And Relax

We are finding various ways to amuse ourselves during the lockdown.

Once the Latin and Greek lessons are over for the morning's homeschooling, it's time for Gertie and Gilby to sit back and relax.

Eddie is still having a little trouble sleeping at night, so it's nice for the family to rock him gently before bed...

And last weekend we headed off for a beautiful bluebell walk in Lordings Wood. Of course, we're social distancing, so Kempton had to take this one.

Currently reading: The Volunteer by Jack Fairweather

To Her Adjusting Husband

Hearth-father has been backwards and forwards to work from time to time, when he hasn't been able to work from home, but mostly he has been here, self-isolating with the rest of us.

It's me who's been getting out to walk the dog daily, visit the chemist for prescriptions, get the essentials from the little supermarket at the end of the road. Me, therefore, who has seen ordinary things daily metamorphose since this 'not-lockdown lockdown' began two and half weeks ago, and accepted them without question.

It, was, therefore, something of a surprise when Hearth-father decided to come with me to walk Hearth-dog, and seemed unaware of how some of the basic 'rules' had changed.

So this comes with enormous apology to Andrew Marvell.

To Her Adjusting Husband

In this new world of ours, no time

to learn, husband, etiquette crime.

We must work out, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

To walk though, is complicated.

Our destination located

by public Station Road Gardens

Where people are; begging pardons.

Why is that gate left wide open,

you complain.  I sigh. You slope in.

(You haven't been out in ten days

- folk have already changed their ways.)

Because people are hoping not 

to touch I say, and dance gavotte

around the offending handle

trying not to be a vandal.

Let’s walk this way you enthuse

and are surprised when I refuse.

A one way system operates

while round this path we circulate

in wide two metre interval

giving good berth in principal

that we not pass by our neighbours,

make inadvertent germ transfers.

I see, you say. Is there a sign?

(How big a sign would you design?

I think, but do not out loud say.)

And we pass further on our way.

What's up with her? Her face so long, 

vaster than empires and more wrong.

Well, you should have moved out and slowed.

She had to step out in the road.

How can I tell it should be me?

She's older than you. So you see,

It’s your responsibility.

On age at least we can agree.

      But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

For one short hour is all allowed

that public space not overcrowd.

Process of self isolation 

not be taken like vacation.

At home, first task is wash our hands.

Still he argues, not understands.

We haven't touched a single thing.

But that's the world we’re living in.

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace.

     Now therefore, while we can't meet

with family just up the street,

we FaceTime to communicate.

here, husband’s in his element.

And while his willing soul transpires, 

it isn't what my heart requires.

Conversations with no concerns

to play by the rules and take turns,

all talking at once right over 

each other so that thoughts devour.

A tiny screen split into four: 

three heads in each, and maybe more.

It clefts my skull. I cannot take 

the demands on me that it make.

But that's the world we’re living in;

somehow I rise above the din.

I see I am learning to hew

a new type of etiquette too.

    Thus, though coronavirus stun

our lives, yet we will make it run.


I'm very much struggling with the compulsion for everyone to 'Zoom' and 'HouseParty' the whole time, as the final part makes clear. But we all have our crosses to bear.


Currently reading: Mothering Sunday by Graham Swift.

Parklife

I love my morning dog walk. It is a quiet time for contemplation and preparation; some fresh air and exercise; an opportunity to fortify myself for the day ahead. 

Before we moved house a couple of years ago, our walks were in wild woodland. Now that we are back in the village they are in a little public gardens up the road. I thought Kempton, our Golden Retriever and sixth family member (who suffers under the illusion that she can talk like a human), would miss the fields and acres; but actually, the fact that is more of a sociable event since she sees other dogs these days seems to be just as exciting for her. It is me who misses the fields and woods of rural Sussex living.

But Kempy has now found a new way to make what is generally a delightful experience something of a torture.

It has long been her particular mischief to do her morning business right in the middle of the large grassy area in the gardens. Now it's worth saying that this is a minor irritant. In olden days I would be 'wellied-up', (not to mention no £1000 fine for failing to pick up poo - a smart kick into the undergrowth was all that was required). Given that we now go for a walk in the nicely landscaped and pave-pathed park, I'm usually in smart clothes and work shoes. Not sartorial choices conducive to walking across muddy grass in order for one of my first actions of the day to be a poo-scoop.

But Kempy has now taken the 'central vantage point' to a whole new level. Did I mention the nice landscaping? Which has resulted in a giant grassy mound, to mimic the nearby undulating South Downs in miniature, perhaps. This is now Kempy's early-morning-dump spot of choice.

I don't know if you have, by chance, noticed the unseasonably inclement weather this June, but earlier this week it was...persistently raining. Cue me, scrabbling my way up the mound on all fours, mud-splattered and mostly slip-sliding away in an ungainly fashion, just to retrieve a wet turd.

Not exactly the blissful contemplative experience I once enjoyed. Thanks, Kempy.

Just for that, I'm going to include one of you not looking at your best:

Currently reading: Bloody Brilliant Women by Cathy Newman

8 Reasons Not To Live in a Castle

Christmas 2013 has been spent at Harburn House in West Lothian, a Georgian mansion set in 3000 acres of glorious Scottish countryside. It enabled twenty-one of us, from three generations of family, to all spend Christmas together in luxurious surroundings. All the young cousins could romp around together, and the adults could too, for that matter.


Sitting at my dressing table each morning with the four poster bed reflecting in the mirror made me feel like a character in a Jane Austen novel. Walking Kempy in such beautiful, tranquil countryside, with hills rising majestically in the distance, was dreamy.


So, before I get too carried away with the romance of the whole thing and decide that my real life is inadequate by comparison, I've decided to focus on all the reasons why I really, really wouldn't want to live in a glorious castle.

1. It is a very, very long walk to the nearest pub.

2. You get achy legs from having to keep going up and down colossal flights of stairs. Longer than four days here and I would end up with calves the size of large pheasants.

3. Hanging Christmas decorations becomes a life-threatening mission given the height of the ceilings.

4. There are so many bathrooms that choosing where to have a bath or shower becomes a major decision.

5. The drapes on one's four-poster-bed block out the light from one's bedside lamp, making night-time reading difficult.

6. There's no mobile phone signal, and fairly intermittent wifi, so it's difficult to boast about being here without constant access to social media.

7. Whatever you want is inevitably an awfully long way away from where you happen to be. On occasion I found myself three floors away from my slippers.

8. And, linked with number seven on the list, you have to shout very loudly indeed to be heard whenever you do want something.


But aside from those little niggles, it really has been a magical Christmas. Father Christmas managed to find his way here, alleviating the fears of the children. And though it didn't settle, we even had snow flurries throughout the day on Christmas Eve. I'll just try not to think too much about the journey home.

Walking Holiday

It has been a wee while since my last post.


This is not an oversight, but as a result of my employer using a 'smart' system at school (and I do use that term very loosely) which meant that all of a sudden I was not able to access my blogger account.  Very frustrating, but a more normal lack of service should now resume.

In the meantime we have been enjoying our summer vacation to the south of France.  A selection of quick highlights will provide a taste.

It was twelve hours each way in a car. There were seven of us on the way out: the five of us, plus Nano and a niece. To while away the time we mostly enjoyed the stilted and frankly inappropriate pronunciation of French place names by the sat nav.  Destinations like "Boulevard Georges Pompidou in Troyes" made my own attempts in French sound positively fluent. We found the most amazing crumbling chateau on the outskirts of Amiens that will definitely be worth a second visit and beat last year's overnight stop in the equivalent of a Travelodge in Lille by a significant margin.

Eddie took his first steps, a month short of his second birthday.  I watched him get up and walk a good four steps across the balcony before reaching out to a folded deckchair which promptly clattered down on top of him.  We were both crying. Mine were tears of joy, his of pain and shock, for a moment that at one stage we weren't sure would ever come. He became a good 'pool guy' and enjoyed holding on to the net pole each morning, and the steps have come fast now that he is back on British soil.

Other highlights included kayaking beneath the Pont du Gard, masses of rosé, early morning lengths, Gilby turning four and inexplicably being let loose with 200 water bombs (thanks, Nano!)great clothes buying in the shops and markets at Uzes and an anniversary meal at Remoulin. Sigh. Over for another year.

The way home was memorable for the wine drinking on a foot-wide balcony of our hotel room in Troyes. I know that we will not be the first parents to have resorted to that, but we could be on for the record for the most wine consumed on the smallest balcony...


We also met a German couple at breakfast who were fascinated by Freddie's ability to talk. I pointed out that this was directly related, perhaps, to his inability to walk - and the necessity of communicating his every whim to two older siblings willing to run around doing anything he needs.

"Ahh!" said Herr with understanding. "I see. It is he who gives zee orders!"

Indeed.

A Bird in the Hand...

This morning it was my turn to walk the dog. (I say 'turn', which suggests that we alternate in an equal sharing of responsibility. In practice it usually works in a weekly ratio of about 1:6, so more often than not, it is my 'turn'. Never mind, I like it.)

Since we are 'not far from the madding crowd', I feel a quotation from Hardy's Far From the Madding Crowd is apt to illustrate this story. It describes Fanny Robin trying to fling a lump of snow at the correct window of the barracks to catch the attention of her lover, Sergeant Troy:

'...a morsel of snow flew across the river towards the fifth window. It smacked against the wall at a point several yards from its mark. The throw was the idea of a man conjoined with the execution of a woman. No man who had ever seen bird, rabbit, or squirrel in his childhood, could possibly have thrown with such utter imbecility as was shown here.'

Far from accusing dear Thomas Hardy of blatant sexism, I am, on this occasion, forced to agree with him in relation to the quality of my own throwing ability. A fact which has not gone unnoticed (or indeed uncommented on) by my cricket-playing husband. So, for Christmas last year, said husband bought me a strange apparatus known as a 'ballflinger' which, with the aid of a flexible plastic arm enables the user to perform a throw, the resulting arc and distance of which James Anderson would be proud. This is very useful for tiring out a big dog on short walks.

This morning I employed the ball-flinger and several retrievals of the ball were made by our retriever. She is always very good at finding the ball, but occasionally reluctant to relinquish it. I have to coax it from her, or drag it forcibly from her mouth. But it was about the fourth go that I got a little more than I bargained for. She took a little while longer than usual to locate the ball, but then came bounding back with her usual enthusiasm. The tail wag and playful pounce alerted me to the fact that she was unlikely to let the ball go easily, so I reached down ready for slimy tennis ball....and got a handful of...dead bird. Definitely not worth two in the bush, I can tell you.

Thanks, Kempy.

Double Announcement

Though it is not quite on a par with the proclamation of a royal wedding, today I would like to announce that my son, aged 16 months, finally took his first steps.

Hooray! They were a long time coming, but worth the wait. Clearly he is now the cleverest little boy ever to have walked upon this earth.

There has also been a development with Gertie. She has decided that only Daddy has the necessary skill and power to wipe her bottom after a poo.

I'm celebrating this one with equal satisfaction.

Bashing the Pedals for a Perfect New Year's Day

We've just spent the most perfect new year's day.

Gertie got up quietly and played with her little brother for a good hour this morning, giving us a tiny lie-in following last night's (moderate) celebrations to see in the new decade.

A large, leisurely breakfast followed; then a long walk through the woods from our house to a nearby pub for lunch beside a roaring log fire. (Entirely appropriate for this Hearth-mother.)

On the way home there was plenty of splashing in puddles, or 'bashing the pedals" as it is forever known in our family since this is how Gertie used to pronounce it when it first became one of her favourite things to do.

Lots of fresh air for the children put the colour back into their cheeks and means that they have both gone down to bed willingly and a little early.

How different from hungover, unproductive new year's days of old! The me of now bears hardly any resemblance to that person a decade ago who hadn't yet met her husband, was barely at the start of her teaching career and who most definitely did not have any interest in having children.

I spent the millenium eve a decade ago on Westminster Bridge awaiting the fireworks and 'river of flame' with a group of girlfriends. It was a cold, depressing evening, with my overriding memory being of drinking too much cheap wine from plastic cups resulting in us having to take turns to surreptitiously wee (if such a thing is possible) within a huddled circle of the girls due to the fact that we couldn't move off the bridge because of the crowds. I lost my sister for a couple of hours, she sprained her ankle and it took hours to get back home. Now this year's experience was far less dramatic but much, much happier.

What a difference a decade makes.