Back to life

The other evening I came home to find an unexpected voice mail waiting for me. (I sometimes wonder how we inadvertently, and oh so easily, slip into this terminology. We used to call them answer phone messages or just messages; now they’re quite unpretentiously voice mail). Anyway, it was unexpected to have an actual message. Generally, I open the front door and hear the welcoming peep peep of the machine alerting me to the fact that I am, after all, not friendless and that someone has been trying to contact me. And generally, on pressing the play button, there is nothing to listen to because it was some irritating sod from the sub-continent who neither knows me nor has a message, or voice mail, worth leaving. Sometimes, in these long since days of gender parity, these faceless cretins phone when I’m in and ask to speak to MISTER Green. If the mood fits, I tell them he’s dead. I’ve no idea whether he is but I suspect not. However, if they really knew me………..

Anyway, this particular message was from someone with whom I took a trip, at least fifteen years ago, to Ireland. That’s what I like about people: everyone’s so busy and time flies past but at least they make an effort to keep in touch on a regular basis. And they always think of you in such a meaningful way. This voice mail was along the lines of I’ve had rather a lot to drink and found this old CD of Irish music down the back of the settee whilst trying to retrieve a fag I’d dropped and remembered when we watched this band in Galway in 1866. It’s personal association isn’t it. Nice. I remember that night too because in Dorset you don’t get many of those Danny Boy evenings where you bump into someone at the bar who says no, you’re wrong, I’m in the real army in that wonderfully soft brogue that makes even the ugliest of men appear attractive. Or maybe that’s just Guinness. The important thing is that she’d kept both the CD and my phone number. I shall visit her soon and that’ll teach her for making random drunken phone calls.

All of this followed the exhausting and mind numbing train journey back from the city. Those trips are paranoia inducing: they’re so bloody awful that all you want to do is get indoors and get your woolly Primark PJ’s on. And because your aspirations are low but theoretically achievable, something’s bound to go wrong. I’m not naturally pessimistic: I think this feeling is a hang-over from coming home once to find I’d been burgled. All he’d taken was the Van Morrisson tickets but he’d smashed a window and been through the knicker drawer in the process. Consequently, every time you’ve been anywhere good, you’re forever sniffing the air for smoke three miles from arrival at the front door or listening for sirens as you approach your road. And as you get back into your securely locked home and hear that welcoming peep peep, you thank your particular god for small mercies.

Then you make the mistake of putting the light on and fusing everything in the house. At this point you dig out all those Santa decorated candles left over from Christmas and on discovering that a) you possess an out of date fuse box and b) gender parity does not in fact exist because you have no idea of the next step, you have to alert Frank from down the road. But at least you’ve got an old friend waiting on the voice mail who cared enough to save your number for fifteen years.

One or more perfect people

I’m on the train. It’s a mobile mantra: useful for telling anyone who shows the slightest interest in the current point you’ve attained in your journey…yes, we’ve just pulled into Clapham but, no, we haven’t actually stopped….something to fill the time on an unexpectedly long journey apart from the obligatory Sudoko. And this journey is not what I’d expected. It’s the first train I’ve been on all weekend which is empty and this in itself is surprising given that it’s apparently passing through every single station south of the Watford Gap.

We’re allegedly heading for Weymouth. So far, we’ve been to Woking, Guildford, Havant, Fareham and are now off to Southampton Central; which means that all those wanting to catch a plane from Southampton Parkway to travel a little further afield have been denied the opportunity; although they have, nonetheless, had a bit of a scenic treat. Had they been looking. Personally, I’ve kept my eyes downward. The bloke opposite me, who I initially entertained with the utterly useless sports section of my newspaper, has, having spent the last thirty minutes chewing all the skin from his finger-tips, started talking to himself again. He seems to have a particular dislike for Fareham which is unsurprising given that it is, according to the dreary voice on the intercom, one of many locations we are visiting that involves travellers walking the length of a three mile long train in order to disembark at some random venue where the platform measures less than four feet. In fact, judging by my travelling companion’s utterances, it may well be the second time we’ve been here during this interminable journey.

I’ve been up to town to see the new Van Gogh exhibition. What joy! Firstly, there is the pleasure of having a daughter who lives in Bromley who possesses an extremely laid back partner. Not for me the anxieties of wondering how to pass the time with one’s son-in-law who is keen to off-load the old baggage. We meet at Waterloo and instead of some marathon-like yomp to Kent, we partake of a little wine and beer on the platform in a leisurely style before chatting our way onwards to all points east. Obviously, the satisfaction of watching the world and his wife pass by whilst imbibing a surprisingly good Shiraz is marginally counteracted by discovering that Waterloo is second only in price in the whole world to doing likewise in St. Mark’s Square, Venice. But who cares and what joy to get up late the next morning and carelessly plan the trip into London.


Mind you, the big day out is fraught with potential difficulties if your daughter is a very well organised school teacher. For a start, I didn’t help matters by having lost my cross-London travel ticket by the time we disembarked at Charing Cross. Apparently, we are only one stop away from our destination by the tube that we might have used had I still been in possession of the said rover’s ticket. My purse and handbag are taken from me and searched thoroughly whilst I sit happily in a semi-comatose state of existence knowing only that she won’t find the missing ticket. I can’t understand how you lost it says Little Miss Perfect. I expect it fell out when I retrieved my fags I say. The usual mutterings about lung cancer ensue. Do you want to go to the toilet she asks? No thank-you. Two ladies, aged about forty and sixty emerge. Do you want to go to the toilet the younger asks the elder. She speaks to her mother like you speak to me I observe pleasantly. Well, you always want to go to the toilet says my daughter to the mother apparently on the verge of incontinence addled Alzheimers.


As soon as we’d come out of the exhibition we were planning how to get back in. It was glorious. Sometimes I go to bed unable to sleep because my head is full of France. It seems that my life is focused on trying to determine ways to return to the south. If I could only write the words in the way that Van Gogh captured the essence I would be a very rich woman. And here’s the surprise with this tremendous event: not only are we faced with far more paintings than we had imagined or anticipated, but we have these carefully chosen and beautifully illustrated letters that he worded in four different languages. And of course, what my daughter and I have shared on more than one occasion is the first hand experience of Arles, Les Alpilles, the mausoleum and the starry, starry nights of St. Remy; as well as the stupendous projections of Van Gogh in the Cathedral of Images. What lucky, privileged women we are.

The rat man cometh

I haven’t previously mentioned the latest four-legged friend that currently inhabits my garden for obvious reasons: a rat is not a possession to boast about. When the ice and sleet first kicked in, (there is little that resembles snow in Dorset), I had a day off work, feeling, in all senses of the expression, under the weather. Sick days are marked by an excuse to watch day-time TV: Bargain Hunt awaits. If we have a colleague who is feeling particularly depressed…and let’s face it, there are a lot of those around these days…we always suggest they stay home for the day, wrap themselves up in a blanket on the settee and watch the Jeremy Kyle Show. If nothing else, they’ll soon realize the people they spend Monday to Friday with are not quite as awful as they’d come to believe.

Anyway, as it was so cold and miserable, I thought I’d sprinkle a few nuts on the patio so I could watch the little birds. No sooner had I settled myself down, than Ratty made his first appearance on the decking. I emailed work for advice and had so many replies that it was obvious that a new wave of Bubonic Plague was imminent. Respondents had diverse ideas, mostly ranging from ‘draw the curtains and hope it will go away’ to ‘why not invite it in for company’. You can always depend on the sympathy vote.

I stopped feeding the birds for a week but, contrary to popular opinion, it made no difference: the rat became bolder and bolder. I telephoned the environmental health people at the council. They were about as useful as a chocolate teapot and offered to charge me £29.50 to come out and put some poison down. I can do that myself…I was thinking more in the line of traps. Now apparently, with poison, comes a moral dilemma. It seems the rat will die a long and lingering death which is inhumane. Yes, so is Salmonella and Black Death. B & Q do a wonderful choice of poisons. The shelves are virtually empty and the queues at the tills are three deep with folk clutching rat bait. (What about cats? Exactly: what about cats. Go and poo in your own garden). The poison comes with its own handy to construct cardboard boxes which I secreted under the decking. Helpful advice: if the poison disappears, the rat has eaten it. If the poison remains the rat has cleared off or is dead. No advice is given as to the meaning of the trays disappearing altogether.

Well, you can be assured that the rat is more scared of you than you of it they said. Oh yes? It no longer bats an eyelid if I make a lot of noise with the patio door; it just sits there and looks at me. And of course, I’m assuming it’s the same rat each time. In her usual helpful way, daughter number one, who has read Wind in the Willows too many times, suggests I give it a name. I have, I say. Oh really? What is it called? Bastard I reply.

I bought a trap and because I’m rather attached to my fingers, I asked Phil to come and help me set it. Phil says I mustn’t wear any perfume in case it recognises me. So when did rodents become au fait with Georgio Beverly Hills? In the kitchen, we fill the receptacle with peanut butter, a substance I haven’t seen for some time because, much as I like it, I am forbidden nuts. I’ve bought the smooth variety so I can eat the remainder. Phil tests the trap which means that, although he still has all fingers intact, the spring no longer works. We search the garden for twigs, find one and mange to keep the lever raised. We choose a suitable venue and the trap is set.

I came home from work today expecting to find a headless pigeon. Instead, I discovered that the empty trap is still set, replete with ingredients but, has been moved down the garden out of the path of Ratty. Now that is one clever rodent. The plot continues.

Carpets and suchlike

Not much action in the blogosphere lately as there’s little to write about except the weather. However, as arctic conditions are forecast to be with us for the foreseeable future, one must press onwards and upwards. After all, like it or not, we are British and along with the stiff upper lip, everything else remains frozen.

All is weather related. For a start, I had to get the man-child back to the land of the sheep in time for the commencement of second year examinations. The window of opportunity was shrouded in ice and sleet so a trip to Swansea looked out of the question. Maybe, Salisbury was a better point of exit? Salisbury may not have much to recommend it, apart from the obvious, but it does have a railway station at which direct trains to Newport stop. Quite a coup really given that catching a train to Wales from Poole involves registration for the Duke of Edinburgh’s gold award. Naturally, the lad wanted door to door travel laid on and a major sulk ensued. Is this the same person that has traversed the length and width of the sub-continent without a whinge? Who can say? Anyway, getting out of bed at the allotted time was a non-starter as was packing a bag or six; which meant, along with slow driving on precariously surfaced roads, we missed the train for which tickets had been pre-booked. Our student of business management had incorrectly written down the reference number for said ticket so was unable to retrieve it from the machine and thus unable to obtain a replacement, refund or anything else beginning with R. I left him at the station with cheese and pickle sandwiches and skidded on back to Dorset.

Meanwhile, there had been an incident with a cup of tea, which was most unusual as the majority of accidents indoors seem to involve red wine. Two years’ worth of spillage has latterly been covered by a small sheep-skin rug purchased in the sales. Accordingly, I moved to the other settee only to chuck a mug of Darjeeling over the only part of the carpet thus far unblemished. The apparently fortuitous positioning of the next to useless Radio Times only served to separate the ensuing stain into two distinct blobs. A very nice man arrived from the insurance company with a number of carpet samples. I was all for the black feeling it would enhance my current ‘shabby chic’ décor. The carpet man was not in agreement feeling, I suspected, that I was more shabby than chic. Looks as if it’s going to be beige again then.

Some way up

I asked Jack whether he had any idea of how he wanted to celebrate his birthday. It’s not until June but he’ll be 21 and these things have to be catered for. We were on the top of the world at the time. Flowers’ Barrow to be precise; looking down in one direction over Worbarrow Bay from whence the sometime inhabitants of nearby Tyneham had been relocated during WW2 in order that the MOD could practise for the D-Day landings on the beach; and in the other direction, to Arish Mell and other latter day smuggling points.

‘Is the 21st birthday significant then?’ asked the man-child experiencing day two of the New Year’s Eve hangover. I explained the concept of the key of the door but he didn’t really get it. Then I explained how this has been superseded by the 18th birthday. ‘Well’, says he, ‘I had a door key long before that’. ‘Obviously, because in between they invented latch-key children of whom you were necessarily one’ I replied. He didn’t get that bit either.

Meanwhile, the sun was showing off. ‘You thought yesterday was good’ it said; ‘how about this for a follow-up?’ ‘Superb’ we said; ‘thank-you so much’. We rounded a gorse-covered corner and startled Bambi who had, apparently, become separated from the rest of the herd. Bambi ran into the bushes but there was no escape and we could see him anxiously watching us through the winter-bare branches. Behind him was the fence that marked the way to the land of unexploded shells. It’s a shame: on one hand you have to keep to the path because, more than sixty years on, the villagers have not been allowed back and the MOD are still firing away up here; alternatively, as no-one can build anything that might spoil this epitome of England’ green and pleasant land it’s a haven for wild life.

Potential birthday arrangements proved too tricky as it coincides with the world cup. I had, prosaically, thought about Newtown Conservative Cub but Prague seems to be the current favourite. ‘I don’t need you to be there’ he said. Oh ye of the short-term memory: I can remember the fall-out when I failed to materialise last year being otherwise occupied on the banks of the River Jordan wearing my world’s worst mother outfit. We deferred and made off for our favourite eatery: the Courtyard Café at Corfe where we enjoyed a bowl of Dorset Blue Vinney and Broccoli soup before embarking on a fruitless search for venison sausages.

Another four and a half miles walked after yesterday’s three mile hike. Time for a cup of tea and a raid on the Quality Street tin which now only houses strawberry crèmes and those nasty purple ones.

Repeats

What resolutions that have been secretly made have already been abandoned until Monday when the gloom of real life kicks in. No sign of Jack by 11.30 this new year's morning. On 'phoning my son to wish him a happy one, I disturbed his reverie, still dozing in his babygrow in the back of a car somewhere in the depths of Swanage. So, no change there then. Various incoming calls were received from those passing on their own seasonal greetings: one of whom I had not heard from for so long, I thought it must have at least been the ghost of Christmas past and was surprised to hear she hadn't, in fact, had her voice box removed. I dismantled the tree and removed all the cards, saving those from folk I hadn't sent one to assuming, from their silence during the last year, that they were all dead. Maybe I'll drop them a line.

Today was a glorious sunny start to the new year. Ever since the little dog joined our extended family, we have walked the Dorset countryside with him. We should be so fit except that it's all counteracted by an urgent need to see off the remaining Christmas cake, mince pies and Quality Street along with half empty bottles of liqueur. Houns Tout was our destination today. As the weather was so fine, it was a foregone conclusion that the world and his wife would be on the beach and no-one would've ventured up on the hills behind Corfe. Wrong. It was like the exodus into Egypt up there: hoardes of them enjoying the splendid views along the Jurassic coastline. It didn't detract from the pleasure though.

Home again for a long evening of TV. I don't generally watch the thing so have to make up for investing in a license by getting all my viewing done in one go. First, The Railway Children but, sadly, not the original in which the final tear-jerking scene cannot be surpassed. Next, Charlie & The Chocolate Factory which was the original but which I still managed to sleep through. Thirdly, The Italian Job...naturally the original. Why did anyone see fit to re-make any of these films along with Pride & Prejudice? There are some things that simply can't be improved. Colin Firth emerging from the lake for example. Lastly, Spinal Tap. Never seen it before but always wanted to. Loved it. I particularly enjoyed a rare evening in with the prodigal son even if he continued with his irritating habit of putting all his used sweet wrappers back in the tin before promptly falling asleep.

One strange occurrence: went to Tesco at 4pm. It was shut! Happy Days