Butterflies

I’m sorry, butterflies. The buddleias are in such a sorry state, like the rest of the so-called garden and it’s my fault. I’m not responsible for the lack of rain or the heatwave – did I miss that? – but we went away for weeks on end, leaving plants to look after themselves. Garden neglect. No sooner were we back from our travels south, when we were off in the caravan. We didn’t go far, probably only a half hour walk away from home to Marton Mere for a Haven break. It wasn’t a holiday, though being there made it feel like one. We left our house to the mercy of the company entrusted to replace our damp course. We relaxed with ice creams, beer and whatever was on the menu in the Boathouse, then returned home to a job perfectly done. Thanks, team. Within days we were missing caravan life and quickly organised a trip north to join family and celebrate our wedding anniversary. The garden was beyond all hope, so I left it.

Buddleia, white blooms and quite majestic, fared better than the purple or pink and a few butterflies were enjoying themselves, but not the abundance we’ve known in previous summers. Those summers when we’ve stayed at home and I’ve tended the garden properly.

One dry day when the air was still, I spent time chopping up bramble that had crept along the ground. At last, a path for me to reach the marigolds and dead-head them.

Not a single nasturtium has graced us. Lack of water, so down to my absence again. The grandchildren were fascinated with watching the caterpillars that fed from them, growing from tiny to huge. The survivors would go on to become butterflies. The grandchildren have grown out of the story, ‘The Very Hungry Caterpillar’, but I haven’t. It continues forever in the infant’s library I help to look after.

When I started school, age 4, 1959, my coat peg had a picture of a butterfly above it. Each child could identify their peg by a picture. Children have names, now. I would have recognised my name at the time, but it’s just the way things were done in those good old days.

I found this poem,

In the middle of our porridge plates
There was a blue butterfly painted,
And each morning we tried who should reach the butterfly first.
Then the Grandmother said, ‘Do not eat the poor butterfly.’
That made us laugh.
Always she said it and always it started us laughing,
It seemed such a sweet little joke.
I was certain that one fine morning
The butterfly would fly out of our plates,
Laughing the teeniest laugh in the world,
And perch on the Grandmother’s lap.

Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp Murry 1888 - 1923

The butterfly cross stitch is one of mine, from when I could see what I'm doing.

Thanks for reading, Pam x      

Read More

Flowers - Bloomin' Lovely

The garden is looking sorry for itself. Chopped down for winter, the three intertwined buddleia are naked sticks protruding from the soil, shorter than the fence. They look dead, but I’m sure I haven’t killed them. I can’t say the same for the annoying bindweed that was wrapped tightly around more branches than I realised. It has disappeared for now. Springtime will see it re-emerge, ready to attack, and once again I’ll be fighting the losing battle of trying to keep it away. I’m considering training it on to some trellis somewhere at the side. It is an attractive plant, just damages other things. We’ll see. The buddleia didn’t flower very well and I didn’t see a single butterfly, though I was away for most of the summer.

I'm not a good gardener, home or away, but I make an effort and do my best. Bulbs are planted for spring. I look forward to daffodils, tulips, irises, grape hyacinths and something I’ve never heard of that looked very pretty on the box. I do this every autumn, full of enthusiasm, expecting to grow the best spring garden ever and the wonderful flowers will compensate for every ache and pain. Something is always lacking – green fingers – so, in all seasons I try to plant things that will flower nicely and look after themselves. A favourite is the Totally Tangerine geum. They come back stronger each year. There are two, in different flower beds. In bloom, one is more stunning than the other. The slightly weaker one was bought when I was feeling cross about someone connected to football and I think it shows, but it doesn’t matter now.

I love to have flowers in the house. Last week I was overwhelmed and delighted to be given beautiful roses including yellow ones for friendship from a lovely friend of many years. She didn’t know this, but things have been tough for me lately. The flowers, with their special significance, really helped to cheer me up.

I always have daffodils in remembrance of my father. When he passed away, his garden path was lines with an abundance of shades of yellow, cream and orange created by an amazing display of various daffodils. It’s nice to see them appear in my garden.

I hope I have success with poppies next year. They always look lovely, but can be so delicate that they don’t last very long.

I’ve chosen two poems,

Daffodils

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth 1770-1850

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae 1872-1918

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Arboreal - A Wild Night

 

The Friendly Tree

I’ve found a place beside a friendly tree,
Where I’ll hide my face when the world hurts me,
For the tree will never hurt; I shall love it to the end;
It shall have a dear, dear name:
“My true and silent friend.”
                                                                    Annette Wynne

The weather had been pleasant for a few days. There was a hint of warmth in the weak sun when it crept between the clouds and the temperature was a constant 17 degrees centigrade. We set off for a short break in our caravan, to an unfamiliar site just north of Garstang. Rural and surrounded by trees was the main appeal, besides the practical requirement for us, fully serviced pitches. A pub with restaurant was only a five minute drive away. Handy for dinner. Luckily, we’d finished setting everything up before the rain came, the weather breaking as we expected. By nightfall the wind had increased. The trees took on a loud wildness, branches swaying, leaves rustling. Psithurism. Almost stormy, certainly scary. Tucked up in my sleeping bag, worrying about the possibility of being crushed by a falling tree, something brought to mind stories from my childhood, in my Enid Blyton era. The Enchanted Wood, The Magic Faraway Tree and all of those books which captured my imagination. I wanted to live in one of those tiny houses at the top of the tree. I think I still do. By morning, the wind had lessened to a breeze and the rain continued. We didn’t get to sit outside, but it was a nice break.

Galloway Forest Park is perfect for a stroll or a drive, with lots of woodland wildlife, hidden from view. Some areas are dense with pine trees. It is interesting to go off track and just listen to nature. It’s somewhere we like to visit on our regular trips, though we need to stay on the road and in the car these days. I’ve never seen a red squirrel, but live in hope.

Lots of grey squirrels live in my neighbourhood. There’s a regular, well-fed visitor to my garden and I’ll often find buried monkey nuts, which I try not to disturb too much. I think they come from tree-lined East Park Drive, or the trees on the local field.

I love this poem,

Poplar Trees are Happiest

Poplar trees are laughing trees,
With lilting silver call.
Willow trees droop weepingly
And never laugh at all.
Maple trees are gorgeous trees
In crimson silks and gold;
Pine trees are but sober trees,
Aloof and very old.
Black-oak trees walk sturdily,
And live oaks eager run;
The sycamores stand lazily
Beneath the summer sun.
But poplar trees are laughing trees
Wherever they may grow –
The poplar trees are happiest
Of all the trees I know.

                                  John Russell McCarthy.


Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Blue - Let's Read!

 

The best years of my working life were spent in a primary school. That amazing world of the four to seven year olds taught me more than they learnt from me and filled me with a ‘feel good factor’ on most days. Looking back, my reasons for leaving could have been looked into and dealt with. I should have asked. I wish I’d stayed, but I thought I was doing the right thing at the time. I soon realised that the new job was a mistake. It made me unhappy. One lunch time, I sat on a bench in the garden of St John’s church in town – it’s gone now, someone in authority thought it would be nice to take it all away and pedestrianise the whole area with cobble stones – I’d walked past the closed down Syndicate nightclub which I still called the ABC Theatre and Tommy Steele came to mind. I’d seen him there on several occasions. The song ‘Singing the Blues’ was in my head and made me smile in my sorrow as it was exactly how I felt. I had overcome a lot of what life had thrown my way and as I bit into my sandwich and held back tears, I knew I had to overcome this. I was doing my best in difficult circumstances and that lunch time, I felt so upset that I didn’t want to go back to work, but I had to. Over the years I managed to carve a reasonable niche for myself. When I felt a smidgen of a sense of belonging, I realised I’d succeeded, I hadn’t been beaten. I was relieved to retire.

Being retired and having the freedom to do anything I fancy brings joy. Last summer I was happy to be back in my comfort zone, reading stories to groups of Year 2 children at the primary school where I used to work and now attended by my grandchildren.  The afternoon weather was glorious, blue skies and sunshine, so we all sat outside, the children on blankets, adults on chairs. I loved every minute and expressed my thanks to the teacher in charge who had organised it. Covid restrictions had prevented anything like this and reduced school volunteering to zero. There was nothing coming up as far as anyone knew.

Out of the blue, there has been a recent shout out for volunteers to listen to children reading. I put myself forward as soon as I read the email. I’ve been processed through all the necessary checks, got a training meeting lined up and look forward to starting. Things will have moved on from Billy Blue-hat and One, Two, Three and Away, and all the Better Reading resources I used. Whatever happened to Janet and John? I’m ready to learn new methods and anything which helps children to enjoy reading, and if they’re doing it on an iPad or some other screen, it’s better than not doing it at all. With my grandchildren, I’m slowly learning to move with the times and embrace their use of electronic devices. Everything has its purpose, as I found out on one of my baby-sitting adventures.

My poem,

Armed with felt-tips in shades of blue
And green and yellow and red.
Pads of paper, puzzle books, too,
Plenty of fun before bed.

I took along a story book
And some games that they might share,
But they were too involved to look
Said, ‘put them over there.’

They said ‘hello’, the hug, a snatch.
I noticed an obvious glitch,
My baby-sitting is no match
For a new Nintendo Switch.

PMW 2023

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Summer - Making Memories

It is here, at last, the moment we’ve been waiting for. Proper sultry, summer weather of hot sun and blue skies from dawn until dusk, which is around nine-thirty, and I would like to say it goes on day after day. It won’t. I think this is two days of heatwave, then rain, possibly storm, and cooler temperatures. My house is currently thirty-four degrees and I feel sticky and uncomfortable.  The heatwave may not be completely responsible.  After two and a half years of sticking to guidelines and looking out for myself and family, Covid has got me. I tested positive at the weekend after feeling unwell for a couple of days. There are no signs of recovery yet. When it cools down, I’ll rest in the garden, admiring the fruits of my labours, especially the planter I’ve called Tangerine and White.

The summers of our youth were everlasting and full of ice cream, the park, the beach and sometimes a holiday. Our holidays tended to be spent with family, when my dad could escape from running the pub for more than two days together. It was always good to spent time with our cousins. They are in the USA now, but they lived in London and the south of England when we were all children. My sister and I loved their big garden offering lots of room to play, even space for badminton.

For years home was a pub on South Promenade. We had the beach on our doorstep. Day after day we were there, not a care in the world and not a thought for how lucky we were. Someone would be with us until I, being the eldest, was considered old enough to take us across four lanes of traffic and the tramlines. My sister would choose an ice lolly or ice cream. I loved a portion of shrimps in a tiny paper bag. I can still taste how delicious they were. Better than anything sweet.

When our children were young, summer holidays meant the long road trip to Pembrokeshire and a couple of weeks staying in a static caravan. It was owned by family members who didn’t use it during the busy months of July and August, but were very happy for us and others to enjoy it. We were so privileged. We had holidays that wouldn’t have happened if not for the generosity of our extended family. Our children, and us have great memories of those wonderful times.

Making memories is what we’ll be doing in a few weeks when we take our grown up children and all our grandchildren to have a blast at Butlin’s. It’s our treat as grandparents and a one-off. It will be fun for all of us, of course, but it is centred on giving the grandchildren a fabulous time. My grandparents used to take me to Butlin’s when I was small, before I had a sister. Now I’m the nanna. It’s my turn.

Allow me the indulgence of my favourite of Shakespeare’s sonnets,

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare 1564-1616

Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Sestina - The Secret

After dealing with the bindweed on the buddleia and nursing the contents of my over-full planters towards flowering, it has been lovely to sit out in the sunshine enjoying what passes for a garden. This sitting out time has been spent wisely, refreshing my memory on the discipline of the Sestina poetic form. Years have passed since my last (forced) encounter and you’d be correct to think that this is not my favourite. Anyway, rising to the challenge, I managed to get the rusty workings of my brain pointing in the right direction for long enough to compose something. I don’t know where the subject came from apart from the dark side of my imagination, iambic pentameter a bit hit and miss, but I hope it meets the criteria.

“A sestina is a poem written using a very specific, complex form. The form is French, and the poem includes six stanzas of six lines each, followed by a three line stanza at the end. Each stanza repeats the end words of the first stanza, not in the same order but in a strict formation.” See illustration.

Here is my sestina.

The Secret

After the passing of so many years
She still thought she would know him anywhere.
Decades ago, she wrote him a letter
But did not send it, instead tore it up
And decided it was best for their child
To remain unknown to him, a secret.

What started as a burdening secret
Became less important over the years.
Happy and healthy, this beautiful child
Was delightful company anywhere,
Cheerful and bright and always on the up,
Sometimes, she wished she had sent the letter.

All the details contained in that letter,
The reasons for having such a secret
And how important it was to keep up
For all the childhood and growing up years,
To guarantee acceptance anywhere,
And offer the best of all to this child.

A talented and inquisitive child,
Doing everything right to the letter.
A child going places, not anywhere.
Adult, needing answers to the secret
Of where a father might hide all these years,
Deserves to know the truth, so bring it up.

Then hours of searching and looking up.
So many questions you’re asking, dear child,
Travelling back over so many years,
This grown-up child composes a letter.
Confronted, she shares the truth, her secret,
Oh child, your father could be anywhere.

She always thought she’d know him, anywhere.
The mem’ry of him made her smile light up.
He would hate her for keeping this secret,
Denying him the chance to share their child.
Long ago, he had sent her a letter:
‘Return to Sender’, not lived here for years.

A secret lover, anywhere, now found.
After all the years, a chance to make up
Now he’s received a letter from his child.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading. Whether you embrace freedom or not, stay safe. Pam x

Read More

Silence - I'll Settle for Quiet

“Go placidly amid the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence.”  (From Desiderata by Max Ehrmann, 1927)

How refreshing it feels just to be quiet with no distraction. I like to have the radio or a CD on, but sometimes it’s good not to bother and go about my housework duties in silent prayer or lost in my thoughts. My thoughts are bordering on torturous at the moment. A mini crisis which I needn’t bore you with and I’m sure it will blow over with some self-counselling and a quiet word above.

The place that offers the most silence is our favourite lodge in Dumfries & Galloway. Off the beaten track, hidden by trees and foliage, any sounds come from nature – and the fridge thermostat kicking in – owls, foxes, deer and the ripple of the nearby stream. Dare I believe that we’ll be there in just a few short weeks? Recently arranged and neatly in line with my retirement, we will sample summer time at the lodge. Very rare, we’re usually out of season visitors, but very welcome after lockdown.

The back garden offers tranquillity, depending on the day or time. The sheltered side, nice for a quiet read, never on a Sunday, though. Someone in the neighbourhood will fire up their lawn mower, strimmer or electric hedge cutter and kill the moment. No one around here has a massive garden, so what takes hours with some extra loud machine, I do not know. Someone else nearby likes to entertain outside and after winter and lockdown, it is clearly back on the agenda. Raucous laughter, which we hadn’t missed, and, I am told, the smell of a barbecue was apparent at the weekend. The best time to sit out is on a week day during school hours, until the boy across the back comes home and starts kicking his football against their wooden fence. They have to start somewhere, bless him.

At work, we hear the sound of silence at the end of the day when the fluorescent lights are switched off and the high-speed drills stop buzzing in our ears.  It isn’t my domain but there is something I find peaceful about a spotless, empty surgery, prepared for the next day. I accept that I’m a strange one. Somewhere a phone will ring and an answer-phone will take a message. I won’t miss much of this.

I am happy to fill my house with the noise of four lively grandchildren coming to tea, make sure they have fun and enough to eat and enjoy the peace and quiet when they’ve gone home.

My Haikus:

My washing machine
Is torture to all ear-drums
When it’s in a spin.

Stressed and troubled, then,
When dental drills stop whining
Serenity calms.

When the noise has gone
And there’s a moment to think
About what makes peace.

Hushed in the darkness
The unsettled baby girl
Loved and nursed by me.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, keep well. Pam x

Read More

Retirement - Bring It On!

I looked forward to retiring at sixty, as many of us did, and then, a bolt from the blue took away plans and wishes and sat firmly on our state pension for another six years. I’m there now and I still haven’t received the explanatory letter ‘sent to everyone’ when the changes were made. WASPI (Women Against State Pension Inequality) campaigns and protests seem to have been sympathetically listened to in some quarters – Jeremy Corbyn, when Labour leader, said that women were “misled”, the situation “needed to be put right” and “We owe a moral debt to these women.” It was included in the Labour party manifesto. Even if nothing changed, it was going to be looked into. The flicker of hope died with the election result.

Anyway, politics aside, my time has come and I’m trying to decide exactly when to hand in my keys and cross myself off any rotas. I’ve spent lots of time at home during the pandemic, shielding at the beginning, then having to isolate a couple of times when I eventually returned to work.  I like being at home. It’s been good getting a feel for life in retirement and spending more time with my husband who retired early a few years ago.  In normal circumstances we would enjoy the freedom of having lunch out, seeing friends and spending more time with family. These things will come back to us, hopefully before too long. I reduced my hours at work so I’m actually at home more than I’m there, yet I still can’t wait to leave.

I yearn for the freedom to just go where I want, when I want without having to plan in advance and ask permission. Deciding one day that we’re off to Scotland, or anywhere the next day, is the life for me. Spending summer afternoons reading in the garden was bliss last year and I look forward to doing it again. I knit and crochet a lot and love making baby clothes so with a current baby boom going on amongst colleagues at the moment I’ve been  a one woman cottage industry.  My writing has been on a back burner for too long. I was trying to use shielding and isolating time to write a best-selling novel or a brilliant TV series, but they’ve both been done, not by me, by the way, and I’ve been struggling to concentrate lately.  There are lots of things on my retirement list and I certainly won’t get bored. I might get fat(ter) on home-made baking, but never bored. I’ll enjoy finding out who I am, so let’s bring it on.

My poem,

When I can please myself on what I want to do each day
Without the stress and strain of doing my job in the way,
I will take time to rest, to think and to learn who I am,
Apart from a wife, a mother and a nanna called Pam.

My wardrobe’s full of Marks and Spencers matching navy blues,
Formal skirts and cardies and some uniform slim-line trews.
Tunic length NHS blouses, navy with polka dots,
Pockets stuffed with tissues and hair-ties, a tangle of knots.

Let’s get rid of such strict clothing and find a nice, new style,
Dresses, ear-rings, beads and things I haven’t worn in a while.
Skinny jeans, knee-high boots and a home-made Aran sweater,
My family and freedom will soon make me feel better.

I’ll wear long, floaty skirts and lipstick, and I’ll paint my nails,
I’ll join in with other WASPI girls on some campaign trails
And hope some good may come of it, though it’s too late for me
So many ‘50s women need to set their pensions free.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, stay safe, Pam x

Read More

My Fantasy Dinner Party Guests - A Good Time To Be Had By All

It would be wonderful to have friends and family round. A gathering in the garden on a warm afternoon, children running riot, adults laughing, sharing jokes, happy and relaxed with drinks flowing, buffet table groaning under the weight and ice-lollies in the freezer. I wonder if we’ll ever have times like that again. When my spirits dip and I’m feeling low I’m inclined to think that’s it, we’ve had it, life will never be the same. Scotland is a border we’ll never cross again. When my spirits lift and thoughts are positive, I imagine a garden party close to my husband’s birthday in June. Covid will be contained enough for us to enjoy freedom. I feel privileged to have had my first vaccination, a joy of being a frontline keyworker. I’m thankful for each day seeing us healthy.

In the absence of any social gatherings, tea dances or drinks on the lawn, let’s have some fun and pretend.

The setting for my dinner party is important. It would not be here at my house, I think we’d need more space, and I am not cooking. Forty years ago I was a lunch guest at the Waldorf Astoria in New York. The dining room was breathtakingly splendid. Shell pink table linen with a fresh, single rose the exact same colour on every perfectly set table and attentive staff seeing to every need, well nearly. I lost my way looking for the Ladies room and ended up in the hotel hair salon, where they allowed me to use theirs then someone kindly took me back to the dining room. Background music, if it is fine to call it that, came from Michel Legrand playing the piano more softly than he normally would. I think he was running through his score in preparation for the evening, not there for us, but it was very welcome. I was very impressed with the Waldorf Astoria. Being there was the highlight of my stay in New York and I nearly chose to host my fantasy dinner party in the same dining room, but it missed out to The Selkirk Arms in Kirkcudbright.

Well, you know me and Scotland, so how could I not choose such a place? The dining room is the right size for my gathering, I love it and I believe it was frequented by my guest, Robert Burns. Perhaps he’ll tell me if he wrote The Selkirk Grace here, and, if he’s in good humour, he might entertain us after dinner with songs and poems.

I couldn’t have a dinner party without inviting Robert Peston. If you know me, no explanation is necessary. Anyway, he’ll be sitting next to me, where I can pick his brains. My husband will be on my other side and next to him will be Becky Barr. He’ll be delighted.

Girl power from strong minded, northern women, Barbara Castle, Emmeline Pankhurst and my great-grandmother Mary who died when I was four, but I really want to talk to her and find out how she coped.

I have to invite Alan Bennett, how I love his work, what a wordsmith. I have a hardback copy of Untold Stories, a birthday gift years ago. When it comes to wordsmiths, John Cooper Clarke is up there with the best. I’ve just finished reading I Wanna Be Yours. The genius Victoria Wood, a hardworking perfectionist who gave us so much and had more to give, I’m sure, but her life was cut short.

Someone else who’s life was cut short, my mum. Please come to my dinner party, we need to catch up, but do not tell me off in front of my friends.

We’ll need some music, besides Rabbie giving us a song, so I invite John Lodge, his wife and the other Moody Blues band members. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else. Have dinner first, of course. And everybody, mingle.

I was really looking forward to this dinner party. What a shame it’s pure fantasy, but imagine the mix of characters and what a memorable night it would be. When I was looking for a poem, I wanted something light-hearted and amusing and found it with Pam Ayres, and she's using a couple of words not normally associated with her. Go girl!  This is exactly what would happen if I tried to organise a dinner party at home.

The Dinner Party

It seemed like such a good idea, a flash of inspiration,
To hold a dinner party! Yes, out went the invitations,
A proper dinner party too, traditional and smart,
With all my oldest, dearest friends, the darlings of my heart.

We’d clear the dining table of each dog-eared magazine,
We’d dust around the skirting board, the place would be pristine,
We’d pick up all the clutter, drive the hoover round the floor,
And see again our carpet after eighteen months or more.

I’d plan a lovely menu, seven courses at the least,
An absolute abundance, an ambrosia, a feast!
With table linen matching and the candles burning bright,
What a celebration! What a banquet! What a night!

Yeah. Well.

That was then and this now, and one thing’s very clear,
I can’t imagine why I thought this was a good idea,
Today’s the day, tonight’s the night, they’ll be here in an hour,
I’m absolutely shattered and I haven’t had a shower.

I haven’t chilled the wine or put the nibbles in a bowl,
I found my silver cutlery, it’s all as black as coal,
I haven’t found the candles, we are making do with these,
One’s a stump and one is bent at forty-five degrees.

I haven’t folded napkins in sophisticated shapes,
Or beautified a plate of cheese with celery and grapes,
I haven’t spent the morning on a floral centrepiece,
And I’m skidding round the kitchen floor on half an inch of grease.

My husband’s disappeared, I don’t know where he’s hiding now,
He hasn’t helped at all, we’ve had a monumental row,
I don’t know where the day is gone, and I am filled with dread,
Forget the conversation, I just want to go to bed.

The guests I thought were witty, their attractiveness has palled,
The men, once so enticing, now they’re boring and they’re bald,
The women are all shadows of their former vibrant selves,
They’re all in sizes twenty-four, they used to be in twelves.

I stupidly asked George, I used to think him quite a card,
Not meaning to be spiteful, now he’s just a tub of lard,
He’ll bring his lovely wife, she’ll tell you all about her back,
One’s morbidly obese and one’s a hypochondriac.

I haven’t found the coffee cups, we’ll have to have the mugs,
The crumble’s looking soggy and the kale was full of slugs,
The meat is a disaster, undercooked and full of blood,
The dog’s pooed on the carpet and I haven’t done the spuds.

I thought I’d like to do this, but I don’t know where to start,
I thought I’d like to see them, but I’ve had a change of heart,
Their old recycled stories and voracious appetites,
Forget the darlings of my heart, they’re all a bunch of shites.

I meant to be the glam hostess but kiss goodbye to that,
I haven’t changed my frock, I smell attractively of fat,
I’ve done my best, it’s all gone west, I’ve ruined all the grub,
Too late. Here come the bastards now. Let’s all go down the pub.

                                                                                 Pam Ayres

Thanks for reading, stay safe and keep well, Pam x

Read More

Digging - Squirrel Nutkin

A Little Squirrel (Fun Poem) - Poem by David Harris

All summer long he collected his nuts

Burying them here and there

When it came to dig them up

He couldn’t remember where

He hid his treasure store

The moral of this tale

Be sure, there is one indeed

If you want to bury your treasures

And you ain’t that smart

Draw a little map, that will help for a start

The fattest squirrel I’ve ever seen lives in our neighbourhood.  It favours the back gardens of half a dozen houses of which ours is one. It runs along the tops of the fence panels that separate us from next door, the narrow alleyway and adjacent properties. I’ve watched it climb our buddleia to reach the fence of the garden opposite. It moves fast, it is cute and although it’s grey, my grandson and I call it Nutkin, after the Beatrix Potter character. This one still has a complete tail. Its main occupation is eating and digging. Nuts are buried only to be dug up again.

Most of our garden was removed a couple of years ago. Neither of us are able-bodied enough to  do much digging or maintenance and it had become overgrown and neglected. Birds were responsible for the planting of unwanted sycamore trees.  The holly which used to look so pretty ‘in berry’ had died on one side. The dark magenta berberis was beautiful but too prickly to deal with.  Weeds were knee high and everything was woven together with brambles and some sticky grass our dog had collected from walks on the nearby field.  It had become a messy, unusable area. We needed a practical, easy-care courtyard, somewhere pleasant to sit out and safe for the grandchildren to play. We found the right person for the job, no, not Alan Titchmarsh, but someone with equal expertise and vision, and he was happy to carry on in our absence – we took off to Scotland. It is a good idea to escape the noise of home improvement tools, particularly mechanical diggers, chainsaws and lump hammers.

When we returned there had been much digging, much removing and now there was much sunlight reaching previously inaccessible places. Not a thorn or prickle remained, it looked wonderful, and that’s before it was finished. We had two small garden areas, easy to plant and look after, needing nothing more than a trowel and a kneeling mat, and lots of space for children to run about. Planters and flower pots placed randomly could be moved about as required. The end result was and is perfect, just right for us non-gardeners.

The other day I decided to re-pot a worn out houseplant and see how it faired outside. It was either that or bin it. (This activity could be listed under ‘Things to do in Lockdown.) As I prepared an outside flower pot by removing something that didn’t matter to create space, I kept finding buried monkey nuts. Squirrel Nutkin. I left them out for him / her.

Seamus Heaney’s famous Digging

 Digging

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney (1939 – 2013)

 Thanks for reading. Stay safe and enjoy the sunshine, Pam x

Read More

Fairies - Titania and the Tooth Fairy

Stitching ‘Titania’ was one of the longest projects I’ve ever done. The end result is far more beautiful than my photograph shows. Perhaps I should have taken pictures before it was packed off to the framers. She is mainly cross-stitch, but what the camera fails to pick up, due to too much reflection, is the delicate, gold threads, tiny sequins and seed beads on her wings. They are noticeable on the picture it was worked from, but again, it doesn’t do the completed embroidery justice.  She doesn’t live with me otherwise I’d do another photo shoot.

Titania, the queen of the fairies from Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, is placed majestically on a wall in the home of my friend, who is also my sister-in-law in Troon, Ayrshire. Titania belongs there in the company of lots of fairies. Some, like Tinker Bell, are easily recognisable, others are pretty garden fairies, Christmas fairies and even mischievous fairies. My sister-in-law loved her on sight and I knew, not that there was any doubt, that my surprise gift was very welcome.

Needlework helps me to relax. When I was working on Titania, about ten years ago now, I’d taken her with me on holiday to Wales. We were staying in a static caravan on a very nice site in St Dogmaels. I was feeling particularly ‘strung out’ at the time. Our son didn’t want to come and was old enough to leave at home. I knew he’d be fine, but I worried anyway. Our daughter didn’t want to come but had to because she was too young to leave at home. It’s just life, I suppose and most days she was fine, as long as she could take her lap-top over to the family bar and link up with her own world via the holiday park wifi every evening. I was unwell with hayfever because of the trees and that didn’t help. After a day out it was nice to get a smile from Tilly-Flop when she was given the heads-up to go off with her lap-top. I was happy to sit in the huge, caravan lounge, surrounded by daylight from three sides of windows and stitch a bit more of Titania.  My sister-in-law, knowing how I felt, had asked if I had some cross-stitch to relax with. Little did she know.

Years earlier, when the children were little, they received letters from Peggy, the Tooth Fairy. She was always pleased to collect beautiful, looked-after teeth from under their pillows. Her letters reflected the importance of brushing teeth, keeping them clean and not eating too much sugar. She always praised my children for doing it ‘exactly right’ and she was happy to leave them a reward. I think it worked out at £1 per tooth. My daughter had a wobbly tooth that came out at school. She was sent to wash it, but lost it down the plug hole. Peggy was unfazed. She read the note that was left under the pillow and went to see if she could retrieve it from the school drains. Poor Peggy even had to hide in a doll’s house when the caretaker came along. I think she must have found it because a shiny £1 coin was under the pillow, with an account of Peggy’s adventure.

 

 

From “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” Act II. Sc. 2. Enter TITANIA, with her train.

TITANIA.—Come, now a roundel, and a fairy song; Then, for the third part of a minute, hence;— Some, to kill cankers in the musk-rose buds; Some war with rear-mice for their leathern wings, To make my small elves coats; and some keep back         5 The clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, and wonders At our quaint spirits. Sing me now asleep; Then to your offices, and let me rest.   SONG. 1 FAIRY.—You spotted snakes, with double tongue,               Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;         10             Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong:               Come not near our fairy queen.   CHORUS.  Philomel, with melody,             Sing in our sweet lullaby;       Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby:         15             Never harm,             Nor spell nor charm,             Come our lovely lady nigh;             So, good-night, with lullaby.   2 FAIRY.—Weaving spiders, come not here,         20               Hence, you long-legged spinners, hence!             Beetles black, approach not near;               Worm, nor snail, do no offence.   CHORUS.  Philomel, with melody, etc.   1 FAIRY.—Hence away; now all is well:         25               One, aloof, stand sentinel. [Exeunt Fairies. TITANIA sleeps.

 Thanks for reading, Pam x

Read More

Roses - Memories

An afternoon in August. I wanted to sit outside in the shaded side of the garden with something good on my Kindle, a nice cup of tea and complain half-heartedly about the heat wave sapping my energy. Alas, it’s not that sort of an afternoon. Today feels more like October. I stood in the kitchen admiring the flowers on the window sill then looking outside, watching the rain bouncing in the puddles and weighing down the foliage in the overgrown garden. Drenched buddleia heads bending to the ground, the bees and butterflies I was watching earlier have flown for cover. Peeping out from behind a sapling which is a gift from nature, as we didn’t plant it, I can see one orange rose bud on the bush which is usually abundant at this time of year. Well, it would be if it wasn’t light-starved by a massive, dark berberis that has taken over the entire border and is so fierce with long, stabby prickles that we can’t trim it. It’s time to rethink the garden and make it child-friendly and easy maintenance.  And allow more sunlight to the rose bush, which isn’t orange but tangerine when the flowers open.

The rose bush was a gift from a close friend and former colleague when I changed jobs and she’d chosen it for the colour as we both follow Blackpool Football Club. When the conditions are good, it thrives perfectly with many beautiful flowers and has done for the best part of ten years, until this berberis went berserk and overshadowed it. The berberis has to go.

When I was a child, I remember my mother had a pressed rose in the pages of a fat encyclopaedia.  It was too heavy for me so she would hold it and turn the pages and let me look at the rose. It had been red, but now it was brown and dark pink, squashed flat with the papery petal edges breaking away. The thorns had dropped off the stalk, which was more brown than green and the two leaves had stuck together. My father had given it to her, long before they were married and I kept it for many years after she passed away.

Red roses are so romantic. Before we were married, my husband took me out to dinner and had arranged for a bouquet of red roses to be placed on the table for me. Twelve perfect dark red roses, so beautiful. I felt like a princess. I saved one and pressed it in one of my historical art books. I might still have it, if it hasn’t turned to dust after all these years. And if it has gone, I have the wonderful memory as I do for my mother’s rose.

 

 

When the rose is faded,
Memory may still dwell on
Her beauty shadowed,
And the sweet smell gone.

That vanishing loveliness,
That burdening breath,
No bond of life hath then,
Nor grief of death.

'Tis the immortal thought
Whose passion still
Makes the changing
The unchangeable.

Oh, thus thy beauty,
Loveliest on earth to me,
Dark with no sorrow, shines
And burns, with thee.

              Walter de la Mare

 

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

 

Read More

The Mystery of Thought

The garden of my early childhood was where I learnt about tenderness and beauty, pain and failures, mystery and miracles, friendship and loneliness. It was a modest garden, with a garage at the bottom, and just enough space for a patio, a vegetable patch and a metal slide. On the left hand-side the garden was flanked by a clump of conifers followed by a section of trellis, while the other side was a stretch of terracotta brick wall topped with varnished sage-green bushes. It was the same world, yet at the same time, it was a different world. It was private and secluded; it had a quiet about it that was often difficult to find inside a city, and a degree of mystery

Read More