Life goes on

I’m writing about allotments. Earlier this afternoon, I spent an enjoyable hour with John Fancy, chairman of the Upton Allotment Association. In his sixties, he’s lived here most of his life apart from three years spent in Hamworthy when he first got married. Hamworthy is less than two miles from Upton. He refers to this time as when he went travelling. I’m weeding my notes, which is the closest I’ll get to horticulture. On the television, Egypt is burning. The president of Tunisia has fled; Jordan is threatened; Yemen is holding a rage day; Israel is anxious. The Middle East is erupting and I’m considering asparagus.

Earlier, I wrote about inheritance whilst the sausages were defrosting. I recalled missing a Girl Guides meeting due to a cold one November Friday evening. Unexpectedly, I was able to watch the Harry Worth show; but not until the evening’s entertainment had been precipitated by the news of John Kennedy’s assassination. It’s compulsory for people of my age to recount one’s whereabouts. I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday but I can recall ridiculous detail of that Friday in 1963. I was reprimanded the following morning for an inappropriate attitude. I was 11. Bugger the BBC for showing a comedy programme.

I got up late on Sunday, August 31st, 1997. My small son, left to his own devices, complained that there were no children’s’ programmes on TV. Switch over then, I said through a mouthful of toast. I have came the reply. It’s just a lot of people talking .The phone rang. A friend wanted to know how I was experiencing Diana’s death. Badly.

My daughter was travelling back from Crete in September 2001. The 11th to be precise. The taxi company had already failed to send the booked car to take her and her friends to the airport for departure. They phoned to say it was unlikely they’d pick her up at the airport. A tirade of abuse followed on my part. We suggest you put your television on they said. Good point.

I’m waiting for the sausages to cook. My best friend’s daughter is bunkered down in Townsville waiting for a cyclone of previously unknown force to destroy her town. I remembered to telephone this time. Hairdresser tomorrow.