I didn’t think much was happening today and thought I’d do some gardening or maybe – oh joy! – housework this afternoon.  However, it’s 4 o’clock and I’ve just sat down with a cup of tea, so neither of those will happen.  Though I just did put a load of laundry on to wash.

This morning I took myself off to the Remembrance assembly at the school, where 1100+ pupils squeezed into the Sports Hall (no room for the sixth form, so they had their own assembly at their own site), plus the teachers and most of the support staff, so that was another 100+, and guests and I sat facing them.  And an incredibly moving, quite harrowing service it was.  An old boy dropped in, a serving Corporal who has not long returned from his third tour of duty in Afghanistan.  And whatever you think about whether we should ever have gone in (Mister Blair not having learned a thing from the Russian invasion of the same country), you’d not have a word to say in disparagement of our army if you heard him.  He spoke most movingly, not only of the need for teamwork and the support and friendship of colleagues, but also of their focus on helping the Afghan people, mentioning in particular the children who have so very little and would, the girls anyway, be denied even a basic education.  He spoke of what the Royal British Legion do – it was hard to listen and not show great emotion, impossible not to feel it.

Then the school chaplain – the local Rector and a school governor, who served 30 years as an army officer – spoke of his days in the army too.  He served in Northern Ireland and he talked about mourning, loss and remembrance.  Then the Head Boy and Head Girl each read a WW1 poem.  More than once I had consciously to straighten my back and set my chin firm, very aware of all those people facing me.

Afterwards, my friend Mary and I spoke to the young Corporal.  When he left school after taking A Levels, he decided not to apply to Sandhurst straight away, as he didn’t feel he could issue orders and lead troops without experience.  So he signed up into the ranks.  Now, six years on, he feels ready and is going to apply to Sandhurst in January.  Mary asked about equipment nowadays – if you remember, there were awful reports about inadequate and unsafe equipment in the early days – he said, having been back three times in those years, he has seen for himself how things have improved and continue to do so.  He buys his own boots mind you, but he said that’s because none of the three styles available really suit his feet.  He has no complaints about the resources being researched and provided at present, which was interesting in this time of cutbacks and, even if you’re against the idea of this country’s involvement in present wars, it’s not our lives on the front line.  It’s not the soldiers’ fault that the war is happening, they’re doing their duty.

At this point, around 4.30, I received a phone call and, 3 hours later, I’m back…

So I went home, to be met by the Sage wanting a lift.  I grabbed a couple of rice cakes for lunch and off we went.  Our friends are both aged 80, but his health is precarious and it’s not easy for his wife to care for him.  However, they are generous in time and advice – in this case, on a piece of china.  The Sage is a great expert in his field, but merely knowledgeable in similar china of the same period, whereas they have incredible expertise in all aspects of the field.  They confirmed his opinion.

And we came back, having bought food for the weekend, and received a call from Dilly to say that Big Pinkie was out.  Big Pinkie had had a frisky little foray in the morning too.  This time, she was on the road.  So we tempted her back into her field with some apples.  Her companion cow (if anyone had any other thoughts, shame on you) was waiting anxiously and I gave her apples too.  They were both still keen for some treats, so I went in the house and cut up a half cabbage, left over from Tim’s recipe, halved a few more apples and went back out.  The other cow was quite disappointed.  She likes apples a lot more than cabbage, so I divided the spoils accordingly.

I came indoors, made a pot of tea and started writing this.  Then I had a phone call from Elle.  She was on the bus with a girl who had left something vital at school.  Not too late, teachers would still be there (they do not knock off when the bell rings, whatever you might read in the newspapers from reporters who don’t check their facts) and I popped in to fetch the bag.  And then I followed the bus to take it back to her.  Only took 20 minutes and we should all help each other, innit?*

And I had a money-off coupon from the Co-op (16%, plus 10% off wine) so I went in to buy mostly booze on the way home, and the Sage and I promptly drank the bottle of Cava that I had so wisely bought pre-chilled.  Pork chops, onions, parsnips, tomatoes and leeks – oh, and baked potatoes – for dinner.  Coffee now.  Then relax.

Tomorrow, help Ro and Dora move stuff to the new house.

Oh, my upstairs tenant has handed in his notice.  He’s been great, has kept the flat immaculate and been really helpful.  I’m sorry he’s leaving, but he’s buying his own place which is really good news for him. So I can only wish him well.

*©Tim

If you managed to read the post I published at around 5.30, you were quicker off the mark than I was.  When I posted it, I discovered that it had auto-saved in draft several times, or rather just the first line or so, before I gave it its title.  Internet up and down like a small dinghy on a rough sea.  So I deleted the drafts, which you have to do one at a time.  Sad to say, one of those times, I accidentally deleted the post and not the draft, and the feed reader hadn’t yet picked it up.  So – crikey, darlings, how I know for sure I’m no writer at all is because I can’t be bothered to do it again.  I’d never be up for the revisions.  But I’ll try, as there’s nothing else at all in my mind to write about.  Except, it’s so trivial that it’s not worth writing again.

Okay.  I’ll try.

Z the Matriarch

I had lunch at school today, liver and bacon casserole, which is served on a Thursday by special request of the Head.  His wife won’t cook it for him, and the Sage wouldn’t thank me if I cooked it for him, so if I’m in on Thursday that is what I choose, with mixed vegetables, cabbage and mashed potatoes.  Very traditional, as was the rest of the menu.  Vegetable lasagne, shepherd’s pie, quiche, as well as the usual pizza, baked potatoes and so on, and there’s always salad too.  All home made, of course.  Pudding was a fruit crumble with custard, there was fresh fruit salad, buns and flapjacks, that sort of thing.  Yes, we follow the nutritional guidelines although, as an academy, we’re not obliged to.  But actually, we’re quite keen on our children eating good food.

On the way to the dining hall, I was stopped by a group of girls.  One asked if I thought the world was about to end.  “Don’t suppose so,” I replied, “Are you thinking of the Mayan prophecy?”  They were, though they were more interested than concerned.  We talked about what could happen – whether the earth would flood – rather interestingly, one of them reckoned that if the flood water entered the volcanoes, the world would explode altogether, though another thought it was just mankind that would succumb, with or without the rest of the animal kingdom.*  Maybe we’d all be worms in a swamp and evolution would start all over again.  One girl thought there would be a few of us left.  “We’d all have to breed,” she said.  I offered to leave that to them.  I’d mother them and cook their meals.

After lunch, I chatted to a member of staff in the cloakroom as we washed our hands and we talked about a teacher who had a baby on Monday (his name is Jonty).  We also talked about broodiness, and I said I kept it at bay with the arrival of grandchildren. I mentioned that I have five of them and her eyes widened.  It made me feel old.  Not that I’ve a problem with being old, but I forget about it sometimes

*insert gender-based options as required

Ro is now a home-owner.  He and Dora are planning to move at the weekend – their landlord doesn’t mind them staying on in their present place until they’re ready to move their stuff. Not that they have much, they are going to start almost from scratch.  Except for kitchen utensils of course, Ro has a well-equipped kitchen.

He’s always enjoyed cooking.  When he was at university, sometimes I’d get a phone call – “I’ve bought some tuna, can you suggest a recipe?”  Or he might ask for a good sauce to serve with chicken, or enquire about the finer points of making gravy.

It does’t happen every day of course, but a few times a week I spend half an hour or more going through a pile of cookery books, deciding what I’m going to serve for dinner.  I leave the more experimental things for when the Sage is out and sometimes take the opportunity to cook a fairly elaborate meal containing ingredients he isn’t too fond of.  Not that he’s overly fussy, just compared to me.

Having said that, I frequently don’t follow recipes at all, or use one just for guidance.  I cook quite simple food most of the time, though I’ve been giving a bit more thought to meals with Elle to cater for. Not that she’s difficult to feed, she eats almost anything too.

It puzzles me that children nowadays seem to consider eating vegetables an ordeal.  I never did, it wouldn’t have occurred to me, and I don’t remember any children of my age being fussy about food.  Of course, anyone can dislike certain tastes, but that’s not the same thing at all.

Having said that, I probably was less fussy than most.  I remember one occasion, I was probably about seven, and my mother opened a tin of celery hearts.  Now, cooked celery is about my least favourite vegetable (though I like it in casseroles and soup) but I wouldn’t have dreamed of leaving it on my plate.  But I cut into it and found, right in its heart, a slug.  A cooked, canned slug.  Fortunately, my mother left the room to fetch something from the kitchen at that moment (we were alone together) and I picked it out quickly and slung it in the fire, where it sizzled.  Then I ate the celery.

I’m quite the saddest git I know.  It was rather good to feel my nose grating on the grindstone again.  I’m playing hooky right now mind you, I’ve got work to do this evening.  I had a long talk with the Head, caught up on school things, discussed the next meeting, I’ve sent a lot of emails to get things moving, I feel as if I’ve done a reasonable job.  If you don’t earn money from what you do, it can be dismissed as trivial, even by your family (some of them) – I’m sound in my self-esteem because I know I’ve occasionally made a decision that has had a big and positive impact, but it takes some effort when one is normally judged by money and status.  And yet, I don’t believe in either of those myself, not in themselves.  Maybe it was my upbringing in a church school, maybe it was parental influence, maybe it was born in me.  Actually, I believe that it was.  Al is the child most like me and most like my father and, though they never met and he and I have never talked about it, we share many values.  I’m not even sure that he knows that, in fact, and we’re not big on hearts-to-heart nowadays.  When a son marries, a mother should step way back and recognise that his wife holds his heart and mind, not her, or she should do.

I had no idea I was going to write that.  Blogging is surprising, don’t you think?

We had herrings for supper.  I gutted them, saving the roes (one hard, one soft), bashed them on the backbone to flatten, dipped them in oatmeal and fried them in butter and oil, adding the roes at the last.  I wasn’t sure what to serve with them, but ended up with a sweetish wholegrain mustard which worked well.  I fried potatoes, cooked French beans, which were the last from a local grower – there was a sharp frost last night, he picked them just in time – and served some of the last of our tomatoes which were a bit random but delicious.  Very much an end-of-summer feel to the veg.

And there will be a winter feel to the next day or two.  I’ve bought leeks and parsnips and a cauliflower.  The price of caulis has gone up because of the cold, but I know that Tim isn’t profiteering, but rather that he’ll have dropped his profit margin.  In a box of ten or a dozen, he’ll break even on the second to last and make any money on the final one.  Anything thrown out constitutes a solid loss.  If you don’t shop locally, bear in mind that the small shopkeeper has no buying power.  He pays what the wholesaler charges.  The big supermarket cuts out the wholesaler, buys direct from the farm and sends back what isn’t sold.  There’s no risk, yet many supermarket prices are as high or higher than your local greengrocer’s or butcher’s or fishmonger’s, if you’re lucky enough to have any of those.  I’d rather go without something else than not shop locally, though I used a big supermarket too when my children were young and I had to shop for five every week.  I still used the local greengrocer, butcher and fishmonger, though, because they were much better value, and I still supported the village shop, though few did and it finally closed.  Now it’s just the Sage and me, I use small independent grocers or the Co-op where they employ many High School students in the evenings and weekends.  And yet, I understand well that many people can’t afford the luxury of not shopping around.  As I say, I’ve gone for the cheap option too, it’s buying smaller that gives me choice.

I’m feeling strangely intense this evening, darlings.  Probably it’s because I haven’t finished work, so am still on duty as it were.  But also, and unusually, I had a good night’s sleep.  I woke four times I think, but I wasn’t awake more than ten minutes each time, and that’s such a rarity that I feel as if I slept the clock round.

It’s a good thing that several members of the family had birthdays on memorable days.  Sadly, none of those people are still alive, so I have to rely on memory nowadays.  My grandfather was born on Trafalgar Day, my mother on Remembrance Day and the Sage’s father on Guy Fawkes (yes, he was named Guy).

Anniversaries have never been something that registered too well with me and as I get older, my own seem even less important, hence my decision to ignore my birthday this year.  It took the Sage and me years to remember without checking the day of our wedding anniversary.  I’m fine with family birthdays, but that’s about all.  Conveniently, Weeza’s children are born 2 days (and 4 years) apart and their wedding anniversary is the day in between, so that’s easy enough, and 5 of us have September birthdays, so it’s just a matter of remembering which is which.

Outside the family – no, not really.  A couple of people always send me a birthday card which is a bit embarrassing really, as I haven’t even asked when their birthdays are.  I’d forget, so better not to ask in the first place.

A few years ago, I looked up the date when the Sage and I got engaged.  I knew the year, the day of the week and the week of the month, so it was quite easy to check it on the internet.  But I’ve forgotten again.

I am particularly successful at forgetting sad anniversaries, or I used to be.  I blanked for years the day my father died, until I found all the newspaper reports a few months ago, and I haven’t succeeded in forgetting it yet.  I remembered three days in January, the 18th, 19th and 24th.  One was the day Muldoon was born, one was the day Wilf my stepfather died and the third was the day my father died.  I had no intention of checking, but now I know them all, unfortunately.  I resolutely don’t think of them on the day, though.

What I do note are personal milestones, such as the day I was 33 1/3 (it was a Leap Year, conveniently).  And the day I’d been married half my life, then two thirds.  Sorry about the jump between numerals and written numbers.  I’m holding on with a surprising sense of significance to the day when I shall be a day older than my father when he died.  Though if you asked me if it bothers me, I really can’t say that it does.  Or rather, I don’t think it does, but it must do at some level, mustn’t it?  Otherwise I wouldn’t be so aware of it.

Anyway, we let off the traditional humungous rocket this evening in memory of Pa, which probably woke all the babies and made all their parents hate us, and have been warming up by the fire since.  Nippy out tonight.  Dry, but.

Yes, as Mike suggests, it can be more a matter of keeping up and improving the things you can do than starting to learn entirely new ones.  Although there must be a point at which that decision is made … for example, I was about 38 when I started clarinet lessons.  I had the advantage of being able to read music though, so it wasn’t as hard as it might have been (I’m being modest there, btw – yes, I know that’s a rarity – I worked extremely hard, practised hours a day), but now, although I often think how much I’d like to be able to play more instruments, I think I’m going to stick with the ones I’ve got.

When I was young, I often chose to learn skills that had little or no practical application.  As time went by, however, I found that was becoming harder – that is, if it wasn’t going to be used, what was the point in acquiring the knowledge?  There have been times when I’ve been too practical, I think, but that’s been when I’ve had too much on my plate already and had to prioritise.

I played the organ for the church service this morning, not very well.  I hope it wasn’t too obvious.  I kept the tune going throughout, but the notes I played with the left hand rarely bore much relationship to the ones on the page.  I was just filling in with chords at random.  Well no, not at random.  Reasonably harmonious, just not as written which was a bit worrying as I was never sure what was going to come out.  I’d forgotten my glasses, which didn’t help – the distance I am from the page is just wrong, either for my left short-sighted eye or my right contact lens-corrected one.  It’s something I’d give up altogether if I could – playing the organ, that is.  I’ve done it for well over twenty years and it still gives me no pleasure at all, unlike playing the piano which I do enjoy, however badly I do it.  Funny, isn’t it?  You’d not think the one was so different from the other.  But I digress.  Actually, having started writing this yesterday and not had time to finish it, I’m not sure – again – what I wanted to say.  Oh damn, darlings, I’m cracking up.

I think it was about what one learns and why, and at what age one is happy to hold on to what one has, whether to do it better or at least hang on to the capability one already has.  I’m feeling slightly bored at present, or at least restless.  I don’t think I’ve shot my learning bolt yet, but I don’t know what to choose.  And I don’t, in truth, have much spare time – apart from this week … maybe it’s just because I’ve had a few days without a load of papers to read and meetings to prepare for, which reminds me that the agenda for the next governors’ meeting has to go out on Wednesday.  

What I shall have is some space, in the physical sense, because Al and the family are planning to buy a house and move away from here (not very far) in the near future.   So a house that we already rattle around in is going to get that much larger.  Good job we’ve got Elle here for the time being – except not for the next couple of weeks because she’s staying with a friend.  The Sage and I will have to think of something to talk about to each other again.  Right now, he’s tapping away on one keyboard and I’m on another.  Perhaps we’ll just communicate by email.

I’m not one to say I can’t do something, not if I can help it.  I’ll generally have a go though quite often, even if it goes reasonably well, I may not choose to do it again  – playing the music at a wedding and giving a … not a sermon, but a talk in the sermon spot in church come to mind.  I prepared assiduously, but I feel no need to repeat either experience.  Oh, and I knitted myself a scarf and hat three or four years ago.  The hat was shaped very nicely at the top, but it proved impossible to do the ribbing at the bottom.  2 purl 2 plain was too much for me.  I kept forgetting which came next.  So I unravelled it and just made it stocking stitch all over.  But it fits, it’s neat enough and it demonstrated that I don’t particularly need something to do with my hands in the evening.  I used to like tapestry and a bit of sewing, but that would have to be done by daylight nowadays and I gave it up when I discovered that I could no longer see subtle graduations of colour by artificial light.

I’m not planning to take up any sort of artistic endeavour.  This daily drawing thing is just one of my whims and it’ll pass within days.  It’s just that I’ve had time on my hands this week, which has been very pleasant.

Oh darlings, I wrote a whole lot more and then the internets went down and it was all lost.  Al and Dilly and the children came in and then we had dinner and then I wrote some more, and then it all went belly-up and I can’t remember it all because I was just typing.  I’ll do my best…

I was musing, as I do in my Z persona, about how and why one learns something quite new in later years.  A friend whose wife died when he was about 80 set out to learn to cook, very successfully.  After all, he needed to feed himself.  She had been an excellent cook and he wouldn’t have been too happy to rely on ready meals.  He used to invite friends in for dinner: usually a casserole followed by stewed fruit, with a bottle or two of excellent wine.  And I’ve written already about my 94-year-old friend who bought an iPad and has learned to email and use the internet.

The Sage’s father, on retirement, took up golf as many people do once they have time on their hands.  I can’t imagine ever having quite that much time on my hands, not with the energy to spend half a day on the golf course, but plenty have.

And then there are those who take up writing, such as Mary Wesley whose books were all published when she was knocking on a bit, and there was the headteacher of the girls’ school at Southwold – her name was Ann and I’ll remember her surname in a bit – who took early retirement and cycled pretty well around the world, in stages, coming home in between major bike rides.  Not that this was learning something new as such, but she certainly did something quite unexpected and very different.

Me … no, I don’t think it’s likely.  If I manage to persevere with the clarinet that’ll be fine.  If not, I’ll be disappointed in myself.  But we do what we can and it depends on the circumstances whether one should blame oneself.  For now, I just wish I could remember the point I started off wanting to make.

PS – Ann Mustoe.

Well, today’s drawing was of the cockerel you see above this post.  And it’s shown me that I can draw chairs better than I can draw cockerels.   I considered keeping on drawing the chair day after day to try to improve, but blimey darlings, I’m not that dedicated.

But I’m running ahead of myself again.  Eddie Two-Sox and I met in Norwich and spent several hours together, mostly eating and drinking (not whole lots, darlings, just took quite some time over it because it was raining so we were better where we were) though we also had a look round the cathedral.  We’ve only met a few times but, as so often with bloggers, we fell straight back into our friendship and chatted as though we saw each other all the time.  And then he caught his bus with a minute to spare, which was unintentionally clever timing.

And the Sage had the kettle on when I got home and made me some tea, and he’d lit a fire and now he’s brought me a glass of wine, so he’s missed me in a most satisfactory way, not that I was gone all that long – and he did go out for lunch himself too, so we’ve both done well.

Elle has gone to a Hallowe… oh, it’s a Hallow party, isn’t it?  She wanted to know if I’d got anything suitable to dress up in, so I gave her the freedom of my wardrobe.  She phoned me earlier on to ask if she could borrow a white garment – she described it as ‘sort of a chemise.’  I’ve no idea.  I said she was welcome to help herself.

Hope you got home safe and dry, Eddie dear.