I don't know what people do who don't use public transport - they can't have any excitement in their lives at all.
The only exciting thing that happened to me yesterday (and this tells you how tedious my life is) was catching a number 621 bus home. I've never seen a 621 bus before, and the driver told one of the other passengers, who told me, that it was a new route. Imagine! It goes to Hatfield in one direction, but I don't know where it goes in the other.
And then this evening, if I didn't see a 620 bus going to Harpenden. That must be a new route too. We've never had a bus that goes to Harpenden. Why anyone would want to go to Harpenden is beyond me, but it's nice to know that we can if we ever have to.
And the schoolkids are back on the morning train, which is nice. I've watched them grow up from bratty Year 7's and they are must be in Sixth Form now. But I was sorry to see that the tall boy - he's got a nice face, although he is blonde, and I've never been one for blondes - is still wasting his time and attention on that little blonde bit, who tosses her curls at him and clutches her folders to her chest to make her tits look bigger. Can't he see that the nice girl - OK, she's plain, but - would be so much better for him than the blonde bit? He is pleasant to her, but doesn't seem to regard her at all. She sits there quietly and does her physics homework and just looks at him sometimes. I do wish he'd see sense.
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Wednesday, 15 April 2009
Froggie mortis
There's a dead frog in the greenhouse.
How did it get there? Obviously it can't have got there after it died. There are no gaps for an animal big enough to carry a dead frog to get in through, not with the door shut, which it has been. And a heron isn't likely to have deliberately posted it in through the ventilator.
If it was alive when it got in, what killed it? Frogs have lived happily in there all through previous summers. I hope it died peacefully of old age, rich in honour and happy memories. But if it had, I would have expected it to have been settled comfortably in a dark cool corner, not squatting right in the middle, as if death surprised it.
It's not mangled, so I didn't tread on it, or squash it with the watering can. Believe me, I'm not giving it too close a look, but there are no obvious signs of violence.
Was it something that it ate? That's the really scary thought. The greenhouse is where I grow all my salad stuff at this time of year.
Is my lettuce poisoned? Will we all be discovered at the weekend sitting dead around the salad bowl with the ants crawling over us?
Anyway, I'm going to pretend I haven't seen it and hope that Ian finds it and clears it away. He's a country boy, he's good at that sort of thing.
Now I see that there's a bat flying round outside. That's nice.
How did it get there? Obviously it can't have got there after it died. There are no gaps for an animal big enough to carry a dead frog to get in through, not with the door shut, which it has been. And a heron isn't likely to have deliberately posted it in through the ventilator.
If it was alive when it got in, what killed it? Frogs have lived happily in there all through previous summers. I hope it died peacefully of old age, rich in honour and happy memories. But if it had, I would have expected it to have been settled comfortably in a dark cool corner, not squatting right in the middle, as if death surprised it.
It's not mangled, so I didn't tread on it, or squash it with the watering can. Believe me, I'm not giving it too close a look, but there are no obvious signs of violence.
Was it something that it ate? That's the really scary thought. The greenhouse is where I grow all my salad stuff at this time of year.
Is my lettuce poisoned? Will we all be discovered at the weekend sitting dead around the salad bowl with the ants crawling over us?
Anyway, I'm going to pretend I haven't seen it and hope that Ian finds it and clears it away. He's a country boy, he's good at that sort of thing.
Now I see that there's a bat flying round outside. That's nice.
Sunday, 12 April 2009
Dear Lord
The title of the post below comes from a hymn, "Dear Lord and Father of mankind", which was very popular, and maybe still is, for all I know. Every word is seared into my damaged subconcious as the result of horrible humiliation dealt upon my 12-year-old self.
I had been warned throughout primary school never ever to sing, having a voice like a bullfrog that could be detected amongst massed tuneful tinies. I was "one of the droners" who was told to stand neatly in the front row and mouth the words in time to the music.
Unfortunately when I came to the secondary school, my music teacher had an unshakeable belief that there was music in each one of us, to which we should thrillingly give voice. Some way into the second year she either noticed for the first time, or decided she could no longer ignore, the fact that I was noiselessly mouthing along. And I was hauled out to the front of the class.
It was in one of the wooden prefabs that had been thrown down after the War as a temporary measure and which was still in the same place the last time I visited the school (probably in the 90's). The class sat on those folding wooden chairs that I have always associated with Sunday School. At the front was an upright piano and to this I was bidden, the teacher, sensing my terror, putting her arm around me and encouraging me in a way which I am sure she intended to help but which only deepened the panic. I was told to start at the second verse. I think I managed two lines. By that time the teacher's musical sensibilities were shredded and the entire class was giving vent to unstoppable hysterical laughter.
I have never sung since, not even to my children, although I occasionally threatened it if they didn't behave.
I have, I am pretty sure, no innate musical sense. I cannot recall a tune unless it has words set to it - in which case it is easy to remember as I can remember the shape and sound and speed of the words. Play me two notes and I would struggle to tell you which was the higher. Much later in my life I met a man whose task it was to teach would-be members of the clergy to sing, and who maintained that no matter how tuneless and musically incompetent they were, he could teach them to perform well enough to fulfill their offices. Perhaps if I had met him earlier he could have taught me. As it is, and thanks in part to that idealistic music teacher, I avoid places where they sing and if I cannot, I am the one silently mouthing along.
I had been warned throughout primary school never ever to sing, having a voice like a bullfrog that could be detected amongst massed tuneful tinies. I was "one of the droners" who was told to stand neatly in the front row and mouth the words in time to the music.
Unfortunately when I came to the secondary school, my music teacher had an unshakeable belief that there was music in each one of us, to which we should thrillingly give voice. Some way into the second year she either noticed for the first time, or decided she could no longer ignore, the fact that I was noiselessly mouthing along. And I was hauled out to the front of the class.
It was in one of the wooden prefabs that had been thrown down after the War as a temporary measure and which was still in the same place the last time I visited the school (probably in the 90's). The class sat on those folding wooden chairs that I have always associated with Sunday School. At the front was an upright piano and to this I was bidden, the teacher, sensing my terror, putting her arm around me and encouraging me in a way which I am sure she intended to help but which only deepened the panic. I was told to start at the second verse. I think I managed two lines. By that time the teacher's musical sensibilities were shredded and the entire class was giving vent to unstoppable hysterical laughter.
I have never sung since, not even to my children, although I occasionally threatened it if they didn't behave.
I have, I am pretty sure, no innate musical sense. I cannot recall a tune unless it has words set to it - in which case it is easy to remember as I can remember the shape and sound and speed of the words. Play me two notes and I would struggle to tell you which was the higher. Much later in my life I met a man whose task it was to teach would-be members of the clergy to sing, and who maintained that no matter how tuneless and musically incompetent they were, he could teach them to perform well enough to fulfill their offices. Perhaps if I had met him earlier he could have taught me. As it is, and thanks in part to that idealistic music teacher, I avoid places where they sing and if I cannot, I am the one silently mouthing along.
Saturday, 11 April 2009
Till all our strivings cease
We got back from Grandma's yesterday afternoon.
I now believe that the only way to survive a trip to Grandma's is to regard it as a spiritual exercise. People pay thousands of pounds to spend time in remote retreats, cut off from society and without their usual comforts, learning to put aside their customs and practices, their assumptions, and discovering inner tranquillity and the great universal truths. We can do that twice a year, and for free. We are always just that bit chillier than is comfortable, there isn't enough hot water, and we sleep on a thin mattress with only that privacy afforded by a curtain. There is only enough room to take the minimum of personal belongings. And our expectations are constantly challenged. All those things that make life what it usually is - gin, and Radio 4, the Guardian, and access to the Wonderweb - are stripped away. In their place come the Sun TV mag, Bargain Hunt (and believe me it takes enormous reserves of spiritual strength to watch Bargain Hunt without squirming like a slug in salt) and meals in random order and at unexpected times.
In the past I have struggled and railed and fought to establish those values I came with. This time I learnt that the real value lies in acceptance, in laying the self open to all people and all experiences. Only if you expect nothing, want nothing can you never be disappointed or surprised.
There's no other way. Sanity could not otherwise survive being told, "She paid £400 for that dog. It's one of those hairless ones - only this one's got hair".
Ommm, people. And, Happy Easter. It's so good to be home.
I now believe that the only way to survive a trip to Grandma's is to regard it as a spiritual exercise. People pay thousands of pounds to spend time in remote retreats, cut off from society and without their usual comforts, learning to put aside their customs and practices, their assumptions, and discovering inner tranquillity and the great universal truths. We can do that twice a year, and for free. We are always just that bit chillier than is comfortable, there isn't enough hot water, and we sleep on a thin mattress with only that privacy afforded by a curtain. There is only enough room to take the minimum of personal belongings. And our expectations are constantly challenged. All those things that make life what it usually is - gin, and Radio 4, the Guardian, and access to the Wonderweb - are stripped away. In their place come the Sun TV mag, Bargain Hunt (and believe me it takes enormous reserves of spiritual strength to watch Bargain Hunt without squirming like a slug in salt) and meals in random order and at unexpected times.
In the past I have struggled and railed and fought to establish those values I came with. This time I learnt that the real value lies in acceptance, in laying the self open to all people and all experiences. Only if you expect nothing, want nothing can you never be disappointed or surprised.
There's no other way. Sanity could not otherwise survive being told, "She paid £400 for that dog. It's one of those hairless ones - only this one's got hair".
Ommm, people. And, Happy Easter. It's so good to be home.
Saturday, 4 April 2009
Loading the dishwasher
I was very surprised - and a little bit distressed - to find myself talking to someone during the week who doesn't re-load the dishwasher if it hasn't been done properly. He's a regular guy with high professional standards and irreproachable personal morality, but he admits to just pulling the racks out and stuffing his dirty crocks in wherever they will fit. To my mind that is about as bad as picking your socks out of the dirty washing basket, giving them a quick sniff and putting them back on.
Whereas we all know that:
Which is why, every time I come to the dishwasher and find that it hasn't been stacked properly (which is just about every time I come to the dishwasher), I get everything out onto the side and stack it all back as it should be done.
Come on, there's nothing unhealthily obsessive about it at all. It's only like hanging the washing on the line with the socks in pairs, toes pointing the same way.
What do you mean, you don't do that either?
Whereas we all know that:
- mugs must be put in with their handles facing the same way
- glasses must be put in between the mugs so that no two glasses are adjacent
- cereal bowls must be arranged in ascending order of size (working from front to back)
- no two pieces of cutlery of the same size must be put in the same compartment (e.g. not two teaspoons together, although a teaspoon and a dessert spoon will be fine)
- plates from the same set and with the same pattern must be stacked together (I'll be honest, dear reader, and admit that we use all sorts of odds and ends of crockery - that's all we've got, apart from the posh set that only comes out at Christmas and wouldn't be put in the dishwasher at all - which is why it only comes out at Christmas - although I am comforted to have read somewhere sometime that it is irredeemably bourgeois to have matching crockery, so I consider us let off the hook, style-wise).
Which is why, every time I come to the dishwasher and find that it hasn't been stacked properly (which is just about every time I come to the dishwasher), I get everything out onto the side and stack it all back as it should be done.
Come on, there's nothing unhealthily obsessive about it at all. It's only like hanging the washing on the line with the socks in pairs, toes pointing the same way.
What do you mean, you don't do that either?
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