The Sage puts the fun into funeral

The Sage was out most of the day at a funeral.  Please don't take it amiss if I say that he thoroughly enjoyed it.  He saw a number of people he hadn't talked to for decades.

That's how it is though, isn't it?  Weddings and funerals are where you mostly meet up with old acquaintances, and you reach the age when the latter are the better bet.  For one thing, it's not nearly so noisy and the service will probably be way shorter.  No speeches and no necessity to dance.  The dress code is usually straightforward, certainly for the men, as women might just be asked to make a point of wearing colour.  There is no requirement to buy a new outfit, however.

Best of al, you meet lots of old friends and, since you've all grown old together, you recognise each other, have the pleasure of murmuring "bless my soul, Algie's aged a bit," whilst being blissfully unaware that you have too.

It gave me the opportunity for a quiet day.  Housework in the morning, a nap in the afternoon and then I cooked.  A model of domesticity, darlings.  Left me with nothing to talk about tonight, mind you.  Could have been a non-blogging day really, but I thought I'd treat myself.

I went to feed the chickens at lunch time.  Poor things, about half of them were standing about disconsolately in the snow, looking bewildered.  They didn't come to eat their corn.  Two had ventured further and did, and the rest stayed in the hut.

I don't think I ever finished the story of the Christmas Eve chicken.  I probably mentioned that we'd been given three young bantam cocks and that she has been mothering them.  In view of that, we were quite upset to be told that her owner had been found, because we didn't want to have to give her back.  However, it was a very sad story so there was, we thought, no alternative.

The father of a young family died suddenly of a heart attack just before Christmas, and it was one of his half-dozen chickens that had got out.  When told about it, we thought that we'd leave talking to the widow until after the funeral, a couple of days later.  However, by the time the Sage went to see her, she had decided that she couldn't cope with chickens on top of everything else, and had given them to her neighbour.  She was quite happy that we should keep the extra one.  So all is well here, the hen is laying lots of eggs - one almost every day - and has settled in splendidly.

4 Inches. But size doesn't matter, innit?

Snow fell yesterday evening, but most of it arrived overnight, to give us all a lovely awakening.  Fortunately, it was overcast and cold all morning, so when I arrived home from church it hadn't started to melt at all.  On my way home, I met the family coming down the drive, off for a walk, so I hurried back home to start building my own snowman.

It wasn't perfect construction snow, because it clumped together but wasn't easily shaped, suddenly breaking apart unexpectedly.  So my snowman is rather tall and thin.

And then I cleared the snow in front of the door and from the paving, and then I decided to construct a little dog outside the door.

I rather love it, wonky nose and all.

Then I went to join Al and Squiffany, who'd been sledging.  Pugsley had got cold and gone indoors by this time.

They had made snowmen while I was out.  Here they are.  As you'll see from the light, I photographed them rather later in the day.

It's been brilliant.

Whoops

Sorry about yesterday's post getting deleted. Comes of faffing about on a small screen while watching television and talking at the same time.

I curled up and went to sleep this afternoon, which was a good use of time in the circumstances. What's annoying about the hours I spend awake most nights is the complete waste it is. I really can't get up and do anything useful between 1 and 4 in the morning, which is when I'm usually awake, especially at this time of year when it's too cold to get up unless I'm giving up entirely and getting dressed and on with the day.

Anyway, that's more than enough of a dull subject. There was a sprinkling of snow last night, barely enough to look pretty, though it did make the day bright, especially when the sun came out. More is forecast, but who knows if it'll reach here? The Met Office app on my phone, which has recently updated to give all sorts of gizmos, says that the temperature is -3°C ... feels like -9°, it adds ominously. It also gives an amber warning of snow, whatever that means. Ah, read the full forecast. Significant accumulations of snow are likely, it says. Oh I say, jolly good. Sunday is the best day for that because most people can either go and frolic or hole up in the warm. The new forecast is impressively wordy actually, which suits me nicely. A picture doesn't paint a thousand words for me, I'm not a very visual person. A thousand words paint a far more descriptive picture. Or music. Reading music is more than looking at the notes on a page.

Ups and downs

Oops.  Sorry, I accidentally deleted that post.  Meant to reply to comments, clicked in wrong place, pressed wrong button.  Um.

Maybe it's time to hit the bottle.  Pah, really darlings.

If anyone still has it in their feedreader (the non-post has updated to Google Reader), then if you send it to me i'll repost.  Otherwise, I think that comes down as the first post I've ever deleted.  And there wasn't even any hot gossip which would have been better unsaid.

In praise of dusting

Several hours awake each night took its toll yesterday.  I cooked dinner, we ate it, I sat on the sofa and was suddenly exhausted.  I slept briefly, then lumbered upstairs, bathed and was in bed before 9 - and didn't get up until 9 this morning.  Still several wakeful hours, but lots of sleep around them.

I've been very impressed by online service this week.  I ordered a new electric blanket from John Lewis on Monday afternoon and, rather than the promised 5 working days, I had a despatch email at 4.30 the next morning (yes, I was awake to receive it) and it arrived yesterday morning.  The Sage's laptop's lead stopped working and he couldn't charge his computer, which was a disaster, darlings, a disaster - off eBay for a whole two days! - so Ronan found me a replacement, I ordered it on Tuesday afternoon (that was from eBay) and it arrived in yesterday morning's post soon after 9 am.  Terribly impressive, it beats the old 'allow 28 days for delivery' from pre-internet mail order into a cocked hat.

I lay in bed this morning listening to the Sage clearing out the fireplace.  It's one of the pleasant sounds in life isn't it, listening to someone else working for your benefit?  His too, of course - we both love a proper fire and wouldn't be without it for anything.  There is a fair bit of work, in the carrying in of the coal and wood and clearing out the grate, but what isn't any bother is the extra housework.

I did a spot of dusting this morning, and was struck anew by how easy it is!  Dusting is marvellous really, have you ever noticed?  Just a wipe and the dust is simply gone!  A daysworth or a yearsworth, it makes no difference, it's as good natured as can be and just wipes off in a moment.

I'm a casual housekeeper, I have no hesitation or shame in admitting it.  I don't like the house to be too tidy.  If there aren't books and newspapers about, a house doesn't look lived in and if all the cushions are perfectly plumped up, no one dares sit down comfortably.  The house used to need more cleaning when Chester, my late setter, was alive, because he lounged on the furniture and shed hairs all over the place, which tended to gather in drifts.  So I had to sweep and hoover frequently - and how I wish I still had to.  I'd do any amount of extra work if it would bring lovely Chester back.  Now, I tend only to clear cobwebs away when the dust on them starts to turn brown - and am careful, of course, to leave the spiders, which are my friends.

But dusting is easy as pie, and you don't even need a duster.  Who hasn't, when expecting guests to arrive at any moment, noticed a shaft of sunlight on a table showing up the one item you omitted to dust, and swept a tissue or even the side of a hand over it?

Oh.  Okay, well, I have, lots of times.  Anyway, the point is that it does the bizz.

Although mind you, it's only dust.  Who cares anyway?

*

When Z became invisible

I was reminded by this post from Chris (and how lovely to see a new post from him again) of the time when I was unable to speak and had to communicate through writing notes.

I say unable, but it would be more accurate to say forbidden.  And maybe I'd better set the scene first.

In the winter of 1985 (I know, darlings, I'm good with dates and stuff), I developed a bad cough and it left me with a husky voice.  I spent months expecting it to clear up, and in the meantime I received a good deal of gratifying attention from men who found my deep and breathy voice alluring.  Quite staid and well-behaved gentlemen, whom I'd known for years and who had never made any sort of advance would say "I say, what a sexy voice you have" and such things as that.  No one tried to take things any further, I should add, so it was just the voice.

Still, once it reached July, it finally occurred to me that I couldn't blame the state of affairs on a chesty cold six months earlier and I went to the doctor.  He promptly referred me to a consultant.  Well, I say promptly - I was given an appointment in six weeks time, which was pretty prompt for 1985.  The consultant decided I had nodules on my vocal cords and that they should be removed and I duly received a date for admittance into  hospital another six weeks later.  I only discovered that I'd been fast-tracked when I arrived at the hospital and found how long other people had been waiting for operations far more urgent, I'd have thought, than mine.  So evidently, although I was young, had never smoked and had good health generally, there was a suspicion that I had rather more wrong with me than nodules.

I didn't though and they were removed uneventfully - and this is the only time, apart from a childhood removal of teeth from an overcrowded jaw - that I've ever had a general anaesthetic.  I disliked the feeling intensely.  Not that I had ill effects from the anaesthetic, that is, but when I woke up I heard myself saying how cold my feet were.  It was all I could think to talk about - except that I couldn't control what I was saying at all.  I went back to sleep and rather hoped I'd dreamed it, until I woke again and found a whole stack of blankets at the foot of the bed.  That, apart from general interest and excitement about the whole thing, gives the clue to why I didn't want sedation for my hip op.  Z is a control freak, it seems - who knew?

After the operation, I was told that I must not speak until the stitches had healed.  The less I spoke, the better the chances were that I would have minimal scarring and my voice would recover well.

Those of you who know me must be wondering at the remarkable prospect of silence for me for a couple of weeks.  I spoke a lot less then, I was still quite shy, but it was not easy, certainly, because of what happened while I was in hospital.  That is, my mother-in-law died suddenly, which was a great shock to all.  At her funeral the next week, there I was with my little notebook and pencil, trying to engage in conversation with nice people who wanted to speak to me.

I had already discovered something about the nature of disability, however, within a few days.  It is quite true that one becomes invisible.  Because of Ma's death, a lot of people had called round, and when I wanted to join in a conversation, I'd write down my comment ... and not once did anyone wait to read it before carrying on talking.  In the end, I was writing down what I thought of the situation, in quite irritated manner, but that didn't matter because no one was reading it anyway.  In one to one conversations it was all right, of course, but it was impossible to join in a small group.

I must mention our nephew Simon, by the way.  A young man in his early twenties then, he took the trouble to sit down with me and have a lovely conversation.  He was kinder to me than anyone else at that time, it was all a strain for everyone but I couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for myself.  I couldn't even cry as a sob would have been bad for my throat.  Simon was the only person who noticed and did anything about it.

I said 'disability' - I don't mean that I had one of course, it was no such thing, being simply a temporary and minor restriction.  What was telling, though, was the non-person aspect.  It taught me a lot, I'd like to think it made me a little more thoughtful.

Anyway, that's it.  Not much of a story, Chris's was much better.  And a whole lot shorter.  My voice recovered completely in the end, though it took ages for the higher register in my singing voice to return (not that I ever sing, a little gentle warbling to the grandchildren or when doing the housework is it).  And it turned out not to be nodules, but polyps - the former is caused by straining your voice, the latter just pop up.

I always regretted a bit having that operation, mind you.  I liked my husky voice too.

Sometimes, there is no right answer

My mother asked me what I'd like especially of hers after she died.  I wasn't going to be caught that way.  I said I couldn't possibly think about it.  She tried several times to persuade me, but I refused.  Not too long afterwards, Wink and her husband came to stay.  After they'd gone home, she was a bit indignant.  Apparently, she'd asked the same question and they assumed she meant it and earnestly suggested a few items.  I pointed out that she had asked and said she'd meant it - but people don't always mean what they say.

On another occasion, she asked what I thought each of the children would like as a memento.  Caught on the hop and hoping to please, I suggested that Weeza might like her (my mother's) grandmother's glove box.  "Oh.  I thought you'd want that."  Impossible to get these things right.

Anyway, when she did die, no one wanted to think about that sort of thing.  Ro was newly at university, Weeza had a tiny flat, Al moved into her place anyway so was surrounded by quite a few of her possessions, and we packed a lot of stuff away.  Nearly nine years on, I'm finally dealing with them.  And so it was lovely that we were able to look on with a fresh eye.

The Sage, having done a lot of box-shifting (no turning out as yet) had found some things that he brought out to show.  "All these years that I've known him," said Phil, "and he's only just showing me his train set?"  At one point, while I was cooking, Weeza came to ask me for some methylated spirits.  I went straight to the cupboard under the back stairs and fetched it, which impressed everyone mightily with its unexpectedness.  This is what the Sage had found -

And here it is in action -