Melancholy

He said I was ‘snippy’. I was taken aback, but he was right, of course. He knows me better than I know myself. I thought about it. I was feeling down in the dumps and I knew I was being moody, irritable and impatient. Things were getting me down. I was easily upset and filled with a sadness that I couldn’t shake off. I wanted things that I couldn’t have; my nanna, my mum, my sense of smell so I could remind myself of her Estee Lauder fragrance; and normal eyesight. My vision is very frustrating sometimes – most of the time. The melancholy has eased off for now, but it will be back. I can rely on my husband to tell me I’m ‘snippy’ if I’m not aware.

It is the statins. I blame everything on the statins from my mood to my physical aches and pains and fatigue. Before I was prescribed, I blamed everything on the menopause. I’m a bit senior to carry that off convincingly, so the statins are the culprit.

Recently, when window-shopping round various jewellers in town looking for something special for my sister, I saw a pre-loved ring exactly like the one I was stupid enough to lose in 1971, an inexpensive dress ring of sentimental value, given to me by an aunt. I’d forgotten all about it for most of the last fifty-odd years, but seeing it brought back memories and made me feel sad to have been so careless in my teens. I know exactly where I lost it and at the time I’d retraced my steps over and over again and searched as thoroughly as I could. I concluded that someone must have found it. This can’t possibly be the same ring, but it filled me with nostalgia, so much that I might buy it as a replacement.

I was listening to ‘A Question of Balance’ – The Moody Blues, this morning, and in particular Mike Pinder’s ‘Melancholy Man’. It’s a great song. Help yourself on YouTube.

I looked to my beloved Brontes for a ‘melancholy’ poem and decided that any poem by any one of them would be suitable and I found that quite sad. The lives they had in the parsonage overlooking the church and the graveyard, the loss of their mother and older siblings, then the loss of each other is reflected in their poems. The troubled Branwell the most melancholy, fighting his demons.

I chose a poem I wrote in memory of our nephew, David. Today marks fourteen years since he was murdered.

Rondeau In memory of David

Think happy thoughts and always smile.
This might not be the hardest mile
To walk on our journey of life,
But just another time of strife;
So stop and rest here for a while.

Remember days of carefree style
Before the death, before the trial;
Before the bastard with the knife…
Think happy thoughts,

And not of the murder so vile
And let nothing spoil or defile
The joyful mem’ries of his life,
His little girl, bewildered wife.
Hold still and wait here for a while,
Think happy thoughts.

PMW 2009

Robert Peston will lift my spirits. I'm reading one of his books, 'Whistleblower'.

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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Experts - Zip It Up

Thank goodness for the experts. We really need them sometimes.  I mean those proper, professionals that fix things before a drama becomes a crisis, not those pretend experts saying ‘you don’t want to do it like that’.  We seem to have needed them a lot, lately, and to some expense.

I’m good with a sewing machine and a needle and thread. One of my grandmothers was a dressmaker and tailoress.  She taught me plain stitching and sewing buttons on before I was seven years old. It is in my blood. At school, I excelled in needlework classes. I have made clothes and soft furnishings for home and for gifts. I’ve happily done alterations and repairs for people at work. Hems up, hems down, take in, let out, buttons on, zips replaced and very little turned away. Recently, to my horror, I had no choice but to admit defeat and hand something over to a proper expert.

The zip had ‘gone’ on my husband’s football jacket. The one he wears to matches, with the Blackpool FC badge embroidered on the left front. He’s had it for a few years, a really warm, good jacket, still perfect, apart from the zip which I can easily replace. I bought a new zip and it sat waiting to be done. I wasn’t well enough to tackle it, but no problem. There was a hiatus in home matches, anyway. Eventually, I set myself up at the table, maximum light and everything to hand. The jacket is black which could be a problem to my eyesight, but it is a straightforward job that wouldn’t take me long. Famous last words. I spent about half an hour struggling in vain to unpick the stitching and get the old zip out. Impossible. I tried again to repair the zip itself. No chance. A quick ‘Google’ for the nearest professional repair and alteration service, and husband despatched to South Shore to drop off offending garment before the shop closed.

I had to admit failure and defeat and my pride was hurt. I’m as much an expert at this as they are – but, no, of course I’m not. Nanna Hetty might have given up, too, or she might have known another way.

The experts replaced the zip. The very well made jacket is as good as new again.

 

In recent weeks, we've needed expert car repair and a plumbing job. Things come in threes. I hope this is the end of it.

A few Haikus with an ‘expert’ theme,

 

Sucking air through teeth,

Voicing a high estimate

For an expert job.

 

Freshly laundered scrubs,

The smell of antiseptic,

Surgery prepared.

 

A home made plumb-line

And a 'How-To-Do-It' book.

Who needs an expert?

 

They know how it's done

And make it look so easy

Behind a wry smile.

 

Flashy pin-stripe suit

The expert knowledge in a

Brown leather briefcase.

 

Perfect workmanship

Of a completed good job.

Pleased with the experts.

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

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