I Deactivate My Facebook Account

I am about to say farewell - for six months at least, and probably twelve if I have the courage - to my Facebook account. It's been a blast, and I've enjoyed the playtime with y'all and at its best, it's provided the much-enjoyed warmth and wit of human contact, but I've noticed that the habit of reading I've developed in the past couple of years is, well, excessively casual. I want to get back to it: to get further in to sustained reading.

Something about Facebook appeases my preference for the quick fix rather than the long haul. It's like (how can I put it?) going for a milkshake rather than taking time out to cook the perfect risotto.

I want to get back into some sustained writing too, and I received the perfect gifts for this purpose at Christmas:

A. A long, warm cardigan

B. A book writing kit:

So this blog serves three purposes:

ONE - I find that if I commit to something in public that I don't find easy but know will benefit me (like doing the Parkrun) I am much more likely to do it - so here I am, making a pact with myself to deactivate my FB account at the very end of 2019 in as public a way as seems appropriate. 

TWO - If you have enjoyed reading I Buy A New Washer via the Facebook link, this is to let you know you can become a blog follower by filling your email into the 'follow by email' box. 

THREE - Well, here's hoping that the third purpose will make itself clear in 2020.

I Get Breakfast Done

I got breakfast done by 6.35am today.  I got my train journey to work done by 7.50am and I got my first email done by 8.05am. If my computer booted up more swiftly I would have been able to get that email done by 8.02am. I must get my computer done.

During today I:

Got 3 cups of tea done
Got a banana done
Got a lecture with year 3 done, although it was more of a workshop, done.
I got many more emails done, after that first one, done,
I got printing, photocopying, phone calls, tutorials, conversations done.

I got going to a meeting about changes at work done, although the meeting raised more questions than were done with and I suspect the meeting wasn't so much done as I felt, getting on the later train home and thinking ahead to getting supper done, now.

I got carrot soup followed by left over curry and rice done, although I made it last night so I'm not sure at which moment I done it.

The odd thing is, although I done all this stuff, I will have to done most of it again tomorrow.  And what's more, some of getting it done has resulted in more stuff that needs done: washing up my porridge pan from breakfast, and my rice pan from supper, for example. Once I've posted this, I'm off to done that.

Never mind. Tomorrow, after I've got my night's sleep done, I can get breakfast done all over again.

I Encounter Sanity

When a tall, slight man with an air of purpose approached me near my front door on Tuesday, I stopped, adopted a guarded attitude. If I'd had time to pull my hat further down over my ears, I would have done.

He had the look of need about him, and I expected he would ask me for something I might not be prepared to give. It was late: I was tired to the point of resignation. It's getting to that stage of the autumn term which is more accurately known as winter. Compassion fatigue feels dormant in me, like a cold virus that won't show itself entirely.

Our brief exchange had a clarity which has stayed with me for the past three days:

Him [leaning in towards me] "What does Tuesday mean?"

Me [my anxiety increasing a little] "Today is Tuesday."

Him [leaning back] "You are right.  I am happy with that answer."

And off he went, and into my home I went, feeling that for the first time in my life, I had scored 100% in a test for which I was completely unprepared.

I Reinforce My Poems

I've been putting my files in order. It's taken a while, but a couple of months after beginning the organisation project, I now have an (almost) complete set of my published and publishable poems in alphabetical order. I haven't counted them, but there are three full ring binders. I've also made a separate folder of 'Early and Not for Circulation' poems. 

Of course, there are some poems on the boundary between what I consider 'publishable' and the ones 'not for circulation'. In the end, I can only be sure a poem is publishable when it's published. These days, I have a clearer sense of a poem of mine that is good, and a poem that is, well, slightly embarrassing; but there is still a margin of uncertainty. 

Whilst sorting the collection, some pages became unstable - so I popped into WH Smith's after work for reinforcements. Here (before the application of reinforcement and after the application of reinforcement) is my much used poem, 'The School Concert', which was published in Mslexia in 2011. 

When I received a cheque for £25 for this poem, I photographed it, in case it was the only one I ever received.

It's not possible for me to have an entirely clear judgement about the strengths and weaknesses of my own work, and so I appreciate the external validation that a publication brings.

This evening, I've been sticking small circles of paper onto poems which have become a bit worn, with a view to increasing their staying power. It's a surprisingly satisfying venture. 

I Share Good News

Class of 2019 -

Graduation!  

Another year group of students graduated last Wednesday in Wrexham. Watching them cross the stage to shake the Vice Chancellor's hand, their tutor Liz Lefroy recalled in a series of mini flashbacks and with a huge sense of pride much of what the past three years have involved - the learning, the triumphs, the setbacks, the personal losses and happiness, the determination and courage - all the challenges that are part of the BA Hons Social Work.  Here is the class of 2019 just before dropping their caps!

Gabriel wins Arts Society

Shrewsbury's 2019

Young Arts Bursary

Not strictly news - more like 'olds' but reported this month in an article in Shropshire Magazine Gabriel's major achievement in securing the Young Arts Bursary awarded after a competitive process by the Arts Society Shrewsbury.  "The panel were impressed by all 3 shortlisted candidates, but Gabriel was outstanding" said Deborah Yates, vice chair of Arts Society Shrewsbury. Here she is, pictured handing Gabriel the £2000 bursary, awarded to help talented young artists and designers educated in Shropshire further their careers.

Boudicca in Coalport
Intrepid Brompton Boudicca made it to Coalport and Ironbridge last Sunday after the frustrating days spent indoors because of torrential rain.Then out came the shiny October sunshine.

She travelled to Telford Central by Midlands Rail and used the Silkin Way to get down to the Severn, which was threatening to burst its banks. Here she is, accessorising the sky, on Coalport Bridge, shortly before making her way with companions Liz, Bertie and Mike to the Maws Craft Centre, where they met Steve by happy chance, and shared an excellent brownie with their coffee. Perfect!

Mini Pumpkin Pride
Halloween can be avoided completely in a top floor flat, says Liz of Shrewsbury. However, the lack of any tricks doesn't preclude the treat of a mini pumpkin display. "My son Jonty sent me a picture of a mini pumpkin he'd bought for his student room, and I knew I had to go one better," confessed Liz. "Two better,  in fact.

I got them from Des at Pomona. I wish I could say that I grew them myself but that would be a lie, and this is journalism."

I Give Credit Where It's Due

In the summer, I enjoyed working with a group of people involved in various ways in the degree I teach on to make a film of Graham Attenborough's poem, Andrew. We collaborated with animator Darren Mason, making a storyboard, then cut outs and models, and finally used stop frame animation techniques to create movement. The poem's colourful imagery lent itself to our enthusiastic but time-limited low budget endeavours - we had 10 sticks of plasticine, multi-coloured card, glue sticks, scissors and felt tip pens, along with our smart phones, animation apps, bouncy tripods and 5 short days to complete it.

Fortunately, Graham really likes the outcome, and it's been well-received by those who've seen it so far.  

The various makers are credited at the end of the film - well, most are. After we had tidied way the plasticine and scissors, work carried on after that original week - in particular, we had generous help which made the Welsh version possible. Graham had narrated the poem in its original English, but we knew we wanted a Welsh language version. We also knew, having watched the film without music, that this was needed at the end. Graham chose Handel, and we think it makes the film complete.

You can watch the Welsh language version of the film here: Andrew - Cymraeg
You can watch the English language version of the film here: Andrew - English

And here's the full list of credits:

Poem - Graham Attenborough, originally published in New Face in Hell, 2018, Bare Fiction, editor Rob Harper
Animator . Workshop Facilitator / Post Production - Darren Mason
Design, Animation and Technical Support - Tim Wynn, Jason Starr, Eluned Plack, Liz Lefroy, Fiona King, Laura Flannery, Nick Hoose, Lauren Evans, Jo Sefton, Georgia Hill
Narrator: English - Graham Attenborough
Narrator: Welsh - Iolo Madoc Jones
Translator: Huw Richards
Piano: Jonty Lefroy Watt (Handel - Hornpipe from Water Music Suite no. 1)
Post-post production: Mike Powell

And a big thank you to Pat Edwards who put us in touch with Huw Richards for the excellent translation - Graham says he prefers the Welsh version!

I Kiss Summer Goodbye

The sun is flickering on and off between clouds and showers, taking itself to bed earlier, rising later. I've been waking with a slight ache in my limbs which passes by ten o'clock. From time to time, there are reminders of the recent heat - a rose still sends out buds; my shadow casts itself against the wall as I walk home; on Sunday afternoon, seats cluster around a pavement café table strewn with coffee cups, wet with rain.

Not so long ago, I swam in the sea off Norfolk. I came back from the beach with the pale cross of a saltire across my back - the negative marks of my swimming costume straps. That weekend spent around the Holkham Estate was a capsule of summer: the sort I would have imagined perfect in childhood - rowing across the lake, drinking late afternoon beers to the sound of jazz, ice cream, cycling along shaded lanes, watching a game of cricket unfolding on the grass.

I walked to the Quarry Park this afternoon, carrying the marks of summer hidden beneath my coat - the light kiss of a suntan on my back, the dimples of ice cream around my waist.

The mallards were anchoring themselves on the bank, cautious of the river's higher flow, whilst the gulls surfed midstream, coursing down towards the bridge. Long white marquees were going up for Oktoberfest. 

October! July is still vivid. I camped beneath the Milky Way and my sons returned home. Things were just getting going. As for August - its sand is still in my rucksack pockets, September? It has barely begun. And this week, October.

It has all come upon me so suddenly.

I Get A Minuet

A minuet is a:

slow, stately ballroom dance for two in triple time, popular especially in the 18th century (Lexico on-line dictionary).

In my time, I have played many a minuet, and listened to a good few more. They often form part of Suites such as JS Bach's Suite in B Minor for Flute and Keyboard / Orchestra, and they often are paired with Trios.

So when a friend asked me to respond to her message if I get a minuet today, I wondered how to go about it.

Despite having a long stretch of time off work, I have not had enough of it for playing, dancing, singing along, running, writing, or any of the other activities one might do, given enough minuets in the day. Before my long stretch of time, I stacked up a list of things to do in July, when I thought I would get minuets in abundance. Surely, this freedom from the daily work routines would mean I could ...

• redecorate my home, well, at least some of it
• write a novel
• sew back buttons onto my duvet cover
• find a publisher for a collection of poems
• get fit
• play minuets on my flute?

I enjoyed many slow and stately activities during July. Some of the activities, such as camping, were for two; some turned out to be trios with my sons - climbing Cader Idris, hanging out, baking pies, watching sunsets .... All these were done with a hop and a skip in triple time. However, the novel didn't get written, and my duvet still leaks corners from its cover, as it has done for five years or so.

Back into work time, I want, nevertheless, to find even more minuets. I got one today, to write this, and another to reply to my friend, but how to find time for singing along to life to my own tune and in a stately time signature now that my time off has ended? This is what I'm trying to work out. 

1. • I wenI 

I Ace Wimbledon

My first appearance at Wimbledon was on Court 2. Getting there involved planning, diligence, holding my nerve and the support of my team - a team which knows how to meet the criteria, complete the paperwork (a form, and then another form, and then a stamped addressed envelope, a wait, another form, another envelope, many more stamps).

Fortunately, my team comprised my Longest Serving Friend who has been negotiating the ways of Wimbledon for years, and taught me everything she knows, trained me up, drove me hard. "Sign here", she said, putting the ticket application form under my nose. After winning the tickets, we needed to work out a strategy for play. It involved staying for the week at Wimbles Farm , East Sussex, a train from East Grinstead, and sun cream. 

Wimbles Farm is paradise for those who want to get off-grid, on the ground and out of doors.  The first night I unzipped my tent, made my way out for my 2am nightly stop-off, and entered a sky which was velvet-indigo, deep with constellations, strewn with the Milky Way. The view of our pitch the next day was no less extraordinary:

We could have spent the whole week in Eden, but left for bike rides, swims and, last Wednesday, Wimbledon. After our train ride, we watched nine hours of tennis in what felt like a moment of joy. The day was dense with drama: loose balls  an art form as they were collected up by the precisely trained skills of ball girls and boys; grass courts edged to perfection; line judges performing a synchronised dance of standing up and sitting down between games; gods on court who gifted us with out-of-this-world visions of grace, speed, cunning, flight and power, and the occasional outburst of mortal frustration. Wawrinka, Opelka, Halep, Buzarnescu, Anderson, Tipsarevic: names worthy of any pantheon. We took sides, grew to care about each shot, each game: got caught up in it all. It was wonderfully exhausting.

Back at Wimbles Farm, we spent evenings chilling wine in shop-bought ice, cooking risotto and sitting by the fire. Daytime, we discovered the Cuckoo trail - a disused train line, now cycle route. One day we rode to Eastbourne, and Fusciardi's ice cream parlour, then took the train on to Lewes and the wonderful Pells Pool.

On our final morning in paradise, we noted a dead grass snake on the path as we rode to a lake graced with rushes and water lilies. We undressed by the water's edge, clambered down and swam around in widening circles, before floating on our backs and looking up at the clear sky, letting happiness soak through our skins.

I Become Set To Music

As a Christmas present, Jonty gave me the gift of possibilities. He offered to make one of my poems into song. This is one of those loaves and fishes presents - something more than the sum of its parts: a gift of multiplication.

The starting sum in this particular equation was gluttony - a collecting up of all the candidate poems. They became a group in themselves: at least a sextet of some of my favourites. I had to reduce them down, so subtracted the narratives, the wistful, the greedily over-familiar - I watched out for something playful.

iniquity leapt up saying "Pick me! Pick me!" This cheeky poem drew envy from the others, with its consciously written psychological ambiguity and dark streak. It came to me after listening to Handel's Messiah. "All we like sheep have gone astray. And the Lord has laid on him the iniquity of us all" sing the chorus early on in this oratorio. Somehow, Handel and the choir make this straying and sinning sound like a lot of fun. Try lazing around and then dancing to the Messiah - that is what I was doing the evening that iniquity came to me. You will not disappoint yourself.

Having been published in Magma, I have confidence in iniquity. I wanted to give my son material worthy of his attention. He was open to the suggestion, took iniquity  away, thought about it and showed it to his composition tutor. She squared up to the poem, calling it (Jonty reported back), "A work of genius!"  I watched iniquity puff itself up easily into the shape of pride.

Jonty took iniquity and months later gave it back to me having multiplied it by Schoenberg, by the dialogue between mezzo soprano and piano, by youthfulness and by his joyful creativity.  He has added layers of meaning and interpretation to this poem which does not immediately lend itself to a musical setting. Listening to it, I had the feeling, both rare and visceral, that he had seen straight through me, given me so much more than I could ever have imagined or asked.

Here's the link to the song on Bandcamp -

https://jontylefroywatt.bandcamp.com/track/iniquity-2019

iniquity …

I like the word

how it feels

tongue flattened to roof for the in

release for the second short i

cheeks and lips drawn for qui

teeth bared for the ty

it’s a total mouth experience

say it

in-i-qui-ty

four syllables of tense   relax   pout   spit

say it looking in the mirror

come on to yourself

relish the way you look like this

limbering up     for what? 

wine    women     sin

iniquity

it puts everything at your disposal

a life full of bite and sound

of going into yourself

trying out all love’s compulsions

say it

play it out

stray

you lucky devil

I Work In The Cold

It's unseasonably cold and wet. You don't need me to tell you that, unless you live somewhere else. The rain came down and the floods went up today, and I got my feet and trousers wet on the way from the station because firstly I left my umbrella at the side of a marquee on Saturday, and because secondly the water was coming up from the pavement as well as down from the skies.

The renovations happening in my part of the building at work seem to necessitate the door to the outside being left open. I suppose this is for convenience. Also, the heating isn't on, which is good because it's June, and not good because it's nothing like an averagely warm June, and someone's leaving the door wedged open.

I sat down at my desk, damp. I got on with the sedentary nature of administration, marking, answering enquiries. A slow day, a misplaced day which should have been spent on a trip to the International Slavery Museum on the waterfront in Liverpool according to another plan which I'm glad, in the end, didn't come off.  There's a best-not-experienced quality of cold on the dockside in Liverpool when the wind whips off the Mersey and the rain comes along with it.

You can't make an omelette without cracking eggs. They can't renovate a building without leaving the door open, ripping up floors, making dust and pulling down the ceiling. I can't always stop the cold from creeping in, taking hold of my hands.

But I can go home, run an early bath, get into my pyjamas and heat a bowl of soup, as if it were already November.

I Have A Lane To Myself

At the baths this morning, there was one lane roped off from the rest of the pool - a strip of almost-blue 25 meters x 1.5 meters. There were other swimmers, but no one had chosen this water.  I slipped in at the shallow end, paddled off. Couldn't believe my luck.

Having space I can call my own, both in time and square meters, is something I wallow in. I think I used to be a bit out of my depth when faced with space with just me in it - questions and insecurities would bubble up How fast should I go? Are people deliberately avoiding me?  Will I get lonely? 

No one joined me in the lane - I had a full hour to myself breast-stroking up and down, turning on my back for a spot of back crawl, easing the ache out of my spine. The water was cool, warmed in places by the sun streaming in through the glass roof. I emerged at peace with myself and my body.

I luxuriate in those moments when I get 4 seats round a table on the train to myself, or when I have a whole evening at home in which I can freestyle, or when my work room buddy is away on holiday and I can indulge my musical tastes more freely. La Mer. The Trout Quintet. Peter Grimes.

I'm aware that being alone within four walls can be intensely isolating in different circumstances. I do not take for granted the freedom I have to step out of delineated space.

Later, after my swim, I cycled to the weir and sat on a bench in the sun drying my hair, my bike propped up beside me. A fellow cyclist came over to admire her - she is striking. We chatted for a while about her colour, Lagoon Blue, about folding bikes, about cycle lanes, cycling on the left and then about the way strength and speed diminish with age. Paul had just emerged from eight months of illness - it was his first bike trip out since October. We idled pleasantly around in our conversation against the tumbling sounds of weir water cascading, splashing and foaming, rushing downstream. 

I Glow With Pride

Parenthood can make me sweat, involving - without being metaphorical in the slightest - pushing, uplifting, hauling, accompanying, wiping, skipping, smoothing, sifting, sorting ... but right now, I’m simply glowing.

If I said that my sons’ choices to pursue post-school education in the creative fields of fashion and music never caused me a minute’s perspiration, I’d be disingenuous. Fashion in particular is a highly competitive applied art, requiring a complex range of skills, knowledge and aptitudes. These include life drawing, pattern cutting, design, embroidery, tailoring, draping, photography, and graphic design, as well as the study of the history of fashion, philosophy of art and research methodology . And then there are the skills and labours of developing and planning whole collections, liaising with models to wear and present them.

I’m glowing because my son Gabriel has won an award which recognises in a tangible way how much he has achieved in his learning of the skills of fashion design. Five years ago, he had an emerging interest in clothes and how they're made, but he'd never used a sewing machine. So we attended an evening class at Shrewsbury College where his teacher, Johanna, took his interest entirely seriously. Since that initial affirmation, he’s branched out, cut loose, taken risks, pursued an unconventional and challenging path.

In February, Gabriel applied for this, advertised in the Shrewsbury press by the Shrewsbury Arts Society:

ARTS BURSARY 2019

Celebrating the Golden Jubilee of The Arts Society

After a highly competitive process, the judges described his application and interview performance as outstanding. He displayed a depth of knowledge and passion which convinced them to give him the financial award aimed at supporting a young artist from the Shrewsbury area embarking on a career in the arts.

This is an accolade and it's a practical one too. Studying fashion is expensive in terms of materials required: over four years of a foundation degree and BA, he has used / will use hundred of metres of fabric, tens of thousands of metres of thread, needles, buttons, zips, buckles, Velcro, interfacing, paper, ink, not to mention chicken wire, safety boots, paints, dyes and glues. The award will be a great help towards these costs.

So I’m glowing - proud as can be of my son who is forging his own way, delighted that fellow artists have recognised his talent and commitment.

I Buy A New Washer: I Calculate My Figures

I Buy A New Washer: I Calculate My Figures: There's something going on around my middle that I'm trying to work out. One of the workings out I am doing is swimming. A recent tr...

I Calculate My Figures

There's something going on around my middle that I'm trying to work out. One of the workings out I am doing is swimming. A recent trial membership offer at the Quarry Swimming Baths meant that I swam five times in ten days and this worked out at £1 per swim.

Four of those swims happened on workdays before work. It has come as something of a surprise to me that I am able to swim 660 metres, half of them towards my desk, half of them in the opposite direction, and still arrive at work on time, albeit with damp hair.

Based on that experience, I have signed up to a year's swimming membership. So far, the swims I have swum under membership terms have worked out at £95 each. If I swim 188 more times in the coming year, I will get the cost back down to £1 per swim.

Whilst I'm swimming, I try to remember the number of the length I'm on. This helps me to arrive at work on time. If I say to myself  "TWELVE" (never out loud) as I start length 12, it's somewhat confusing, as I've actually completed 11 lengths. There's something about this that feels like cheating, but equally, I can't get my head around the idea of length zero. If I think about all this too hard, I lose count.

So far, according to the tightness of my jeans, my motivating central concerns are not yet worked out. I carry forward other benefits into my days, however. A fuller sense, after one of those early baptisms, that my life is mine, and everything in it. And the whiff of chlorine emanating from my skin.

I Avoid Traffic On My Way To Radio Shropshire

I set off down the steep gradient of St Mary's Water Lane to the River Severn. It is not so steep as to be too much so. I cycle along the river path, bumping over the cobbled stretch under the bridges upon which Shrewsbury railway station is built. From here it's a flat run out to the weir.

The weir-water is calm and silvery-smooth: recent flooding turbulence is a memory - there's a hint of white froth bubbling the surface where the descending water rejoins the flow of the river.

The path ends in a road and the road runs by the river. Just past the island, a goose is being goosey - stretching its neck and greeting the morning. I pass joggers, cyclists, and early walkers. There are no cars. The air is clear, hopeful.

Often we nod to each other, us early-risers, say, “Hi!” in the conspiracy of those who know that to be up and out on a spring morning is one of the best things, especially as, despite everything being muddled and angry in some places, here the sunlight highlights the whites and pinks of blossom, searches out the lime green of emerging leaves.

The only cars are parked cars. I turn right through sleepy bungalows, and then right again onto the cycle path but then choose left, not the route to the canal path. The sign points to Mount Pleasant, as if that is a state of being that is still possible. A gradual gradient up, and yes, it's pleasant in the cool air, the cindered path just right for a bike, or for a walker, or for a bike and a walker passing going in apparently opposite directions. The walker adjusts his direction slightly, curves leftwards to leave me more space to pass, says, "Hello!".

Crossing the main road at the lights, I take to quiet residential streets for a while - then it's back to a cycle path over the railway bridge and past more houses, stirring into their Saturday. There's no jeopardy even in the last stretch, though it takes me, briefly, onto the main road.

At the radio studios, I chat with Liz, producer, and then Ryan Kennedy, and I catch up, talk poetry, talk the weather, talk the clocks changing. I get to Carol Caffrey's poem, read 'The Moorings'. It's as beautiful as this morning - holds loss, grief: is freefall with light grace, afloat with hope.


https://www.bbc.co.uk/sounds/play/p0736062 - I read Carol's poem at 39 mins 10 seconds

I Party Long Into the Night

It's not often my friends turn 130, especially the ones who aren't Hobbits, but that's what is happening in February and March to Graham 'n' Ted, two of the sweetest, dearest of them.

The idea for a party was mine - at least, I'll claim it as such. It might not have been, but it scarcely matters. What happened was, there was an idea among poets that G and T, GKA and Big Ted, could and should and would share a party, because together they are making 130 years young.

At the heart of the party was the dance. Not just any dance, but the sort of dancing that people do from start to finish because it's so compulsory in a lenient way. That's to say, the folks operating the vinyl decks, Mike and Hattie, made it easy in their choice of songs. Who wouldn't dance, raise their hands, smile to Free Nelson Mandela, especially those of us who are approaching, are at, or past, 130 combined years with our nearest and dearest. We remember it, you see: the special hope of the early 1990s, when we were grown up already, and some of us were, or were about to become parents, but still it seemed possible (and I mean everything) because peace broke out in several ways in several places.  South Africa. Northern Ireland. And the Berlin wall had already fallen.

In the centre of the party were two of the sweetest, dearest of men. Men who embrace the dance of a party, of friendship, of love in all its forms. Men who rock being men in the modest, kind and strong in-a-good-way - way that honours all the women that know and love them. And all the men too, come to think of it. In the centre of the party was the hope of love and peace - and it was a sober happiness.

That's the thing - this wasn't some slurred, blurred feeling of numbed contentment. This party had the natural joy induced by two hours, more, of stamping, swaying, grooving dancing, and a magnificent jointly brought along buffet and Mike's excellent raspberry and almond cake - you see, after an hour of this dancing around in yellow boots, GKA in his top hat, Ted whistling, I noticed that everything that's difficult about being 130, all that knowing the world in its complication, fell away. And what came around was simplicity. No matter our imperfections, some of the messes we might have made along the way - no matter our successes and achievements. This was so straightforward, dancing together, wreathed in music, in the friendship of years, and in deep acceptance and the kind of loving that exceeds categories, and will still be there tomorrow, and the next day, and for the next eleventy years.

Happy Birthday, GKA!  Happy Birthday Ted!  We love you. And here you are, cutting the cake:

I finish a book ...

... 

not for the first time, of course. I have finished many books before, and sometimes I have started them all over again. Like Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House on the Prairie series which I have read four or five times, perhaps as an antidote to my Inner-London childhood. As I walked up from the station this evening talking to my work friend, we discovered that we remembered the same passages about making maple syrup candy in the snow and building log cabins from scratch. 

I finished War and Peace a few weeks after I started it in 1979.  The explanation for my dedication is partly Tolstoy's genius, and partly the crush I had on a guy I wanted to impress. I had my response ready should he ever ask me what I was reading. 

But over the years, things have changed. As an academic, I have developed the dry and necessary habit of getting what I must from a book - using the index and chapter headings to find sections which give me the essential point or definition. It's rare in these circumstances to read a whole text. And it's not often I read a collection of poetry from cover to cover in one sitting. It does happen: Douglas Dunn's Elegies. But usually, I dip in, mull over, and stare into the distance, get distracted. In short, I've developed unsatisfactory habits.

My habits have become so unsatisfactory, that I turned up to my last book group struggling even to remember the title of the book we were to discuss. It's a lovely group, and I joined in the discussion from my position of ignorance incurring no judgement, but I realised I had reached a new reading low.

So I've taken enormous pleasure not only in reading, but also in finishing Maggie O'Farrell's I am I am I am in two sittings (it could easily have been one had not work intervened). This experience of utter book-absorption reconnected me to the feelings I had on those childhood afternoons as they grew into dark evenings when, propped on one hand, I resisted all calls of nature as I wandered around Narnia, or Northanger Abbey, or 221B Baker Street. 

O'Farrell's beautifully structured book recalls 'seventeen brushes with death' and does so with vivid immediacy. She achieves that remarkable balance that is so compelling - revelation woven seamlessly with recognition. She led me through her deeply moving stories, to encounters with my own fears and existential experiences. And I am grateful.

I File Irritating and Unnecessary Demands

When I got home from work, I emptied crumbs from my toaster whilst hanging about the kitchen, waiting for my supper to cook. Emptying the toaster of crumbs involves removing the crumb tray (into which a thimbleful of crumbs has fallen), emptying that, and then inverting the whole thing and giving it a good shake.

In order to clean up my email inbox, I have created a folder named 'Irritating and Unnecessary Demands'.  This allows me to file irritating and unnecessary demands away from the main workings of my email correspondence. 

In most contexts - beds, tables, work surfaces, inside toasters - toast crumbs are an irritating, although necessary, by-product of toast-making and eating. 

The irritating and demanding emails do not seem to me to have the virtue of being necessary in any context apart from one in which they have been deemed necessary. This is why they are irritating. 

 When I'd shaken as many crumbs as a could from my toaster, I wiped up the pile, and put it in the bin. In terms of crumb volume, the pile may have amounted to a hot cross bun in other circumstances.

In a culture in which nothing has happened until it has been measured, I draw comfort from the small action of turning my inbox upside-down, and shaking emails into a folder which I have named 'Irritating and Unnecessary Demands'. 

Now that my toaster is clean, I'm looking forward to toasting a bun, and smothering it in butter. This is guaranteed to reduce my irritation to zero for the time being. 

I Arrange My Mugs

When Mike made me some mug shelves, I thought he had solved my mug storage issue once and for all. However, this weekend, in-between marking and eating Lindt Salted Dark chocolate (an activity directly linked to the marking) I've been mugging about.  You see, although I have 30 more mug spaces at my disposal, I still have more mugs (et al) than spaces.

There are a number of approaches I could take to this conundrum. Let me say up front that donating mugs to any of the large number of nearby charity shops is not an option. To illustrate my point: although I do not actually like the design of the St Hugh's College mug and neither does my younger son (shelf 3, Mug Shot #1), he left it with me when he returned to university after Christmas saying that it would remind me of him in his absence. It does. (In any case, I donated another mug to him for use there. In addition, I passed on a couple of mugs to my eldest son for his Antwerp apartment back in the autumn. So I had already shown storage foresight).

   Mug Shot #1                        Mug Shot #2                        Mug Shot #3

In Mug Shot #2, I have arranged all the mugs which represent aspects of my identity on shelf 2. Thus we have Poet, Anarchy, Mum, Liz. This shelf would sum me up nicely, if I didn't undermine aspirations to be an Anarchist with my need to order my mugs by a set of rules. It's possible I'm undermining my Poet identity too by spending time sorting mugs when I could be sorting words into lines.

The rule of Mug Shot #3 is one of colour. The two rows of blue are my favourite. But this arrangement contravenes the mug rule, as, like the other mug shots, it contains objects which aren't mugs. Like jugs. 

Where I've come to is that I like this mugging about, this muggling along, this mugfulness, this living in the mugment.

Choosing mugs by coordinates (three mugs along, four shelves down) keeps my approach to tea drinking mug-half-full. The tea accompanies the marking and the Lindt Salted Dark chocolate, so there really isn't an issue at all.