroom door and went through and down the stairs.

The thrush was perched on the front door lintel.

'I heard your song!' exclaimed Elenna.  'It is so beautiful'.

The thrush ruffled its feathers with pleasure.  'Every day I will sing for you.  This is my gift.  And you will never feel alone.  Goodbye'

Elenna opened the door and the thrush flew off into the new morning.  She looked down.  The fox was standing at her feet.

'When you hear my bark, you will know I am near and I am looking out for dangers and will protect you.  This is my gift.  And you will never feel alone.  Goodbye'.

He trotted off, without a backwards glance.

Elenna turned.  The cat was sitting on the table, next to the cream jug, and he looked expectant.

'I expect you need feeding up a bit', she said, filling up a saucer.

The cat purred with pleasure and Elenna stroked his boney back.

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It is a year later.  Elenna smiled as she thought of the happiness she had had over the months - how her mornings had been brightened by the beautiful and varied songs of the thrush and how the bark of the fox had told her he was near.  She had even seen his pawprints in the snow, and those of his children.

She placed her birthday yule log on the fire and thought of the wish she had made the year before.  The cat had stayed with her, behaving as a cat should, and getting fatter and catching all the local rodents.  He warmed her knees before the fire and her nose tickled with his fur on her pillow.

She had, indeed, not felt alone.

'Well', she said stroking the cat's fine ginger fur 'you have never had much to say for yourself, have you?'

There were two taps on the door.

'Happy birthday', said the cat.

Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think....

Monday, 1 January 2018

New Year's Day.  Brilliant red sunrise 6 degrees.  Heavy grey cloud.  Grange over Sands

OH staggered out of his room and announced his intention of going fishing.  If there were ever a man who needed a valet it is he.  The valet would know where to find underpants and chaussettes de contention to restrain his varicoses.  He would be happy to make sandwiches and a flask and hold things and take things out to the carriage.

Examination of the clothing rack and the laundry revealed only one special black elastic sock.  OH snapped it on, together with a grimy friend from yesterday and then ran around the house in his underpants.  If there had been horses and women, they would have been frightened.  He has not adapted to the fact that there are neighbours in Grange.  Finally, he was ready and drove off in a haze of diesel and rubber and peace descended.  I got back into bed and wrote for a couple of hours and thought that this was a very good way to start the year.

With the sun already high in the sky, it was then time to set off and achieve my target of 8000 daily steps (or violent exercise class).  

Down the hill between former council houses, Ashlyn, Waygarth, Dunromin, then through the campsite, with small green huts which make me think of Tenko.  Awnings and camping chairs stacked up under plastic.  Abandoned balls and dog chews.  Stones painted white delineate slate chip gardens.  Solar lights loll at rakish angles.  Fairy lights in one window and a tv blaring.  The reception hut is bolted up and tells people not to fly tip.  No cameras in evidence.

Up the hill to the big pink retirement home.  The air smells of pie and gravy and a Christmas tree with many lights winks at a tall window.  In the garden of remembrance, a soldier stands guard, gun at his side.  Gulls wheel overhead.  His concrete features are composed and sad.  I look over to Arnside, from where the weather comes and it is looking misty and starting to merge sea with sky with land.  Turn into the top lane with stark trees and a field full of sad muddy donkeys.  Crows goose step around the puddles and caw at me from the tall trees.  Arnside has now disappeared into a black fog and the rain spits down with a vengeance, just as I reach the lych gate on the church.  I sit in the porch with the stacked buckets and read the notices and the graveyard plan.  Rain sheets off the slate pitched roof.  Happy people with babies in plastic wrapped prams trot by.

I get back to the house at the same time as OH and just in time to admire the two flounders he caught.  We then have lunch and watch Bonanza where a lady is confronted by a rabid wolf.  She doesnt look that concerned.  We feel that this is a moment where overacting is actually called for.  It bites her and the rest is rather depressing.  You know that she will not survive the end of the programme by the way she keeps talking about her bright and shiny future.

Spend the rest of the afternoon baking for the buffet at a neighbour's house.  I really like my neighbour and her husband but want an exit plan if the rest of the group are really tedious.  Say to OH, what code shall we have if they are boring?  Give me another drink! shouts OH happily, tucking into the cranberry and brie bites.  

By ten it is all over and we watch a bit of Hootenanny.  Enjoy yourself, it is later than you think.... is how he always ends the show.  A good motif, I think.  Here is a Youtube link for you to enjoy it yourselves

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u3vnJV8LGHM

The power of redemption

Monday 1 January

6 degrees, cloudy at sea level with blue skies above

2018, an 11 year, and my super lucky number.  I am a great believer in the starting over principle offered by the 1 January.  Redemption for the sins of the previous years and not even an inch of the new year has yet been nibbled.  Instead of resolutions, things to be achieved and what a good time of year to think about what can be done.  No gardening, no work to speak of, no great lists of things to do which take up time but do not use it usefully - the difference between being active and being productive.

1.  I will be productive rather than active

I have started by unsubscribing from the newsletters which clog up by various inboxes.  And so I will feel able to read the ones which interest me, such as the wonderful Brain Pickings, run by Maria Popover, which describes it as an Inventory of a Meaningful Life

https://www.brainpickings.org/

This fits the productive category very well as it is stimulating and leads to further reading and, often, phrases or ideas pop back into my mind when working or driving.  Little insights from bright minds, or warnings from ones plagued by dark thoughts.

I will lick my blogs into publishable form and find an agent.

I will do craft instead of thinking about crafting and buying yet more crafting stuff

I will start cooking from my cook books instead of just dusting them



2.  I will do things which are important but not urgent.

Steven Covey introduced the idea of the Time Management Matrix in his 1988 book, the 7 Habits of Highly Effective People.  Time is taken up by the following activities

• urgent and important.: your baby/dog needs feeding, your boss wants the report
• urgent and not important: things which you wail about on Facebook, saying you dont have time to do them
• not urgent and not important: social media, trivia, trashy telly
• urgent and not important: vocation, planning, exercise

Urgent because they are things which contribute to your real happiness, your future and your health.

I have put my daily step counter up to 8000 and joined the igloo challenge on Samsung to do 200 000 steps.

I will write every day on this blog.  (voice in my head saying, oh God, that was really hard to keep up in 2015 - other voice saying,  yes but now you have something to edit)

I will start sending letters and postcards to friends.  Remember how lovely it was to get a letter?  I havent had a letter from a real person, filled with chatty news, since the 1980's.  I found one in my dressing table drawer, from Mrs Noddi, and in lovely lavender ink, written with a fountain pen, and addressed to me when I was down in the YMCA in Watford.  It still makes me laugh, as she writes that she must go because if she told me everything she had to tell me, she would have to go on, and on, and on, and on, and on (turn page) and on.... 

Can you remember the last letter you received?  Who was it from?  Do you have any old letters?  I also found a postcard from my Aunt Laura, on a Christmas visit to Las Vegas in the 1960s.  She lived in another and more glamorous world.  One filled with sparkle and glamour, Elnet hair spray and kalaedoscopic patterned A-line dresses. We lived in rural Lancashire with hot and cold running damp. California was a very, very long way away;

I will make new friends - ones who I can ring up and physically go and see.  

I will learn something new.  I did ask OH for a ukelele and he bought me walking sticks and a rucksack.  (nb I will learn better communication skills) (nnb and buy myself a ukelele).  I will contact the rather strange lady I met in a bar, who said she would set up ukelele lessons.  I have never seen an adult with pigtails before.  Then again, our little town is chock full of oddities.  Makes you wonder what the French think of us, as they have no reference point other than what is in front of their nez, usually holding a water glass filled with wine.  Oh the embarrassment of being asked if I wanted a French glass of wine (holds up small glass) or an English one (holds up vat)

I will stop buying things to fill the void.  And I will stop drinking coffee every time I go out.  I must fritter ten euros a week, easily.  Almost the price of two English vats of wine.....

I will put 1 euro in the large pickle jar every day.

I will stop being a people pleaser because I hate myself for it.

Lastly, this year I am going to be glamorous and go through the door feeling good.  And not catch a view of myself and think it is the mad cat woman from the Simpsons.

And really, really lastly, I will sell our lovely house and we will set off to new horizons.

Sad update:  dog is no longer; we lost him on Bastille Day.  He is mouldering in the garden, by the stream where he loved to dig.  I like to think that the sun will warm his old bones and he will dream of chasing frisbees and leaping from haybales and eating cheese and opening his Christmas present. RIP Teddie.  It is not the same without you and we are the poorer for it. xx