Christmas 2012

I really wasn't this blurry - hardly drank at all honest!

I really must get a better camera or take more time with the photos I go for. This was a disappointing crop.

Well, that’s another one ticked off. Quite successfully too. The fourteen disparate personalities gelled happily on Christmas day and the cooking team (chiefly me and granddad) worked like house elves to provide the feast all hot and at the right moment. Bad cracker jokes, silly hats, nice wines for each course and (though I say it myself) an excellent pudding. Spillage on carpet, a few tears from over-tired sprogs, much good will amongst adults and parting kisses from me which unfortunately spread the cold I didn’t       know I had coming on. 

 So that’s the main traditions observed. I felt a bit sorry for B who is used to going to church in the morning, singing along with carols from Kings College whilst cooking the lunch, then watching the Queen’s speech in the afternoon. None of which we have done for longer than I can remember. 

The weather was so brilliant Boxing Day some of us had a walk around the bay in the sunshine, saying hello to scores of smiley strangers also happy to be taking the air in the knowledge that the shops where closed. (I suppose there were sales somewhere but we don’t talk about that.) The snow-capped peaks of mountains in the background reminded us that the son and biggest grandson were ski-ing in the Cairngorms where the conditions were excellent (which doesn’t happen so often in Scotland; the day after that there were gales  and the runs were closed.) Sanders was able to try his new ski boots, one of which was really comfortable and the other would have been if he had realised what was hurting and removed the headphones from the toe. He’s good at driving through the pain barrier that lad.

The smaller boys got Furbies from their aunt and me. These creatures are just as amusing for adults as children. On Christmas Eve when the parents woke them into life I began to wonder if their sons would get given them at all. These beasties learn English gradually, which is a pity as I suspect some of their vocabulary is going to be a bit rude. They also talk to each other; this made bedtime for their new owners quite difficult. It was a happy change to hear the 6 year old and the 4 year old human child complaining because their pets were talking and keeping them awake. That’s karma boys.

The Cornish wreckers left yesterday and got back safely 12 hours later, leaving me to my own bed (hooray) and a house that looks superficially back to normal. Interesting anomalies that have turned up so far: an apple in the airing cupboard (partially eaten,) a light sabre in a potted plant; lego in the fridge; chocolate Santas down the back of chairs; some really juicy smears on the French windows and the mirrored cupboard doors in the bedrooms; a few undergarments that might be missed.

So, not quite back to normal. I just took a long and refreshing bath, followed by a shower to get every possible centimetre of me wet, only to reach for a towel and remember they were all  being washed. It isn't the same drying on a cotton nightie.

Well, that's it! My last day behind the counter. I waited in vain for the engraved watch and bottle of bubbly and my retirement speech wasn't needed but it still felt like an Occasion. I've sat in that small space for many MANY hours over the last 8 years.

Perhaps in six months time I shall miss the craich but for the moment  I'm relishing my freedom. The next couple of weeks are going to be full of activity so I'll be eased gently into empty days that I have to fill with my own ingenuity/ creativity. There are so many nice things one can do around here but my aim is to use the time to write, not fill it up with writer's groups, art lessons and Toastmasters (although it's tempting because they are a jolly bunch.... I went to their Christmas Dinner where we played 'Call My Bluff'  and my mate J, somewhat in her cups, gave us a rendering of 'Right Said Fred' in a thick Lancashire accent.)

 We shall see.

I thought I liked the poetry of Yeats but when I looked through my grand Folio Society ‘complete works of’ I couldn’t find anything that sparked for me today. Probably tomorrow things will be different. What I did read, in his ‘General Introduction,’ was the following:

“A poet writes always of his personal life, in his finest work out of its tragedy, whatever it be, remorse, lost love or mere loneliness; he never speaks directly as to someone at the breakfast table, there is always a phantasmagoria. Even when the poet seems most himself he has been reborn as an idea, something intended, complete.” 

 later: “.....we adore him because nature has grown intelligible, and by doing so a part of our creative power.”  

Also: “We know everything because we are everything.”

It’s thoughts like these that make me adore Yeats!

I’ve also been re-reading Lessing’s ‘The Four-Gated City’ looking for something different to the last read-through, the generated thoughts rather than the story-line. There’s a moment when Martha Quest, watching the young teenage son of her employer, realises he is in that brief flash of beauty that boys pass through somewhere in adolescence, the moment before they become solid, crystalised, set into their moulds. The moment when choir boys look like angels and rather take ones breath away.Young girls see Francis simply as a handsome boy; ‘To see the rest one had to be a conspirant with time. That’s what age brings, new insights, new perspectives.’

A few not-very-clear photos of photos of Nicholas Roerich's paintings. Not clear enough and not intense enough but I wanted to show Gillian. I would love to see the originals. Along with Chagall and Franz Marc he is a favourite of mine. I do like colour, especially blue, and they all use it so well.

The Sandman and I enjoyed ‘Skyfall.’  Who wouldn’t! ( Probably my ex, who would have found the volume reprehensibly high. I love it when the seats vibrate!) The motorbike chase at the outset, across the rooftops of the Grand Bazaar somewhere in Turkey (Istanbul?) was excellent, although my old-wifey personality deplored the waste of good fruit as stalls crumbled and melons rolled. Sandy says I jumped noticeably several times in the course of the film; I probably did. The mark of a good movie IMO is  if it gets my gut reacting.

The funny bits, nicely timed, were the best of course, and there were plenty, though distressingly often mixed up with killing moments, of which there were far too many.  Bond may not have shown (as much) callousness over his female conquests, but he does take corpses in his stride. (except one, but to name that would be a spoiler). Best moment, if I have to pick one,  was Judi Dench’s cultured voice ordering, with lady-like asperity , an operative to  ‘Take the bloody shot.’  

JD is my favourite ever actress. (Spell-check is very proper and doesn’t like that. I should have put ‘actor. ‘ Get stuffed Sp-ch.) I talent-spotted her in the early 70’s when she was in a TV production ( forgotten the name of it of course.)* It was a family drama, each episode being the same event through the eyes of one of the main characters. She shone then, and has shone ever since. 

I also enjoyed the new Q,  a boffin-geek, barely out of teenage acne, who cheerfully shows Bond up for being outdated and possibly obsolete.

Location shots were highly enjoyable too, especially as they came up the A9 to the Highlands - almost home!

S and I played air-hockey in the cinema foyer whilst we waited for the pop-corn to be mucked out from the last showing.  Now there’s a game I could get enthusiastic about. Does it count as a sport? I almost broke a sweat.  

* Thanks to Google: It was 'Talking to a Stranger' by John Hopkins and was in 4 episodes!

Four Quartets.

With nothing much to read (except Stephen King’s ‘11.22.63’ which is so far rather good) I felt in a mood for some poetry. ‘The Four Quartets’ is always my first choice when I get into that mood and I always find some salient wisdom.

From:    Burnt Norton:

Footfalls echo in the memory

Down the passage which we did not take

Towards the door we never opened

Into the rose-garden. My words echo

Thus in your mind.

                             But to what purpose

Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves

I do not know.

.......

Go, go, go said the bird: human kind

Cannot bear very much reality.

...........

Time past and time future

What might have been and what has been

Point to one end, which is always present.

From:   East Coker

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older

The world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated

Of dead and living. Not the intense moment

Isolated, with no before and after.

--------

Trying to use words, and every attempt

Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure.

Because one has only learned to get the better of words.

from:  Little Gidding.

We shall not cease from exploration

And the end of all our exploring

Will be to arrive where we started. 

-------

And all shall be well and

All manner of things shall be well

by the purification of the motive

In the ground of our beseechings.

(these first two lines, quoted from Julien of Norwich, always make me tearful.)

10 days into the South Beach Diet (similar to Atkins but fat-free-ish with less steak and bacon) I have developed a radical, nausea-driven, dislike of eggs that will follow me through the rest of my life, so breakfast has had to include carbs in the form of these devilish crispbreads that have virtually nothing of anything in them but fibre. They taste like heaven. The spread is Benecol. the cheese is reduced fat. 

Last week I felt extremely ill, getting lots of those moments when the world goes white. I checked with the new medication and read: ‘Should not be taken by those on a diet of less than 1000 calories a day.”  I wasn’t eating anywhere near that amount. Anyway, it’s settled down now and with a bit of adaptation (no more fecking eggs for breakfast) I should be able to keep it up for a while. It has been a problem because I’m lazy about cooking for myself and when I get home from the shop at 2.30 I want something instant which has usually meant fish (quick dry-fried) or organic tinned tomato soup which has, distressingly, got sugar in it!  The fish is OK (there has been some wonderful Dover sole on sale ) but there’s only so much fish I can eat in a week. The diet encourages steak (the man’s an American after all) which I don’t normally eat but by the end of last week all the customers were beginning to look like steaks so I bought a couple of slices of sirloins, then had beef at the  carvery  with Sanders on Sunday. The customers are safe.

A couple of inches have gone from where my waist should be and where the ‘Cushon Syndrome’ from the prednisilone has settled. I still won’t be asked onto the catwalk but I suppose it’s a result. No idea if I’ve lost weight - it’ll just be water so far anyway. My BMI was fine before but 12 yr olds have to tell you to do something in order to feel they have the power. Huff!

I can’t help feeling proud of myself as I baked the required 4 Christmas cakes and three pudding whilst in the early days of starvation without stealing so much as a single current.That’s will-power for you - or the need to outwit the 12yr old who wanted to double the dose of medication without even a second blood test. 

I’m too much of a coward to ditch the doctors altogether as two of my friends with high prostate scores for cancer have done. Both seem to have found alternative ways of dealing with the disease, one including marijuana. Now, hearing about the other, the second is off to Amsterdam tomorrow to go that happy route.

The big news is that the shop will close on 15th December and I will finally be put out to grass. I can't wait.

The customers are sad (I'm getting weary of fielding cries of woe) but C's health has suffered from stress over the years and managing two businesses has proved too much. There are possibilities in the offing, for instance the stock might be taken over and it move to another premises to be run by others. I hope this happens. Ours is a very health-conscious town.

No plans yet for my own next steps but I do have some unfinished projects, and people to visit (finances willing.)

Of course we may all come to an end in December, as the Mayan calendar suggests. My theory is they ran out of rock.... or patience...

It’s been a while since I felt like adding to this diary. Life is what happens when you’re not writing about it. Someone didn’t say that, I think it was a Beatle. Looking back the time has all been coloured by this newly diagnosed disease. I hope that diabetes type 2, will become just another minor annoyance and fade into the background, but at the moment it still feels like a signal from my body that time is getting shorter. In other words it’s making me morbid!

Also it’s making me grumpy. 

‘Wolf Hall’ didn’t help. I knew I wouldn’t like it but felt obliged to give it a hearing. The plot is old - A level history covered it well enough, and the characters were no more real than the history text books made them at the time. I can’t believe the research was particularly arduous.  The narrative skipped around, the cast was too large, the politics as boring as today’s, and the discomfort of living in Tudor times definitely didn’t raise my spirits. She does write very well; it’s not her fault I didn’t enjoy it. I should have known better than to try it.

Iain Rankin’s ‘Standing in a Dead Man’s Grave’ brought Rebus back and was all the better for it. I find the other chap - Fox? - very upright and dull. A Philip Pullman children’s book  ‘Count Karlstein’ caught my eye whilst I was away and proved quite amusing, but not in the same league as the Northern Lights trilogy. Less amusing was a book given to me by a much valued friend who lived on various west coast islands. It was written by a man who took up sharking for a living and met Gavin Maxwell at the time Gavin was in the middle of one of his many, usually abortive, schemes for making money, this time sharking. My friend bought it for me because he knows I like anything that touches on the life of Gavin Maxwell, who I consider an interesting character.  (His biography by Douglas Botting was excellent. Read at a time that I had a special interest in bipolar people and their problems, I found it very touching.) This particular book, on the other hand, wasn’t very well written, didn’t have much about Gavin, and had far too much about shark fishing, catching, gutting etc. etc. in bloody detail.

That about covers the reading I’ve been doing. 

The trip to the opera was amusing. More amusing than my purist ex felt it should have been. 'The Magic Flute' was written as a fairy tale and turning it into a quasi pantomime seems to me a valid way to go; not so to those who have seen more serious productions apparently. The same purists also complained about the amount of speaking; the recitative was spoken rather than half sung and the lyrics had been translated into English (they still had those supra-titles theatres have nowadays to make sure we didn’t miss the plot.) I sat, with my artist friend Jo (also a purist sadly) in a ‘reduced view’ seat from whence we had a brilliant view of the orchestra and, more importantly, the audience. Even though the theatre is in a town 25 miles from the one in which we live, the number of people that we knew was impressive. 

We missed this extra entertainment; an elderly lady - even older than me at a guess - slept through the first act, was woken for her glass of white wine in the interval and returned to sleep comfortably through the second act until near the end when she woke shouting: ‘Turn it down will you! You know I don’t like it that loud!’

First love.

I got home to a very surprising, very welcome, contact with the boy I was strongly attached to for three years from the Lower Sixth, through A levels, through a year working in the County Library (he in a bank) and into our first year at separate Teacher's Training Colleges. 50 years have passed since the last phone conversation and exchange of letters, but when I picked up the phone on Tuesday I immediately recognised his voice.

The contact has helped me throw away a script I wrote for myself many years back which had him relieved to be free of me. Not so. He even looked for me in various ways, including talking to my father (who didn't pass the conversation on) and to some girls hitch-hiking from college into Cambridge (as we did frequently!) They didn't pass it on either. I wonder who they were. Possibly I had already left and was married.

It's quite difficult to say how much this has meant to me. He is still happily married to the girl who was hovering in the background the last time I visited him at his college in Sheffield; I am happily unmarried with a varied life behind me. We both have children and grandchildren. We've both had ups, and both had serious downs. All the difference it actually makes is in my mind, and, it seems, in his. My life story has changed. 

I looked out photographs, could find none of him except on the long curly school photo, and he found none either, but maybe  the memory is enough. I've always liked smartly dressed men - he looked wonderfully lean and handsome  in his school blazer, as did most of the Sixth Form boys. I also remember his kindness, tenderness, and good humour. I'm happy to be sentimental about my first love.

A good trip.

It's so nice to find I can still travel, at least to the ends of the British Isles if not the Earth. Walking for a sustained length of time is a problem and getting to the taxi rank at Euston with a case full of 2 very heavy fruit cakes felt like trekking in Nepal (as I imagine that to be) but everything went smoothly once I'd had time to gasp for oxygen.  I saw Oxford again, the above photo is an alternative view to the gleaming spires), my daughter's pretty flat, Brown's (delicious fishcake, best ever!) and - oh joy - a real bookshop! It's so long since I have seen thousands of books on shelves; I nearly swooned. Browsing Amazon just isn't the same.

In Cornwall the temperatures where so different to Scotland I thought I'd really gone abroad, until the last day, which was when it snowed on Dartmoor. Bit chilly that morning. Intense family time watching the boys swim, the family dress up for a Hallowe'en party, then the two birthdays I had gone to celebrate.  Both birthday boys behaved nicely and didn't get to over-excited (one of then is 33 so didn't yell when his balloon popped.) Lots of cake which I baked then tried to eschew! The Hadji household is a veritable petting park with three puppies and three adult dogs vying to be cuddled. Exhausting.

‘It was a lovely evening wasn’t it?’ said the woman next to me, and indeed it had been. The Nicholson Gallery, hosting the event, had provided us with the perfect relaxed, informal ambience, comfortable chairs and a blazing fire by which to listen to our local poet Eileen Carney-Hulme read works from her two published collections, along with some poems that I’m sure will be included in the next one.

Eileen’s poetry is deceptively simple, images of cut-glass clarity painting backdrops of skies, seas, dunes, cafés, rain, or simple interiors, against which the events play out, moments of pleasure shared, sadness, joy, love and loss, obviously personal to the poet but also universal, recognisable to all listeners, evoking more than one laugh and one tear in her audience. She never lays a brush-stroke too many, never adds superfluous ornamentation.

The evening of poetry was almost unique in my experience of this small town where musical performances are more usual. It was sponsored by the local arts council . I hope there are many more like it.

More reading.

Tess Gerritson, ‘The Silent Girl’ I was given for free so skidded through it, half enjoying and just enough intrigued to keep going, but they are ephemeral so today when I came to write about it I had to search the book out because I’d forgotten title and theme. That’s forgivable in a genre meant to entertain rather than enlightenment or bother ones head with the exposition of new ideas. Still, I only keep books that I know I’m going to want to read again so it’s off the the charity shop with it next.

In a mood for something - slightly - different next I opted for a thriller and read a Sophie Hannah, found for £2 in a bric-a-brac store. “The Other Half Lives’ infuriated me with it’s contortions, hidden secrets and yet more dreadful revelations constantly hinted at. The characters were two-dimensional, cardboard cut-outs, the settings sketchily drawn, but it was still rather better than the last of hers I read.

Next (I’ve been reading a lot lately, not sleeping well) the new Elizabeth George, 'Believing the Lie.' EG's satisfyingly long novels I have always liked, some more than others. For an American she does quite well at evoking the unreal but cosily imagined life in England that makes 'Midsummer Murders' a TV money spinner. She does much better than MM because her characters are fleshed out, have substance, are much more than name on a page. Still the analogy holds, she creates stories that might almost be from the ‘Golden Age’ of crime novels with stately homes, disaffected nobility, beautiful villages and countryside, in this case Cumbria. Her cast of regulars is, in my opinion, getting a bit unwieldy and the threads become distorted to include their personal angst. Still, this book will stay on my shelves. 

Today I started ‘The Cleft’ by Doris Lessing. The difference between her writing and the other authors aforementioned is marked but difficult for me to put into words not being a professor of Eng. Lit.. She isn’t a self-consciously ‘literary’ writer; there’s no artifice, just straightforward story telling, but she always has a point to make or an idea to explore, this time the difference between men and women, and the effect they have on each other. The blurb says: “Imagine a mythical society free from sexual intrigue, free from petty rivalries, a society free from men.’  Difficult to imagine, and even more difficult to imagine a writer pulling this off in a credible way. Her own foreword sums up better her interest in the creation and the exploration of a myth:

‘In a recent scientific article it was remarked that the basic and primal human stock was probably female and that males came along later, as a kind of cosmic afterthought.’ I cannot believe this as a trouble-free event.’

I’d like to quote more but the laws of copyright probably should be observed.

I’m on page 81. Totally absorbed.

Herman's Big Day

Herman is certainly heavy, stolid and - Germanic! But with some nice sharp cooking apples in him he is rather more-ish. Lots and LOTS of sugar though. I suppose I shall have to give him away!

It's been a funny old interlude since I last wrote here. Lovely day out on Sunday, taking in Cullen which whilst I wasn't looking has turned itself into an Antiques Town. Happily an old friend from book-trading days is still there in his delightful little bijou boutique selling books, bric-a-brac, the occasional real antique and plenty of jewellery to entice the ladies, some of which he makes up himself. I, ladylike, couldn't resist another pair of ear-rings and a necklace with elephants. My eccentric friend David came along for the ride and we had a delicious carvery en route. D never cooks for himself, survives on Tesco's finest and green smoothies so he does like one square meal a week and usually has two puddings. This day we had been told of a proper 'Tea Room' that opened fairly recently and managed to find it though I was surprised there was anyone there because it's very poorly signposted and definitely off the main track. tea was served in real pots with a strainer and taken in pretty little cups like my mother bright out for visitors. There was also a quite exotic choice of blend for this part of the world. I had Russian Caravan tea, very light and aromatic, not tall how it sounds, (black, gritty and oily with sweat from the horses backs... ) It's ages since I last tasted it, in Brussels I think, so that's over 25 years ago...  Wonderful cake too. Probably the last I'll eat... more of that later....

When we got back into the car D proclaimed himself sad. Why? 'Because this lovely outing is coming to an end.' I was touched.

Around this brief one-day idyll were wrapped various visits to the Health Centre for  routine blood tests and a quicky with the doc because I thought my heart had been behaving funnily. He listened, pronounced atrial fibrillation, I envisaged stents and such nastiness, then I got an ECG which showed only normal pounding. Phew! However, when the results of the blood tests came back later in the week I heard that my blood sugars are way up and - oops - that's probably Type 2 diabetes.  What annoys me is that it has probably been caused by all the oral steroids I've had to take in order to breath. There's a name for this which I am about to look up.... Iatrogenic illness, that's the one... More tests to follow. Bleur!

"The Casual Vacancy" (and the critics)

Out of sheer curiousity I pre-ordered J.K.Rowling’s new book ‘The Casual Vacancy,’ knowing I would have preferred it if she had written another book set in the magical world and not in Muggle-land. I tried to read it as if she was just another writer and after a few pages that got easier. She’s a natural story-teller with a sharp eye for the physical presence of people and an acute ear for dialogue. The characters turned out to be people I have known, or at least seen around town, worried, confused, pained, their self-imposed mores and prejudices as tortuous as human beings in the western world can contrive. It has grim humour - is a black comedy really - and there is a terrible inevitability to Part Five when the comedy leaks away. I read all through the night and that, for me, is the sign of a good book.

Yesterday I read what the critics said. J.K.R. doesn’t have to be concerned with them, her fortune and her reputation is made, so for me it was more  case of the critics themselves being under scrutiny. I’ve bought a couple of novels after reading reports on them by the critic in the Independent and both times been disappointed and bored. For ‘The Casual Vacancy’ his piece was given the whole of page three of the ‘News‘ section. He makes a precis of the story then swings in at the author blaming her for ‘clunky‘ work and an obsession with geographical detail, both puzzling complaints. What exactly does he mean by ‘clunky’ for a start? (That’s rhetorical - I use the word myself but he is a literary critic and  I would expect something a bit more precise from him.) Is it a lazy way of saying he doesn’t like her technique? It’s a term more fitted to an engine so I suppose he means it doesn’t run smoothly. Well, something kept me reading all night despite the bumps, and as for ‘geographical detail’ I didn’t personally notice any more than were strictly necessary to the creation of place and atmosphere. Some people just hate success in another.  

From what I saw of other critics it seems some became obsessed with the social morals in the tale. Well, they were there but, glory be, there were no sentimentally sainted underdogs, none of the characters came off well; there were victims in all the homes, lots of prejudice on all sides, cruelty in both directions, and no heroes, except possibly one.

My new friend Herman: Day One.

This isn't a cake to be made on a whim. In ten days time I should have enough starter dough to share between myself and three friends and then we can bake a cake each! Hence the name, Herman the German Friendship cake.

There is a snag. I don't know three people who will thank me for a portion of uncooked Herman, however friendly, and as Chloe gave me the recipe I don't think SHE wants to be blessed with dough - only a nice firm fruity cake.

The other possible snag is my history with 'yeasty goods,' prompting remarks such as that made by an Irish friend after tasting my Chelsea Buns: "Now, what went wrong Carol?'

Autumn Equinox and time for celebrating natures last dramatic colour show and anticipating domestic warmth. The sweet peas brought by a friend do look, as she said, a bit 'fin de siecle' but the smell is wonderful and I'm determined to grow some myself next year. I have plenty of fencing. Beside them sit two of my harvest from the new apple tree, not bad for a beginner, (the other four went into a spiced apple cake).

Orchids can look more plastic than plastic but this is a pretty one, and then, for the inner person - mostly Sandy - I have to recognise the influence of Aussie culinary skill on my household. Do you recognise it Gillian?  I've only tried about a third of the extraordinary muffin and scone recipes but there is one particular savoury three cheese muffin that deserves an award.

Shop life

I haven't taken any photos of the shop since it opened. Today I thought how nice it is looking (all my daughter's work, not mine) so fished the camera out from the crumbs at the bottom of my bag. The space isn't any bigger - damn these stone walls, they just don't grow - but we've got more into it and boast a small cool cabinet to house flavoured tofus, no-cheese cheese, sensitive probiotics, cool drinks and concentrated cherry juice for arthritics and gout sufferers (and people like me who just enjoy it on yoghourt.)

The flow of customers continues to be a daily source of information and amusement. Fortunately I don't have to do the hard work of ordering, restocking, book-keeping; I sit comfortably doing my crossword puzzles and catching up on the mayhem in the world. Sometimes I wish I had more free time but on the whole I think it's good for me because I would probably hide away at home and never see anyone. Today I learned, not from the newspaper, that there is a plague of bedbugs sweeping the USA, biting people in even the most costly hotels, the tasteless cads, (hope you've avoided them Glen!) A customer about to travel Stateside came in for clove oil which she has been assured they hate. I wished her a bite-free visit.

A pretty Japanese woman  (they all look so ridiculously small and young but she has a 12 year old daughter and is a qualified vet) told me that vets in Japan use homeopathy and flower essences to treat their patients. She is here on a sort of working holiday so had just spent a week on a pig farm in England (what fun!) where she had been unable to convince the farmers to try alternative remedies on their porkers. I assured her she would have no better success in this part of the world but she's about to do a FF Experience Week so doesn't have to face that particular challenge.

Then the bandy-legged satyr with no front teeth came in for his Horny Goats Weed. I haven't dared ask him yet if it's working - he would probably tell me.

It's an odd moment to have caught the sisters but I'm not good at timing, or photography really. We were determined Sophie should get some of the best of the north to take back with her and the weather obliged with a break in the cloud.

Hidden Agenda

I’m not a lover of books or films that arise out of war. Mostly I feel that once a war is over it’s best to get on with life and forget something that is fundamentally shameful and reveals the deep flaws in human nature. Certainly I dislike dramas made out of the carnage for entertainment. Even if they claim to be showing the ‘true horror’ they are still capitalising on terror, pain, loss, and injustices.  

So would never have bought it but borrowed it out of curiosity: “Hidden Agenda’ by Martin Allen. Subtitled ‘ How the Duke of Windsor Betrayed the Allies’ the book emerged from  the author’s research into the life and times of Charles Eugene Bedaux, a Frenchman  suspected of spying for the Germans in WW1 who went on to become very rich in the USA, earning the reputation as a philanthropist whilst continuing to have pro-German leanings developing, during the 30’s into Fascist ideals, and active support for Hitler. 

 As Martin Allen looked through the papers owned by his historian father, he found more and more references to ex-king Edward and an increasing body of proof that the  pro-German, pro-Fascist monarch helped Hitler at every opportunity. His sympathies were already so plain even before his coronation that when the opportunity arose over the king’s wish to marry the twice divorced Mrs. Simpson, Prime Minister Baldwin forced Edward into a corner to ensure that he had no option but abdicate. 

When war broke out Edward, now living in France as the Duke of Windsor (on a handsome stipend from the English coffers) had himself made a British major so he could inspect Allied installations and posts  and be in a position to influence the process of the war so radically that he virtually gave the Ardennes and France to the Germans. His information caused Hitler to change plans and Panzer divisions surrounded the Allies creating a situation so disastrous that the war in the West would have been over. That it was not, that there was time to put into effect the contingency plans already made back in England for evacuation, has never been fully explained. Just as the the Panzers were in position for the final assault Hitler, to the bafflement and frustration of his generals, halted them, giving them no reason for the order. In retrospect it seems likely he expected the English, confronted with the imminent loss of almost all their forces, to negotiate a ‘peace’  rather than see them decimated. The Fuhrer, it was reported was enraged when, instead of the words of surrender he was expecting, he heard Churchill’s famous speech declaring his intention to fight every step of the way. 

I’ve heard recordings of that speech so often over my lifetime, either whole or in part, often mimicked in jest, the heavy, measured cigar-slurred tones of the man whose sheer force of will drove the British forward from that moment of virtual annihilation to victory. When I read it in the context of what had gone before I wept.

Those were different times, the monarchy not as toothless and still revered by the majority of the population, even so the efforts made during and after the war to cover the ex-king’s betrayal were extraordinary. According to Allen the destruction of all files, recorded messages, transcripts, computers, etc., at Bletchley Park  ordered by Churchill after the war happened with this end in view, that the people of Britain should never know how close they had come to being sold out to Nazi Germany by one of their royal family. 

The same efforts were made to destroy letters and documents remaining in Germany. Anthony Blunt was sent over to see to this task, thereby adding black humour and an element of despairing naivety to the good intentions. Anthony Blunt turned out to be amongst those spying for the Russians. He had subsequently to be protected by the British government because of what he knew as a result of this special mission!

Afterthought: Today the monarchy is, I imagine, toothless in the face of the Government, but their opinions make waves. Will the Prince who was a devotee of Laurens van der Poste, (godfather to Prince William), the prince who spoke out in favour of Alternative Medicine in a speech to the BMA, who will call an architectural carbuncle a carbuncle, and who, believing like Sir Laurens, in the essential sameness of all religions, declared his intention to be known as ‘Defender of the Faiths,’ ever be allowed to be king?

I have magpie characteristics. The Angel of the North (my title) earring carrier has been filling up for a while and received two new opals today. I suppose after sixteen days of temperature and the last ten or so in solitary confinement with no hope of retail therapy, it wasn't the most sensible thing to go to the Himalayan Crafts Exhibition where I always find trinkets to tempt me. Ganesh the elephant god obviously had to come home with me, I've always felt him to be a jolly fellow and in blancmange pink who could resist! (The dragon and Ganesh need to be seen large to get he full colour blast). Of course I needed the dragon protector for my bedroom door and - well, a slim grey scarf is this season's must-have accessory... and then the opal earrings... my birth stone.... so again a no-brainer...

Oh  damn. There goes the budget. 

There was cookie decorating - an all-the-e-numbers-you-can-eat-in-an-hour bonanza that made this granny feel quite ill but didn't stop the boys longing for the magic cream eggs the magician gave out to his assistants. Fin learned to spin a plate then proved himself a star by sharing the sickly prize with his little brother. The rabbit was wonderful; she picked cards out of a fanned deck and stood for the applause.

Holidays are exhausting.

First there was the run-up to it then there was the event itself, then there was the euphoric exhausted feeling of a job reasonably well done. I’m not talking about the Olympics, I’m talking about my annual ‘holiday’ in Ballater with the Cornish arm of the family. I cook and freeze so I don’t have to cook so much once we are together but somehow for seven people there is always more food needed and expectations are high. With grandfather  present meals are a sit-down affair with proper food, no fish’n chips or take-away pizza or pre-cooked stuff. Not that I would want to do that either, but once in a while it might be good. 

I suppose I like the chance to feed up my son who left home early and does much of the cooking in his own home. I suppose I also like to perform the one thing I’m still fairly good at  to an appreciative audience.

It didn’t give me time for taking scenic outdoor photos and neither did I have the inclination. I’ve seen Ballater so many times before, crossed the switch-back roads over the Lecht; seen the heather and the patchworks of peat cuttings or forestry plantations; seen the blues and grey and purples of the hills... I tend to forget to stop to hear the silence and breath the sharp clean air, which is a shame but I can’t photograph them anyway. All I took photos of were my grandsons which is OK for the family albums but not much fun for others.   

Not so much time to read either. I took ‘The Anatomy of Shadows’  by Andrew Taylor away with me. I think it’s very good, a ghost story set in eighteenth century Cambridge (which is a change. that sort of book is usually set in Oxford.) Sadly I couldn’t settle to it so I’ll start it again another day. I’d looked for something large to take with me  thinking I’d finish the Anatomy and grabbed ‘Game of Thrones’ first volume because I have three friends on contemporary age who are addicted to this series. I started it when I got home and immediately went down with a flu virus so had an excuse to stay in bed. I hated it all the way through for the relentless brutality, cruelty and violence but had to keep reading, even when I really wanted to throw it out the window. George R.R. Martin is, unfortunately, a very good writer and has created something much more balanced  than ‘The Lord of the Rings’ (women have strong roles too and aren’t wifty wafty fairy princesses) but so far it lacks the essential ingredient that might make the violence bearable - clearly drawn up good-bad, Light-Dark lines. I know life isn’t like that but I do like my fantasy to be. The battles in this are about pride, vengeance, and stupidity dressed as heroism. Which now I think about it is exactly like real life.

The same 'flu gave me time to reread 'The Four-Gated City' the last of Doris Lessing's 'Children of Violence' cycle. If I was ever asked which books I would take with me on into a castaway situation the 'C of V'  cycle of five volumes would be the first of my choices (I'm not so interested in the much miss-represented 'Golden Notebook' which I probably came to too late for it to change my life). C of V relates the experiences of young people born into the decades either side of WW2, starting in S.Africa and moving, with Martha Quest, the chief protagonist, to London after the war.  The radical socio-political and philosophical changes that occurred in those time were enormous. Martha painfully absorbs them as she tries to break free from the stifling world she was born into. In an attempt to also set her child free to be who she wants, unconstricted by a mother's expectations, Martha gives away her baby daughter to her ex-husband and his new family. Because I empathised so strongly over Martha's poisonous relationship with her mother I found that very upsetting!

'The Four-Gated City,' a longer novel than the preceding four, follows Martha's flight to post-war Britain where everything is grey and ugly and the people bitter. She is swept up into the era of CND marches and global madness, flower power and the summers of love, through a period of well-organised personal madness alongside Linda. Linda is an interesting character. She has failed to lead a normal life although she has a loving and supportive husband and a small son who wants his mother. She is too sensitive to the waves of humanity in turmoil; she hears voices, eventually learns to separate them and becomes a telepath, an essential part of a dystopian future after the bombs have fallen. 

Strangely fine times

...and still it rains...  It’s enough to depress even me and I’m not an outside person or even a person who enjoys sitting in the sun but the constant grey skies are a definite downer.

The shop is without its bosslady as  daughter, partner and the g’son are in Cornwall, also getting rained on by the sounds of it but I hope they are managing to have some fun. The sense of responsibility being left in charge is huge! Mainly I worry about the rabbit. When I am her carer I fret about her. She is really old now but still able to show her displeasure and the weather has been annoying her too. She likes to get out for a few hours each day, but not if she’s going to get her paws wet. 

Anther theatre company - the National Theatre of Scotland no less - put on a highly enjoyable performance called ‘The Strange Undoing of Prudentia Hart’. The venue was the Visitors Centre at one of our small local distilleries. It was turned into a pub for the evening and the audience sat at small tables with glasses of complimentary whisky or champagne (or orange juice!) The action took place around (and on) the tables. It did mean rather a lot of screwing ones neck around to follow them. The cast of five began the evening with loud ceildih music, very spirited, with an excellent singer,  until the story took over in cheeky rhyming couplets. Miss Prudentia Hart is a buttoned-up but romantic young librarian who has been asked to speak at a dry academic conference on: ‘The Border Ballad: Neither Border nor Ballad.’ Her special interest is the many depictions of the Devil and Hell in the ballads. She is the only speaker who still feels the soul of the people expressed through them but her audience grow bored, more interested by new theories such as that proposed by the   the feminist professor who sees the ballads as separatist and an example of the male assault on the vagina!

 To cut the tale to the bones, (which is a shame because it was so well done and so atmospheric, one cast member being an amazing singer in the Celtic tradition who just opened her mouth and the songs came flooding out)  Prudentia falls from the stage into hell where she spends many thousand years studying the ballads in the devil’s library, learning about her own nature as she does so and slowly coming unbuttoned, losing a few garments now and then till she is in her underslip when she realises that the way out of hell is to seduce Old Nick himself. This she sets to do, steals the keys whilst he is in a (post coital?) daze and her hands emerges through the cracks in the asphalt of Asda car park back into 2012 where she is caught and held by the obligatory knight in shining armour (motorbike helmeted young professor) who helps her finally escape. 

I get so caught up in these things and love being part of the action! It reminds me of the Roundhouse days only better. I’m still enjoying it!

The rain has  made this sort of entertainment extra important somehow since we are deprived of summer and a proper solstice feel. Something else I saw, at the private cinema, a Japanese film called ‘Afterlife’ made me think about memories and though the story-line was a bit daft it has stayed with me. Haunted me, wouldn’t be too strong a phrase. The film begins with preparations being made in some sort of run-down sorting house for ‘the next group’ to arrive. As they walk out of a bright light and are sent to their find their guides for the week ahead it is clear that the  group is made up of people coming through death into a between stage before eternity. They are given three days in which to decide on the most important memory from the life they had just left.  In an unemotional, matter-of-fact atmosphere the newly dead accept unquestioningly these instructions, sitting in their rooms watching video tapes of their lives or talking it through with their advisors as they try to decide on a memory. When decisions have been reached the work begins to reconstruct that memory and film them in the scene again. much plywood and paint is used. When the films have been made they sit in a cinema to watch and as their memory comes up they are taken by it into and eternity where that memory is all they experience. Very worrying. I said it was daft, and it was, but I fretted all the way through about which  memories of my life were the most important and came at the end to the surprising conclusion that the time when the children where very young and I was often ill with asthma, wen I had thought myself to be quite miserable in many ways, there were the moments of pure happiness spent with the babes and my husband; only the world outside my family was too hard to for me to handle.