Merry Christmas!

Christmas Day. Never quite how you imagine it’s going to be, is it? 

I eschewed turkey for venison this year. We were going for belly pork, which slow roasted in a bbq rub is a favourite in our household, but by the time I got round to do THE shop, it wasn’t an option, so, “Why not?” I reasoned, and went for the deer option. 

I grew up working class in the 1950’s, and venison, other than poached, would have been unobtainable in my world.  Chicken was so expensive, it was a once-a-year Christmas treat, and even today,  it has a special place in heart and memory, but my husband is tired of it. I have never liked turkey. 

“Cook from frozen 1hr 45 mins at 350F” No problem, except, yes, a problem: the joint was still raw. The stuffing, roast potatoes, mashed potatoes, Brussels sprouts carrots and broccoli were all cooked, but the meat course wasn’t, so dinner arrived, all vastly overcooked an hour late,  and the meat so tough my husband had to put his teeth in to eat it. 

However as the two of us had made good use of the extra hour by getting sozzled on homemade damson  gin and Prosecco, we were both very chilled about it. My signature mushroom and garlic sauce was a hit, and covered a multitude of culinary sins with very little effort. 

The twelve month matured Christmas pudding went down well with Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra Icecream. We usually have crème anglaise with it, but unfortunately one of us had forgotten to get milk in, so it was off the menu this year. 

We settled in front of the Christmas Tree to watch a movie: Jim Carey’s “A Christmas Carol,” because as Tom Lehrer once sang: “Even though the prospect sickens … dum de dum de dum … Drag  out the Dickens. “ I’ll post a link, if you haven’t met Tom before, you’ll love him. 

It’s late-ish   now, we’re stuffed and sleepy, so head for bed. Just before dozing off one of us remembers we’ve forgotten to open our presents. Oh well. There’s always tomorrow. 

Oh! Before O go, I should mention the parsnips. They were the last straw for the air-fryer. Never mind, I’m treating myself to a new one. My husband said,” Call it a belated Christmas present.” I gave him gloves. 

https://open.spotify.com/track/4uarCMpjlIooBsKVsB7pN1?si=6jPaUqxXQtmCQT80s-EoEkA

My Covid

0n the 24th March 2020, I received this message :

GOV.UK CORONAVIRUS ALERT New rules in force now: you must stay at home. More info & exemptions at gov.uk/coronavirus Stay at home. Protect the NHS. Save lives.

I knew it was coming, of course. Sometime in December 2019, rumours were emerging of a novel virus, maybe an accidental release from a biowarfare lab, maybe a bat virus gone rogue: who knew then? (Who knows now? ) people were dying, it was spreading, who knew that Christmas 2019 would,  for millions,  be their last? 

On being ordered to stay home, I set myself a few tasks: to blog daily (I didn’t) to keep in close virtual touch with family and friends, which I did, and to light a candle at dusk every evening at sunset. That I kept up for two years.

I remember being surprised at my parents’ generation often describing “the war years,” as the happiest of their lives. I’m not going to claim THAT, but I gained a sense of how that might be. Every day came awash with an extra sense of how good it was to be alive. There  was a coming together ( at a distance ) of people in the pursuit of a common aim: staying alive.   In fact the nationwide Thursday night cheering for the NHS was the first time I actually met many of my neighbours. We were kinder to one other, more helpful: it was a good time to be alive, primarily because we WERE still alive. 

The U.K. government led by Boris the Toxic Buffoon muddled through, endangering as many lives as it saved. I shall say no more on that topic, sceptics may  tune into the Parliamentary inquiry currently convening and find that out for themselves.  It’s worse than you think. 

I had a mission. March 2020 found me one of only two members  of the Church Council under 70 - thus able to leave home for one of the  few permitted activities: opening the church. 

The sanctuary was cleared as only five  ( plastic ) chairs were permitted for the five people allowed in the building for private prayer. Every door and window opened, every chair sanitised after us, free masks on hand, the wearing of which was compulsory. There were lists of attendees with contact numbers, that had to be kept. Thankfully I only needed to use one once: and that was because Dennis picked up an infection at work. 

I had a dedicated team. We scrubbed and cleaned with enthusiasm. We moved furniture in and out as the numbers permitted at Mass increased. We bustled about with a sense of purpose I have a kind of nostalgia for. 

I ran a tight ship. There were no infections. Nobody died.

The rules were strict. When Mass was first permitted, hanging around inside afterwards wasn’t. My best schoolmarm persona emerged as I emptied the church with the imperious command, “No Loitering!” 

We could shop, walk outdoors with members of our household,go to church,  but not sing, “bubble” with one family group. (I cheated, though cautiously didn’t bubble with the same household in a week …) Testing was routine, masking up a way of life. (The discovery of a  pink floral one,  that I sewed from a pattern I found on the internet, prompted this post. “Lest We Forget.” ) 

At its peak Covid infections in the U.K. topped 300,000 a day. I lost count of the death toll. Everyone in my family eventually caught it, though post vaccination, and although  sick for a few days, there are no lasting effects. Or so I believe. 

Covid’s not over. It’s dropped from the news, because thanks to amazing, and timely,  developments in cellular biology, vaccines became astonishingly quickly available, at least for those of us fortunate to live in the west, with a decent healthcare system. 

Eleven months after that text from HMG, on Feb 2nd 2021, I received my first shot. It became safer to venture out. 

During that year of Lockdown, ,  I celebrated both my 70th birthday and my 50th wedding anniversay. There was a brief respite in October 2020 when five people were allowed to gather together. I had a celebration dinner with my daughters and husband,  at The Royal William south of Gloucester. My wedding anniversary we toured our children’s back gardens, and toasted each other at the statutory  distance of 2m. 

I hope and pray never to have to live through another pandemic: though another is an inevitability. 

When the next one comes, I hope the lessons of this one will have been learned. Anyway, one thing for certain, it won’t be me shouting, “No Loitering!” at group of recalcitrant worshippers enjoying their one legal get-together of the week! 

John McGuiness RIP

John, who wishes to be called, “ Skinny,” by the way, died on Wednesday. We, my husband I,, met him when he was living on the streets, but that was a long time ago. 

Skinny was fifty-a-lot, but would have passed for seventy. Living on the streets does that to you. 

I introduced Ray  to Skinny. I’m an evangelist, of sorts, and Ray rolls his eyes at God, so they were well suited. 

Decades ago, Skinny was a hardworking artisan with a family and a job.  Then he was hit by a truck, which took out his right hip, leaving a wound that would never heal. First step to living on the streets:

Bad Luck.

Skinny was not compensated fully for his disability because the truck driver fled the country.  Second step:

Injustice.

After a spell, the drugs given to control the pain, stopped working,. Third step: 

Intolerable pain.

Skinny took to buying opiates off drug dealers. Fourth step:

Addiction. 

This looks like a downward spiral, doesn’t it? It got pretty bad, but Skinny had guts. He got himself help. He helped himself. He managed the addiction, he got off the streets. 

Ray and Skinny developed a relationship and regularly took each other out for breakfast. A couple of times, I joined them. We all gained weight.

Two year ago Skinny was diagnosed with acute kidney failure, a year ago, lung cancer. 

Consequences.

Skinny’s attitude to dying was to ignore it. I think right up to the end, and beyond,  that worked pretty well for him. 

His mum was with him stroking his forehead as he died. I’m glad of that. When I’m back home we’ll have a wake. Just Ray, and her, and me. There was no funeral. 

But there was a ceremony. I took a stone and said Skinny’s name, and blessed it and him:

“John McGuiness, now that you know who you really are, be at peace.”

And I cast it into the water, where it will rest until the end of time. 

Amen.

Dancing Feet

My friend Darlene treated me to wonderful gift today: she drove me into Bellevue for a pedicure. 

My feet were washed, pumiced, massaged and lotioned, my nails given a short, back and sides, emery-boarded, polished and buffed. 

As feet go, they looked amazing, and felt fantastic. 

As I was being primped and pampered, I thought about the places where these very serviceable and extremely reliable feet had walked:

The green hills of the Cotswolds, under the skirts of which I was born: the Welsh and Scottish uplands, the Swiss Alps, the Carpathian Mountsina, African Velt, Hawaiian rainforest, and Sinai Desert.

They have trudged, heavily through rain, and deep snow, plunged into streams, paddled in oceans, slipped down the banks of rivers, and tip-toed in and out of children’s bedrooms. They’ve been there for me, and apart from a spell in orthopaedic boot following a snapped tendon in my right ankle, they’ve never let me down. 

Above all, they have danced! The Lancers at speech days with school friends, The Dashing White Sergeant with sixth formers at the local public school, out-paced boyfriends at discos, accopanisd family members at parties and weddings, including my own, swayed and turned with Xhosa women in South Africa and with pulsed into sand woth Bedouin in Egypt. 

They once featured in a poem, about that experience:

Here am I, in the Sinai desert, with my dance troupe, at dawn, performing to the music of oud and drums. It is my fifty-first birthday. As I recall the magic of this day, I am reminded of my strength and my resilience and am full of laughter. I hope this comes through in the writing

A Work of Heart

To write this poem, I planted my feet, Strong, bare feet, 

Firmly, in the sand.

I raised my arms, then,

 Dropped them, as I was taught, 

To my shoulders.

Aligning my palms to the strengthening sun, I waited,

Alert, for the words

To drift, or bounce or slide Down,

Down

With the music.

I lifted my head and 

Listened, listening, For the deluge.

Quietly at first...

Trilling over my fingertips 

Snaking down my arms 

Shivering across my shoulders 

Thrumming through my breast 

Shimmying with my hips

Turning Turning Turning

Clapping with my hands 

Stamping with my feet -

The poem came! And

I DANCED. 

Getting Mislaid …

Diary of an Elderly Englishwoman

October 3rd 2023

I’m airborne, en route to Seattle and a month with friends Darlene and Steve. 

One would never buy wine from a can, not THIS one, anyway, but it’s actually quite … um, Nice. I get as drunk as is sociable on long haul flights, because my intention is to sleep between lunch and .. lunch. It being served now, and around the same time, Pacific, at the other end of the flight. 

There are always adventures. My lounge provider at Terminal Three had switched companies, and finding Lounge No1 when every other lounge was discoverable by a letter, proved a challenge, but I overcame it. 

The lounge passes come as a job lot with the premier bank account Ray insists is good value, but only, I reckon, if you exercise every ounce of ingenuity to find the lost lounge and have a full English Breakfast and a complimentary gin and tonic. 

Yes, I’m getting squiffy on notionally free booze, which is the way to go. 👍🏼

I was the last on. I always dawdle, and noticing my boarding group was #9, I foresaw no problem. I was savouring that g&t. I wasn’t last in the boarding queue, but I was near the end. Handing over my boarding card, I discovered I had been randomly selected for the full security search. Taken out of line and moved to one side like a drug mule,  was a little disconcerting, but a quick examination of conscience flagged up just a lipstick that hadn’t gone with the liquids, and that doesn’t count.

I may have smiled too much and my joke about having won the lottery (“random selection”) didn’t get a laugh, but I recalled from the DHS warnings in the US that jokes are not welcome, so I forgave it. 

I did feel rather special. I’ve never been “randomly selected”, before, unless you count the time when a scammer was allegedly giving me an iPad, 

It was the full works with an electronic wand. The security lady was efficient and as friendly as allowed. Suddenly there was a kerfuffle at the desk, One, “Mary Francis,” had checked in at the desk but not arrived in the cabin, so there was a panic on … “I’m here!” I squeaked, like an excited puppy, relieved that,  for once, being mislaid was not actually my fault. 

Saving The Planet

Diary of An Elderly English Woman:Day Two

“Apothecary”. What an evocative word! I was  mulling over  it awaiting my flu jab in the pharmacy in Ledbury yesterday. 

Imagine a wizened fellow of indeterminate age, distilling belladonna for the beautiful ladies, and extracting mercury for the gentlemen with the pox that had succumbed to more than their charms. I picture Merlin, only crazy, as a consequence of the mercury fumes. 

I came close to flirting with the handsome Nigerian pharmacist:: Twenty-third of October, 1950,” I purred as he inquired of my birthdate to fill in (out) the obligatory form.

“Yes! I know!I don’t look a day over thirty!” 

This was so ridiculous we both laughed. 

I enjoy making people laugh. 

In, jabbed, out. Walk up the hill to the Sue Ryder Shop ( Thrift Store) for an item I’d spotted on the way down.

“I’ll take this off your hands, “ I said, handing over a gaudy insulated picnic tote, on wheels,  to the volunteer womanning the till.

“£3 please,” she replies, handing over one of those second-generation cash machines that require a pin. Deja-vu kicked in with a moment of panic, but fortunately, this time, I remembered. 

I am now the triumphant owner of a vital piece of kit that is an essential tool in my new regime. 

Confused? I’ll explain. I am Doing My Bit ( as my grandparents would say during the Second World War) to Save the Planet. I am Walking To The Shops. 

This is no great sacrifice, per se, as the Co-op is less than half a mile away, but my Noble Purpose on arrival, is to collect a pre-ordered bag full of discounted food that had reached its use-by and was headed for the bin. It’s now headed for my newly acquired picnic tote on wheels for the drag up the Hartpury Rd and supper. 

Him Indoors and I are hooked. You don’t know what’s IN the bag until you open it, so every day it’s like winning the lottery! OK, so you might not, as a rule,  buy a plant-based Cornish Pasty, but it tasted good, as did the apple pie, and the parsnips, so no complaints. 

I got my steps in, fed us both for £3.39p AND according to the App, saved 1.7kg of CO2 :more if you count the walk. 

Win-win-win.

https://apps.apple.com/gb/app/too-good-to-go-end-food-waste/id1060683933

No Room At The Inn

UPDATE: Funding was withdrawn from this centre some time ago. The building is now integrated into an expensive facility for rich old people. The homeless are back on the streets.

Looks empty doesn't it? The New Pilot Inn closed some time ago. I used to frequent it, and I still do, though these days in it's new incarnation as a refuge centre for the homeless and street people. They call it 'The Vaughn Centre ' now, and it does good work as the centre for the BRILLIANT Homeless Healthcare Team and GEAR, the Homeless charity that offers facilities for aforementioned fellow-citizens down on their luck.

My mum and dad used to play darts here. In my (very) late teens, I used to accompany them on match days, and marvel at how my father could hit the bullseye and calculate any combination of the number 301 in seconds. Mum, not so good at either, but a worthy member of the team anyway. I was never good enough to play in the team, but could occasionally hit the board ...

Two weeks ago, I learned from my friend Tony Hipkins, who majors in holding Gloucestershire County Council to account for its provision for vulnerable people, emailed to say that GEAR had no funding to open the Vaughn Centre at Christmas this year. I shall find out why, in due course, to see if a fuss needs to be made about it, but in the meantime there is some cash to raise. £200, in fact.

Abigail and I went to church this morning. Not together, because she goes with with her mum and dad. When I arrived she was crying becauss she'd lobbed her pet dinosaur across the aisle and hit somebody. When mummy had requested she desist from such behaviour, Abigail took offence and started to howl. She's my granddaughter, and I love her to bits, but I know mummy is right, so Abs just has to get over it without sympathy from grandma.

Father Aidan gave me permission to make an appeal for a second collection for GEAR and Christmas, and I was preoccupied throughout Mass as I wondered what I was going to say: the "Feed The World" angle having already been taken.

Abigail returns from Little Church with an activity book all about Advent. "Look grandma!" She announces, loudly, because that's her volume setting, "There 's no room in the inn!"

A light goes on in my brain.

"I'm not sure of what I'm going to say, because this is so close to my heart, (and here I tear up) but Abigail has just reminded me of when I was a teenager and used to go with my mum and dad to play darts at The New Pilot Inn in Gloucester, which is now a refuge for the homeless, and which can't open at Christmas this year because it has no money. Honestly, if the church can't open the inn door to the lonely and the lost at Christmas, we might just as well pack up and go home... " 

Not sure how I ended up, but the result was a collection that raised far more than £200

That's Christmas sorted, now let's see what can be done for the new year ...

 

 

Listening To A Trumper

 It’s rewarding work, turning up at the Mission, serving food to vulnerable adults who don’t mind listening to a few minutes of religion in exchange for a sausage roll, a bowl of soup, and some nice people to talk to for an hour or so.

 

I am full of existential guilt about it, because doing good makes me feel good, but I am reconciled to this since learning (EdX course ‘Science of Happiness’) that we are genetically programmed this way, and it helps species survival rates. So that’s OK then.

 

It was my turn to give the talk. It’s a tough gig. Most of the audience are appreciative, but I am very ambivalent about doing it. Anyway, I said I would, so I did.

 

Unfortunately, I spoke without notes, and close to the beginning of my ‘put your trust not in men’ homily, I accidentally called the President-Elect of the United States of America a narcissistic sociopath.

 

Michael got up and quietly informed me that if I was going to talk about Trump he was leaving. I kinda got the hint, and also the strong feeling that calling ANYONE a narcissistic sociopath wasn’t exactly Christlike, so I rowed back and galloped to the finish, sitting down absolutely determined never, ever, to do the talk again.

 

Michael hadn’t left, but I could see he was upset so I went over to him and let him tell me what a hypocrite I am ( I am, I am, it’s true.) and then to give me his reasons for supporting Trump. I listened and I listened good.

 

Trump offers hope to people like him. Michael feels his voice is finally being heard. After I sincerely apologised for upsetting him, we had a real conversation. At the end of it I was both enlightened and chastened.

 

Michael was given up for adoption at birth, but his mother changed her mind, and struggled on for two years before giving him up for good. A string of foster homes followed, then a boarding school. Then prison …

 

Michael, in his forties, is good-looking, and intelligent. As his story unfolded I offer up absolute respect for him: for having a completely shit life and not being totally crushed by it.

 

Yes, Michael gets that mysogyny and the racism don’t look good, but he believes that’s media hype, ” The media lies. He’s a good man with a family who wants to change the way the world is run … ”

 

Michael is sitting in a room with some very unhappy people with a food voucher in his hand looking for a job that’s being done by someone in China and he wants the world to change in a way that would give him a life more like mine.

 

I wouldn’t vote for Donald Trump in a million years, but after my conversation with Michael, I understand why people did.

 

I don’t think my little homilies ever achieve much, and I sweat blood over them, but today mine achieved something. I made a monumental error of judgement, but as a result, I made a real connection with a young man whose opinions I really needed to hear.

 

 

Understanding everything except the Language: Going To Mass

When I arrived fifteen minutes before La Misa began, a couple of dozen worshippers were already seated outside the church on the plaza. Things were not looking good for a ringside seat. 

This story begins last Sunday: I incomprehensibly turned up nine hours late for Mass. Duh! I know enough Spanish to read “Sabado 2100,” and know the service I was aiming for was the previous day, and I’m Catholic enough to realise a Vigil Mass is on a Saturday. But it was a beautiful walk and I put it down to experience and the sun. 

Fast forward six days. Kate is taking Darren and Frank on a boat trip in the morning, so I’m headed for theVigil Mass, at the appointed hour, quite excited  at this adventure. 

A few years back I attended Mass with my friend Ursula, in Klosters, of all places, reknowned in season for the skiing, and notable because every car is a Ferrari. No need, I assured her, to translate for me, I know what’s going on. I understood two words, “Gott” and “Kuchen”, which was offered with coffee after Mass, and lived up to expectations, as did God. 

It’s the same the world over you see, you know you’re being welcomed, making your confession, saying the Gloria listening to the Bible, and so on, until being sent out in peace to serve the Lord.,

There’s actually something rather spiritual in understanding everything but the words: my attention remained with Christ, in the priest and people in the Bible readings and the pinnacle of the experience, in the bread and wine. I looked forward to repeating the joy of it. 

And joy it was. I entered the church and was offered a foldaway seat between a monumentally gorgeous statue of Our Lady Queen of Heaven, and the electronic candle- thingy the name of which I know neither in English or Spanish. I was grateful for the seat. The singing was amazing, and spontaneous. No hymn sheets or overhead projections, everyone burst into song at the appropriate time, and once I grasped the tunes, I sang along in tongues, a feat I first performed in a pub in Dublin, but that is of course,  quite a different story. 

The church was rammed, and hot. Many women had the foresight to bring fans. Caught up in the moment, I waved my hat in front of my face until I realised it wasn’t achieving anything. 

I wished I’d brought my phone with the missal on it, because I found it rather difficult to remember the words of the prayers, when everyone around you is using different ones. 

My words yesterday were “Señor” Señora and “confiar”which I took to mean confess. 

Good enough to get me through. 

En el nombre del Padre y del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo amén

Twitter Feed: The Cancelling of Jeremy Corbyn

I don't mind being called a Corbynista. Only recently becoming politically active, it did come as a bit of a surprise that playground tactics were part of the mix, but I've been called worse. 

 I became politically active because of Jeremy Corbyn. Before, I was merely a retired headteacher with a conscience, a state of beng which I now understand to be "woke", and I have no problem with THAT either.

I respect Corbyn enormously, and see him out and about tirelessly campaigning for peace and justice, and ask myself why every elected politician doesn't feel compelled to do the same, when 1/3 of the children in the U.K. are growing up in poverty: maybe because they're not woke?

I not going to hanker after a comeback for him though. Who'd want to drag anyone back to the abuse, antagonism, and vilification he had to put up with, simply by personifying what the Labour Party claimed to be. 

I'm getting to the point, bear with me.

Setting aside the trauma many obviously suffered at the prospect of Britain being hauled into the 21st Century as a modern social democracy - and we're all now feeling your pain - am I the only one who sees the bigger picture?

The entire establishment conspired against the one

politician in my lifetime who offered the prospect of a decent standard of living for all. I watched with detached amazement as a general, an Archbishop, the US Secretary of State, and HIS OWN PARTY united to bring him down.

Doesn't anyone else get how fucked-up this was?

Still is.

Jeremy Corbyn has become the bogey-man of the establishment. The gentle jam-maker from Islington has to be continually presented as a threat of unimaginable proportions to... what, exactly?

A political class content with 1/3 of British children growing up in poverty, and an economy looted on behalf of the obscenely rich by the obscenely rich.

So, go ahead, call me a "Corbynista," and I'll come right back at you with, "Sucker", and we'll see who blinks first.