Spontaneity

 

Spontaneity is not my strong point. I’m more Ms Stayput and keep cautious. I leave impulsiveness to those with the confidence to either know what they’re doing, or not care about the outcome because we only live once. That’s fine. I’m a happy soul with my plans noted on my calendar, allowing for plenty of rest time between events. By events, I really mean appointments and regular weekly or monthly meetings. I have a visit to the dentist coming up and as the surgery is in town, it might be tempting to pop to M & S or the Hound’s Hill for a bit of Christmas shopping. That could be classed as spontaneity for me, I suppose.

 The weekend before last, we had a few days away in our caravan, planned, of course. We met up with family for some relaxing time together, which it was. Disappointingly, the pub within walking distance no longer serves food, so we all managed with our own supplies and looked for somewhere further afield for the next day. A lovely hotel in nearby Lockerbie provided the answer, with its fabulous restaurant open to non-residents. This was probably the last time we’ll get out in the caravan this year. The chilly autumn nights and dark tea-times have no appeal to me, regardless of how beautiful the view across a loch might be from the caravan window. Never say never, though, someone might have an impulse to squeeze one more trip in. It won’t be me. We’ll be cosy in our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway soon and I am happy to wait for that.

 During this week, there was a moment when a decision was made that could, from my point of view, be a spontaneous thing. Christmas Day has always been at home and over the years the family has expanded, which is wonderful. The family is my world, but Christmas can be hard work for me, so, giving everyone plenty of notice, we told everyone that we’re not hosting Christmas Day this year, but we will arrange a family buffet between Christmas and New Year. We hadn’t made plans for ourselves until The Corner Flag popped up on Blackpool FC Hotel festivities. Spontaneity stepped in. Sorted.

 I found this poem by Bryan Wallace on Poem Hunter and thought it apt for me, 

Diary with a little pencil stuck in spine-
Each day planned with metronomic precision.
Nothing left to chance at all - can't take the risk.
Plan each day and leave nothing at all to chance.
Run our lives like a well-oiled machine.
Think to the future - pension plans and
Rainy day saving funds - we best be prepared.
Each think carefully planned - no nasty surprises -
It is the best way - we are told.

But what if we leave life to chance, to allow
Room for at least a little bit of spontaneity?
To allow space to have a little fun
When un-expected opportunity should arise?
To enjoy the chance encounters with the people
That we meet as we travel along life's highway.
To take the opportunity to kick the stray football
Back tot he kids playing in the park.
To enjoy the random things which happen -
When we allow ourselves to live in the moment
And not at some point in the future -
Planning for some disaster that most probably
Will never happen!

 Bryan Wallace 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Heatwave - Staying Cool!

 

We spend the chilly, dreary, dark days of winter hoping we get a decent summer, and then when it comes it can be too much. Luckily, here in the North West, the temperature touched about 32 degrees centigrade, which I think is slightly more comfortable than the hotter southern areas. Small mercies. Is it safe to say the heatwave has gone yet? I’m fine with the warm 22 degrees today offers, along with a fresh, gentle breeze. I’d had enough of feeling sticky and having streams of perspiration running down my back. Anyone wearing glasses may relate to the annoyance of them sliding down their nose, frames sticking to their cheeks and being a thorough nuisance. I would take mine off except that I can’t see a thing without them.

The garden has had it for this season. Vibrant colour of vital blooms looks parched and neglected for all my efforts of conserving water from the kitchen to use outside. Being away for two separate holidays with only one week at home in between is the cause of ruin. Normally we might expect two days of sunshine to be counter-balanced with three days of constant rain. Not this time, no rain for ages and what came wasn’t enough to stop the damage. Within the next few days I will attempt to tidy out the dead stuff and make an effort for autumn and spring. I can live with whatever happens in my small garden. I feel sad for the farmers who are trying to make a living. Some counties have declared a drought. Not us, though, yet.

I think I was the only person carrying a cardigan into Bloomfield Road football stadium at the last home match. It was an incredibly hot day and I was in shorts, sandals and my team shirt, but we sit in the shady and cool west stand so I anticipated shivering. Shady it was, as always, but cool, certainly not. It was roasting, not a breath of air. Away fans in the sunny rows of the east stand must have been melting.

The heatwave of 1976 was widely mentioned in the media as a comparison. I remember the warm sunshine day after day, seemingly forever and walking up and down Blackpool promenade in platform sandals, flared jeans and cheesecloth shirt knotted at the midriff. Oh I was at the height of fashion in those halcyon times.

With global warming, summer heatwaves are to be expected. It is up to all of us to do what we can to lessen the effect, and to look after ourselves and each other when the temperature rises beyond comfortable.

I found this on PoemHunter.com,

A Wail of the Heat Wave

The usual thing it used to be
Our summers to decry,
Because they were too wet, you see,—
We longed to have them dry.
But now for months, from morn till night,
We've basked in Sol's bright rays ;
Yet few you'll find who show delight,
Or speak in terms of praise
Of these aggravating, irritating,
Half-cremating, wrath-creating,
Mercury-raising, semi-blazing, scorching summer days.

One feels much like a jelly-fish,
Or limpet washed ashore ;
If this is getting what we wish,
We'll crave for it no more.
Each man you meet reviles the heat
In none-too-classic phrase ;
To be polite, one cannot write
Exactly what he says
Of these hot, oppressive, fierce, aggressive,
Sweat-producing, fat-reducing,
Liquid-yearning, throttle-burning, parching summer days.

O, for a trip to either pole,
With Peary, or with Scott!
Where icebergs rear their white forms tall,
And heat waves trouble not.
A month or so 'mid Arctic snow
Our drooping hearts would raise ;
And soften down the angry frown
Which everyone displays
These roasting, boiling, toasting, broiling,
Record-breaking, sweltering, baking,
Ultra-torrid, beastly horrid, melting summer days.

William Baron,   October, 2010

Thanks for reading. Stay cool. Pam,x

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Knitting - In, Round, Through, Off

 

 Filling the bird feeders is my first job of the morning. Three fat-ball holders and two seed holders hanging on branches of the surrounding fir trees provide a feast and it only takes a minute for the birds to descend and squabble over perching rights.  I watch from the window, sipping strong tea and half leaning on the radiator.  Sunshine and a cloudless blue sky promises a beautiful autumn morning.  Earlier, I had seen the cows by the gate at the end of the meadow. They had wandered back up the hill now. I’m happy to stand for a while and drink it all in, never tiring of what I see and enjoying the changing each season brings.

I’m not at home. This is Dumfries and Galloway. My perfect place for some much needed rest and relaxation, and my birthday in a couple of days.  I am trying to make myself unwind, determined to make the most of this longer than usual stay, but I’m aware that just below the surface of my calm exterior, stress is bubbling.  There’s always family stuff and I’m not quite well but not bad enough to be ill.  I need to chill, so I’m thankful to have my knitting to occupy me later on and help me to relax.

Knitting has been and continues to be a lifetime occupation.  I might be repeating myself here if I’ve previously mentioned about being taught to knit by my mother and grandmother.  It was when my mother was expecting my baby sister.  Of course, the gender wasn’t known before birth in those days.  Both ladies were constantly knitting and I was taking an interest.  , One of them started me off with a few stitches on their spare needles and talked me through it in simple terms of ‘in, round, through, off’ until I got the hang of it.  I tried hard, dropped stitches, added stitches from somewhere and made a mess, probably more than once, but with their saintly patience and my determination, I’ve learnt a wealth of knitting and crochet skills that I’m constantly putting into practice.  From baby clothes to Aran sweaters, plain knits to complicated, I’ve done it all.  It is Christmas jumper time again, which is what I’m working on at the moment, for my grandchildren.  By the way, the photograph is from last year, in case you’re thinking I’m super-fast at churning them out.

 I found this poem,  Mrs Moon by Roger McGough,

Mrs Moon

Sitting up in the sky

Little old lady

Rock-a-bye

With a ball of fading light

And silvery needles

Knitting the night.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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My favourite bells ...

Looking South East from Bishopthorpe

On the topic of bells this week, I became rather wistful and started to yearn for the village in which I grew up near York. The Church of that village (St. Andrews) had a set of bells which were rung with gusto every Sunday and although we didn't attend services as a family, I still find that sound a fond childhood memory. Being a village, set in the countryside, it had wonderful scenic views especially alongside the river and in the autumn it was evocative even more so. The smells of wood burning fires, damp leaves and sugar beet from the fields. Heaven!

So please forgive me while I take a trip down memory lane in this weeks poem:

St Andrews Church, Bishopthorpe.

Those bells

Cool autumnal morn
breaks across the landscape.
Broken cloud
in banks
roll imperceptibly
across the sky.
Muted tones of purples
pinks, oranges and reds
merge;
smudged together
with grey.
A low mist
blankets the ground
and as it rises,
trying to reach
the treetops -
all skeleton bare,
branches raking on high,
it fades and thins.
Crisp air catches the lungs
forcing cumulus billows
upon the exhale.
The slightest nip
bringing rosiness 
to the cheek.
Without a breeze
the stillness
does nothing to lift
the dampness
or the leaves
which lie
sodden and muddy
The path winds on
along the river bank
as I bird watch -
the Ducks, the Sparrows,
the Robin, the Thrush.
Sombre hued
Blackbirds and Crows
herald the coming day
in their own
individual ways
until a distant peal
of church bells
welcome the faithful
on a sleepy
subdued Sunday.


I love Autumn! Thanks for reading. ;-) x

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Winter is Coming

by Ashley Lister

As has been noted, there has been a confrontational quality to my writing over the past few weeks. This has been noted in my angst-fuelled poetry, it has been noted in my furious fiction and it has been evinced in the internal memos I’ve been sending to some of the a***holes at the workplace.

I blame it on the encroaching summertime.

I do not like summertime.

Whilst many people enjoy the warm weather and extended hours of daylight, I am not a lover of summertime. I find it is an affront to the senses:

In the summer time, I find, there is too much bare flesh on the promenade.

Those who know me will be aware that I’m not a prude. Truth be told, I have a penchant for bare flesh and could look at it for hours. However, I have little time for the pasty-coloured bare flesh that gets exposed on the prom during a British summer. Half the time it’s like looking at a skinned halibut in a bikini. The rest of the time it’s not quite so attractive.

I also find there is too much perspiration.

It’s been said that deodorants and common sense are never used by those people who most badly need them. I shall say no more on the subject except to mention that summer offends my sense of smell.

Our national anticipation of summertime is a constant irritation. Everyone in the UK acts as though we’re going to have a California heatwave starting in late May and continuing until early September. When the reality kicks in, three mild days before a Bank Holiday downpour, everyone acts with aggrieved disappointment.

Personally I think we should start investing our hopes in one of the other seasons. The other three are more dependable because of their consistent ability to deliver. I’m hoping for a really crappy autumn this year, followed by a dire, miserable winter and an unsatisfying and unmemorable spring. If we approach the seasons with this mindset, even if our hopes are dashed, we won’t be disappointed. 

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