It’s too dangerous, he wrote on the weather report note that he leaves for me each morning, c/o John Kettley. I went out anyway. And it was. I got soaked. I tell him at breakfast that the storm scares me. Why do you go out in it then? he asks. I don’t know, I say. I think it’s because if I face it I may diminish it’s power over me. I walked into the village and caught the smell of pine needles. That helped. There was a large snowman light in someone’s garden and I noticed that it had been tethered to a fence. Was this in expectation of the storm? He looked so cheerful in that bleak light.
I walked stiffly (‘We’re a couple of old crocs, he said at breakfast.) but was grateful for the relative stillness and quiet. I anticipate the storm with some anxiety. This house takes it full force, the windows feel as it they are go to blow in and the bath on the landing rattles. He is far more sanguine but then he’s had over seventy years experience of living in this sometime sea-battered town. I like and relish the wildness of the sea, but I am also in awe of its possibilities. But the wind is a different matter. What can I say except it isn’t and never should be all about us? It has its role, its place and it will do as it must. It makes me feel vulnerable. But that is as it ought to be. The birds are strangely quiet too, they know what is coming, though I did hear the pip-pipping of a lone oystercatcher from the dark that was the sea this morning.
Oh, keep us safe. Let there be no lives loss, no injuries or more loss of power. We are at your mercy. Be kind.
I lit the second purple advent candle last night. It’s still pitch outside, oh, how we need lights in December. I notice every new Christmas tree that has been put up and lit in the terrace houses I pass on my walk. There was a new one this morning on South Marine. I whisper a thank you and walk on a little gladdened. And there was a fishing boat in the harbour with a garland of lights. How lovely it was too. The wind had died down since yesterday and my walk, though cold, was pleasant. The man who sleeps, or perhaps lives, under the castle now has a small tent. I am so pleased. I mean it’s not a home but there is at least some protection for the wind. Tomorrow I’m to have another new trial with a Norwegian teacher. She appears to be from Brazil. How will that be? I’m sure the fault is mine not theirs. What am I looking for exactly? I will do a little more this morning, or perhaps listen to NRK instead. It is still ingesting, after all. But now I must get on, all those little niggly bits to do before getting down to the form again tomorrow. Perhaps I should christen the form and make it less of a bureaucratic thing. Any suggestions – Fiona, or Fenella perhaps? Or is it a male thing – Fred maybe?
Writing this funding application has meant I’ve not been to the café or indeed outside drawing. I went for a brief spell on Thursday afternoon when the sun came out and then again yesterday. My hands, wrists and indeed my ability to communicate what I see stiffen up. I become too self-conscious and aware of what I’m doing or not doing. But I need to remind myself that this is practice – that off and on sort of stuff and the carrying on whatever the result. But it is hard to see the tentative marks and pedestrian attempts. So be it. Talent has little to do with it, persistence is all. And I shall have another go tomorrow.
We walked afterwards in the wind. The sea raged and looked magnificent.
He bought me a lovely advent calendar. A childish delight, I know but it does take me somewhere nice nevertheless and I need it in all this dark and with this heavy, lumbering form to deal with it. It isn’t the usual thing but a 3D structure which requires you to add a new little figure each day. I love it.
The sun came out yesterday and was I thankful. I even went out and drew the boats in the harbour. The outcomes were crap (it’s been too long since I’ve done it and I’d forgotten how uncomfortable it is) but I did it. And sometimes, like life, drawing is just about the doing of it, regardless of the result.
Anyway, I am thankful. Thankful for the joy of my advent calendar, the little packs of fairy lights that wait in their boxes to be put out for Christmas, the lit trees in the hotels in town and my love. Well, what can I say? He’s to work with me today on what I’ve written so far on the funding form. His support is tireless and I can be so snappy. He endures it all. What a love, eh?
I never liked it. It brought in much-needed money but it was so scrappy. I couldn’t get a hold of it and no real skills were required, except patience, endurance and an unending cheerfulness, none of which I have in abundance. I want it to be concluded, after all I haven’t been up there since the first lockdown. I want out, if only to stop this guilt when someone calls, though it happens very infrequently. Perhaps I should just insist and not hold our for any redundancy, after all they’ve been paying me my retainer ever since. I’m not a greedy person, but if it comes as a gift I’d accept it willingly. Shall I wait? A little longer? Perhaps.
Winter is here, Autumn has gone. Oh, those poor people with no power up in the North. It must feel like no one cares. May they be warm soon. The rain outside made me yearn to stay indoors but out I went first to read the gas meter which has been placed, most inconveniently at the base of our flat which involves walking down into the car park and back into the Quad. I hate doing it. But it must be done, as must the writing of this application form. I was petulant and self-pitying yesterday about it. Just keep your head down, he said, and get it done. Yes. And stop complaining. I am chastened by other’s real tribulations, mine is merely the doing of a tedious thing, there is no physical discomfort or mental anguish. It’s just it takes the heart out of the idea, it strips it bare. So be it. I will revivify it, once this is done. Then it will be just me and my pen and my book.
A man came behind me on the hill just in front of Alexandra Hall. I was wrestling with the heavy umbrella (anti-wind – it isn’t) he bought me, trying to collapse it and he waved his walking stick at me. Was it in greeting or alarm or was it a threat? I had my music on so I couldn’t hear what he said. Oh well. Another time. There was an ambulance parked outside the Hall. The driver, a woman, was smoking a cigarette under the porch. Nothing else seemed to be happening. The sea was churning.
Even though I only had the window open a smidgen it woke me. The dread of walking out in it plays into my dreams and I am beset by greyness. He writes his notes courtesy of Michael Fish with my morning weather report and urges me to ‘STAY IN!’. But I don’t. Not because I am cussid but because I need to be in the fear of it (and I am fearful of its strength) and survive. And sometimes even enjoy it, for the air is wonderful, so new, though the rain is bugger. I didn’t walk far which makes me ratty, feeling that I should push myself more. Some kids were out bringing their takeaway garlic bread home. They seem invulnerable to gusts, as they laugh and shout and lollop their way up the hill. Sophie’s Café has it’s tree up and lit which gladdened my heart as I trudged past. Oh, how I love to see Christmas decorations on these dark mornings, no matter how gaudy.
We talked about snowdrops at breakfast. I wish I’d planted some as well as the crocuses and hyacinths. Are they the first spring flowers to show?
Some days are just shite. It’s not personal though it may seem so. We both struggled through it, each with our own individual trials. There were nice bits, there usually are but they were fleeting and, for me, a little sugary. (I didn’t have time to do a proper Norwegian session so I listen to NRK radio instead while I worked – never a good thing for me as it is neither one nor the other – and the chat (of which I got about every 6th word in 10) was interspersed with cutesy Christmas songs of the Perry Como ilk. By the end I felt like I’d over indulged in Christmas cake, particularly the royal icing and marzipan which used to make my teeth ache.) Let’s hope today is more promising, though my gut sinks at the thought of beginning this form in earnest. Oh, well onward.
Spotting the jay in our neighbours driveway didn’t help my spirits. Is it good or bad? he asked. I don’t know, I said, it could be either. Seeing one does give me a fillip nevertheless – something will happen. Isn’t that good enough?
I felt a little unwell this time. It surprised me for with the other two vaccines I’ve been fine. And even now my arm is tender. I took it easy. Sometimes it’s nice to submit in that way, though it’s rare, for me. I still went and drew in that cold, cold coffee shop.
He looked it up on Google. It’s been troubling me for some time now, and it’s unquenchable. Firstly, he thought it might be the tablets I take. What a bugger if that is the case. And then he told me this morning that it may be connected to my heart failure (‘It is heart failure’, she said). Agh, all these labels. Can’t one just be well? At least I can do something. I just need to drink and drink – unquenchable or not. It’s down to me – doctors, it seems, are unattainable, and when they are, you never hear back from them. So be it. My body is mine – I will take care of her.
I heard the laughter coming from their flat downstairs. Canned noise. Fake and too happy for the sadness that is contained in there. Or am I projecting a misery that isn’t present? Perhaps he is content in his dying.
Outside was cold as I walked. Three pairs of gloves kind of cold. The wind was a whisper from the East. It was quiet. A quiet cold. Only a few bodies huddled against the dark and chill scurried around corners. I like the stillness. Though there were birds. A robin hopping under a fence. A blackbird in song. There is always joy if you look hard enough.
A sorting out kind of a day. Clearing the decks in readiness for tomorrow.
I’ve finished Middlemarch. He returned it to the library for me yesterday. I shall miss it. I love being inside a book. The middle is best when you have begun to belong to it but are, as yet, far away from its completion. Eliot was so compassionate towards her characters – as loving towards their flaws as their good points. I relished being inside their heads, Dorothea’s especially as she shone with her naïve, yet simple, goodness. May it not be too long until I return for I will.
