Category: Writings

Chummy (aka Miranda Hart in Call the Midwife) and I were to travel somewhere together, I believe it was by plane. We’d been sewing together making objects (dolls I think) for a business woman who I believed was trying to cheat us out of our wages, claiming that if what we made didn’t sell we’d have what they were worth taken from our pay. I’d gone to remonstrate with her and when I came back we decided to escape. Did you put away my sewing things? I asked her when we’d gone. Then we were at a airport kiosk and Chummy was buying a can of coke. As usual I couldn’t decide what to get so I didn’t buy anything. Then we were in a field sitting in the grass looking at rose hips that had gone to seed. It reminds me of my childhood I said. Sans Michael Jackson I hope, she said. No, I said wanting to be truthful though I knew it wouldn’t please her, with Michael Jackson.

The rain was but a few spots but the wind was strong. Storm Christof, I think. Everything rattles – garage doors, back gates, boat rigging and pub signs. I keep turning round thinking someone is behind me. It’s just the wind. Just the wind.

I was walking through central London carrying a mop bucket full of fresh soapy water and looking for a mop. I was to clear a floor in readiness for the general public to visit an exhibition. I went into a shop selling Black and Decker tools, everything was ordered and pristine and smelling of rubber. The assistant didn’t have any mop heads and was a little put out that I asked. She offered me a rather sad looking feather duster that she’d found in their cleaning cupboard but I said it wouldn’t do, the floor had to be clean. Such is the prosaic nature of my dreams.

She texts him to see if he knows of any podcasts the nurse could play for him. He has pneumonia now but they say they will treat it. I try to bite my tongue. Let him go, I want to say, let him go peacefully, and without pain but it is none of my business and I know what it lose a parent, even an erstwhile one. Another friend, though more acquaintance calls him to ask after the patient. I haven’t heard his voice for over 24 years. They all feel it, that clan, that cabbal of friends. It shakes them. As it does me. Poor man. I couldn’t help but like him.

We were in a field and it was dark. We were being led by a man, a scientist or a zoologist, it wasn’t clear and all of sudden he bent down and dragged something from under a bush. It looked like a hare but it was all flattened out. He was delighted as it was a particular hare that he’d remembered experimenting on. He then proceeded to outline to us all things that he’d done to it. I meanwhile was concerned with a dog that was in my care, for its guts seemed to falling out. He gave it a cursory glance but wasn’t that interested. The rest of the dream has gone. I knew an ex-Head of department who used to paint hares. And this morning I looked into Aberdashery’s window and there were make your own felt hares kits. (Why is it that I continue to delight in such things and yearn to buy and make one?)

He told me he had had some bad news. His friend has fallen and is in Intensive Care with bleeding on the brain. I am sorry. He is a chancer, a charmer, a compulsive gambler, a one-time ladies man but I care for him as does he. I know this, though he hurts him too with his carelessness. I wish him what he wishes – be it a speedy recovery or a gentle lapse into death. Be with him in his need. Now and always.

She gave them to me as a wedding present. There were six and now there is only one. I loved them. They were square-bottomed tumblers almost art-deco in style – very simple and elegant. They were from her. They reminded me of her. And I’ve had them for over thirty years. Alas I was the one to smash it. Well not smash, I caught it on the edge of another glass when I was washing up and there was a large chip and cut. I took it to the glass recycling bin this morning. I couldn’t bring myself to through it in so I placed it carefully on top of the various wine and beer bottles left there by the other residents. It’s only a thing, she is with me in spirit but I like the tangibility of such things. He has bought me two more glasses from Skandium. We couldn’t find a real replacement. They will do as stand-ins at least they will be Scandinavian. What a silly billy I am to fuss over such small things when all this pandemonium is going on.

I saw what I thought was a skull on the Prom this morning. I can’t always trust my eyes at that time in the morning. I think it was from a dog or possibly a badger, it definitely was a creature with a snout of some sort. It made me sad. The sea must have brought it. It was lying by the side of bin.

Nice smells from the bakery this morning. Then Radio 3 decided to change its Saturday morning schedule. Why? It threw me.

I saw it as all ego – that longing for acclaim and notice. It isn’t as strong but sometimes it niggles especially when, courtesy of FB, others’ achievements are writ large. I want to be content. I want to live this quiet, this making behind closed doors if need be, with acquiescence. He made me feel better about myself. He always does. It wasn’t, it isn’t just ego, he said. It was exciting, stimulating – I enjoyed it, we enjoyed it, he said, and it’s only natural that you miss it. Wait and see, wait and see what this new work brings, you don’t know yet. And I don’t. He is kind. Even so, I want to learn to accept what is. And it is a daily task. Even now. Even now.

A new shop has opened in the old Thorntons building. Etched into the glass pane in the door is ‘Newports of Aberystwyth’. He doesn’t remember them, it must’ve been before his time. The typeface looks 1920-ish. This new place is a dress shop and they’ve taken a great deal of care with the window display. Such enterprise – you see it here a lot, all those great beginnings but all too often they fail. And to launch it now in the middle of lockdown – when they can’t even open the doors. Crazy but admirable and it lifts the street – that gesture of hope.

When will it all get better? When will we get better? She writes of her grief. Poor love. Poor poor love. x

It isn’t something I’d usually listen to, it’s a little dated and a bit full of ‘daring-do’ for my liking but it’s read by Julian Rhind-Tutt and therefore easy to digest. And besides Bulldog Drummond isn’t frightened of anything. What a thing, to be without fear. Think of that.

She told me that she keeps rescuing geraniums from the Close’s shared tip. They think that they are annuals, she said. We’ve had ours for years now. They are all woody and knotty but they keep flowering and that’s good enough for me. It’s a sign of life after all.

What you lose on the swings you gain on the roundabouts. The ice and cold has turned to rain. So be it. I was snug. I am fortunate. I am fortunate.

No smells from the bakery. the door was fast shut. And the wind wasn’t so bad. Not 40mph at least. It’s still dark at almost 8am. The morning is trying to appear. Onward.

I still see them as I walk in the early hours catching glimpses of lit up interiors as I do. All those forgotten or perhaps clung-on-to Christmas trees still lit and still standing. Will they ever take them down? I remember one house along South Marine Terrace had theirs for months after Twelfth Night. Who cares? I understand that need to hang on to the cheer of lights and sparkle – especially now. And the nights are still so long and dark and dismal. I forgot to notice if they’ve taken down the town tree, the lights have definitely gone. How could I have missed it, its huge? That’s the dark for you and being wrapped up in my own thoughts. I didn’t walk far this morning just to the post box opposite the bakery. The lad that I sometimes see in the morning was there waiting for his lift. I didn’t notice him at first. He looked up at my approach then returned his gaze to his phone. In the phone’s light I could see that he had an earring in his right ear.

No ice or frost today. I walked sans stick. The rain is due though. So be it.

I’m out of temper this morning. I’m doing my best to master it but self-pity is mostly winning out. It shames me and I know it well. Things hurt that’s all and Sunday means some housework before I can settle down in here and work – meaning sew. And I’ve some letters to write, which I like doing but they too take me away from what I want to be doing. What a child, eh? Look at my life, so blessed, and the work is part of it. Accept more, he said, and expect less. How wise he is. I will try. I promise I will try.

More hard frost this morning. Will it be the last for a while? I walk out with my tentative steps – gingerly crossing the road onto the footpath, with my stick in hand. It looks beautiful. The glistening on the ground is beautiful, magical even. It twinkles and glitters, I am enraptured by it but also fearful. Ah, get a grip.

I heard his cough and then smelt the smoke from his cigarette through the open window in his bedroom. It’s amazing how far it travels. It’s an acrid smell, dirty at times. He doesn’t sound well, nor does he look it. We see him rarely these stay-at-home days.