I have had to call a plumber, and I'll call him Sam. The replacement of flexible hoses to the bathroom sink is a step too far for me.
It's not easy to ask for help with plumbing, especially when one has set oneself up as something of an expert buyer of washers (however unintentionally), and especially as plumbing has a reputation for being expensive.
One of my dear friends pointed out to me recently that I'm not very good at asking for help. She's right. It's a common fault of those of us in the 'helping' professions that we find it hard to be on the receiving end.
Sam's obvious skill and extraordinary toolbox have been a revelation. I realise that I have just been playing at plumbing. And it's fair to say that no one has yet asked me to help them to change a washer.
Thursday, 30 July 2015
Friday, 17 July 2015
I Plan My Send-Off
I am perfectly well, but this week I said goodbye to my friend and colleague Harry Prankard in a joyful celebration of his life, and it's got me thinking. His wife, Sylvia, organised it exactly as he wanted: I heard new-to-me stories about his life and by the end I enjoyed a sense of connection with him through the music he'd chosen, the tributes paid, and the photographs of him carefully put together in films by his daughter.
Making a will is an important gift to those we leave behind. Whilst this statement sounds like an advertisement for legal services or a charity hoping to benefit from whatever resources we may have, it's an important truth. I've made a will (and yes my beloved sons, it's all going to you) but it doesn't include any wishes about how I'd like people to say goodbye. So here goes:
Wishes For My Send-Off
Plan it for whichever day is the one you'd most like to skip work
and in whatever place suits you, at any time after the first bus has arrived.
Can it be casual? Could it be a point of no stress for no one, anyone?
I doubt that, since any setting of place and time results in organisation,
but as close to that as it can be, so that if the bus is late, or the car won't start,
if you have to hurry back for a coat, it's no matter, since it won't matter to me.
I'll be free already, you see, enjoying roses and fresia whatever the season,
chatting to Bach about my younger son's playing of his Chaconne, fascinated to see
what my eldest son has run up for my final wearing on that machine we share,
anticipating raised highbrows at the reading of Mary Oliver's Wild Swans,
feeling the poems written for me, spoken by friends, wondering whether the secret
of my tattoo has made it out of the box, and whether it's the cause of the smiles
on the faces of those I love, love, have loved so fully that I won't mind whoever
comes out of my past, of the closet, of the woodwork or the blue for this one last time.
I won't mind not being there only as thought, as the choices I am making, writing down,
wanting to let you know now, for then, how the world offered itself to my imagination.
Making a will is an important gift to those we leave behind. Whilst this statement sounds like an advertisement for legal services or a charity hoping to benefit from whatever resources we may have, it's an important truth. I've made a will (and yes my beloved sons, it's all going to you) but it doesn't include any wishes about how I'd like people to say goodbye. So here goes:
Wishes For My Send-Off
Plan it for whichever day is the one you'd most like to skip work
and in whatever place suits you, at any time after the first bus has arrived.
Can it be casual? Could it be a point of no stress for no one, anyone?
I doubt that, since any setting of place and time results in organisation,
but as close to that as it can be, so that if the bus is late, or the car won't start,
if you have to hurry back for a coat, it's no matter, since it won't matter to me.
I'll be free already, you see, enjoying roses and fresia whatever the season,
chatting to Bach about my younger son's playing of his Chaconne, fascinated to see
what my eldest son has run up for my final wearing on that machine we share,
anticipating raised highbrows at the reading of Mary Oliver's Wild Swans,
feeling the poems written for me, spoken by friends, wondering whether the secret
of my tattoo has made it out of the box, and whether it's the cause of the smiles
on the faces of those I love, love, have loved so fully that I won't mind whoever
comes out of my past, of the closet, of the woodwork or the blue for this one last time.
I won't mind not being there only as thought, as the choices I am making, writing down,
wanting to let you know now, for then, how the world offered itself to my imagination.
Saturday, 4 July 2015
I Hoover Up Pink Feathers
It looks like I've been hosting birds of paradise. I've been finding pink feathers everywhere, and just when I thought I'd caught the last one, another appears. The feathers come from a boa - a prop used by my alter ego, Someone's Mum, in a performance of Sweet Thunder on Thursday evening.
Hoover is one of those trade names, like Jacuzzi or Escalator, which has a solid place in language. I've just Googled Hoover and found this definition - 'to suck something up as if with a vacuum cleaner'.
I've been sucking up feathers, but, vacuum or not, it isn't easy. Barbs on feathers are covered in barbules which act like tiny hooks on the carpet. Linoleum would've been an easier surface to clean. I nearly resorted to getting out the Sellotape, or some of the ever-resourceful Jay Walker's (Lucy Aphramor) double-sided sticky tape, and using this as a means of capture.
In the show, the pink feather boa is given to me by the gorgeous Ms Beeton (Amy Godfrey) as a symbol of allure. It's a device to allow me to dispense with my pink rubber gloves, to transition from overstretched cleaner (equivalent to Shakespeare's Nurse) dusting 'the world's stage', to lover (Shakespeare's Mistress).
That the boa has been shedding ever since is an irony Carol Caffrey (Director) hadn't anticipated when she had the brilliant idea of using this and other pink props. In the end, I've had to get down on my hands and knees to pick reluctant pink scraps off one by one.
Threesome will be appearing in Sweet Thunder, a Show in Three Layers at this year's Edinburgh Fringe. Details here:
https://edinburghfestival.list.co.uk/event/487296-sweet-thunder-a-show-in-three-layers/
Hoover is one of those trade names, like Jacuzzi or Escalator, which has a solid place in language. I've just Googled Hoover and found this definition - 'to suck something up as if with a vacuum cleaner'.
I've been sucking up feathers, but, vacuum or not, it isn't easy. Barbs on feathers are covered in barbules which act like tiny hooks on the carpet. Linoleum would've been an easier surface to clean. I nearly resorted to getting out the Sellotape, or some of the ever-resourceful Jay Walker's (Lucy Aphramor) double-sided sticky tape, and using this as a means of capture.
In the show, the pink feather boa is given to me by the gorgeous Ms Beeton (Amy Godfrey) as a symbol of allure. It's a device to allow me to dispense with my pink rubber gloves, to transition from overstretched cleaner (equivalent to Shakespeare's Nurse) dusting 'the world's stage', to lover (Shakespeare's Mistress).
That the boa has been shedding ever since is an irony Carol Caffrey (Director) hadn't anticipated when she had the brilliant idea of using this and other pink props. In the end, I've had to get down on my hands and knees to pick reluctant pink scraps off one by one.
Threesome will be appearing in Sweet Thunder, a Show in Three Layers at this year's Edinburgh Fringe. Details here:
https://edinburghfestival.list.co.uk/event/487296-sweet-thunder-a-show-in-three-layers/
Sunday, 21 June 2015
I Remove A Thorn
On Monday, I climbed up a cliff. Or rather, a very steep bank rising up from Newgale Sands in Pembrokeshire. My longest-serving friend and I had just started what has become our annual Camping-in-Wales holiday, and having caught an early bus from St David's, and ambled along the beach under cloud, we were taking a short cut back to the Coast Path and our walk back to Caerfai campsite.
As it turned out, it wasn't really a short cut: just a more direct - as the crow flies - route.
Sticking to the path is often a good idea, but sometimes it's great to go off-piste. On this occasion, it involved scrambling at times over loose shale, at times amongst pads of gorse and bracken. In order to maintain balance, I often had to grab onto the gorse and bracken. There was a moment when I didn't think I could go safely either down or up, and that was when Helen offered me her hand, and helped me further up. We made it to the top, and I came away with a thorn in the middle finger of my right hand.
In the New Testament, St Paul refers to a mysterious affliction as his 'thorn in the flesh'. When I was growing up, my parents used to speculate about what this metaphor represented. My mother claimed it was Paul's mother-in-law. My father, some sort of unspeakable recurring temptation.
I've been conscious of this splinter at various moments all week when my finger has been under some sort of pressure. On Tuesday, I put on my reading glasses and tried to get it out using tweezers, but my skin had already started to heal, and I couldn't reach it. This evening I had more success using a sterilised sewing needle.
The walk from Newgale was glorious. At midday, the sun came out and it didn't go away - just moved across our shoulders, leaving its mark in interesting tan lines.
There's nothing like being on holiday on a Monday. There's nothing like unexpected sunshine in Wales. The occasional discomfort I felt from the thorn for the rest of the week was a reminder of adventure; of fresh air, freedom, trust and good fortune.
As it turned out, it wasn't really a short cut: just a more direct - as the crow flies - route.
Sticking to the path is often a good idea, but sometimes it's great to go off-piste. On this occasion, it involved scrambling at times over loose shale, at times amongst pads of gorse and bracken. In order to maintain balance, I often had to grab onto the gorse and bracken. There was a moment when I didn't think I could go safely either down or up, and that was when Helen offered me her hand, and helped me further up. We made it to the top, and I came away with a thorn in the middle finger of my right hand.
In the New Testament, St Paul refers to a mysterious affliction as his 'thorn in the flesh'. When I was growing up, my parents used to speculate about what this metaphor represented. My mother claimed it was Paul's mother-in-law. My father, some sort of unspeakable recurring temptation.
I've been conscious of this splinter at various moments all week when my finger has been under some sort of pressure. On Tuesday, I put on my reading glasses and tried to get it out using tweezers, but my skin had already started to heal, and I couldn't reach it. This evening I had more success using a sterilised sewing needle.
The walk from Newgale was glorious. At midday, the sun came out and it didn't go away - just moved across our shoulders, leaving its mark in interesting tan lines.
There's nothing like being on holiday on a Monday. There's nothing like unexpected sunshine in Wales. The occasional discomfort I felt from the thorn for the rest of the week was a reminder of adventure; of fresh air, freedom, trust and good fortune.
Wednesday, 3 June 2015
I Accept A Compliment
Walking out of the sports centre after badminton club yesterday evening, my younger son and I were chatting about our games. Normally, we play a few games as a doubles partnership, but last night we only had one game together. In the first game of the evening we had trounced the opposition in a few minutes, so we had the rest of the hour to discuss.
"I played pretty well today," I said.
"You're the best woman player," he said, "no question."
"Well ... I dunno." I felt self-conscious about his compliment - hoped none of the other players had overheard. I'm not sure he's right, and I'm nothing if not pedantic.
"There's no doubt," he went on. "In fact, you're an honorary man."
I felt myself suddenly in deep water. We have a history of banter about gender politics, and I knew he knew that he had, as it were, pushed me off the edge of the pool and was standing smiling looking at me as I came up for air.
There is only one sensible choice to make on finding oneself in deep water.
"Thank you," I said, and relaxed, enjoying the feeling of floating on his admiration.
"I played pretty well today," I said.
"You're the best woman player," he said, "no question."
"Well ... I dunno." I felt self-conscious about his compliment - hoped none of the other players had overheard. I'm not sure he's right, and I'm nothing if not pedantic.
"There's no doubt," he went on. "In fact, you're an honorary man."
I felt myself suddenly in deep water. We have a history of banter about gender politics, and I knew he knew that he had, as it were, pushed me off the edge of the pool and was standing smiling looking at me as I came up for air.
There is only one sensible choice to make on finding oneself in deep water.
"Thank you," I said, and relaxed, enjoying the feeling of floating on his admiration.
Sunday, 31 May 2015
I Stroke A Hedge
I trailed my fingers through a beech hedge as I walked home earlier, then retraced my steps to run my hand though it again. The leaves were still (just) young, tender: at the bright stage. They felt soft, feathery, light. I particularly like this moment in the hedge's year. Soon, the leaves will have stiffened and darkened: assumed a tougher and more mature posture.
The clever thing about a beech hedge is that, even after the autumn frosts, it retains its brown leaves. Through the winter, many of the leaves cling on, so, though deciduous, it provides all-year-round cover.
The clever thing about a beech hedge is that the old leaves only drop off as the new ones push their ways through.
Sunday, 17 May 2015
I Indulge In A Paradox
It's a month till my annual camping trip with my longest-serving friend, Helen. The trip marks the anniversary of the start of our 50th year celebrations and therefore their end, allegedly.
Some of the pleasures of camping are unavoidable, and are largely to do with shedding - shedding walls, ceilings, fridges, the internet: baring body, mind and soul to the considerable elemental forces of a field in Wales. Some of those pleasures are, however, to do with acquisition - particularly, the acquisition of new equipment which allows campers to camp-lite.
It's a paradox, but camping shops are full of sleeping bags, tents, roll mats and cooking equipment all lighter, more compact and streamlined than the ones you already have. You need to buy more to have, to carry, less. The technology is alluring, and helps to leaven memories of soggy, heavy, camping without integral groundsheets, under canvas, on camp beds. My worst ones concern being a camp leader in a wet August in Cornwall. With slugs.
So yesterday, I popped into Millets for the third time in three weeks. Inbetween my visits, I've been thinking about what I can justify spending on new cooking equipment. Trangia, the Swedish ultralight camping stove specialists, have been seducing me with their impeccably designed stoves, mini-stoves, non-stick pans, kettles and mess tins. I have been imagining extending my camping recipe repertoire beyond various forms of risotto into scrambled eggs, friend eggs, poached eggs, coffee.
Millets clarified the situation for me yesterday by having most of these items in their sale. And by offering me an extra 15% off if I buy them in May. There's nothing like saving money to induce a flurry of spending.
Some of the pleasures of camping are unavoidable, and are largely to do with shedding - shedding walls, ceilings, fridges, the internet: baring body, mind and soul to the considerable elemental forces of a field in Wales. Some of those pleasures are, however, to do with acquisition - particularly, the acquisition of new equipment which allows campers to camp-lite.
It's a paradox, but camping shops are full of sleeping bags, tents, roll mats and cooking equipment all lighter, more compact and streamlined than the ones you already have. You need to buy more to have, to carry, less. The technology is alluring, and helps to leaven memories of soggy, heavy, camping without integral groundsheets, under canvas, on camp beds. My worst ones concern being a camp leader in a wet August in Cornwall. With slugs.
So yesterday, I popped into Millets for the third time in three weeks. Inbetween my visits, I've been thinking about what I can justify spending on new cooking equipment. Trangia, the Swedish ultralight camping stove specialists, have been seducing me with their impeccably designed stoves, mini-stoves, non-stick pans, kettles and mess tins. I have been imagining extending my camping recipe repertoire beyond various forms of risotto into scrambled eggs, friend eggs, poached eggs, coffee.
Millets clarified the situation for me yesterday by having most of these items in their sale. And by offering me an extra 15% off if I buy them in May. There's nothing like saving money to induce a flurry of spending.
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