All you need to be

'I think I should be famous for something before I die'

I said, 'You are already all you need to be.

You love, family and friends and we all love you back.

Your love is the gift you give to the world'.

'But it is so very ordinary', you said rather dejectedly.

But the amazing lies hidden within the ordinary.

No need to raise millions of pounds for charity, 

No need to climb a mountain or sail an ocean.

No need to be famous for something or nothing.

You are already, extraordinarily, all you need to be.

Just Making a Cuppa

I was waiting for my electric kettle to boil, something it does very efficiently, in less time than I 've known any other kettle to boil.  I was mulling over how wonderful my kettle was, as encouraging bubbling noises started emanating from it.  I had had it about 20 years or more and it hadn't let me down.

Two days later, I was again standing over my fabulous kettle, and nothing happened.  No reassuring little red light, no warmth coming off it, nothing.  My kettle was kaput.  It's odd how these things happen once your thoughts break the spell.

The prospect of lockdown and no kettle was too much.  I rummaged around in the cupboard under the sink and found, joy of joys, the little kettle I used to use in my camper van, complete with its ingenious folding handle.

I threw old, trusty in the bin, and placed the 'folding' kettle on the hob.  Instantly I noticed that my kitchen looked better.  Less trailing cable, a socket and more workspace freed up.

It did take quite a while to come to the boil, and my feet were getting cold on the kitchen floor tiles, but then - a forgotten pleasure.  The kettle started to sing to let me know my cuppa was coming.  Yes, it whistled the whistle that took me back to my childhood family kitchen, it whistled the whistle of happiness.  

It sounded busy.  It sounded joyful.  It sounded reassuringly rustic.

Walking into the Shadows

Since my last post, I've been thinking about all the offices, concert halls and workplaces in London and around the world that are standing empty.  There are probably one or two facilities people checking in on them occasionally to make sure there are no leaks, or maybe a cleaner knocking some dust off the furniture.  The Shard, the Walkie Talkie building, the Royal Opera House, all the cafes and restaurants, all empty.  Rows of empty desks with blank monitors, water coolers with no-one chatting about last night's TV, chairs on tables, curtains drawn, windows with no one looking out at the views.  Ranks of velvet covered seats with no one flipping them upright to let someone pass.  Polished wood bars with beer taps that no one is pulling and rows of dangling glasses, gathering dust.

We speak in hallowed tones about the burgeoning wildlife, but I expect the mice, rats and cockroaches are having fun in these places too.

We rightly praise the NHS workers and key workers, but I think it might be time to say a thank-you to all those facilities staff, who are walking into dark and echoing buildings regularly to make sure they are ready to open up again when the time comes. 

Ode to my Colleagues during a Pandemic

The big, old building where I work is grand on the outside and a mix of grand and not-so-grand inside.

Panelled rooms, corniced ceilings, mirrored doors, a grand staircase and bevelled glass windows adorn the public areas.

At the back of the building there are staircases with uneven tread winding between myriad corridors. There are lots of doors to rooms that were once bedrooms or drawing rooms for grand people. Then there is a mish-mash of smaller rooms and cupboards.

Through the hall window I can see rain dripping off a broken gutter and splattering onto a slate roof beneath.

I love working in a building like this. It has soul. There aren’t enough plugs, there is no air conditioning and it can be cruelly cold in the winter. But there are views, and deep windows with wide sills you can sit on when no one is about.

Usually it is full of people clattering away on their keyboards, staring intently at screens or standing in the kitchen chatting while sipping tea and taking the lid off the biscuit tin to see if anything is worth plundering.

Sometimes I get to play the grand piano in the function hall, imagining an adoring audience and making flamboyant hand gestures as I hit the keys. Sometimes I play table tennis with friends there, laughing and scrabbling around for the pesky little balls that get trapped under the large radiators or roll into the corridor by the kitchen. Sometimes June opens the kitchen door and passes some refreshments out with a smile and friendly word.

It’s a building to love, full of people to love. It has its cranky moments, but so do those of us who inhabit it.

I miss the old place, working from home really isn’t the same.

I had to go in this week. I was looking forward to it. Going in a side entrance because the big front doors were locked, I went up the dark stairwell to the office on the top floor. The cleaner was pleased to see me. We had a chat from opposite ends of the corridor before she took her vacuum cleaner back down the stairs to clean another, unused room.

Every so often moving around the building, I would hear footsteps down the hall, part of a muffled conversation behind a door. Out of the window I could see down to the sunken lawn where an energetic man was throwing a ball for a lethargic dog.

Someone popped in to collect a computer, lots of smiles and hellos from the doorway, and then the floor went quiet again. Later, another cleaner put his head round the door, swabbed the handles and moved on.

It’s a place to reflect, with time to reflect.

I am a voice behind a door, I am the footsteps down the hall.

I am the person pleased to see you - I am the person pleased to be here.

Please be here with me again soon.

Sometimes it is worth getting out early and seeing the world in a different light.....

Pond in Home Park at dawn

Deer in ground mist

Beyond the White Noise

The current Coronavirus pandemic is creating the crackling static of white noise.  Live news feeds direct to your phone giving updates on the latest number of deaths, hospital over-crowding and the shortage of ventilators.  Grim-faced newsreaders telling us about sick politicians and failing businesses.  There is fake news and fake information spreading on social media.  We are given instructions to follow, and we are implored to do this, and do that.  Statutory measures tighten by the week and all we can do is sit at home and wait for the numbers to start changing for the better.  We suppress a growing knot of anxiety while washing our hands and washing our hands and washing our hands.

What seemed important two months/two days/two hours ago has changed.  There is a new focus for us. 

Listen beyond the white noise and something profound is happening.  We are being shown different ways to live our lives.  Lives of gratitude for the kindness of strangers, humility for the selfless actions of others, local lives of community helping our neighbours and a new awareness of the meaning of 'home'. 

What can we take forward when the six foot season ends so it has not all been in vain?

A Bee Shaped Void

There's a bee buzzing around in my head.  He won't go away.  He wants me to write this.

In a museum somewhere is a stingless bee, preserved in amber, from 80,000,000 years ago - from the time of the dinosaurs in fact.

He has orchid pollen on his body.

A snapshot of a day in the life of a small, seemingly insignificant insect.  Happily enjoying exploring a flower and stirring up puffs of pollen.  Things take a turn for the worse when he has the misfortune to get stuck in some gum on a tree.  Not such a good day after all. 

How we know about these moments in a day eons ago is something of a miracle. 

We can't crack open the amber nugget, as the preserved bee is but a shell inside.  All the more mysterious that it is only an echo that has bumped its way across millennia.

A tiny, empty space in a chunk of resin that accidentally found it's way into an afterlife.

Eighty million years, some pollen grains, and a bee shaped void.

The Passing

Last week I attended a burial.

It was a jolt, a reminder of the timelessness of  a body returning to the earth.

A simple ceremony, echoing back forever.

'Ashes to ashes, dust to dust' , came the windswept words, accompanied by the forlorn smattering of  handfuls of earth on polished wood.

We are all but dust.

A young pine tree swayed in the breeze next to the open grave.

It was growing where my uncle lay.

My aunt and uncle had been married over 60 years, constant companions in life.

Here they will  dance together again in the wind.

Two trees, growing stronger,

Side by side.

*********

The Passing Strange by John Masefield

Out of the earth to rest or range,
Perpetual in perpetual change,
The unknown passing through the strange.

Water and saltness held together,
To tread the dust and stand the weather,
And plough the field and stretch the tether,

To pass the wine-cup and be witty,
Water the sands and build the city,
Slaughter like devils and have pity,

Be red with rage and pale with lust,
Make beauty come, make peace, make trust,
Water and saltness mixed with dust;

Drive over earth, swim under sea,
Fly in the eagle's secrecy,
Guess where the hidden comets be;

Know all the deathy seeds that still
Queen Helen's beauty, Caesar's will,
And slay them even as they kill;

Fashion an altar for a rood,
Defile a continent with blood,
And watch a brother starve for food:

Love like a madman, shaking, blind,
Till self is burnt into a kind
Possession of another mind;

Brood upon beauty, till the grace
Of beauty with the holy face
Brings peace into the bitter place;

Prove in the lifeless granites, scan
The stars for hope, for guide, for plan;
Live as a woman or a man;

Fasten to lover or to friend,
Until the heart break at the end:
The break of death that cannot mend;

Then to lie useless, helpless, still,
Down in the earth, in dark, to fill
The roots of grass or daffodil.

Down in the earth, in dark, alone,
A mockery of the ghost in bone,
The strangeness, passing the unknown.

Time will go by, that outlasts clocks,
Dawn in the thorps will rouse the cocks,
Sunset be glory on the rocks:

But it, the thing, will never heed
Even the rootling from the seed
Thrusting to suck it for its need.

Since moons decay and suns decline,
How else should end this life of mine?
Water and saltness are not wine.

But in the darkest hour of night,
When even the foxes peer for sight,
The byre-cock crows; he feels the light.

So, in this water mixed with dust,
The byre-cock spirit crows from trust
That death will change because it must;

For all things change, the darkness changes,
The wandering spirits change their ranges,
The corn is gathered in the granges.

The corn is sown again, it grows
The stars burn out, the darkness goes;
The rhythms change, they do not close.

They change, and we, who pass like foam,
Like dust blown through the streets of Rome,
Change ever, too; we have no home,

Only a beauty, only a power,
Sad in the fruit, bright in the flower,
Endlessly erring for its hour,

But gathering, as we stray, a sense
Of Life, so lovely and intense,
It lingers when we wander hence,

That those who follow feel behind
Their backs, when all before is blind,
Our joy, a rampart to the mind.

The Accidental Archer

Recently, I accidentally found myself in an indoor archery championship.  I thought I was just going to enter a basic competition for fun, but no.  I was locked into a sports hall the size of Wembley Arena (or so it felt) with the best archers in Surrey and Middlesex.  I knew it was a mistake when the judge asked to see my 'release mechanism'.  I have a longbow, so this was my floppy, three fingered, bear paw glove.  The judge also asked if I wanted to check my bracing position.  As I had no idea what that might be, I said, 'no thank you' and hoped he hadn't spotted my confused look.  So here I was, surrounded by people with very high tech equipment, bows with winches and wheels on them, long sticky outy things at the front (stabilisers I think), and complicated sighting equipment.  It took them ages to set up, as they had to get out screw drivers to build the bows and set the sights.  I just strung my stick of wood and started bitterly regretting a) filling in the application form and b) having a very large coffee.

The targets were lined up along the far side of the hall, it looked like a long way away.  There was a very large curtain hanging behind them, the sort used to separate badminton courts.  The archers, bows all assembled and strung, stood in ranks behind the shooting line.  And so it started.  I was with a group of three, very nice and chatty archers, and we took turns to shoot, and then walk up to the target to calculate the scores.  This became increasingly embarrassing, as they were all getting golds or reds (the centre of the target, or near to it), while my arrows wouldn't go anywhere I wanted them to.  Once or twice, I would suffer the indignity of an arrow hitting the backing curtain, which then rippled the full width of the hall, showing that someone, further down the line HAD MISSED THE TARGET COMPLETELY.  When we went to collect our three arrows, and I only had two in the target, and the scoring person looked confused, I had to confess the missing arrow was the one dangling above us.

One of my arrows bounced out of the target, which I didn't mind too much, at least it had hit it.  I hadn't realised that this meant, after all the other BEST ARCHERS IN SURREY AND MIDDLESEX had finished shooting that 'end' (round), I had to stand BY MYSELF in front of them all AND SHOOT THE BOUNCED ARROW AGAIN.   After pleading quietly to whichever deity might be listening, 'please, please, please let me hit the target', I was very happy to not only hit it, but apparently get the gold IN THE MIDDLE OF THE TARGET.   I noticed a ripple of applause go round the hall, and realised I WAS BEING APPLAUDED BY THE BEST ARCHERS IN SURREY AND MIDDLESEX.  When I went to get the arrow, it was actually in the red, but I wasn't too worried.

After what felt like a very long afternoon, I achieved a personal worst score and came bottom in the ladies section.  This was no real disappointment, as was pointed out to me, I had actually achieved my best ever score in a tournament.

Giving the Truth More Weight

All the talk about whether particular national or political groups have been swamping social media with messages to manipulate our views / votes has left me confused.  I don't doubt there are dark forces afoot, but why oh why are individuals not taking more responsibility for what they pass on by reposting/retweeting etc.

In all the panic about what is out there and who is initiating the posts, no one seems to be pointing out that it is up to each of us to check what we are passing on.  Social media seems to make everyone feel that things need reposting instantly.

They don't. 

It can wait. 

It can wait until you have a bit of a think:

• Where has this originated? 
• Is it true (you can check UK political posts via sites such as Parliament.uk)?  
• Has the contact who passed it on added their own comments, or just passed on those of someone anonymous (whose agenda you are not aware of)? 
• Do those statistics really make sense?  

Reposting less and adding your own caption (maybe with your initials) will add gravitas to your posts.

It is time to give more weight to the truth.

I wonder how it feels to have a globular cluster on your arm

Moscow was cold.  It was also the October Revolution anniversary, so everything was shut, and there were lots of soldiers with guns slung about their shoulders.  As I couldn't get to the Kremlin, I decided to try something different, a Russian bath house.  I paid my money and was shown into a large lounge, which had banquette seating in bays around it.  Each seat had a coat hanger and most had a very aged Russian lady in various states of undress.  Usually I am too shy to take my clothes off in front of strangers, but at last I had found somewhere where I didn't look too bad in comparison and was able to whip everything off, don the strange, felt, Smurf hat and join a queue.  I wasn't entirely sure what I was queuing for, until the door opened and it turned out to be a very large sauna, with two floors of slatted, pine seating.  Women jostled for spaces, some lying down, some sitting in Buddha poses (it was hard to know where to look safely, I spent a lot of time admiring the ceiling).  The door slammed closed and a blonde woman of military demeanour, standing almost to attention, one had behind her back, started ladling water into a very large oven.  She got into a groove with this, and pint after pint was going onto the hot coal.  The heat hit me like a wall.  The women started languidly beating themselves with birch sprigs, sweat rolling down their bodies.  I had to move half way down the stairs when I thought my skin might actually start to blister.  The military lady put the ladle down.  I was relieved, until I saw her pick up a bigger one, and start rhythmically topping up the oven again.  She then picked up a towel and started to 'helicopter' it around her head, shifting the suffocating cloud of heat towards me.  Just before I thought I might faint, I headed out of the door, I thought I heard a mild tut-tutting behind me, but the ambulance people would have let out more of the heat.  The cold tub looked very inviting, and I eased myself in, and enjoyed bobbing around a bit.  After a shower, and marvelling at the women covering themselves in mud, or foaming suds, I tried the sauna again, but it really isn't my thing.  Give me that Siberian snow any day of the week.

While sitting in a café in Moscow, I gazed out of the window and wondered why the view wasn't moving.  Then I remembered I wasn't on a train.

The hotel was wonderful, with great food, and the shops were full of fun things, like astronaut gear, intricate chess sets and Faberge eggs.  Sadly the Cosmonaut museum was closed, so one day I will have to go back, but I might give the sauna a miss.

I did manage to see the outside of the Kremlin and St Basil's Cathedral and the Tomb of the Unknown Warrior the next day.  I also dived into a subway station to admire the architecture and visited an art gallery.  My favourite exhibit was a naked, plump lady lying on her front, a bronze sculpture.  I burst out laughing to see one of her buttocks had been patted so often, it had a wonderful shine to it.  She was a sight for sore eyes.

I left Moscow on the Paris Express.  Happily my Irish friends from the Trans-Siberian were in the next carriage again.  The Paris Express sounded so luxurious, but was pale in comparison to its Russian counterpart.  I also had to spend the first night sharing the cabin with an elderly German gentleman, which felt very uncomfortable.

I was surprised to realise that the journey from Moscow to Paris is half as far as the Moscow to Beijing leg.  We were going faster, but it was still a three day journey.  I enjoyed the views, mainly farms with meandering animals and occasional people - one vignette was of a mother looking down at a toddler, both bundled up in thick anoraks, and the toddler obviously having a tantrum and refusing to move.  You can go anywhere in the world, but people are people wherever you are.

Paris was even colder and a bit wet, and it was also their Remembrance weekend, so again lots of things were closed.  I did get to see the Eiffel Tower (which never seemed to get any closer as I kept walking towards it).  I enjoyed the Louvre, although the Mona Lisa was much smaller than I expected and not as exciting to see in real life as Klimt's 'The Kiss' was in Vienna.

I finally boarded the Eurostar to London, and was met by my neighbour and driven home. 

A comment many people made about the trip was how brave I was to do it.  I never felt threatened and found all the strangers I met to be helpful and generally friendly.  It was just a train after all.

One final memory I will recount is lying on my train bunk, somewhere in Siberia, looking up out of the window at night.  I could see Orion, and as I was thinking about his globular cluster (I did an online astronomy course once) when I saw golden sparks flying in an arc.  They were coming off the wheels and points, and looked magnificent.

It had been the journey of a lifetime, and I really understand now what it means to watch the world go by.

Watching the World Go By

On 1st November I made my way to Beijing Station, dragging my heavy bags along.  After some confusion I found the stately waiting room for the Trans-Siberian train.  Intrigued, I watched the other passengers arrive in ones, twos and threes.  Some were buying large quantities of instant noodles from the kiosk, others were trying to pacify bored children.  The train came in, and I had butterflies of excitement.  It was very long and a sort of racing green.  Once embarked, I was absolutely delighted by the cabin, exactly how I had hoped it would be with rich, red crushed velvet (worn) covering the seats/bunks and wooden panelling (mock) on the walls.  It was all a bit tired, but loved (which reminded me of something, but I couldn't quite place what). There was a tiny wardrobe, and a door to a shared washroom.  A slightly less than enthusiastic dribble emerged from the tap, but I didn't mind such trifles, I was on the Trans-Siberian railway!  Me!  The top bunk folded down and I could spread out on the lower bunk, like it was a settee.  A little table separated me from a single seat, with a traditional net luggage rack over it, which I stacked books and useful things on.  I strung my fairy lights up and unpacked - putting things in the under-seat storage and nest-building  - this was going to be my home for six days after all.

The train chugged out of the station, we were off!  I sat with my nose pressed against the window, and stayed there for about three days (well, apart from being in bed at night).  And what I saw, what I saw!

As the train moves away from Beijing, it passes through tunnel after tunnel.  Between the tunnels were flashes of deep gorges, valleys with waterfalls, sparkling rivers winding round mountains.  I'd just catch sight of something magnificent, when the window went black again..... and then flash, out into daylight again and another green valley.  As the sun started to set, I could see a regular pattern silhouetted across the top of distant mountains, against the pink sky.  I gasped when I realised it was the Great Wall again, stretching out of miles.

After some trying hours at the China/Mongolia border in the middle of the night, we journeyed on into the Gobi Desert.  Here were plains, with wild horses stampeding across the grit, kicking up sand clouds behind them.  Here were herds of camels, almost comic with their double humps, swaying gracefully as they sashayed along.  Here was the lone herdsman, riding bareback in traditional dress.  Here was me.  In the Gobi Desert. 

Time to pinch myself again.

What was truly surprising was that all this was as nothing to the views we were about to see.  The train climbed slowly up a great incline, and rounded a bend in the track.  As the train crossed the top of the ridge, the vista opened up into one of jaw-dropping beauty.  The sky was bright blue and almost shimmering, not a cloud to be seen. The mountains went on for miles, ridge after ridge, each in a different shade of brown, pink or ginger, or gold.  It was mesmerising.  There was nothing else to be seen, just mountains and sky.  No people, no animals, no buildings, no trees or plants.  Just the Gobi Desert in raw glory.

It was too good to last forever, and eventually we pulled in at Ulan Bator, the capital.  Weather-worn women were selling noodles and water from rusty supermarket trolleys.

The train carried on, at what felt like its cruising speed of around 30 miles per hour.  The carriages each had a samovar providing endless boiling water, and the wonderfully decorated restaurant car served good meals.  We each had a thermal jug, so could make endless herbal tea, and also use the hot water for washing at the basin.  The other passengers were pleasant company.  A couple from Ireland were particularly friendly, and some men from New Zealand further up the carriage.  A sort of train etiquette developed, where if people felt chatty, they would stand in the corridor, lean on the rail at the window and wait to see who wanted to talk.  Alternatively, people left their doors open, so you could put your head in and exchange the time of day.  A general topic of conversation was where we might be.  It was nigh on impossible to work this out after a day or two.  The train timetables were indecipherable as we kept crossing time zones, and all the station signs were in Cyrillic script.  One day I wondered why no one else was eating dinner, to find it was 4pm, not 6pm.

Anyway, after the Gobi Desert we had another disturbed night passing through the Mongolia/Russia border.  It was cold and annoying and we passengers huddled together in one cabin, hoping our passports would be returned and that we wouldn't be taken to a Gulag somewhere.  I eventually got to sleep, and in the morning, raised my blind to see..... snow!  From the blazing sunshine of the desert the night before, I had woken in Siberian snow!  The train inched its way around the southern side of Lake Baikal, giving us lots of time to admire the distant, snow capped mountains, and the huge expanse of water lapping quite close to the rails.  After passing the lake and brightly painted a shacks with half frozen streams weaving around them, we arrived in Irkusk, somewhere else exotic I remembered from the game Risk.  Never in a million years would I have ever thought to be there.  

We passed through more picturesque valleys and then came into pine forests, interspersed with birch trees.  I had been warned about this.  I think it was one forest, that went on for three days.  The snow was managing to blow little drifts into the joints in the train.  The guards were endlessly shovelling coal to stoke up the boilers, and boy, did we boil!  The train got hotter and hotter, and as the windows were sealed, the only relief was to go and trample on the little snow drifts at the joints.  This was a very noisy place to stand, and also slightly alarming, as your feet would involuntarily drift apart.  As I knew there would be lots of trees, I had downloaded podcasts and music to my phone, and sat and read, and drank herbal tea.  Occasionally the view was punctuated by a train passing in the opposite direction, but not often.

Eventually we stopped at the capital of Siberia, Novosibirsk.  It was a teaming, modern city with glass high rise buildings and curving motorways jammed with rush hour traffic.  It was also dark, and very cold.

From here, the views became more urban, with more freight trains passing, and industrial buildings cropping up.  We finally pulled in at Moscow, and none of us wanted to leave our cosy train.

Places I've Never Been

I grew up in a time when it was unthinkable that anyone would be able to visit China.  As a primary school child I remember we all once took part in a musical drama based around a green tea ceremony.  I enjoyed the songs and thinking how completely exotic it all was - green tea for goodness sake!  My only other awareness of things Chinese were some willow patterned china plates my parents had showing blurry images of strangely shaped buildings with curled up corners, and wobbly looking bridges, which were enchanting.

When my nephew sent an invitation to his wedding in Shanghai, saying he would understand if no one went, because it was so far away, I knew I had to go.  So it was that I found myself on a plane with several members of my immediate and extended family, all very excited as we flew into the unknown.

Apart from the joy of seeing my nephew get married, the other draw of the trip was the chance to come back on the Trans-Siberian railway.  Something that had hovered around in my head for some time.  Again, I remembered from my childhood people mentioning it in rather respectful tones, and it carried with it an intriguing mystique.  I decided to come back all the way to London by train.  What a crazy idea!

Shanghai was immense.  Our first view of it as the plane banked to land took our breath away.  It spread for miles in every direction, with massive sky-scrapers and blocks of flats as far as the eye could see.  I was expecting it to be big, but it exceeded all my expectations.

The wedding was wonderful - a real privilege to take part in a REAL TEA CEREMONY - who'd have thought it!  There was lots of fun first, with the groom having to persuade the bride to come out of her room, and completing challenges with his groomsmen.  The bride looked really beautiful in traditional costume, and my nephew very handsome in his.  Everyone was on good form and we enjoyed dancing the night away to a live band in the city somewhere - who knows where!

After a few days of great fun, visiting traditional markets and modern malls, eating weird and wonderful things (lots of tentacles and suckers - I wasn't brave enough for the duck's tongues), going up really tall towers and generally enjoying the views and sunshine, it was finally time to break away from my family and get on the train.

I went on the super fast train to Beijing.  Fields flashed past the window, telegraph poles, paddy fields, shacks, sheds, roads and distant tower blocks.  The sky was a weak yellow, giving way to darkness.

Beijing Station was very confusing, but as I came out with the crowd, a 'man in black' blocked my path.  A little scary until he tried to pronounce my name, then I knew it was OK.  On the drive to the hotel, I looked out at all the shop fronts with strange characters on the signs, and all the people busy with their lives.  The car pulled in to what I thought was a scruffy layby, but turned out to be the hotel drive.  I was very relieved to have arrived safely and was able to turn a blind eye to the cockroaches having a bit of a party in the bathroom.  After Ronald the Rat in Malawi, Colin the Cockroach was no problem at all and there were green tea sachets on the side, GREEN TEA!  Imagine!  Me!

There followed two really fantastic days sight-seeing with a small group.  The Summer Palace was just like I'd stepped into one of those willow pattern plates from home, the Olympic Park looked just like it had on TV some years ago, Tiananmen Square - I had to pinch myself - and the portrait of Mao.  The Forbidden City with its expansive courtyards, one after another, after another.  Most of all though, the Great Wall - how amazing was that.  Our feet skimmed the tops of trees on the chair lift up.  I could walk along the flagstones and duck down into the watch towers and admire the views of rolling hills disappearing into the horizon through the arch shaped windows.  I drank some jasmine tea while on the wall and took time to try to take it all in.  The Great Wall of China, me!

I wasn't too sad to leave the hotel after a couple of days.  The diet of soggy chips or soggy pak choy was a bit grim, and each time I loaded my plate I was worried one of Colin's friends would appear to wish me a good morning.  I mainly settled for the egg fried rice.

The other thing about leaving the hotel meant I was bound for the next stage of my adventure.......

On Feeling Smug

So I'm at the hardware emporium, buying coal at three for the price of two.  This means I have to buy nine ten kilogram sacks, which is about as much that fits in the boot of my car.

At the till, I was behind a man of similar age to myself, who was buying eight rolls of light and fluffy insulation.

I felt extremely smug that I loaded my 90kg of coal into the car in less time than it took him to faff around with his thermo fluff.  AND I was behind him in the queue so he had a headstart.  (All that time in the gym must be paying off at last).  I was flinging the sacks around with abandon.  I worry a little that my bargain £200 car has slightly dodgy suspension, and the coal takes its toll on the bushes (getting technical here, but I am sure that's what the garage man said was next to die).

When I got home, my neighbour was standing on his doorstep, looking very dapper as he does, and announced that he and his housemate were going out shortly.  This was my cue to zap the stereo on very loudly, with my favourite dancy tracks and continue my exercise by energetically bouncing around in front of the fire, throwing great shapes.

The good thing about having a £200 car is that it is virtually disposable.  You don't have to bother locking it, as no one in their right mind would steal it.  Everyone gets out of my way when the two lanes reduce to one, as there are significant dents in the bodywork that other drivers find alarming, for some reason.  I also know that if it breaks down there will be no repair bills, I can just dump it.  I've already travelled around 3000 miles in it, so it has been very good value indeed.

To blow away the January blues, I have started going to an archaeology class on Monday evenings.  The teacher is excellent, and it happens to be focusing on my favourite part of the world - the western isles of Scotland.  I need something to make up for the lack of Iron Age opportunities during the winter months.  It is strange how you can miss sitting in a roundhouse.  Who would have thought?

More worryingly, I have a slight sensation of itchy feet.  The prospect of going up the Amazon on a hospital boat is beckoning.  I'm fighting this off boldly.  Can I really face the prospect of the anti malarial tablets/mosquitos/ferocious wildlife/creepy crawlies and crocodiles again?  Not sure.  The jury is still out.  At least the Amazon would only be for two - three weeks so I wouldn't have to pack the house up again.

I'll keep you posted!











 

Tarmac and Time

My drive to work each day is one that takes me past the end of the road where I was born.

It passes the house of my school friend, where we used to throw snowballs at each other on the pavement (in my attic there is a lantern slide of us in our brown school uniforms and brown rubber wellies, with the snowy backdrop and crumbs of white flaking off our belted, gaberdine macs).

It goes under the (now rebuilt) rickety wooden footbridge I used to stand on when I was very little and see the cars disappear under my feet, and be in awe of the enormous steamrollers widening the carriageway.

It goes past the shopping parade that used to have the sweet shop, where I remember being on my white 'reins' that had a little lamb etched on in silver.  I remember feeling secure that a grown up was holding the other end,  I somehow knew it freed me from having to make any difficult decisions.

It goes past the wall my nineteen year old self and boyfriend sat and chatted into the night on one of our first dates - and of being blissfully happy in the moment.

It goes past the tower block that looks old and tatty now, but was just being built when we moved to the area.  How there used to be a Fine Fayre supermarket with the 'Fine Fayre gee gees' outside (the coin operated rocking horses), and most fabulously glamorous, some fountains set into the concrete forecourt.  A little splash of sophistication in an otherwise unremarkable area.

Nearer home is the park where another lantern slide shows me in a romper suit, the same height as a tulip, looking at it with great fascination.

Sometimes you know you are going to remember a moment forever, but occasionally the dust needs blowing off.  I don't know why some things stay lodged in the recesses of our minds, and other things evaporate into the ether, but I do know that driving through the past every day feels strangely comforting.

Been an Even Longer Time

I've just watched a film about Einstein's big idea and am now wondering what I can do to add to the sum total of the universe.  

It's all a bit confusing though. Albert Einstein and Lise Meitner's were both pacifists, and yet their work enabled the world to have the atomic bomb. 

How did that happen? 

Maybe not having big ideas is a good thing?   

I'm still struggling with the fact I'm made up of star dust and any little part of me could blow up a small country, given the right conditions......  

I'm also struggling to imagine riding a sunbeam with a mirror in my hand, and becoming invisible when I reach the speed of light.

And time slowing down the faster you go?  If I'm on the end of my sunbeam, does everything stop?

My brain is overheating.

I think I'll settle for a copy of 'Hello' magazine and a cup of tea instead.  Much safer.

Been a Long Time....

Life has been a bit hectic since I got back from Malawi.  I have been job hunting, which is almost like having a job in itself.  As is the way with these things, after applying for tens of jobs (I can do an application form in around 40 minutes now), the job I finally got is the one I already have.  I was offered a position working in a different borough, but realised I really, really didn't want to leave my current workplace, as it does feel like a second home.  Everyone is so friendly, and it is a very good employer.  When my colleague said she was handing in her notice, I realised I had an opportunity to stay, so grabbed it with both hands.  The only problem is, it is part time, so I will be filling in more of those pesky forms again to find something to 'wrap around' it.  I will be earning enough to pay the bills, but not to have too much fun, so I am very inspired to find something else for the fun money.

I have also bought a car.  It only cost £200 from a friend, so I am enjoying having wheels again.  You can get so much done with a car.  Runs to the dump, stocking up the kitchen cupboards and going places the buses and trains don't reach.  A big surprise has been how I have got used to commuting to work on the bus and train, and even though I could now drive, I still rattle around with the morning crush.  I can read and watch the world go by and not have to worry about parking (worrying about parking is in my genes).  There is something soothing about the rhythm of the morning journey that gets me in the right frame of mind for work.

I am still missing the friends I made abroad, and every so often a little flashback of some wonderful moment catches me unawares.  Today I was playing my piano and remembered playing the grand piano in the hall in the middle of the redwood forest.  Sometimes I have to almost pinch myself to remember it was actually true, it wasn't all a dream.  One of the odd things to think is that everywhere I have been is still there, carrying on without me.  I suppose everywhere we have all ever been is still there, ticking along.  It makes your head feel funny if you think about it too much.

Random Writing

The journey to work is a bit dull, so I thought I would take a notebook and pen, and jot a few things down while I waited for trains and buses to do their thing:

At the station:
The metal bench is cold.
I can feel the harshness of it chilling my behind.
A cluster of commuters round the coffee stall.
Dainty cupcakes decorate the tables set out in front of it.
The vending machines stand proud, strong and chunky, like guards outside Buckingham Palace.
There is a display of postcards outside the newsagent's kiosk.  Union Jacks, double decker buses, red letter boxes and phone booths.
An 'A' board sign tells me water costs 'only 70p'.  I remember someone saying that selling water in Britain, where you can get it out of a tap for free, is one of the most surprising marketing triumphs ever.
Co-incidentally, the announcer reminds us all to carry water with us on the train.
I wonder whether they are in cahoots with the newsagent.
I feel annoyed that the announcer thinks I'm too stupid to remember to carry water in hot weather.
I've just come back from Africa.  That was hot.  This was not.
Smug travelling git, me!
There is a queue developing at the ticket machine.  Why do railway stations have the slowest machines in the universe, that seem deliberately designed to make people miss their trains?
The coffee barista is banging the coffee grounds and the coffee machine is hissing like the old steam trains must have done here once.
Everyone looks well turned out, the wealthy western commuters in 'business smart'.
The women look a bit like clones though, blonde hair, red lips, shoes with heels not designed to walk in.
The men are all in sensible suits with ties choking at the neck.

The people in the queue needn't have worried, the train has been cancelled.

I'm on the bus now, decided to try to avoid the crammed train due in another half an hour by going to another station.
Not sure it was a good idea.  Not sure where the stop nearest the station is.
The driver told me, but didn't open the doors.  I got confused so sat down again.  Then I had to get up and get out of the 'in' doors.

Worked well, the train came fairly soon after I arrived at the station, and there was lots of room to sit down.
The interior is a bit panic inducing, one poster features a dying woman telling me it's too late to save her, but not to save others.  The headline in a newspaper held by a fellow commuter assures me that we will all die from London's latest killer, 'THE AIR WE BREATHE'.  Another poster tells me I've probably got diabetes and might die from it, or just get lucky and have a limb amputated instead.  I try to smirk it all off, but somewhere deep inside my brain I am starting to panic THAT I WILL DIE FROM CANCER, DIABETES OR JUST BY INHALING THE AIR.  I am confused, because if I don't breathe in, I will die anyway, diabetes, cancer or not.

Arriving at work was much nicer.  Warm and friendly.  Well ordered and tea on tap.

'Oh to be in England now that April's here' or 'Home Part II'

England is a wonderful place, really wonderful.  There might be no better time of year to see it again than in April.  Everything is iridescently green, almost glowing.  There is a refreshing cool breeze and fluffy white clouds playing in a powder blue sky.

I have been enjoying cycling along the tow path and am covering around 10 miles a day, feeling exuberant and grateful.  I am meeting family and friends in cafes and sitting outside some, sipping tea and watching the world go by.  Sometimes I come home after dark, and what joy that is.  The realisation that I can cycle safely IN THE DARK through local parks and along roads with no one waiting with a machete round the next bend.  Hooray.

The river is mirror calm in some places, and those fluffy clouds are reflected in voluptuous splendour.  The occasional boat drifts past.  The crew have no worries about being swallowed by crocodiles or mauled by hippos if they capsize.  It is all more beautiful than I remember, and I am grateful to live somewhere so lovely and, more importantly, so safe.

My father used to say that you should, 'make home the best place in the world, and once it is, why go anywhere else?'.

I am starting to understand that statement.

Home

What a wonderful word that is.

'Home'. 

It is soft sounding and gentle.

It is like a whisper of comfort.

Being back in my home after nearly a year away feels very special.  The first night I lay on my bed I was taken aback at how comfy the mattress was, how soft the duvet and how like little puffs of cloud my pillows were.  I didn't have to unfurl a mosquito net, or bounce around clapping my hands around pesky insects.

I could leave something out on the kitchen surface, and not worry that rats would frolic and nibble around it.  I can open the door into the garden and not need to check for snakes.

Part of me still worries as the time gets close to 6pm, then I remember with a sign of relief that I don't have to be locked inside a burglar proof building as soon as it gets dark.  I can even walk around outside after the sun goes down.

There are buses and trains that run to timetables, and shops with prices on goods.

Best of all I like the cool air, the spritzer of drizzle and being able to expose little areas of skin and not be sun-burned.

I have changed through the experience.  My catch phrase since I got back is; 'if I can sit in an open sided vehicle in the middle of a crocodile infested stream, I can do ****' (where **** = difficult task of the moment).

I have met many amazing people, and have been overwhelmed at the kindness of strangers around the world.

Most people are kind.

I think it's important to remember that.