One thing leads to…a moment in time

I’m always writing. It’s more than a hobby; it’s a necessity. When I took my sabbatical year in Provence in 2007, I wrote a whole book. Eighty thousand words. And yet I failed to mention a small incident which I suddenly recalled this evening. Perhaps it seemed inconsequential at the time. Possibly I failed to recognise that the other person involved would still be my good friend five years down the line and in another country.

Post Christmas, feeling a bit down, I took myself to the sales. Well, just one sale actually, but, nonetheless, very satisfactory. The dress and top I’d yearned for two months ago were available for half the price as was a pair of shiny, flat black patent shoes (not those I mentioned in a previous blog, but as good as). And a pair of baggy black trousers with white stars…a stellar purchase if ever there was one. Of course, as the shoes had no heels, the trousers were too long.

It’s always tricky taking up a pair of trousers on your own. You really need someone else to pin up the bottoms in order to achieve an even hem. And whilst I was mulling this over, I was unexpectedly transported back to the tiny village of Graveson in the south of France where I was standing on the dining table of someone I barely knew. Beverley was doing her best with my new, fresh from Avignon, Armand Thiery trousers.

I’d arrived alone in an unknown place where I knew no-one so I advertised my presence at a shop whose main customers were ex-pats – Best of British.
English woman seeks friends.
Well, no good beating about the bush. And Beverley answered my call. Beverley had led a peaceful existence up until then. Later, her daughter would tell me:

My mother just used to sit in the sun and read before you arrived.

Sorry Bev. She should’ve told me sooner. I misjudged that one.

Bev took me to St Remy for a quiet coffee. I took Bev to Avignon for shopping and lunch and people-watching. I made Bev and Martin come and eat in my tiny bed-sit. I instigated walks where we got lost in the heat of the day. Together, we organised a bilingual wake. I helped them move house and virtually moved in. I was a NOISY interruption.

When I was ill, she didn’t believe me and made me walk around St Paul de Mausole before leaving me in the car-park outside Intermarche whilst she went in to buy meat that no-one would eat.

They didn’t eat it because she’d rushed me to the hospital where she waited for hours. She got my daughter over, housed and fed her, visited me for a week and took me back to her house on the eighth day for recuperation.




For want of a nail maybe. For want of a few pins I found a lovely friend.

English woman seeks friends.

Another one bites the dust

And off they went. Half a league, half a league. Some to the north; some to the west. Some so far away I have no idea of direction. Cannon to the right of them. Cannon to the left of them. Cannon in front of them. And a shed load of cannon behind them. And none with a mobile phone between them that works. Or if it does, you’re not allowed to use it. The man-child sends a text which reads

It costs me £1.27 to send a text. There’s another £1.27 gone then son.

Here’s a couple of puzzled looking folk. Perhaps they’re wondering how long it will take to clean the joint up. Not long. Three loads of washing, some dusting and vacuuming. A sensible decision to ignore the carnage in the fridge. A replacement of garden chairs. Bob’s your uncle. Fanny’s your aunt. Job done. Man-child sends a message. Having made the effort to post some photos so he can see Christmas in Poole from a distance, he writes to say he’s noticed his slippers seem to be on his brother-in-law’s feet. Was there a man dismayed?

And boldly we will ride and well tomorrow as we make our way into the jaws of death. Well, Clarke’s Village at Street to be exact. Off to spend a tiny portion of our Christmas box. And afterwards, weather permitting, a brief jaunt up to the top of Glastonbury Tor or, perhaps, a quiet moment at the Chalice Well. This before we return to Dorset, shattered and sundered, to celebrate our newest festivity…the Feast of the Leftovers.

This entails some careful planning: four crackers between six people. Three ancient jacket spuds cut into segments for frying. Some bacon cooked in ginger (an additional ingredient which nobody noticed the first time round). Seven orange segments in brandy. An unopened Stollen. A recently discovered packet of pitta bread which, by tomorrow, may have turned blue. No loaves and no fishes but three bottles of wine and no reason to get up early the following day. Honour the charge they made.

And here's me wearing an appropriate Christmas outfit

Bah humbug

Three sleeps before Christmas and I’m in Sainsbury’s at 7pm. Actually, that needs qualifying: three sleeps if you can sleep. Something weird was going on last night. I went to sleep at 11.30pm and woke up at what I thought must be about 6am...wide awake, in fact…and discovered it was 1am. Damn and blast it. At 2.30am, the dawn chorus started. What? The birds shut up and went back to bed at 3.15am equally confused. The next door neighbour’s racoon was scrabbling frantically and noisily around in its Wendy House. The BBC World Service informed me that, in Mexico, the countdown for the end of the world, according to the Mayan calendar, had begun. I worried about my Christmas menu for another hour. The winter solstice…the longest night of the year. Get on with it. Things to do; people to see.

I only went to Sainsbury’s because I still believe it to be a bit more up-market than Tesco and I was
looking for some imitation caviar. I haven’t been there since I had an unpleasant accident in the car park a couple of years ago so I didn’t know they’d rebuilt it. I spoke to a jovial looking type on the door.

When did this happen then?
About two months ago
It looks very impressive
You can’t find a bloody thing in here any more says he.

To be fair, he was telling the truth
Yesterday, we had a family outing to Longleat and it was wonderful. It’s the first year they’ve ‘done Christmas’ at Lord Bath’s joint and I have a suspicion that it will go down in history as the best. The staff fell over themselves to be kind, pleasant and helpful; nothing could be remarked upon as being over the top and you could choose the timing of your events beforehand. It was almost understated. The best bit was the Santa Special. We thought it was just the Jungle Express with a bit of tinsel until we rounded a corner and found ourselves at the snow-covered North Pole. We disembarked and walked past the open log fire up to Santa’s shed. Each child had an especially chosen gift and the cheerful St Nick knew everyone’s names. (I forgot that, when I booked this in September, I’d submitted names and DOB). Back on the train, Santa came down the path and waved us off. Fabulous.

And in Sainsbury’s, I can’t find the so-called caviar. I’ve had three different people unsuccessfully search the aisles. Neither do they have any smoked salmon or anything else that might satisfactorily sit on my blinis. Blinis which, incidentally, are not available at Tesco according to their website and which Leonie purchased, perchance, at…Tesco. I tell the man from the butcher’s counter not to bother as I’ve lost the will to live and along comes a dear friend with her husband. No sleep and stuck in this ridiculous place with the only consolation being that I won’t have to do this next year as the world will have ended. Then I get introduced to the husband. Talk about a laugh a minute. She’s so nice. How did she end up with him? I can’t wait to get home and have some fun sticking pencils in my eyes.

In Wareham this afternoon, we go to Re-loved. You just know it’s going to be a nice shop with a name like that. Old stuff: some of it as it was and some recycled. My eye is caught by a beautiful 1930’s necklace which I silently admire before moving on. Ten minutes later, Leonie spots it

Look at this

And the kind shop-owner allows her to try it on. And, with thoughts of a wedding, Leonie buys it. And the shop-owner wraps the purchase with all the care and taste of a French sales-person. In each shop, regardless of whether we buy anything, there is conversation and shared delight of the unique goods on offer.

And in Sainsbury’s, I stand alone, minus the imitation caviar, in a state of depression. The man-child has called from Thailand and I was out. The woman on the checkout is sympathetic.

What were you looking for?











I can barely bring myself to mention the fish roe. They’ve already sent someone off on a mission to find the vanilla pods. Now, against my wishes, they send someone to locate the caviar. I know they won’t find it. Just as I’ve paid for my purchases, a woman returns brandishing a small jar of said roe.

Bugger. I wanted two of them but I haven’t the heart to say so.

Did something right then

We were down at Boscombe Vintage Market the other day. It was freezing in the Royal Arcade so we all met up in Café Nero for a welcome cup of hot chocolate. My, but it sounds salubrious…ROYAL arcade no less; Café Nero. It belies the fact that Boscombe is, I believe, officially the second poorest area in Europe. Metal shutters on virtually every building…it reeks of poverty and drugs.


My girls, who were brought up here, don’t perceive it that way though. For example, they don’t see the spillage-covered tables of Café Nero that are piled high with other people’s leftovers. They don’t know that I had to ask for a key to use the loo. They only see the place that used to house Jones’ shoe shop as they reminisce across the dirty crockery of the past.


Do you remember the rocking horse?
I wonder what ever happened to that
We always had to have the same shoes
You could have red, blue or brown
Those ones with the three little holes on the front
I used to look longingly at the black patent ones on the next shelf
(I used to have the same ones when I was a child I recall)
Be fair though. Mum always made sure she spent the money on proper shoes for us.


There wasn’t much money I remind them
No. But do you remember when we went to buy me a new dress in Laura Ashley?
What were we doing in Laura Ashley I don’t say
We were going to buy a cheap dress but I saw that lovely one with all the screwed up stitches on the front
Smocking?
Yes smocking. You said it was too expensive but I started to cry so you bought it for me.

Good grief. That doesn’t sound like me. (It gets better)

Yes. And because you bought Leonie one, you bought me one in a different colour
But we had to keep them for best. Just for parties and stuff
They were lovely those dresses

I don’t remember any of this. We must have gone without something in order to finance such expense. Those two. They have no idea how touched I am that they have kept and shared this memory.

On the way back to the car, we pass the fish and chip shop.

Look. It’s the same man in the chip shop says Leonie.

God. How awful to have been stuck in this place for over twenty years. What happened to his life? These are more unexpressed thoughts

He was so nice to us she says
Perhaps you could go and say hello and get a free bag of chips I remark half-jokingly
Do you think he’ll remember the pictures we used to draw for him asks my 31 year old daughter?

God knows. I’d forgotten all about them along with the Laura Ashley dresses

I thought we lived in a grotty place all those years ago. I thought I hadn’t done very well when it came to providing them with a decent place to live in. They escaped before I managed to. Maybe it was me they were running from.

Christmassy

Over at my favourite cinema, the Rex in Wareham, it’s jumping. Being barred from going upstairs – they’re not ready for you yet – scores of us are trapped in the tiny foyer where there’s an opportunity to buy a couple of books on Dorset and some raffle tickets to win a meal at Moreton Tea Rooms. We don’t want any of this but the ladies in aprons are relentless. We escape to the bar which, being about five feet square, is also packed to the hilt. Leonie manages to order a festive Baileys. Bob the barman pours a generous measure or three into a large glass and estimates the cost to be £2. It’s a fair price. Eventually, we’re allowed into the auditorium.

Glass of mulled wine asks a friendly type with a flask.
Why not?

We peruse (and taste) the local olives, crisps, cold meats and mince pies before finding a seat to listen to the four-strong brass band playing carols. I don’t need to tell regular readers about this place. It used to be the last gas-lit cinema in England but they’ve finally conceded to health and security requisites and installed electricity. The seats are the same though: hard but comfortable.

Anthea ascends the stage and introduces the evening. There will be a short seasonal film, especially notable for having won an Oscar in 1869, followed by an interval. During the latter, there will be Christmas pudding flavoured ice-cream for sale. A collective mmmmmmmmm permeates the room accompanied by a loud rustling and jingling as folk reach for their token contribution. It’s Margaret’s birthday. Everyone looks to the aisle to see who Margaret is before the band strikes up that familiar tune and we all sing in congratulatory tones. The noisier part of the audience has missed the introduction.

Whose birthday is it?
Don’t know. Jesus?

And an ancient but enjoyable ‘short’ commences to be followed by an agreeable round of applause.

It’s the interval and the ice-cream event is carnage. Clearly, the organisers are confused by the bonhomie which they did not expect. I have collected money from a number of people in my row that I didn’t know half an hour ago. Leonie stands up and asks for nine ice-creams.

How many asks the incredulous usherette.
Nine please

The people in the row behind us are told, rather abruptly, only one per person.
Then there are not enough spoons. Some people have to wait until more are rushed out. Leonie, forever on the wedding diet, is the only person in the place without an ice-cream. (She might as well have had one as later she’ll be cooking late-night toast).

The main feature commences. It’s the 1945 version of Christmas in Connecticut. And very funny it is too. The woman sitting behind me is in fits of laughter throughout and keeps telling everyone how they used to watch films like this. Afterwards, I remark to Leonie that had this appeared on TV at home, we would’ve immediately switched it off. Here, however, in this delicious company, we thoroughly enjoyed it.

Outside in the cold, dark Dorset night, we admire Wareham’s sparse but pretty Christmas lights. And a multitude of stars.
It smells like winter says Leonie.

O'er all the weary world

It begins again, but, this year, almost imperceptibly. To say I’m not organised is an understatement. Arriving late at work the other day, I noticed that I had my dress on back to front. It doesn’t bode well. The first week in December and normally I’d have the presents purchased and wrapped; possibly, even placed under the tree. The tree doesn’t yet exist and neither do most of the gifts. My turkey is not waiting its turn on the butcher’s list because there isn’t going to be a turkey. What might replace the foul fowl is, as yet, undecided. At what point will Christmas begin? Actually, looking in my diary, I find it might have started without me noticing. Seven nights out on the trot and that doesn’t include daytime celebrations.

We went over to the Rex at Wareham last night to see Andrea Arnold’s new take on Wuthering Heights. This is not for the faint-hearted or those seeking bonnets. Life at the farmhouse was dirty and vicious. Some of the sparse audience got up and left. Perhaps they were expecting Keira Knightly. It was so atmospheric that we had to cover ourselves with our coats to stave off the wind from the Yorkshire moors. That might just have been the Rex though. Jocelyn, from the ticket office, came in to watch the second half of the film and promptly fell asleep in the front row. Loudly. We’re talking snoring here. Emotionally exhausted, we made our dark way back to the car. We’re going to see a professional story-teller doing A Christmas Carol on Monday. Chrissie says it will be more uplifting. Don’t count your turkeys…

Tonight, the carol service. It’s a dilemma for those of us that don’t really believe in the story but like the music. The torrential rain beats down on the wooden roof of the church but can’t drown out the sounds of our singing. Sue and I are sat behind friends. During the mince pies and chocolate- covered ginger biscuit preamble, I’ve already mentioned to everyone that I can’t hold a tune but, to my left, is a woman with a loud and beautiful voice. The friends in front keep turning round to look. They think it’s me; that I’ve been joking about my musical abilities. The choir offer renditions of French and Cornish Christmas songs. How apposite that they’ve chosen the places where I’ve spent the last year. And how thankful I am to be in Dorset and not falling off the map in Barbary.

Tomorrow it’s the Christmas lunch at work and Saturday sees us at Christchurch Priory for the Messiah. Meanwhile, I receive a short message from the million-miles-away travelling man-child to tell me Laos is beautiful. I knew it would be. The next time I have any money I’m going to the Mekong Delta. For now, after a transient year, I’m sticking with regained friends and cherished customs.

And which Christmas carol does the title of this blog come from?